Chapter 1: burn the incense
Notes:
Finally writing a story about this conniving (sexy) devil. Enjoy!! 😝😝😝😝
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A silver, thick band encircles a frangible finger. In the middle sits a flashy diamond, gaudy and excessive. It’s the type of ring that rejects subtlety and embraces attention.
Too over-the-top, shiny, garish—exuding wealth and lacking in elegance.
Perhaps it should be melted down.
The family of the deceased had requested for the ring to remain on, to let it liquefy in the burning fire. A final act of casting off, they’d said. They strongly believed in severing the spirit from its earthly roots, to liberate it from any materialistic shackles. The only thing they wished to keep was the remaining metal fragments from the cremation chamber, to hold onto it as a memento.
You make no sound as eyes sweep over the lifeless body, looking for any last-minute modifications. The casket cradles her frail body and a cushioning of velvet borders the interior of cherry wood. Dark tresses tumble down the sides, lashes kiss rosy cheeks, and muted rose paints the lips and nails. Restful. No visible effects of the cause of death, only a breath-taking woman, suspended in eternal slumber. The washing is done. The makeup is flawless. Your work is nearly perfect—except for one thing. A frown dips the corners of your mouth. You fix the wrinkle on her opalescent kimono, smoothing the fabric—one last time.
A tray of cosmetic supplies; brushes, makeup palettes, and other accessories sit by the side—untouched—after fulfilling their purpose. She should’ve been getting ready for her wedding day, a beautiful blushing bride, instead she’s prepped for her funeral.
Instead of her lips reciting vows, they’ll be mourning mouths cantillating prayers.
Your gaze returns to the ring, scintillating under fluorescent lights. The pale yellow beam—the color of a Black swallowtail’s eggs—from above enhances its shine. The walls are a more forgiving shade of blue than the cold sterility of the prep room. Tiny spherules of light outline the room like enchanting fairies, dreamily dancing at the edge of your vision.
Gloved fingers extend, hovering over the massive diamond, just for a second. You hesitate, exhaling as your mind wanders, journeying through an endless stream of thoughts.
Did she know?
As her soul ebbed away from skin and bone, did she realize what was happening? Did her life flash right before her eyes? Did a montage of her most precious memories rush through her mind as her brain underwent its last burst of activity?
Did she know her tomorrow would never come?
No. Everything comes without a warning.
The silence presses down on you with the heaviness of a burden, an all too familiar sensation—one that has hollowed out your chest cavity, creating a gaping void, an aching, cold home. Smoke snakes from the candles and sticks of incense and it reaches for the ceiling like an offering to the afterlife. The resinous scent of frankincense drapes the ambiance with reverence and solemnity—spicy, citrusy, with a sweet undertone. Your hands join together as you whisper a prayer, a sincere orison, wishing for peace and liberation as she begins her journey to the spiritual realm.
“Are you done?”
Nanami Kento’s gruff voice cuts through the haze of tranquility, ripping you from your religious meditation. He stands by the doorway, hesitating at the threshold of the room as a sign of respect. His expression is set stoically, but you can sense the depth of his concern, there is a delicate furrow above his eyes. The faint glow from the candles etherealizes his presence and brings forth the light he harvests from within.
“Yes.” The word leaves quietly through your mouth, and floats with the incense’s smoke, both drifting in unison before they fully take shape and disperse.
He slides on his glasses—steampunk in design, with polarized lenses. They suit his face rather well—accentuating his sculpted cheekbones that look carved from stone. “Change of plans. The family wants to keep the ring intact. It won’t be cremated along with the decedent.”
Relief diffuses the lingering tension in your body. Standing here for hours, prepping this woman’s body has taken a huge toll on you. But a part of you is disappointed—the ring will remain preserved in its original, ornate state. “Oh, great,” you flatly murmur, a flick of disapproval crossing your expression. You glance down to scrutinize it once more. “Guess everyone has their own acquired taste.”
Nanami half-smiles, his stolid demeanor softening. “You don’t like it, do you?”
Your lips curve into a semi-smile, the tips twitching. “Is the distaste written all over my face? Because if it is, then I will need to work on my poker face.”
The blond’s demeanor brightens in amusement. “It’s not exactly hard to read.”
“Maybe not,” you muse, your eyes resting on the woman for a moment, before they meet his. “But perhaps you know me too well.”
”I’ve had my fair share of observing you,” he says with a hint of another smile. Finally, he crosses over the imaginary line between you two, moving to inspect your work.
You watch him with bated breath, the air thick with the mixture of incense and unspoken words. Nanami leans over the decedent, murmuring a prayer, voice low and anchoring, a natural blend of veneration. When he finishes, he turns back to you, radiating with an earnest energy.
“You did an exemplary job. I expected nothing less.”
His approval wraps around you like a coat in the coldest winter, and you welcome the approbation. Nanami always loves to compliment your skills, to remind you of why you chose this particular path—beautifying an empty vessel, honoring the soul it once housed. It’s not merely just about restoration, it’s about holding the deceased in high regard—it’s a commemoration. A quiet ritual of care for those who departed earth—who no longer speak, no longer feel, but still deserve to be treated with decency.
“I learned from the best,” you compliment, adding a playful wink. “You’ve taught me that I needed to treat every decedent with respect and dignity—to treat them all equally.”
“And that is exactly why I brought you to this particular funeral home to practice instead of our primary location,” he tells you with a faint tug of his lips. “You don’t show any special attention just because someone comes from a higher socioeconomic background.”
“I’m guessing she came from wealth?”
“Yes,” he confirms, but doesn’t dive into details. You prefer it that way. It disconnects you from it all—for both you and him. The less personal you are with these cases, the easier they are to handle. Keeps your mind focused, and busy with the task. More logical and productive.
The clinical nature of it all is more sensical, which comforts you. There’s a noticeable efficiency in the protocol—no time for emotions, no space for lamentation. It’s like working in an assembly line—you tend to a body, put it together until it’s free of blemishes, you give the life it hosted respectful acknowledgment before you move on to the next.
Get in, work on the bodies, and leave—is a mantra you inwardly chant every day.
You nod, completely hypnotized by the woman laid before you—by her grace—even in the state of death. “No matter how many items they possess—worldly or otherwise—when their expiration date is set to come, they can’t take any of it with them.”
Nanami’s eyes scan over the woman, expression unreadable. “Wealth, status accomplishments—even the body itself—is all just…fleeting. Death isn’t the end, it’s a brief pit stop before the cycle continues.”
“You think her fiancé’s devastated?” You question, staring at her engagement ring, and it evokes a strange feeling to seek an answer. You shouldn’t make it personal, but the thought latches onto you. You can’t ever envision losing Satoru—whether to death or any other mundane reason, a human one. “I can’t imagine how he feels. I wonder if he called upon Amida to welcome her soul into the Pure Land.”
Nanami looks at you, his mask of stoicism stripping away, unveiling something softer—deeper. “If he loved her…maybe. He might’ve called Amida to welcome her. But if he feared she’d suffer along the way…he’d ask Jizō to guide her soul.”
You smile endearingly at him. “That’s a comforting thought.” A yawn unhinges your mouth and you bring a fist up to cover your mouth as you yawn. The fatigue slowly creeps up on you—with the heftiness of this emotional talk—catching up to you after countless cups of coffee. “Excuse me,” you mumble, a little embarrassed.
“And that’s your cue to leave,” your preceptor says. “You have overworked yourself today. People already think I’m being too hard on you.”
“You are too hard on me,” you tease, flashing him a cheeky grin.
“Which is why you need to go,” the blond man insists, a hint of sternness in his voice. “You’re getting married in a week. You can’t show up to your wedding with dark circles underneath your eyes.”
“Ah, but that is what mortuary makeup is for,” you quip with a twinge of humor. “And who better to hide dark circles than me?” You smugly tap on your chest, proudly praising your makeup application skills.
“I wouldn’t recommend using it on the living,” Nanami plays along with your teasing, a rare moment of levity you seldom get to witness.
You laugh, shaking your head slightly. “You’re right. It’ll make me look like a ghost.”
”You’ll fit right in, given our choice of profession,” Nanami deadpans, fixing the cuffs of his sleeves.
“Hey, I’m trying to become a licensed mortician,” you point out in mock defense. “Not a shaman. Although, don’t you think they’re both kind of similar?”
Nanami raises a brow. “Well, can’t say I completely disagree. We don’t communicate with spirits, but we do give them a send-off.”
“No,” you blink blankly, your voice amused, “although you do make a valid point, a shaman is way cooler.”
“If that’s what you think, then maybe I should deduct a few of your supervision hours.”
You gasp in horror, then narrow your eyes. “You wouldn’t dare. Not when I’m only ten hours away from being cleared for the certification exam.”
“Try me,” Nanami challenges, initiating a short staring contest. Of course you don’t win—he’s the King of Nonchalance. He exhales through his nose, a sound that can pass for a chuckle. From behind his glasses, you can almost see the length of his gaze. “Jokes aside…you should take some time to rest,” he advises, his voice quieter, more brotherly. “You’ll need all the energy you can get. You got a big day coming up.”
The reminder hits you with indescribable emotions.
You peer at your gloved hands, smelling faintly of antiseptic. The silence that follows isn’t awkward—more contemplative than anything. You fight off a smile as your mind summons Satoru’s face. His refulgent, troublesome eyes.
“Yeah,” you shyly mumble, feeling the heat encompass your cheeks, spreading to the tips of your ears. “I don’t think Satoru would mind the dark circles…he always says that I’ll make a beautiful bride—even if I do smell like antiseptic ninety percent of the time.”
Nanami doesn’t laugh, but there is a hint of something in his expression—something akin to sentimentality. “He’s not wrong. And I truly mean that, because I rarely agree with anything that comes out of his facetious mouth.”
“I know,” you chuckle at your mentor as you remove your gloves and dispose of them. Next, you fix the lapels of your lab coat. “You’re not his biggest fan. After all, you are the president of the I-Hate-Gojo-Satoru fan club.”
Nanami scoffs, motioning for you to trail after him once you’re done. “As if he needs any more fans. Trust me, he needs at least one hater to keep the world balanced.”
“I don’t believe you hate him,” you remark as you follow him down the hall, the sounds of your footsteps subdued by the polished floor. “If you hated him, then you wouldn’t’ve introduced us to each other.”
Your preceptor doesn’t respond right away. His stride almost pauses, a hand pushing his glasses back to the bridge of his nose. “Part of the reason was because he wouldn’t stop complaining until I’d introduced him to you. You know how Gojo acts like a spoiled little child when he sets his sights on something—or someone.”
A huffy laugh bursts out of you. “Yeah…he can be a little too…persistent. He’s a go-getter, which is one of the many things I love about him.”
Nanami lets out a low sound of disagreement, making you giggle at his reaction. “Still, I wouldn’t have introduced him to you if I didn’t think he’d take good care of you.”
Your movements slow a bit as you step into the afternoon sky. The sun is a huge contrast to the dreary funeral home. A livelier contrast. You welcome it, allowing the warm shine to caress your skin as if it’s ridding all shadows of death and the afterlife. You close your eyes to savor it for a second, to enjoy how oxygen fills your lungs—it reminds you that you are still alive—still here—despite working all day with unmoving bodies. Sometimes you forget about your echoing pulse. About your pumping heart. About the interconnectedness of your organs.
Your eyes open and you see the world—the universe you walked through for many years—the same universe that heard your prayers and brought you a man that is both your strength and weakness.
A breeze toys with your hair tousles the strands between your fingers as you brush them away. The wind tells you to speak after the silence, after you soak more of the sun as it imprints you with luster, which pulls you away from your thoughts.
“Thank you,” you tenderly say, wishing there was another way to articulate your gratitude for the gift Nanami had bestowed upon you. The love of your life. Your heart feels heavy—heavy with love, with appreciation, with joy. “He doesn’t only take care of me. He also takes the pain away.”
Nanami reaches into his pocket, pulls out the velvet box, and places it in your waiting palms. You open it, unveiling the engagement ring inside. Your breath catches just like the day you’d first seen it. Galaxies condensed into a brilliant jewel—it’s an awing ring—cut to perfection, breathtaking in its beauty. With vigilance, you lift it off the box and slip it into your finger, admiring it with a look reserved for eternal love. When the light strikes it, a prism of colors gleams, an effigy of Satoru’s eyes.
You thank your mentor for safeguarding your engagement ring. You didn’t want to risk losing it, so you’d always leave it with him while you worked on the bodies.
“I hope you know how big of a responsibility you’ve assigned him,” Nanami quietly states. “Because if he takes the pain away…he might also be the one who gives it.”
The weight of his words lands like a rock sinking into calm waters. There is an indecipherable tone to his words—like he’s asking you to be cautious, warning you about something unseen. Or perhaps he’s reflecting on his past experiences. After all, he’s older than you—and is no stranger to romance.
Even after two years of knowing Nanami—he had never introduced you to any of his lovers. No names. No faces. He would mention going on dates—though not as often as people his age—the demographic eager to settle down and start a family. But none of the romantic outings ever blossomed into something permanent.
You learned about his attraction to men because he had let it slip one day—but even that feels elusive, left open for interpretation. Nanami is a man who values boundaries. Privacy is an essential element of his life. And you are never offended by it.
You stare at him as a beat passes, trying to see beyond what he wants to reveal, beyond that composed expression. Guardedness. It’s a look that you recognize—one worn by those who have stared at death, who have seen its silhouette in black corners. It’s a look of loss. Of impermanence. Of nothing lasts forever—not even love.
“Of course, I’m only speaking from a general point of view,” Nanami says in a tone meant to erase your worries as if he senses your anxiety sprouting like a stubborn weed through cracks in the concrete. “Love is…unpredictable. I’ve known it enough to understand that it’s not always gentle. Sometimes it’s like the ocean—it drowns you completely. Sometimes it’s powerful enough to act as an antivenin…and sometimes it becomes the poison itself.”
You look at him, your heart beating out of your chest. There is something evocative about the way he speaks, the tone he selects—not exaggerated, not sugarcoated with false emotions. Just the truth, the reality behind the romanticism of relationships.
He peers at the trees swaying like sea anemones above you when he continues. “You fall into it thinking you can swim. That you’re ready to dive without a life preserver, and then you realize you never learned how to hold your breath underwater.”
“Maybe it’s better to sink than to swim,” you say more to yourself, though the uncertainty coils around your spine. Nanami’s words echo—his warning arriving a little too late. “I think I’ve been drowning for a long time.”
A hush descends between you, but the sounds of chirping birds take away from the graveness of the conversation. One flits onto a nearby branch, close by for you to see the curve of its yellowish beak as it repeatedly squawks, carrying on with its life, blissfully unaware of what two humans are discussing.
How you wish you were a bird—a beautiful hummingbird, hovering around from bloom to bloom and sipping the sweet nectar offered by selfless flowers. Unscathed by sorrow. Unencumbered by love.
As Nanami opens his mouth to speak, a low rumble of an approaching engine interrupts him. The bird unfolds its wings and soars into the sky—instinctively fleeing to seek a more peaceful location. Your attention doesn’t follow it. Instead, your gaze drifts toward the source of the disruption.
A limousine, glistening underneath the sun’s rays in a shade of obsidian black, rolls to a stop at the parking lot. The cloudless sky reflects on its sleek surface and a warped image of the funeral home’s gray exterior smears across the tinted windows.
Your curiosity compels you to sneak a glance. An unsmiling driver climbs out of the front and rounds the vehicle with rehearsed precision—before pulling the door to his passenger. Raw, powerful energy ensnares you faster than a blink as a pair of lacquered shoes touch the ground and a figure steps out.
More chaotic energy drenches you, and you stiffen under its weight, your body recognizing the danger before your mind can form a connection. He emerges from the limousine, bathed in darkness—shadows clinging to him like loyal servants.
Ryoumen Sukuna.
Your heart rattles inside the jail of hollow bones, yearning for liberation.
Each calculated step commands respect, the air around him bends at his will, wanting to worship him. Your feet root themselves to the ground. You don’t flinch, you don’t react. But deep down, your gut protests—a gossamer-thin thread winds through—silent, unsevered—spun into a flawless pattern by a spider weaving its diaphanous trap. It doesn’t hurt when something tugs at it. Not yet.
He lumbers forward with confidence. The suit he wears molds against the proportions of his frame: all sharp ends, the fabric straining slightly at the seams of his broad shoulders. Shades obscure his stare, but you feel it—dismantling everything in its path. But when it reaches you, it stops, sniffing for fear, as if deciding whether to devour you or leave you untouched.
“…What the hell is he doing here?” Your voice is low enough only for Nanami’s ears, the question exiting your mouth before you can stop it. You are puzzled—genuinely thrown off by the man’s presence.
This isn’t a place for him.
Yet, somehow, standing there, with the somber funeral home in the background, the dancing trees in the breeze, and an achromatic filter of the afternoon light, Sukuna both blends and stands out. He claims the entire space without any declaration, without effort like he belongs here and nowhere at all.
Nanami doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are trained on Sukuna, jaw tight and contemplative. You notice the shift in his stance—he orients himself directly in front of you. His posture straightens, spine taut like a bowstring—chest wide with air. He’s making his body larger, subtly placing himself between you and Sukuna, the protective gesture both habitual and deliberate.
It’s a gesture you are familiar with, especially from him. It’s a small, unsaid promise—that he will always, always shield you from harm.
Sukuna makes his way toward the both of you, biting at the distance with a couple, of long strides. A group of men—who you assume are his entourage—try to follow, hastening their footsteps to match his speed. But before they can bridge the distance, Sukuna shakes his head. With a swift flick of his fingers, he orders them away, an effortless motion that carries an indisputable message: obey me. The men hesitate, communicating with each other through glances before falling back. They’re trained for this, you can tell. They’re taught to know their positions—to allow the man to control the world as it belongs to him.
His steps are purposeful, almost predatory, and he moves with languid ease that only serves to heighten his menacing aura. The sounds of his expensive shoes against the asphalt seem to echo as he fast approaches, and for a brief moment, everything stills. Except for a sharp caw of a lone crow ricochets in the distance, its cry amplifying the eerie silence—like an alarm for ominous danger.
A crow.
That is what Sukuna embodies, especially in this suit. A creature with black feathers, gleaming with an iridescent radiance, its eyes perceptive and strategic—its presence both evasive and mysterious. Just as its caws break through the quiet, so does Sukuna’s entrance, commanding attention and rousing apprehension.
Sukuna stops a few paces away, an unsettling grin splitting his mouth—an insincere grin. His presence expands, covering the atmosphere with something thick and smothering. Esoteric tattoos adorn his bronzed skin, they border his jaw and forehead, engraving his face. They spill downward like inlets of ink, carving through, branding themselves deep—resembling slivers of the tenebrous sky, etched forevermore.
Even from behind Nanami, you can spot the familiar scar running along the right side of his face, partially hidden behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. You can’t miss it—the burn mark, zig-zagged and savage. It’s a scar that trails from his brow, retreating from sight. The skin is a mélange of texture—some regions darker than others, a combination of weathered flesh and healed tissue. They told a story of survival—a story of a man who had spurned defeat. You can only see fragments of it, but his tattoos stand out more. They are meant to distract, to be the main attraction, but still, all you see is the scar.
Not even the blush-pink strands take away from the discoloration. They wave carelessly from his scalp like feathers of a Roseate spoonbill set aflame—a burst of surreality against the smear of duskiness in his attire. A walking contradiction of tame and wild, like something that wants to cause chaos and bring harmony all at once. Like he couldn’t decide which side he favors, or worse, enjoys living in between the clash of colors.
“Getting nervous yet?” His greeting comes out stentorian, with a hint of casualness—but you know there is something about the way he poses it—like he’s indirectly baiting you.
You’re caught off guard by the directness of his question. “I beg your finest pardon?” Your tone is laced with impoliteness, a conspicuous challenge in your voice as you blink at him, your eyes slimming into slits. You step from behind Nanami, your posture firm, boldly raising an eyebrow as you await an answer. You don’t cower, even when Sukuna’s grin widens as if entertained by your resistance.
The dialogue falters, Sukuna doesn’t utter another word, his head slightly turning to Nanami before he faces back to you. His grin loses its raptorial edge—almost softens—though it isn’t completely gone, there is a reminder beneath his calm exterior, that something darker is always on the verge of erupting.
“I asked if you were getting nervous about your wedding,” he recapitulates, his voice reverts to silky smooth, but there is a taunting undertone. He examines you as if he can read your body language—can understand it without translation—through your quiet defiance, maybe the subtle waver in your posture.
You feel Nanami tense beside you, though he doesn’t intercept. He lets you handle the situation, his arms crossed over his chest, quietly watching Sukuna with that familiar sharp gaze of his. You are skeptical of him—everything about him rubs you the wrong way.
“Is that how you greet everyone?” You evenly hit him back with another inquiry instead, leaving his question unanswered. “Diving straight into their business?”
Sukuna takes a step forward, not to invade your personal space but enough to make his presence unavoidable. He angles his head slightly, assessing you with detached curiosity. You can’t see the glint behind his sunglasses, but you can sense it, feel how much your retort is slowly poking at his temper.
“You skipped greeting Nanami,” you tilt your chin at the blond man, your words tinged with pointed humor. It’s a subtle jab at his impertinent manners, a way to show him that his introduction isn’t as charming as he thinks. You’re not impressed. “And he’s pretty hard to miss. I mean, he’s standing right in front of you.”
“I didn’t think he needed one. He’s a man of a few words, isn’t he? He likes to get straight to the point, too.” Sukuna pans his attention back on Nanami for a split second, almost daring him to protest. But just as quickly, he glosses over the blond man, as if he isn’t worthy of more attention, and refocuses on you.
You aren’t sure how he knows that about Nanami. Your preceptor is acquainted with many people—plenty of connections. But how did he even cross paths with someone like Sukuna? Sure, he’s a well-known businessman, but still…why would he speak of him like they’ve known each other for years?
Nanami never really brought him up before, he’s never come up in any of the conversations you’ve shared with your mentor. Then again, he isn’t someone important enough for you to discuss. Your fiancé had mentioned him from time to time, especially since they both move in the same business circles.
His smile lingers, but it’s colder, devoid of any amiability. “I was simply checking in on you—making sure you’re not nervous for your big day.”
“No. I’m not nervous.” Your statement is monotone, and curt—you refuse to expose any of your malaise to him. But in the back of your mind, you wonder: why is it any of his business? This unplanned encounter only marks your third engagement with him—the other two times being at some events you attended with Satoru.
You barely recall the interactions, but you do remember how he barreled into conversations, skipping the pleasantries altogether.
And how he always wore shades. Always.
“Good,” he says simply, as he approves of your answer as if he isn’t expecting anything else.
You stare at him, praying he gets the hint and walks away.
“Well, I’ll see you both at the wedding,” he says after a beat, finally dropping the matter. There are no follow-up questions, and no attempt to stretch out the conversation more than necessary. He pivots, giving you a full view of fanned-out shoulders before he stalks off. But at the last second, he halts and looks over his shoulder, an arrogant smirk tugging on his lips.
“And don’t worry. A wedding’s not as daunting as it seems. At least, not as daunting as a funeral.”
His unsolicited advice hangs in the air, and for a moment, you hear nothing else, as if his words detonated in the air, leaving only the hollow explosions of the aftermath. The unease crawls back into your bones, settling with crushing finality. Jitters skitter through your limbs, and you know—it has nothing to do with the absurd amount of caffeine you’ve consumed.
Once Sukuna disappears inside the funeral home, you glance over at Nanami, still processing what happened. You can’t pinpoint why, but his cryptic behavior gnaws at you. The entire colloquy leaves an acidulous taste, one that lingers long after the words were spoken—impossible to scrub off. You exhale, your lungs deflating like a flat tire. But each breath that follows fails to push away the tension.
“I don’t even know why Satoru invited him to the wedding,” you mutter, a picture of his wedding invitation popping into your mind. Thanks to Satoru’s notoriously poor penmanship, you had to personally sign every invite, your steady hands eloquently scripting the names.
You’d almost misspelled Sukuna’s surname.
“Sukuna’s a respectable businessman,” Nanami apprises as if that answer is sufficient. You don’t buy it. Something else lurks behind Sukuna’s rich and powerful persona. “At least…by certain standards.”
Your brow arches. “What kind of certain standards are we talking about?”
The blond man combs a hand through gold-spun strands, glinting beneath the sun like wheat fields in full spring bloom. He doesn’t elaborate, only watches the vacant spot Sukuna occupied moments ago. “Just…don’t let him get to you. He’s a man who’s hard to figure out. Best to be cordial and keep a respectful distance.”
“How do you know him?” You ask, still unsettled by the whole exchange. “He acted like the two of you are lifelong friends.”
Nanami falls silent—not in dismissal, but in a way that shows he’s carefully curating his words. You can almost hear the gears in his head shifting behind his composed exterior. “Sukuna? No, we’re far from friends.” He pauses, gauging your reaction. “Look, you didn’t hear this from me, but Sukuna’s involved in a lot of things—funeral homes being one of them. He’s been known to visit them across Japan, quietly paying for funerals when families can’t afford it. It’s one of those things he does in secret, but doesn’t make a big deal out of it. No announcements. No attention. Very under the radar.”
Your eyes widen with shock, struggling to reconcile the image of this tattoo-riddled, hulking man with being a humanitarian. “So…he’s a philanthropist?”
You’re no stranger to the idea of businessmen making names for themselves through philanthropy. Satoru is one of the biggest benefactors you know—he’s always quick to selflessly donate substantial resources to charities, schools, and hospitals even going as far as founding an organization dedicated to ending world hunger. And not to mention his generous contributions to distant relief funds. But his greatest act of kindness by far wasn’t financial.
It was adopting and raising Fushiguro Megumi at the ripe age of twenty.
Satoru proudly stitched his heart on his sleeve. He doesn’t shy away from lending a helping hand. He wore his altruism like a badge of honor—a shining example for others to follow.
But Sukuna? Sukuna seems like a locked crypt. His philanthropy—if you can even call it that—slips by unnoticed—buried behind tongueless mouths and anonymous donations. Not for attention. Not for glorification. Not even, it appears, for the sake of a clear conscience.
It doesn’t make any sense to you, and the logical part of your brain, feels dissatisfied.
Your preceptor shrugs. “It’s not something he publicizes. He prefers to remain anonymous. But I’ve witnessed a lot of families who’ve benefited from his quiet generosity. It’s a part of his charm, I suppose. The type of influence he has means he can keep things discreet if he wants to.”
You let his words nestle inside your skull. “So…what you’re saying is that I shouldn’t ask Satoru to uninvite him to the wedding?” You half-joke, a poor attempt at quelling your disturbed thoughts that cling to you.
Nanami smirks, shaking his head at your sense of humor. He unlocks his car, a classic 1972 Nissan Skyline, a rusty orange time-traveling machine that looks like it drove straight out of the 70s. Your preceptor treats it like a prized possession—with the utmost care—always gleaming, always parked in between the lines—a vintage vehicle that holds more memories than the high miles on its gauge.
Your lips unfurl as you shed away the remnants of the day—you no longer want any part of it. “Hey,” you start, turning to Nanami with a gentler cadence, “what do you say we visit your favorite bakery? I wanna pick up something sweet for Satoru.”
The suggestion is both a distraction and offering, a way to slow down your heart rate to regular, to stop it from beating along the echoes of Sukuna’s words.
He opens up your door and ushers for you to hop in. You catch the faintest ghost of a smile on his pulling at the corners of his lips—subtle, restrained, but telling. That’s about as close to excitement as he gets. The blond shuts your door with extra care before making his way to the driver’s side of the car and sliding behind the wheel.
“I do want to grab some loaves of bread.” He says, fastening his seatbelt. “There’s this sandwich recipe that I’ve been meaning to try.”
His tone is natural, yet there is a trace of contentment. It’s domestic in a way that mollifies you. You smile, watching him multitask between yammering about bread and turning on the ignition, the engine awakening with a resonant, familiar hum.
While Nanami pulls out of the parking lot, you feel the knot in your stomach untangle. You’re slowly settling into normalcy—his steady presence, the idle talk of recipes—holds you in the moment, grounds you. You’re still not all the way pacified, but you’re steadily reacclimatizing yourself with the calm.
From your peripheral vision, a blur of movement steals your focus again, materializing like a vengeful spirit. Nanami drives off, oblivious to the sight you’re witnessing. You watch through the side view mirror as he shrinks into a black speck in the distance. Even as Nanami’s car travels further away, his gaze on you lingers—just like burning incense—low and smoldering.
The sky beckons for your eyes, a murder of crows rupture the stratosphere like an incision, pouring out black blood. Their wings, elliptical and vigorous, palpitate in a calamitous rhythm, dark against the canvas of gray. You glance at the side view mirror again.
He vanishes.
Notes:
I knooooow I was supposed to upload a new chapter of BWAB for its one-year anniversary, but I decided to start a new story instead cause it’s been a while lmaooo. I low key got impatient bc I wanna write about my fav evil, demonic villain. Word of advice: DO NOT BELIEVE HIM. 😖
Okay, let me get this out of the way. I did my research, but as usual, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong. So the role of a mortician in Japan doesn’t have a certification system. Basically people who are employed by funeral homes are just trained in-home. That’s how they obtain their knowledge. There isn’t like a national license. But since it’s a fictional story, I’m going to construct a system that fits in with the narrative.
Also, before I forget, here’s a quick explanation: Jizō is a protector of children and travelers in the afterlife.
Amida is an important figure in Pure Land Buddhism. Amida welcomes the souls of the dead into Pure Land.The updates on this story are going to depend on whether I’m flexible enough to work on two projects. I’m trying to challenge myself more, but I know I’m going to end up abandoning one of them 😖😖😖😖😖. I’ve planned most of this story and I have a pretty vague idea about where it’s headed. So, maybe I’ll just go back and forth between both stories until they’re complete. Wish me luck cause I cannot for the life of me complete a single thing in my life 😖😖😖😖😖. I hope you enjoy reading this story because I have a lot of stuff planned.
Alsoooo, I’ve decided to write this story in present-tense, even though I prefer past-tense and I’m more comfortable with it, but like I said, I want to challenge myself more. So if you see any errors, don’t hesitate to let me know cause I’m super rusty lmao😖
LATERRRRRR!!! 😚😚😚😚😚
Chapter 2: cold feet
Chapter Text
After the week you had, you’re sure the universe is conspiring against you, along with powerful forces, to make your wedding day a categorical disaster.
Every dawn, you wake up to an onslaught of issues—and on the dot—you’re on the battlefield, fighting your way through by drafting up a maelstrom of emails, making continuous phone calls, going through last-minute changes and any miscommunications. The problems accumulate and you’re left with a small window of opportunity, racing toward the finish line while obstacles rear up as you struggle to reach your goal. You try to channel calmness and tranquility, reminding yourself that this day is going to be all about you and Satoru—that it’ll be smooth-sailing—but that reassurance doesn’t lessen the pressure that comes with crossing over to a newer chapter.
The band, whom Satoru loves, almost cancelled because of their conflicting schedules. They had accidentally booked an event on the same night as your wedding. A quick phone call and an additional bribery fee later, their hectic schedule magically cleared. But it was too late, your stress levels already spiked up to a concerning degree.
Then the issue with the wedding dress came out of nowhere. You’d tried it on for any minimal modifications—and suddenly, the proportions were all wrong. The bust too was tight, despite how you’d been on a strict diet ever since Satoru had popped the question ten months ago. You had to find a better seamstress in a short amount of time, get the dress altered, and pray it fit just right in time for the reception.
But the biggest problem of them all was the caterer. The menu was all wrong, although Yuki—God bless her—had scared the caterer into solving the problem. They’d selected the most flavorless and uninspired cuisines instead of the dishes you’d curated to complement the wedding’s theme, and ensure no potential allergens would affect the guests. You had to particularly emphasize the absence of red meat—any meat, really. Not only because some of the guests were vegan—or vegetarian like yourself, but you couldn’t stomach the thought of it.
The smell alone made your innards queasy. It always had.
The worst part was how you couldn’t reach your fiancé and tell him about the clusterfucks you had encountered. You’d desperately needed his optimism, for his ability to exorcise your worries with a cheeky wink or a dirty joke. Lately, he had been distant, barely present to add his input throughout the final planning. Physically, he’d existed, but his mind was elsewhere—somewhere new and different. Most of his responses were short, his attention limited to one unknown source, and no matter how many times you’d ask what bothered him, he hit you with the same excuse.
‘Baby, work is exhausting me’—then he’d press a passionate kiss to your lips which would leave you floating for the rest of the day. You had to cut him some slack, his schedule was fully booked—his secretary, Ijichi Kiyotaka, recently shared his calendar with you because Satoru asked him to. The thought that he was cheating on you had crossed your mind more times than you’d like to admit, but only briefly. You knew him. He was many things—distractible, reckless, chaotic—a shameless flirt who does it to test out the boundaries, not out of malicious intent.
But ever since you’d gotten serious with each other—marriage serious—his noncommittal approach dulled. Subtly, steadily. His provocative remarks faded, and his sharp attention became sharper. He didn’t completely reinvent himself for your sake, but he saved the best parts of himself for you. He chose that. Candidly. No promises were begged from him, no ultimatums. Just a quiet decision, done entirely on his own.
He’d even shared his location with you—voluntarily—not that you checked it often. Still, he casually did so, like it wasn’t a big deal. Because to him, it wasn’t, yet he wanted to ease your mind.
If something was wrong, it wasn’t another woman…or man. Right?
No. You love him. And more than that, you trust him because he’s never given you a reason to believe otherwise. That has to count for something. You need to put these thoughts to rest.
Your mind shifts to your current location, a high-quality restaurant that serves the most delicious breakfast selections. You’d stumbled upon it with Satoru, back when everything was new and invigorating, when you’d both play mildly-sexual footsie under the table and laugh without the heaviness of the world around you.
You remember the way he’d asked the waiters to customize his parfait, layered with outrageous, sugary ingredients: chocolate ganache, pop rocks candy, mochi…and you’re sure he’d specifically demanded for them to add marshmallows—toasted, because ‘regular marshmallows are boring and their flavor needs to be elevated,’ as he’d quoted before devouring the entire thing.
Although their food is immaculate, the decor is what attracts the patrons. Wooden beams border the ceiling, where paper lanterns float, giving the illusion of an indoor night sky. Every corner has something to admire, sparkling tabletops with vases of saccharine flowers, polished chairs, sage walls that bring serenity despite the flow of conversations. It’s the kind of place that collects happy moments, a catalog of blissful memories.
Sunlight radiates through wide windows, displaying a live stream of rushing feet, a blur of fabrics, faces portraying emotions—short movie scenes that capture the essence of life. You’re hit with a wave of sonder, pondering over your own complex future. You wonder if any of the people around you have an upcoming wedding, a funeral—any life-altering event that might flip their world upside down.
You take a sip of your drink before your waiter comes over to ask if you need anything else. You haven’t ordered food, your nerves too wrung out to enjoy their delightful stack of dark chocolate pancakes or their spectacular eggs Benedict with their secret hollandaise sauce.
“Well, if it isn’t the gorgeous bride-to-be,” Tsukumo Yuki suddenly announces her presence, strutting up to the table. She slides up her sunglasses over her head, greeting you with one of her contagious grins. Maple-syrup colored eyes twinkle, emphasizing the golden flecks inside them. “Your dress is secured! It’s back in my hotel room—safe and sound. The last minute alterations are perfect. You’re going to look like a goddess.”
You smile as she takes the seat in front of you, trying to match her vivacious energy, but your nerves flutter. “Thanks, Yuki. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t forget to bring it with me to the wedding venue tomorrow,” your best friend assures you while removing her leather jacket before she hangs it on the seat right next to her. “I can’t believe you’re going to get married!”
Your lips widen, ignoring how your stomach flips when she mentions the word married, your fingers tightening around the nonalcoholic mimosa. The glass feels cold against your skin, numbing your fingertips. “Yeah…crazy, right?” You say, keeping your tone casual.
Yuki gives you a look that shows that she didn’t miss your hesitation. She cocks her head, her grin softening. “Cold feet?” She asks, her voice gentler, but there’s a teasing twang that adds a humorous effect.
“No,” you shake your head, brows knitting together. “It’s…it’s a huge leap, isn’t it?” You can’t even say the word without your stomach contorting. “Marriage.”
Yuki shrugs, shooting you an apologetic smile. “Don’t ask me, I’ve had two broken engagements.” She reminds you, as if this automatically disqualifies her from giving you advice.
You huff a quiet laugh, the tension on your shoulders thawing just a little. “Which basically makes you a professional.”
Yuki makes a face and reaches for the pitcher, pouring the vibrant orange liquid into her glass. “Eh. Depends on how you look at it.” She jokes, raising her glass for a mock-toast. “I’ve never made it toward the beginning of the aisle, let alone the end of it. Not that I care, but many people might see that as a red flag.”
You clink your glass against hers, half-melted ice cubes floating around, but you don’t take a sip—not yet. “Still, that just means you’re way ahead of me.” You mutter, half-joking, half-serious.
Yuki sips, scrunching her mouth. “That’s gross. I can’t taste a drop of alcohol. Are you drinking mimosas or orange juice with a fancy name?”
You smirk at her reaction, grateful for the distraction. “That’s because it’s nonalcoholic.”
“Dammit,” she curses, setting down her glass. She leans back, relaxing in her seat with a dramatic pout. “I came here to get drunk, not to sip on some orange juice like a toddler.”
You snort, finally taking a small sip. “Sorry to disappoint. I’d rather keep this bride-to-be from puking on her wedding day. And even if I don’t throw up, a hangover and wedding photos? Not exactly a good mix.”
“Just like orange juice and sparkling water,” she complains, eyeing the pitcher with a frown. Then she perks up, smiling. “You didn’t happen to sneak in a tiny bottle of sparkling sake, did you?”
“Tragically, no. I figured you’d already have a flask tucked in your purse,” you deadpan, hiding an amused smile.
Yuki groans, letting out a theatrical sigh. “Fuck. I forgot it in my suitcase.”
You laugh. “Let me guess—you have yet to unpack your bag.”
“Correct,” she confirms, winking at you. “I’m only here for the wedding. Then it’s on to the next adventure.”
Your lips form a delicate smile. “You know, I’m so glad you’re here. I know it’s not easy for you to pause your endless trips for my wedding.”
Yuki rolls her eyes, but she takes your hand, her grip warm and firm. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m going to be here for you. You’re one of my closest friends. Did you think I would miss out on the chance to see you get your happy ending?”
Your chest swells with quiet joy. Life hadn’t been easy—especially your past—though most of it feels like a blur of memories. “Honestly, I thought I would end up being single for the rest of my life after far too many failed serious relationships.”
Your friend runs her thumbs over your knuckles in a soothing gesture. “You know what they say—everything happens when you least expect it.”
You smile faintly as she lets go, your eyes flickering to the sunlight streaming through the windows. “I just—I keep thinking about how life could get in the way…like it always does. But it didn’t. Not this time. I guess I’m still wondering how I arrived at this point without mishaps. Or why he chose me.”
Yuki shoots you a pointed look. “Because you’re you—the kindest, most caring person. Even if you do come across as a snarky at times—intimidating.” She laughs when you give her the middle finger. “But I know the truth. You care too much. And you’ve got the brightest soul. That’s one of the first things that drew me to you.”
“Well, excuse me for knowing how to stand up for myself,” you mumble, focusing more on her insult than the heartwarming compliment. “Also, brightest soul? Are you sure you’re not saying this because I’m paying?”
Yuki grins, unfazed by your answer. “Absolutely. And I expect some actual alcohol. None of this nonalcoholic nonsense.”
You roll your eyes, but you flag down the waiter to order her drink. “I should’ve known that the moment I met you at a bar, you’d be a lush.”
Yuki sticks out her tongue. “Takes one to know one. Don’t forget—you were at the same bar drinking away your sorrows after you got dumped by…what’s his name…” She snaps her fingers as if trying to retrieve the name from her memory. “Choso!”
You chuckle, though your heart welcomes the nostalgic sensation. You had met her around the same time you had moved to Tokyo, three years ago. At a bar. A very forgettable one with dim lighting, sticky floors, terrible music, and overpriced drinks. But somehow, the events of the night stuck with you years later.
Yuki had sat down on the stool beside you without invitation and ordered two neon shots. The place was jam-packed, but she still managed to grab the bartender’s attention with her commanding presence and staggering height. She slid the shot in your direction and ordered you to drink it. You hadn’t hesitated. Never questioned her motives.
After all, she’d been a random stranger.
By the end of the night—and many shots later—you had forgotten about your mundane three-month relationship with Choso Kamo. And Yuki? She’d become your newest, most unexpected friend.
You’re pulled away from the past when Yuki pokes your arm. “Earth to the bride-to-be. Don’t you dare take a trip down memory lane without me.”
You smile and take a sip of your drink. The fresh taste of citrus and bubbles lingers on your tongue. “I’m just thinking about how we met at that bar. You, me, neon shots—bad decisions.”
Yuki gives you a knowing grin. “You call them bad decisions, I call them nights to remember.” She throws you another cheeky wink.
“Don’t you dare bring them up during the toast,” you jokingly warn, narrowing your eyes.
Your best friend puts her hands up in mock surrender. “Relax. I have a filter. Just make sure to let the bartender know when to cut me off.”
You laugh, leaning against your chair, allowing her sense of humor to anchor you. “Seriously, though. Thank you. For picking up the dress. For always being here.”
Yuki lowers both hands, her bracelets subtly jingling around both wrists. “Hey. Stop thanking me. You’ve been there for me for more times than I can count.”
An appreciative smile crosses your face, your heart thudding with emotion. “I…invited Shoko and Utahime,” you mutter, fiddling with the stem of the glass. “But they couldn’t make it. Work…or something.”
Yuki softly scoffs. “Work? A day before their best friend’s wedding? You mean they just didn’t want to make time.”
“Shoko’s a doctor, of course she’s busy,” you say, trying to find a justifiable excuse. “And Utahime runs a dance studio—they both have demanding jobs. I get it.”
Your best friend doesn’t buy the reason. She has a strict bullshit detector, so you aren’t surprised by her reaction. “Sure. But people still make time for things that matter. And that includes you.”
You give a small smile, more fatigued than amused. “They’ve always been more of Satoru’s friends. I tried, but…honestly, I’m not going to force people to drop everything for me.”
“Yet everyone expects that from you.”
Someone drops a plate a few tables down. Talk about comedic timing. You observe as the workers scurry through to clean up the tiny shards off the floor. The echoes of the dish breaking trigger a thought inside your mind, one you’d locked away.
“Sometimes I think that they’re being too cautious around me. Like they’re walking on eggshells—like they know something that I don’t,” you say aloud for the first time, disclosing your hidden fears to your best friend.
She doesn’t say anything at first. She watches you, her expression pensive, borderline protective. “Okay…that’s kind of weird. What do you mean?”
You shake your head as if to scatter away the negative thoughts. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid. It’s a huge change. Everyone’s too busy with their own lives. And I’m not exactly the easiest person to get close to. Most people don’t have to time or patience to peel back my layers.”
“That’s bullshit,” Yuki flatly denies, though her tone is soft to show you that she’s not upset at you. “You’re not some code that needs to be decrypted. You’re just…careful. And after all the things you’ve been through? I don’t blame you.”
You glance down at your drink, suddenly too parched, the orange concoction creates a ring at the bottom of the glass—an indicator that you’re due for a refill, but you don’t reach for the pitcher.
Yuki sighs, throwing her long hair over her shoulder, her eyes never leaving yours. “Don’t talk about yourself like you’re not worthy of closeness. The people who matter will take the time. I did. And I’m so honored to be a part of your life.”
Just like that, she dispels your fears. She smiles at you—teasingly—but you know she means every word. Your tear ducts activate, but you don’t let the tears go, you hold them, save them for a joyous moment you want to cherish. For your wedding day. “You’re going to make me cry. You know how I feel about crying.” You mutter, your voice heavy with emotion, but colored with a subtle laugh. “I have a strict cry once-a-month policy—and no, that doesn’t include that time of the month.”
Yuki laughs, the sound bright and genuine. “You deserve a freebie,” she supportively says. “Emotional outbursts are allowed during life milestones. That’s what makes them special.”
You sniffle, blinking fast, as if that’ll reverse the reaction. Your eyes roll for the millionth time, but the corners of your mouth lift into a real smile. “Fine. But that’s it. One emotional breakdown, then I’m back to being heartless.”
She smirks. “Right. You wouldn’t want to blow your cover.”
You crack a smile, finally breathing again in unison with the swaying trees outside. Crisp leaves tumble past the windows and fall to the ground like consoling whispers. If things don’t go smoothly tomorrow, if something happens—big or small—you know you’ll have a couple of dear friends to lean on.
◆:*:◇:*:◆:*:◇:*:◆
The day is finally over.
Your outing with Yuki had been everything you needed—full of unlimited joy, laughter, and a sprinkle of memories. The kind of distraction that drapes over your shoulders like a cape of sunlight. For a few hours, you almost forgot about the ache that lingers beneath all the good things.
But here, in the silence of your apartment—where stacked boxes wait to be relocated to a new shared home—anxiety plagues your mind even as you pull the covers to your chin.
You’re getting married tomorrow—as in becoming somebody’s wife. Satoru’s wife. Mrs. Gojo. It’s a new title—a new role—but it doesn’t change anything, you still tell yourself, trying to breathe out the negative emotions clawing at your chest. Yet, they resist. What if you forget your vows? What if nobody likes the food? What if a random fight breaks out? You’d seen and heard of these scenarios before. They sound comedic, but if you encountered the real thing, how would you react?
What if you trip and fall as you walk down the aisle? Or worse, puke in front of everyone?
The thoughts twist your stomach, pretzeling your intestines. Nausea rises just from the idea of hundreds of guests watching you make a fool of yourself on the biggest days of your life. You burrow your face into the soft pillow, praying for the cycle of panic to end, but it only continues to incessantly loop.
You’re supposed to be excited. Over the moon, even. You’re marrying an amazing man, one who many people wish to be with. You should be grateful that someone like Satoru, a successful entrepreneur who comes from a wealthy background, wants you to take his surname. Wants you as his wife. Instead, you’re lying here, your happiness eclipsed by your fears, battling monstrous visions created by evocative imaginations. You’re convinced that you’re one mistake away from ruining everything you’ve both built.
What if Satoru regrets it?
Your room is a muddle of shadows as tears sting your retinas—you want to cry, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming pressure of it all. It’s too much for one person to carry—the weight is crushing. You wish you could call Satoru, but you’d both agreed not to see each other until the day of the wedding—bad luck and all that. You couldn’t even give him the soufflé-style cheesecake you’d bought for him during your trip to the bakery with Nanami last week.
By now, you figured, after picking Megumi from the airport, he was probably out with his friends for a nomikai—a drinking party to celebrate, even though you knew how much he hates alcohol.
You suck in a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut until it hurts. You press the heel of your hands against them to keep the tears from flowing, but they glide down, a hot trail of distress.
You feel immature—like a child—incapable of handling big girl emotions. You’re an adult, you should know how to neatly compartmentalize your feelings, no matter how big or messy, to organize them so they won’t take up space. You love him. You want this union to happen more than anything. He’s the love of your life, and you struck luck by finding your soulmate while people spend their entire lifetimes looking for a string that leads them to their other half—the person who completes them.
You bring your hand closer to your face, inspecting the gleaming engagement ring. The moonlight captures the stone just right, like a comet streaking in a luminous veil amongst the stars. You wiggle your fingers, letting the prism of colors dance across the room, refracted radiance encased in brilliant hues—blues, silvers, and the faintest shade of something despondent masked by its shine.
You try to remind yourself of all the reasons why you didn’t think twice when you’d said yes. How he loves sharing his meals with you. How he makes you laugh until your stomach hurts. How he gifts you with souvenirs after he returns from his business trip—sometimes expensive, sometimes silly, but always thoughtful. How he plans the perfect dates—a blend of exhilarating, spontaneous, wild—like jetting off to another country—or simple night-ins, cuddling on the couch and watching movies.
But your favorite dates by far were the baking nights. The way the kitchen transformed into a safety-hazard zone, your hair sugar-dusted and his cheeks smeared with frosting. While you did all the baking, Satoru sat on the counter, long legs swinging, eating half the ingredients and stealing kisses to distract you.
You hold every reason you accepted his proposal very dearly, but the one that mattered the most—the one that made you say yes without hesitation—was the way his gaze softened only for you. Like you were an arcane spell that could undo his shadows, a light to break a twisted curse.
You reach for your phone on top of the nightstand, its screen dark, lifeless from the lack of notifications. Offering you no comfort. One text won’t hurt, will it? You’ll just send him a quick goodnight text—or maybe an ‘I miss you’ just because it sounds right. At the last possible second, your hand retracts. No. Your determination can’t be this feeble, this easy to break, especially after making such a meaningful promise. Breaking it now is pointless, not to when everything feels too fragile.
The faint scent of cigarettes infiltrates your nose, unexpected and jarring. You hadn’t smoked in years, not since before you met Satoru. But right now, you wish you had something—anything—to take the edge off. You take a few deep breaths, waiting for the distant phantom of a cigarette between your fingers to fade away.
Rolling onto your side, you will for the ache in your chest to ease, for your heart to stop thrashing wildly against your ribs. Tomorrow, you’ll walk down the aisle wearing your pure white kimono—shiromuku—Nanami steady by your side, escorting you to the altar. And Satoru will be there—grinning, radiant, waiting for you—and all your worries will melt away.
The vision soothes your heart, just a little. Enough for you to wipe the dampness from your cheeks. Enough for your pain to lessen. Enough for the fatigue to take over and for the slumber to burn at the perimeter of your consciousness.
But then you hear it. The soft clinking of keys. You freeze, limbs too heavy, too relaxed to move. You strain your ears to listen, heartbeats erratic as you guess the intruder. Only three people have the keys to your apartment—Satoru, Nanami, and Yuki.
You fumble for the lamp by the bed, switching it on with a click, deafening in the silence of your room. Golden light floods the space, and you rapidly blink, pupils struggling to adapt to the sudden brightness. You hold your breath, listening for footsteps. His footsteps, ones you recognize, ones who have walked on this carpet a million times, embedding large prints into its fibers.
For a minute, you sit up, heart on overdrive, fingers inches away from the lamp. The door swings open, slightly creaking at the rusty hinges, before he steps inside. He’s here. It’s been a week—a full week of only text messages—cyber communication that doesn’t resemble the real thing. The feeling of warm flesh, of his body against yours. Satoru stands at the doorway, as if an invisible barrier keeps him out. He looks abashed. Or drained, or maybe both.
You slide from under the safety of the covers, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. You take your time walking over to him, taking delicate steps like you’re approaching a skittish deer—one wrong move, and he might disappear.
Neither of you speaks.
Satoru steps forward. You let him come to you.
Your hand lifts to touch him, but you pause it midair, letting it hang in the space that separates the two of you. It finally lands gently against the echoes of his racing heart. His eyes fall to where you touch him, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move an inch, only stares at your fingers as they press on his skin, feeling the rise and fall of his chest.
You examine him like how you study the deceased, pinpointing all the flaws and signs in seconds: button haphazardly fastened, as if he had done it in a rush. The collar of his shirt askew, like he had been anxiously fiddling with it, a habit of his when he would be too overwhelmed. Wintry hair—normally styled with artful chaos—looked too tousled, like he had raked his fingers through it a million times compulsively.
You take away your touch, the magical touch that restores, the touch that heals the soul and soothes the aftermath of death. You can’t whisper a prayer and alleviate his pain, you can’t be his balm in the moment of weakness. You can only watch as it clings to him like a shadow.
Your cadence is soft when you speak, reassuring in a way you wish he would be to you, especially now. “Didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” you murmur, you keep your tone careful—vigilant—like touching a tender bruise. “We agreed to see each other before the ceremony.”
“I know, but when have I ever been known to follow the rules?” He says with a crooked grin—a performative one that seems unnatural. Then his expression shifts into something you can’t quite name, his eyes search yours, raw and vulnerable. And glassy—unspoken. He gives you a watery smile, half-hearted, like he’s using the last of his strength to make you believe in it. “I just…I wanted to see you before tomorrow.”
Your heart skips, hops, races—then melts like butter, softening into a smooth consistency. Your eyes become as glassy as his, a reflective puddle on a sidewalk after a heavy rain. “My love…that’s so thoughtful,” you breathe, a dainty smile forming. “You didn’t have to do that. It’s late, and you’re probably so tired. I could’ve waited until tomorrow.” You pause, then admit, sheepishly, “Actually, that was a lie. I couldn’t’ve waited.”
His mouth curves wistfully, a teasing tsk escaping. “I know…you’re very impatient when it comes to me.”
You let out a soft, almost embarrassed laugh, the words tumbling out before you can stop them: “Guess you know all about my little foibles, huh?” Then, you switch the subject, and the question exits effortlessly. “So, how’s Megumi? Did he have a safe trip?”
Satoru’s eyes brighten at the mention of his adopted son. “He’s good. Broody as always—wouldn’t say much at first—but I got him to open up a little.” A proud smile tugs at his mouth.
“You mean you annoyed him to the point where he had no other choice but to open up.”
“I didn’t!” Satoru exclaims with a pout. “I only asked him two—okay, three—reasonable and non-invasive questions about his mental health and whether he’s eating all three meals and if he befriended that one guy he’d almost punched at orientation.”
You arch an eyebrow, lips twitching at his endearing concern for Megumi. “So…an interrogation?”
Satoru gasps, clutching his chest. “Interrogation? How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I prefer deeply invested parental concern.”
“Baby, you interrogated him,” you insist with a small grin. “But I’m on your side. Anyway—what did your little interview reveal?”
“He said he’s enjoying Seoul. Fortunately, the zoology program’s been keeping him engaged…he’s even made a few new friends.”
You nod, pleased with his response. “I can’t wait to see him tomorrow.”
He returns your smile. “He said the same thing about you.”
That pushes the discomfort away, though a strange awkwardness settles. “Good. I haven’t heard from him since he’d moved there. He doesn’t really text me much.”
“He was just trying to adjust,” Satoru breezily points out. “New environment, new people. It’s not easy for him.”
You make a sound of agreement, but you don’t bring up your shallow bond with Megumi. You’re not particularly close, not as close as you’d hoped to be. You always tried to be warm and welcoming, careful not to overstep your place in his life. Satoru never forced it. He told you that Megumi took a long time to warm up to people, and you shouldn’t take it personally. Still, you wonder if Megumi ever saw you more as a guest—a disposable placeholder—rather than someone permanent.
Maybe that was how Shoko and Utahime perceived you.
You move on to something else before you spoil your sweet reunion. “How was the nomikai? Did you have fun with the guys?”
He fidgets with his rolled sleeves, his posture straightening, but his voice remains nonchalant. “It was whatever. Just the usual. You know I’m not a fan of alcohol, so I just stuck to juice.” A pause. “I kept thinking about the wedding…couldn’t bring myself to get drunk.” The words are casual, but you pick up on a minuscule shift. His eyes flicker to yours, then away, as if he’s guarding something from you.
You sense his hesitance, but you decide to gloss over it. “Right. Looks like we’re both too stuck inside our heads tonight.” Your comment is underscored with your own worries, you want him to know he’s not alone. “I couldn’t fall asleep at all, no matter how hard I tried.”
He looks at you—really looks—eyes widening like he’s just now noticed the tear tracks you didn’t wipe fast enough. A crime scene of anguish—though you try hard to hide the evidence. He’s too perceptive. “Come here,” he murmurs—honey-toned and low—arms stretching wide to invite you into his embrace, a safe sanctum reserved for you.
You fall into his chest, wrapping your arms around him. He smells like sunflowers on a clement afternoon—lively and golden—with a splash of fresh fabric softener, like clothes just pulled from the dryer. Familiar. Like home. He must‘ve changed before coming to see you.
His arms instantly wind around you, and you feel subtle tremors racking his frame as he holds you—tightly—his fingers curl around your shoulders, fisting them. Like a young boy clinging to a kite, terrified it’ll get torn and tattered from the howling windstorm if he lets go. As if he’s afraid you’ll float away.
You hold each other for a moment, shedding away the weight of what’s yet to come. You revel in his presence, counting the muffled pattern of his heartbeat—fast and furious—thumping in a rhythm that mirrors your own.
Satoru shifts, his body moving away to give you space, but he doesn’t release you. Instead, his hands cradle your face as your fingers grip the fabric of his shirt, longingly staring at him as you catch a glimpse of something unknown—foreign—before his lips crash into yours. Urgent, messy, desperate. Things quickly escalate. His hands are all over you, rougher than usual—hungrier than usual. You’re famished for his touch, your body responding with feverish desire that leaves you aching for more.
You seek out more of him, plastering your breasts against him, pebbled nipples grazing the scratchy lace of your negligee. The friction sparks heat everywhere, flames spreading, creating firestorms in between your thighs, and Satoru seems to feel your arousal—his hands rolling the thin straps over your shoulders. He liberates your breasts, cupping them in a way that makes your back arch, thumbs skimming the taut peaks.
You moan into his mouth, your hips shift and roll against him—wordlessly demanding for his hands to wander lower. Flat palms run over his obliques, feeling the aerobicized muscles underneath. His skin is like cool marble as your fingertips caress him—alive under your touch—and you map out the terrain of his statuesque figure.
The air around you feels foggy, full of something thick—the tension before a storm, but you don’t try to investigate. Not when Satoru deepens his kisses, tongues brushing against each other, not when his trembling hands work to undress you—they roam and beg, taking more and leaving less.
Clothes come off in a trail of fabric—a pool of crimson silk, a button-shirt with missing buttons, jeans half unzipped—discarded like afterthoughts in the chaos inside your mind. By the time you both stumble onto the bed, you’re bare, shivering under his gaze as his naked body fences around you. Satoru’s hands—large, reverent hands you love—hover over your body, running them against your skin like he’s memorizing your shape, but they’re still unsteady—shaking at the edges—as if he’s holding brittle glass.
A thumb roves over your tattoo, the only one you’d ever gotten a year ago, his initials singeing your skin—permanently inscribed on your flesh between the softness of your inner thighs. Below the ridges of your iliac crest, an intimate spot, only for his eyes to witness.
G.S.
His swallows are uneven, his throat bobbing with each one. His breaths stumble, as if trying to outrun a looming storm inside his chest. He stares at you like it might be the last time—unblinking, in an awakened stupor.
Suddenly, he lowers his head and gently kisses it, like he longs to erase the memory of the needle pricking at your skin. But you remember how you embraced the pain. You loved how the ink tainted your blood, how the letters seeped into your flesh and lived there.
Preserved and immortalized like a magnolia flower inside translucent amber.
His lips linger there, grazing over the ink, murmuring something—perhaps a secret prayer. His mouth stalls, as if he’s afraid of lifting it again—like if he does, then the tattoo will evanesce.
You reach over to feel him, to let him know that you’re here—you’re forever his—but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head as he shoves you back onto the mattress. His grip tightens, not to hurt you, but in response to your need, to let you know the craving is mutual.
He kisses down your neck, your chest, ragged breaths tickling your skin. When he sucks a bruise into the soft flesh between your breasts, you moan, arching into him, aligning your body against the missing gaps that connect you.
“I missed you,” you rasp, ravenous. Heat blooms from within the center where both of your bodies almost fuse. You steal a glance at his cock, half-erect as it ghosts over your inner thigh, ripples of its heat dousing your wet cunt. “Missed you so much.”
He moans against your throat, the sound purring from the base of his chest, then he releases your wrists to stipple kisses, lower and lower, stopping against the curve of your mound. Directly over your waiting heat. Your legs spread wider, making room for his shoulders while his lips traverse downward, skipping your glistening cunt, and kissing your inner thigh.
“Tease,” you murmur, tapering your eyes at him.
“I’m not teasing you, baby,” Satoru promises you, fingertips skating over your thighs, sprouting goosebumps. “Don’t wanna rush this.”
Your eyebrow quirks. “Since when are you so patient?”
“Since I’ve learned that patience makes the pay-off much sweeter,” a smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth. “And you know how I’m never one to skip dessert.”
“I haven’t seen you for a week.” You’re on tenterhooks, waiting for him to end your short-term, involuntary celibacy. “Please, just touch me.”
Satoru tuts—actually tuts—like he’s scolding a stubborn child. “Patience, baby. I’ll make it worth the wait.” His grin subdues, possessing this glance, this challenging expression like he’s dead set on proving his words.
Experimentally, his fingers drag over the seam, spreading your folds apart, and you shiver under his touch. You’re already so wet, soddened, all for him. He ducks forward, flicking his tongue over your clit, again and again—repeating the motion. You feel how he licks upward, collecting slick before circling your clit with the tip, round and round with applied pressure.
“You taste so good, so sweet,” he groans, lapping up more of your dripping juices. He eases in his middle finger, then a second joins. The stretch arches you into him as they hook inside velvety walls, deeper and deeper into your heat, down to his knuckles. “Like sugar on my fucking tongue.”
You gaze at the ceiling overhead—stars dot your vision—breath catching as he blesses you, his fingers curl with precision, coaxing melodies from your body like a string instrument. Every touch is deliberate, gentle—even when it’s rough—and you respond, spreading wider, as your body writhes in tune with the song he strums.
Your thighs quake against the strength of one chiseled arm, stretching your legs with reverence, midsection tacked to the mattress. You feel as delicate as a dragonfly pinned through its thorax inside an entomological display—fragile limbs like transparent wings weakly fluttering with life. And so, he examines you. Patiently, lovingly—he rediscovers you all over again.
Strands of his hair, the color of saltwater pearls with undertones of lilac, emerge from between your thighs as he leans in, lips brushing your skin with amorous intent. His lips pucker around your clit, sucking it into his mouth like it’s candy. More arousal floods the center, and Satoru abandons your clit to swipe at it. He alternates between soft, nurturing licks and the faintest nips and bites before delving deeper. He devours you from the inside out, drinking in every drop as you bloom and spill for him—nothing short of ambrosia.
He looks undeniably paradisiacal with his face wedged in your cunt, and he tilts his head, somber-eyed, but he continues. Chin soaked with your slick, tongue darting in and out as you buck your hips in tandem with his devout mouth. He dismisses your low-pitched whines and pleas, working his tongue deeper into your hole. Raunchy, wet clicking sounds echo along with your breathless moans, your fingers fist the sheets, toes curling, pussy quivering—telltales of your climax.
“Baby…baby—Oh, God! I’m going to—” You unabashedly mewl as your orgasm overtakes you, gushing with a fresh trail of slick all over Satoru’s mouth. You can’t stop shaking, your body blissed-out beyond control. His arms hold you down, but the electric spasms don’t cease while they travel downward.
“Good girl,” he coos against your pussy, moaning as he laps up the remnants of your unraveling, eagerly taking everything you give him. He retreats with a wet pop, tenderly skimming your inner thighs, palming the skin there with a languorous touch. A dulcet hum breaches past your lips while you rest against the mattress, enjoying how it envelops you, body tingling with post-orgasmic delight.
Casually, he brings up gleaming digits, separating them, where stringy remnants of your slick sticks, and pops them inside his mouth to taste you. The eroticism behind the act makes your blood rush and your pulse jump. You turn your head to the side, cheeks beetroot as you try to hide the effect of his…everything.
Everything he does makes the butterflies in your stomach flutter and dance.
This man will single-handedly drive you to an early grave.
Overtly, he smirks, but doesn’t poke fun at you, which is out of habit for him. “Don’t you tap out on me just yet. This round was solely for you.”
Boneless, you balance on your elbows, giving him a worn-out smile. “Just for me, huh? Do you want me to return the favor?” You give him your best bedroom eyes, but your internal fear probably makes you look more like an owl than a bold seductress.
“No, consider this a generous gift from your ever-so-thoughtful and devastatingly handsome fiancé,” he says, voice gruff with residual heat and a lopsided smile.
You raise an eyebrow, breath still uneven. You open your mouth to come up with something twice as witty, “Generous? So, you want a thank-you card?”
Satoru narrows his eyes with lazy amusement. “If you insist. Although I wouldn’t mind a dozen cookies from my favorite bakery instead. You should consider yourself lucky that I’m not being too demanding.”
You jokingly nudge his abdomen with your toe, “Wow, I’m truly lucky. Not only do I get a dreamboat, but he’s also a pleaser who only accepts desserts as a reward.”
He chuckles, catching your foot and planting a kiss on your ankle before he starts massaging it. “Damn right I am. You hit the jackpot.” He shoots a wink, there’s a mischievous glint in his glacial eyes, a shadow of a smile playing at his moistened lips. For a transient moment, it feels like he’s fully himself again, the tension slowly thawing until it scatters away just as quickly.
Then, quieter—like the pressure of everything he’s not saying is slipping through fissures. “But realistically, can you blame me?” He continues with a murmur, his voice gentle but laden with sensuality. He stops kneading your foot and carefully places it back on the bed. “I want to make this final night extra special for you.”
You blink, your face scrunching at his verbatim. Final night. Your heart thunders at how final his tone sounds. All you hear is a repetition of his last statement. “Final night?”
Satoru’s expression changes, realizing too late the extremity of his words. His eyes enlarge slightly, the glint of mischief shrinking as he stumbles to recover. “I meant final night as my fiancée, baby.”
The pain shoots through and maims you, yet you smile and hide your dejected spirit. “Yes…of course. I thought our wedding night was supposed to be the extra special one.”
Your fiancé smiles, giving your thigh a playful pinch. “This is the pre-special extra special. We’ll make it an ultra-special extravaganza.” He wiggles his fingers with faux grandeur and grimaces. “I hereby forbid myself from ever using the word special. Pretty sure I hit my lifetime quota.”
Air escapes through your nose in a huffy laugh. “I kinda like it better when you’re quiet,” you tease, but your voice is void of any conviction. Too croaky. Too tenuous.
“If you want quiet, then I’d give it to you,” he counters. “But you gotta pay me. My silence is expensive.”
Your mouth twitches, a poor replica of a smile barely formed, but your chest feels too compressed to let it fully land.
Still, you play along—you can’t drop the act before the curtain falls. “How expensive are we talking?” You ask, voice wobbling, despite the levity of the question. “I might be able to afford it.”
He taps his chin, pretending to consider. “Mhm, a kiss every fifteen seconds. And if you hesitate, I’ll start charging interest.”
“Is this a final night deal?” You question, dancing around what you really want to say. Give me a hint, anything. Everything depends on his response. You need a direct answer—reassurance—something to mend the split in the middle of your heart.
He shrugs, unaware of the pressure you placed on him. “You may want to use it by tonight or it’ll expire.”
Your heart takes a nose-dive, like an airplane descending from the sky. “So…I can’t ever use it again?”
He pauses—the kind of pause that makes you overthink and come up with a million heartbreaking scenarios.
Your brows dip in anguish, wanting to communicate your own interpretation of his words. “Satoru…do you realize how this sounds—”
“Baby…” Satoru cuts in, slicing through your concerns. “Don’t worry this pretty little head of yours, okay? I was only joking,” he takes your hand and prints a kiss on your knuckles, withdrawing far too soon for your troubles to dissolve. “I’ll let you redeem as many kisses as you want…anytime. You don’t have to pay for a damn thing.”
He dodges confrontation like a skilled martial artist that he is.
You give him a crestfallen nod.
His gaze softens at your expression, but there’s a discernible tension in the air now, heavy and lingering. Satoru rakes his fingers through silver wisps, something unsettling in his demeanor. “I just don’t want you to think that I—” He cuts himself off, words dangling in the space between you two, frail and implicit.
The silence lapses, and you restlessly shift, waiting for his explanation. You don’t see how he can rectify this situation, especially when it seems like he’s blocking an admission. The truth that might set him free, but cage you.
You don’t push. You wait. But you don’t glance away either.
And when he doesn’t finish, when the silence dominates the room, it becomes louder than the sounds inside your head, you murmur, “That you what?”
His throat works, jaw stretching like he’s chewing on a secret he doesn’t want you to taste. Finally, he takes a deep breath, his shoulders drooping slightly. “I want this night with you, with every part of you. Before everything changes. Before the world shifts beneath our feet. We’re starting a new chapter…right?”
You nod, wanting to understand the message behind his voice, trying to decipher things from his perspective. The knot in your stomach grows into a coagulated mass. You want to believe him, but the way his words fade leaves behind a false sense of security.
“Yes, I know we’re starting a new chapter,” you gingerly start, pulling on his hand as an invitation to resume his position. He creeps up your frame, slipping in between your parted legs, gripping your hips. You peer down at the space between, noticing how he’s much harder now—flushed—leaking and ready. The sight leaves you salivating, your cunt wetter, clenching around nothing. “But you have me for this night. And the next. And for a million more. Forever.”
His eyes search yours, unreadable for a second before you see something painful, longing—and then it’s gone. His hand brushes your hair, reassuringly. “Forever is a long time, yet it doesn’t seem like enough—but I’ll make it count. All I need is tonight. With you.”
“You have me, baby,” you offer yourself to him, and it almost sounds like a desperate attempt, a last-minute reminder to keep him chained. “You’ll always have me—as your fiancée, your wife. Everything.”
“I need to feel you come around me,” his voice raw with need, a demand camouflaged as a confession. His hands relocate to your hipbones, squeezing them tightly. His eyes are chillingly intense, betraying his restraint. “Please, baby. My body’s aching for you.”
You nod, incapable of forming words.
He treats time preciously when he sinks into you, sheathing his cock inch by inch, drawing out a broken moan. You whimper when he pushes deeper until he bottoms out, screwing his eyes shut. Now, both face-to-face, noses brushing, he stills inside you, your legs hang loosely around his hips. You savor how he fills you, incrementally breathing as your walls welcome him. There’s a crease in his brows, a hitch in his breath, then he shivers against you—bumping his nose with yours in a childlike gesture.
“You can move, you know.” You softly whisper, placing your hand over his cheek—the one with the ring—shining like a harvest moon against his ivory complexion.
His eyes flutter at the sound of your voice, the light blue of them dazed, rimmed with something morose. The wrinkle in his brow doesn’t iron out, lips agape like he wants to speak and can’t find the right words. So instead, he nuzzles into your open palm, printing a kiss on its center.
Then, in a hushed breath, “I know…” he tells you, but doesn’t budge. His forehead rests against yours, and his voice breaks toward the end. “Just give me a second. I need a reminder of the way you feel…”
You trace his cheek, swallowing something akin to a gargantuan rock. “A week couldn’t’ve been this long, could it? Seven days and you’ve already forgotten about how I make you feel?” Your voice remains floaty, but there’s shakiness beneath it. Then, with a smirk that mimics his, you add, “I mean…if I were you, I’d miss me too.”
He laughs at your flirtatious tone, eyes crinkling but not quite losing that unreadable glint. “Stop stealing my lines.”
You smile, but it hurts in the worst way possible. “Then use one of yours. Say something that’ll convince me that you’re here. With me.”
His large hand covers yours, holding it against the column of his face like he needs the contact more than you do. He’s silent—too silent, then he speaks: “I’m here.” He bends lower and delivers a chaste kiss to your lips. “From this point forward, all of me is present for you.”
You nod again, but you’re still less assured. He’s lying, he’s lying, he’s lying, your heart repeats—thumping out a warning, attempting to prepare you for the fall.
“You ready?” He asks, waiting for a verbal prompt.
“I’m ready…” you tell him, faintly smiling at how he asks as if you’re both about to dive off the highest altitude of a mountain.
An alternative thought trails in your mind before he starts—as if you’re both about to plunge into something you can’t bounce back from. Something set in stone. A wedding. A vow. A night that feels much like a dream before it shifts into a full-fledged nightmare.
When he begins to move, your lungs depress in suspense, awaiting his performance. Sex with Satoru is like a binding vow—your soul always ties with his—until you couldn’t tell where he began and where you ended.
Tonight, though, the connection is gradually loosening, disentangling like a silky ribbon.
There’s slowness to him. The initial pullback of his pelvis is profound, the way his cock hones into you as he glides out, then rams back in, unlocks your jaw, and you let out a hoarse cry.
Nails rake down his back, holding onto him like he’s the only thing that keeps you afloat. He keeps rocking—long, deep strokes—every snap of his pelvis excavates through your body, unearthing emotions that you can’t face.
Truths you want to ignore.
And finally, he meets your eyes, doesn’t look away. “Stay with me,” he whispers—not commanding, just asking.
You witness a supernova in his eyes, a luminous explosion—so bright, it torches the air around you. But just as rapidly as it flares, it implodes into onyx, a black hole vacuuming everything in its orbit. The stars in his eyes are still burning as his hips meet yours with more urgency now—it aches, delectably, a heady unbearable fullness that borders on divine worship and ruin.
It’s not deep enough.
“Deeper…” you urge, your tone leaning towards whining. “Please, baby. I need you to make me feel every part of you tonight. Want to remember how you felt—how your cock felt—when I’m walking down the aisle.”
“Fuck, don’t ask me that…” Satoru exasperatingly says. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me. When you’re begging like this—how the fuck am I supposed to think straight?” His voice is no longer lustful, but pained. “You’re making me lose myself, lose my purpose.”
“Then lose yourself,” you beg, too lost—too immersed in him to question what he means. “Lose control, don’t hold back.”
“Tell me you love me,” he growls against your throat, refusing to adhere to your command, hips rutting, lips dragging across sweat-stained skin until he finds your nipple again—licking, sucking, biting as your spine bends into a crescent.
“I love you,” you gasp without hesitation, dizzy, intoxicated—completely consumed by him.
His pelvis slows, stutters in an off-rhythm—for a second—before he plows into you harder, mercilessly, rattling the bed with his earthquake-like fluctuations. He’s so deep, you feel him steal the oxygen out of your lungs. Unexpectedly, his motions become sluggish, switching your moans from loud to elongated sighs—and he brakes altogether—droplets of his sweat diving straight down, glittering like rare diamonds.
He stares at you, panting, cheeks dusted with light pink—the color of a glass of rosé in a cool summer evening—haloed by the lamp’s light. “Tell me that you’ll always love me,” he demands—or begs—frantic for an answer.
Your gaze meets his, yours half-hooded with a range of emotions—mostly longing. You want to make the moment less serious, less intense. You want to make a joke, adopt his method of spreading humor rather than gloom. But the ache sticks to your throat like the medicinal aftertaste of cough syrup.
Instead, your fingers curl around his nape, and you whisper, voice wavering, “It’s too early to exchange vows…” Then softer, unguarded: “But yes. I will. Always. Though everything in this life is fleeting, I vow to stay present to you and to love you, in this life and the next, until the moment we part.”
“Until the moment we part,” Satoru echoes, cerulean eyes vapid—voice hollow like something sacred already escaped from his grip. His lips brush against yours, breath trembling as the distance disappears.
Then, he thrusts into you again, slowly—carefully—dragging his length along your plushy walls, molding his shape into you until he carves a memory with each stroke. There’s desperation in the way he moves, he’s chasing something that flees, hips flexing with primitive force, desire braided into constricting muscles.
You feel it—how he grabs onto his thread and unravels against you—how he’s pouring energy into every move, running on an elixir that only electrifies your nerves and binds them with his. A blink, and your legs are on his shoulders, balancing on two divots before he folds you like origami, pushing you down with tenderness imbued with so much grief for it to be mistaken as lust.
This angle deepens his thrusts, they become sharp, precise, but his eyes—his eyes remain locked on you, brimming with memories old and recent. With one look, you see the present, past…but the future is a vast road, grey and boundless.
You reject the premonition, conjuring a flower-laced pathway—a meadow bathing in sunlight, each flower blossoms with hope. A future where Satoru takes your hand and whisks you away, both of you barefoot and brave, running through the fields of sprouting love and devotion.
You picture him contentedly laughing—you picture yourself complete. Finally whole. You picture the happy ending because that’s what you deserve after suffering for so long.
This is the pathway you chose.
“This deep enough for you, baby?” He asks, he thrusts into you with a touch of roughness—hips moving with purpose—claiming, carving. “This—this spot right here,”—another thrust that whittles away your soul—“never forget it.”
“Oh, God,” you whimper when he drives into that sweet, devastating place inside of you, feeling the tears sting your eyes, overwhelmed by how deep your love for him runs, how much you can’t get too much of him. It’s insufficient. “Fuck—you always know. You always know all exactly where to brand me.”
Satoru leans forward, hot mouth on your ear, ragged and wrecked, “I wish I can make this feeling last forever. Fuck, please, I don’t want it to end.”
“Don’t stop,” you moan, the tension winding tight around your core as he rocks into you, again and again, grinding his hips, printing himself into your bones. “Don’t stop, please.”
The friction between your legs heightens—you burn, he burns, you both turn into flames. Skin strikes skin, ricochets of lust-driven bodies haunt the apartment. Moans wax and wane, changing frequencies—high, low, keen. You call out for him, for deities—you pray—your vocal cords weak and reedy as you recite mantras that are irreligious and explicit.
And he, in turn, grunts and growls—snapping his hips with ferocity like he’s racing a coalition of cheetahs, like he’s chasing time itself before it crosses to the finish line first.
“God, you’re swallowing me whole,” he praises without breaking out of this unsparing pace. “Every part of you loves me. Every part.”
The words shove you to the edge and you only gabble out an eager yesyesyes. Your pussy contracts around him, a sob and a moan exiting your mouth in one mangled breath. You can feel every slide of his shaft, bulging veins scraping against the deepest grooves of your walls—slick with shared arousal—it drips down your inner thighs—sticky and messy and filthy.
He kisses you with violence, like you’re a war he intends to win. Open-mouthed kisses, sloppy—wet, hot, arousing. You taste your flavor lingering on his tongue. His hand attaches to your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat, to mark you, fangs dent your flesh, and he bites down just enough to make you cry.
You sob into his shoulder, riding riptides of pleasure—of ecstasy—everything. You’re addicted to the way he rolls his pelvis, the sweet sting of his girth, the way he grasps you, frenetic and greedy. Every stroke is a silent plea, an incantation: Don’t let me go. Don’t let me go. Don’t let me go.
“Satoru—” you choke on your gasp when his cock completely slides out of you, the head prodding your entrance. You forget what you want to tell him when he transpierces you, navigating back inside your sloppy cunt.
“Touch yourself for me, baby,” Satoru instructs you, breathless and close to the edge as you—if not closer.
You begin to reach in between your legs, but he stops you gently, wrapping his hand around your wrist. “No,” he says softly, eyes flickering to your left hand. “Use the one with the ring.”
You hesitate for a second, then obey, trembling fingers circling your clit in tight, practiced strokes that send your back arching off the bed. The weight of the ring is subtle, and the band feels cool against the bundle of nerves. As your wrist rotates, the gem shimmers, sparkling with each motion.
Neck falling backward, you find a suitable pace, in counter-rhythm with Satoru’s thrusts. The joined effort makes your head explode, like you’re seconds away from brain damage. You cry out, hands return to his shoulders, gripping him like the sensation is too much—and it is, but you don’t want it to fade—you want it to last…forever—infinitely. You’re unfolding. Your pussy pulsing with every stroke, your orgasm swelling and swelling and swelling.
“I’m here,” Satoru rasps, voice hoarse and thick with heat. “Just…hold on to me.”
You moan against his skin, out of oxygen, lungs combusting. Your hips gyrate along his, matching the rhythm he’s set. The world narrows to the heat of his body, the slick press of skin, the raw pulse of sexual desire that reverberates through your core, building inside.
Your thighs tremble where they’re fastened around his waist, the heels of your feet tunneling into his lower back—urging him to sink into you. As if that’ll restore your connection with him. As if that’ll make it stronger than what’s threatening to take him away from you.
“You’re gonna come for me, yeah?” He pants, running his nose over the slope of yours. “Show me. Let me feel it—fuck—let me have it one la—”
He cuts himself off. You hear it. The last almost slips. But he conceals it with a kiss, brutal and bruising.
“I—want to,” you sob against his lips, your hips quivering as he grinds harder. “Satoru, please don’t stop—I’m close. I’m so close.”
“I got you,” he pledges in a husky, erotic whisper. “Come for me. I want to feel it—please, baby—I need to feel you.”
White light girdles your vision, and everything else dims, your walls pulsing tight, body seizing as you climax. You cry out his name like you know nothing else. No other words compare to the sound of his name as it rolls off your tongue, desperate and broken.
He thrusts once, deep and hard, then follows seconds later, hissing through clenched teeth. He empties into you with a gravelly curse—his whole body shuddering above you. The aftershocks of your orgasm tase your every nerve as when he topples over you—still buried deep inside, twitching as you both wait for the high to pass.
Moments later, you both lazily lounge in the tangled sheets, sweaty and spent. Sounds of your labored breathing play in the background, and the occasional creak of the bed as you both adjust your bodies, trying to remain impossibly close, trying to remain attached. Satoru tucks his face in the crook of your neck, and you hear him inhale. His body is heavy over yours, but you don’t mind. Your arms tangle around him, fingers combing through sweat-dampened hair, feeling his heart pounding faster than ever, a speed that for once doesn’t match yours.
It’s as if his heart wants to break free.
This feels different—everything feels unusual.
Usually, after sex, he’d make a joke or two.
Usually he’d beg for another round, or tickle you—kiss you so softly—and hold you captive for a not-so quick cuddling session.
But now…nothing. He’s quiet, mute, and it’s uncomfortable—suffocating—because you’re so used to his talkative nature—how he always has something on the tip of his tongue. The tremors still linger, icy chills that transfer over to you. A frown pulls at your lips, fingers stilling against his scalp.
You can no longer ignore this. Something is wrong with your fiancé. There’s this tension that’s threatening to snap—subtle violence under the surface—like he’s seconds from breaking out of this façade of unlimited composure. Like he’s incapable of holding himself together, being ripped apart from various directions.
“Satoru?” You whisper, tilting your head to glance at him. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because,” you chew on your lower lip. “You’re doing that thing where your brain goes somewhere far and your face stays here.”
He chuckles under his breath, low and guttural. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to me.”
He doesn’t lift his head to meet your eyes. Instead, he kisses the hollow indent of your throat, a gentle, desperate press of lips, and holds you tighter against him. “Yeah…just…thinking.”
“About tomorrow?”
”Mhm,” he nods. “All of it.”
Your heart wrings like a wet towel and aches, dripping with the essence of your love. Something is wrong—and again, your brain switches to panic, that state where it can’t form a proper response. You don’t hold it in—you can’t—so the question flees without permission. “Are you…are you getting cold feet?”
“No,” Satoru debunks quietly. “No, baby. It’s not cold feet.” He lets out a small, almost self-deprecating laugh. “Might be nerves—y’know, first time getting married. Kind of a big deal.” He exhales and squeezes you tighter than before, resting his cheek against your chest. “But I’m here. With you. That’s the only part that matters.” He prints another kiss on your sternum, close to where your heart resides. “If I’ve gotta live somewhere…let it be inside your heart. I know you’d guard it better than I ever could.” He finishes, reciting the words like poetry—they’re faint—truth spoken into the night.
You freeze underneath him, your fingers fisting his hair, feeling the soft strands slip in between them—not pushing him away…just holding onto any familiar part of him. Trying to understand. Trying to interpret this moment as something worth remembering, something permanent.
Nerves? The same Satoru who fears nothing? The same extroverted man who terrifies social anxiety? But still, he’s human. He feels the same emotions as everyone else. Your nerves are in a distraught state, but you know you can untangle them because you have no doubts about him.
The unease intensifies and overflows, slipping into the tiny crevices, like tentacles of smoke, threading through your ribs, and bleeding straight into your lungs—thicker than the tainted carbon monoxide they stored eons ago. He’s never said anything like that to you before, not even during the rare moments where he’s vulnerable.
“Are you sure it’s just nerves?” You persist, your voice cracking slightly, but you smooth out the rough margins, leveling your tone. “Because you’re pulling away—you’re pulling away from me and I don’t know why. We’re getting married tomorrow, Satoru. Tomorrow. Like you said, we’re starting a new chapter together. If you have any concerns…then we need to talk about them. We need to fix them before…before they manifest into something bigger.”
Satoru silence distends toward an intolerable region, stretching like a taut wire. Then—softly, absentmindedly—his fingertips trace over your skin. Light taps on your chest, aimless shapes, a palliative tactic he had used to fight off the remnants of the night terrors that haunted you for what seemed like forever. They had bled through the beginning of your relationship. When your nights were laced with fear. You used to wake up gasping, covered in sweat and tears, shivering, pale-knuckled, clutching the sheets—as you floated an arctic domain you couldn’t escape.
Then came Satoru. Your knight in shining armor. He had chased the monsters away, slain them not with a sharp sword, but with his gallant heart. With his presence. With warmth. With his ridiculous sense of humor and galvanic charm. With his arms that held and nourished you. With the only words that gave you life. He was your knight through and through—rescuing you from grotesque beings, from gory depictions of death and the metallic taste of curdled blood. He guarded you from ghosts only you could see. Ghosts with faces you knew and forgot.
And it worked.
The nightmares had ebbed away. Like the mist inside a deserted town, they vanished the minute he had set foot in your life. Like he had rescued you—really, truly rescued you—from something your brain worked hard to erase.
But now, the patterns feel different—no mishapened hearts, no radiant stars, no blooming petals—just random squiggles—carrying a mistranslated message. It’s a message for him, for him to know, a secret that he needs comfort from. He’s comforting himself from it, you know because his breaths are uneven, uncertain. And his touch—though familiar—though you could recognize it amongst a billion hands…feels strange.
Not a word leaves him.
Your mind scrambles for a logical solution. An efficient fix, but it’s not easy. You look at him, mind in disequilibrium, voice more wobbly than steady. “If you want…perhaps we could postpone the wedding…” you start, quickly adding, “Personally, I don’t want to. But maybe…we could just elope. Just make things official without the extra celebrations.”
He blinks, caught off guard by your suggestion. For a second, his expression hardens. “No. It’s too late now.”
“It’s not too late,” you argue with less confidence. “I’ll make a few phone calls in the morning—”
“I don’t want to postpone it,” he firmly says, but his voice is gentler now. “And the eloping…it’s not about the ceremony or the crowd. It’s about you. It’s about us.”
His words hook you in, and despite the festering tension, you find yourself a little appeased—relieved, even—that he wants the wedding to go on. “But…you’re not…you’re nervous…and—”
“No but,” he says quickly. “Just—nerves. They’ll go away.”
You nod, pretending to believe him. Pretending your stomach hasn’t been doing slow somersaults all week. “Okay…just nerves.”
“I love you,” he proclaims, his voice splintering at the end. His throat clicks as he swallows, and you feel every quail in his breath. “I want you to know that. I want you to believe that.” You think he might cry, and a part of you wishes for the tears to fall, for them to descend, because tears are easier to understand than this calm sorrow. The sadness weaves into his tone, but he doesn’t cry.
Every time you let down your guard, he finds a way to water your doubts.
“Satoru,” you choke out, your throat swelling up, constricting around a cluster of acute emotions. They cultivate like an army of bacteria in a Petri dish, invading your airways. “You’re scaring me.”
His biceps flex around you as if to shield you from his lack of explanation. But he still refuses to meet your gaze. Doesn’t utter any more oaths of love. He sinks his head deeper into your neck as if he wants to hide there, to forever be a part of your skin. “Don’t be scared…just let me stay. Just be with me. This moment—now…in the present.”
Because you love him—because you believe every word that comes out of his mouth, even if it’s poisonous, you obey.
Finally, he rises to look at you, and for a second, you see it so clearly, he doesn’t hide it. You see a silhouette of grief. The conflict in his soul—a disunity of emotions. Your heart wilts like a closed fist, caving into itself. You could press him. Could extract the truth out of him before time becomes an enemy.
But you don’t.
Because if you interrogate him any further, if you back him into a corner—he’ll speak, and you’ll know. Then you’ll have no choice but to do something about it.
So instead, you swallow your doubt—swallow a million sharp blades, tasting the bitterness of your cowardice, and you guide him back down. Palms press against the toned muscles of his back, your fingers outlining the familiar arc of his spine. Your legs coil around him with the passivity of a garter snake, and your walls squeeze his cock—feeling it throb in response.
When he moves inside you again, it’s sensual—slow, passionate. Deep. Less frenzied. Less desperate. Unrushed from start to finish, but it hurts—it impales you deeper—injects hydrofluoric acid and lets it corrode your heart.
Still, his eyes won’t focus on you—they trace your features, but they won’t take you in.
Your heart weeps for him, and your body mourns, welcoming the distraction. Every stroke. Every breath. You let him guide you into a pattern that coaxes sounds of pain and longing. His name rewinds in breathless moans, you cling to him, your mouth demarcating his jaw, his lips, anything that you access. And when his groans your name like it tears him to pieces, you whisper his back, begging for mercy, pleading for him to stitch your heart with his so you can learn his pain.
You shatter around him with a noiseless cry, face pinched from the ecstasy surging through you. Satoru groans deep in response, pants fast and uneven, his own body convulsing with the fire of his climax, coming inside you with a shiver that robs his voice.
“Promise me,” he rasps, the words squeezing out of him like they’d been lodged in his throat for years. “Promise me you won’t let your heart go cold again.”
Cold again. His sentence knocks something loose in you, all the screws you’d tried to tighten, the parts you’d fixed and polished. You don’t question how he knows. Of course he knows. He was the one who warmed it back up in the first place.
Your bones turn to stone, your limbs stiffen. You can’t let the past govern your future. You can’t slip back into the person you were before. Pre-Satoru.
After a second, you kiss him on the temple, hold him closer, neglecting the panic trapped inside—clawing, tearing at your chest. “I promise…” you wrap up the lie with a soft whisper, wishing upon a lone star you don’t break it. “As long as I have you by my side.”
You feel how his body becomes rigid—just for a second—before he kisses you again, tender and aching, a kiss that can be mistaken as a fond farewell. An undecided goodbye. But you tell yourself it’s nothing. A moment. It’ll pass as soon as the sun kindles the sky, as soon as the birds take flight, as soon as the city awakens with a loud rumble.
Satoru starts to pull away, but you stop him, keep him inside you, keep him with you for as long as you can. “Stay…” You murmur, tightening your legs around him. “Don’t leave me empty.”
He nods, kissing you again as you both lie for what feels like eternity, joined at the most intimate points—his cock flickering weakly inside of you, an echo of something that’s beginning to perish.
Eventually, your body loses the fight against exhaustion, especially trapped underneath his body heat like he’s your personal furnace. Toasty, safe, and snug. Your cunt flutters around him, constricting at the satiating fullness of his cock—still buried, soft, and motionless. You want to move, to stoke the flames of pleasure, but instead you let him throb inside—anchoring you to the hushed dusk.
You’re tucked somewhere in between the folds of sleep and waking—losing your footing on a thin string that threatens to snap as your awareness resurfaces.
Then, you feel him.
Slow, deliberate rolls of his hips pull you out from the depth of sleep like a tide, his body squashed against yours, deep inside, moving like he’s writing a letter—crafting each word with paced strokes—spilling either dormant passion or poignant goodbyes.
You can’t tell—they both read the same.
At first, you think you’re dreaming—the way his hands claim your waist, the way his mouth presses fervent kisses to your neck, the way he molds against you, his next thrust agonizingly slow. Soothing. Like he’s trying to eternalize the moment.
“—give me,” a faint whisper reaches your ears, just fractions of words you can’t unscramble. Give me? What did he want you to give him? What did he have left that he wasn’t already trapped inside his balled fists?
He already had your heart. Your trust. He had your laugh stored in his eardrums, your confessions woven into his breath, your soul etched into every echoing orison.
He had every piece of you—and more.
You moan in your sleep, still lost in the haze, senses hindered, your hips bucking, meeting his thrusts with an unconscious plea. You hold onto him, palms splaying over his shoulder blades, pulling him closer. Even with your eyes shut, your body wakes up just for the purpose of feeling him.
“Satoru…”
“I’m here, baby,” he whispers into your hair, hoarse and desperate, “it’s just us. Just one more time, can you do that for me? Give me one more.”
You breathe, swimming up the surface of the dream-like fog. You’re partially roused. Haze cloaks you. And still, you don’t stop him, you invite him. Your eyes open to seek his, and they crimp in the corners, pleating with a smile, but there’s that sadness that never strays far.
Hands maneuver, fumbling beneath your thighs, lifting you upwards, deeper—pelvis-to-pelvis—so close, yet so far. He widens the space between your legs and folds them, adjusting your body in a way that makes his thrusts less painful.
You think you nod—barely—but he accepts your consent.
His eyes lose their oceanic light, something shifting behind them. This time, they become a dark nebula, an interstellar cloud of need. Heavy need. Heavy regret. Heavy emotions. They concave into your ribs, creating a crater-shaped pit.
Your eyes shut again, giving him permission to toy with your slackened body. Your muscles are pliant, unresisting. You feel it all. Every slow grind that stretches you open and presses into that sensitive place only he’s ever known.
“Still with me?” He whispers against your collarbone, lips caressing you like sweet-tempered smoke.
You dreamily nod again, but this time, your voice slips out somnolently, “Always.”
You’re overly wet from your previous orgasms—shared arousal sticks to both of you with every jostle of his hips. Hipbones collide as he snaps them with restraint, but you feel it recede as you let out a breathless moan, a wanton sound that fractures his control. Your eyes fly open again with a gasp as he plows into you much harder. You’re fully awake now, back arching, the ache building fast and steady. He fucks into you again and again, each stroke coaxes sound after sound from your throat—back-bitten moans, heady gasps, the kind of noises that are birthed from emotion, not just sensation.
His thumb cruises down your body, between your thighs, wheeling where you’re swollen and sensitive and needy for him. “That’s it,” Satoru eggs you on, rubbing tighter and rougher circles. “Let go, baby. Come all over my cock again.”
Your head tips back, lips parting in staggered gasps. Your orgasm closes in. Walls cue for release, spasming around his length. Your clit twitches beneath his touch as you let go, as you almost see the gates of paradise. He doesn’t stop, and guides you through it. You spill again, something sacrilegious, something ravishing, warm and moist, flooding him, drowning you both in sweltering heat.
Your release soaks you both, slick pools of arousal collect between your legs, dripping down your thighs, his shaft, all at once—drenching the sheets. You’re still squirming as he keeps rutting into you with reckless abandon, rutting to chase his high, not only seeking release—seeking permanence. Something that keeps him tethered to you, and you pray it doesn’t—
But it snaps.
He comes hard—muscles tautening, cock twitching—as he spills inside you, painting your walls with more spent. Filling you with more than just his release. He fills you with microscopic fragments of himself—pieces you’ll try to gather one day, like shards of glass, but they’ll never fit quite right.
No matter how carefully you arrange them, they’ll remain an incomplete mosaic.
They’ll never make sense of him.
“Fuck, you’re unreal,” Satoru groans out against your skin. He hovers above you, gauging your face more than your body. “You okay?” He questions with reined concern.
You nod against his shoulder, letting your fingers paint over his chest—measuring his exerted breaths, his hiccuping heartbeats. “Mhm…are you?”
A faint smile curves his lips—a tired, haggard thing—and he bends to peck your nose. “Never been better, baby.”
Then, he pulls out, rolling over to lie down beside you, leaving a splattering of his cum on your thighs. You can still feel him, phantom-deep, inside you, evoking that soreness you clandestinely enjoy.
Moonlight whispers through the curtains like a surreptitious lover. Time is quickly running out, sand grains sinking inside the hourglass.
You should clean up.
The thought almost nudges you into action, like the pesky notifications you have on your phone that remind you about your mundane, half-assed chores. Do the laundry. Take out the trash. Mop the floors. Restock the—
The stickiness between your legs is uncomfortable, and the musk of sex and sweat perfumes the air, it saturates the room, fresh and heavy. You should move. Take a warm shower. Relax. Relax. Relax.
You scoot toward the edge—limbs too strained—fingers inching to scour for something on the floor—his shirt, your underwear, a towel—any article of clothing. But Satoru’s hand lands on your bare waist, right where it curves, holding you down.
“Don’t,” he huskily requests, his voice underlined with weariness. He stamps your shoulder with featherlight kisses, each one infused with fondness. “Not yet.”
You freeze, lips agape like you might argue, but he gives your waist a squeeze, and you instinctively fold back into his warmth, cuddling against his side. Because the truth is that you don’t want to move either. Not because you’re comfortable—your body aches, your heart in worse condition—but because you’re not ready to break something that is on the verge of splintering.
Your hand finds his—like he once found and claimed your life—guiding it to the center of your chest, where your heart gallops beneath trembling ribs. You press his palm against your skin, firmly, printing the deviating lines of different fates. You wish the paths might circulate back to heart, but deep down, you know they’re veering away. Off-course.
“Remember this…” your voice soaks in love and emerges with ache, “remember how it always beats for you. It belongs to you—”
“If I could freeze this moment,” he whispers, stealing the rest of your sentence from your lips, “I’d never let it end.”
Your throat closes at his words—your vision warps—blurring with shiny tears. Your eyes drown in oceans, sinking like unmoored ships. They sail into vast horizons—where the earth isn’t flat—and they fall into a new world.
He brushes away the trickling tears with his thumb, and you smile through the gesture. “God, you’re going to make a beautiful bride…” he whispers almost to himself, but you hear the words, and they land heavy in your chest.
Your smile widens, then it falters as you register the compliment. A beautiful bride. Not my bride—just a…beautiful bride—a label that lacks possession, that falsifies all the times he called you his, growled ‘you’re mine’ while drilling into you. Maybe you’re overthinking it, manipulating the meaning into something else. It’s late. You both pushed past your limits tonight—exhaustion consuming your energy with each passing second.
“Just a beautiful bride? Not your beautiful bride?” You play it off with a light lilt, your smile a thin veneer over the crack that widens in your chest. But deep inside your heart, the sharp pain heightens to an excruciating degree—the knife twists even deeper, its edge slicing through layers of jocularity and the weight of the moment.
Satoru tenses again, and the moment stretches into something stifling. Then, he recovers, letting out a huff of air, a dry laugh. “You’re right,” he quietly agrees, as if he’s trying to white-out the error his lips uttered. “I must be more tired than I thought. I meant to say my…breathtaking bride.”
You laugh in a way that matches his—you play along for his sake. Or yours. You hide the sob that almost crumbles your façade and threatens to expose you. This is the second mistake of the night. Satoru’s too brilliant, he doesn’t make them often. But again, your mind excuses him—just nerves. Just nerves.
What if it wasn’t a mistake?
You kiss his chin and drown the doubts. “Nice save, my breathtaking groom.”
“Only breathtaking?” He asks, cockily raising his eyebrows with that familiar arrogance—but just like before, it doesn’t seem genuine—it doesn’t make his eyes playfully twinkle.
You giggle, splaying your palm over the plane of his chest—fingertips coasting over lily-pad shaped contusions. “Looks like I got a bit carried away and marked my territory.” Your palm roams his skin, feeling the way he breathes—slow, controlled—like he doesn’t want to disturb the peace.
Your skin isn’t any better. Bruises litter your thighs, your hips—prints of his fingertips, painted in hues of love and desperation. Teeth marks wreathe your breasts, your throat, entrapped carmine bursting beneath layers of skin. Thank Gods for full-coverage concealer, a layer or two should do the trick.
“Hm, guess you’re taking the definition claimed quite literally,” he lethargically replies, taking your wrist and pressing a kiss to your pulse point.
The more that you kiss me, the more that it hurts.
The thought travels through your brain, slips into your neurons, uninvited, and carves a dark passage, a negative channel you wish you could reroute. Your smile dims a fraction, grateful he can’t see your face. “Just trying to make sure no one tries to steal you tomorrow.”
Your fiancé chortles—but you don’t miss how his breaths come to a standstill before they proceed. “They wouldn’t dare.”
“Good. Because the last thing I need is to start a fight at our wedding.” You mean it in a funny manner, but the tremor in your voice steals the humor.
“You wouldn’t have to,” he gently assures you, as if he’s talking about more than a hypothetical fight. “I won’t let it happen.”
You tilt your neck upward, offering a playful smile, mantling your emotions. “Don’t worry. I won’t act like a bridezilla and send someone to the hospital.”
“A bridezilla, huh?” His mouth quirks, but his eyes maintain the seriousness, the look he adopted for the night.
“Yes,” you deadpan, but you know deep down that you’re more of a lover than a fighter. Your tongue might rival a sword, but you only use it when people test you. As for violence…your hands know nothing else than to remedy. “I’ll be a good little bride, I promise.”
”No fighting,” he warns with a less stern tone, then he tilts his head in deliberation, “At least, not before the reception.”
You giggle, light and fleeting, like maybe the laughter will kick the anxiety out of your chest. “You just want to get a chance to eat the wedding cake.”
He smiles—soft, small, as if he’s not trying to awaken a sleeping version of himself. “Would be a shame to miss it.”
“You won’t,” you tell him, more resolute than you feel. “Name one reason that’ll make you miss out on a six-tiered chocolate cake.”
Satoru shrugs, his smile becoming more thoughtful. “Maybe if blue spring comes by again.” The statement is enigmatic, and it flows out of him inaudibly, like he’s not sure he wants to say it out loud.
You lose your smile and replace it with a frown, catching the faintness behind his tenor. Why can’t he just tell you what he means? Why can’t he just stop with the riddles? You feel like you’re back in high school, being left out of an inside joke, an outsider looking in. Excluded.
Similar to the poor souls you honor.
“Blue spring?” You iterate with an easy-going tone, though the smile you wear stretches your mouth into something uncomfortable. Tight. “You wanna go back to being young again?”
You pause for a breath, filling in silence with a softer edge. You grip on the last string of composure. “What about the autumn? Isn’t that when people start looking for a fresh start? New beginnings, but…slower. Quieter.”
“I don’t know—I just miss who I was back then,” your fiancé vaguely drawls.
“I know I haven’t been a part of your youth, but I imagine that you’re still quite the same,” you say, palming his cheek. “You’re still you. Young. Charming. Utterly beautiful and insane—all wrapped in one.”
“Maybe that’s the reason why I’m insane,” he cheekily says, but his eyes drift away from you, and they rest on something not visible to you. “Maybe I left a part of myself behind or maybe it’s the other way around,” he muses, his lips unfurling like he’s reminiscing about a nostalgic moment. “Guess I should’ve gone back for it. But you know me—always running off after something else.”
You exhale, upholding that smile…just for a moment longer. “And at some point, you finally stopped running, right?”
You give him a chance to agree, waiting for a joke, a laugh—anything. But Satoru doesn’t comment, just watches you, contemplating, like you snagged on something inside of him. Then he blinks, grinning like nothing happened. “I had to,” he answers with a smirk. “I’m getting old. And my back’s starting to hurt.”
The growing knot is now something you can’t contain, but despite it’s size, you laugh. “Getting old? Guess I’ll also have to be your personal masseuse along with your wife.”
His smirk widens, the corner of his mouth ticking upward. “Perfect. I’ll have a wife, a baker, and a masseuse. I’m going to be spoiled rotten.”
“As if you aren’t already,” you scoff as you lean into him, voice as soft as the mattress you’re lying in. “Don’t get too comfortable, Gojo-san. You’ll have to earn it.”
He hums. “Something tells me I already have.”
“You’re lucky I love you.”
Your words spark something within him, he takes your hand and twists the ring around your finger, almost toying with it. His thumb delineates the jagged cuts of the stone, as if he’s committing the design to memory, the same design he’d spent months secretly customizing behind your back. His irises cloud over, with that same far-off stillness—he’s already galaxies away, even as he holds you in his arms.
Then, without a word, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses the ring. The kiss resembles the one he gave your tattoo—quiet, honoring—as if he’s kissing things sacred to you.
Or maybe…to him.
The ambiguity is imperceptible, but you pluck it between your fingers, and it makes your heart beat faster. Something keeps whispering that it’s not just nerves.
He sighs, the sound that’s part relief, part resignation, pulling you close again as if to protect you from your thoughts. “Sleep, baby. It’s late,” he murmurs, fatigue weighing down his voice. His eyes close, ivory lashes casting a shadow above his cheekbones. You almost wish you believed him, but the doubt peeks at you, flashing you a smug smile.
”Okay…you too,” you drowsily answer, although your brain stays alert. “We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”
He kisses the crown of your head as an answer—gentle, loving.
You yawn as you nestle into his chest, your heart beats in syncopation—like two clocks aligned for once, ticking in an erratic rhythm in the quiet of the room. The only sound now is the far-flung calls of nocturnal animals, and the steady pulse of his breath, like a distant promise.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, just shy of a whisper, though this time, you can’t tell if he’s trying to convince you—or himself.
The panic quells—that alerting crest in your brainwaves flatlining as you finally fall for his reassurance. You rest your head against his chest, listening to his breaths as they mellow out, and let them lull you to sleep, like they always have. His arms are strong around you, grounding. His fingers stroke your bare back in measured, soporific circles.
You curl your feet with his—your shorter legs sliding in between, toes brushing his calves, down to the rounded bones of his ankles, searching for the warmth they always harvested like the glowing cinders on their last breath, dying inside a hearth. You expect his soles to spread fire to your skin.
But the iciness drenches you.
His feet are…cold.
Notes:
Ugh! Being a lover girl hurts! I apologize, I had to make his “goodbye” like this before he leaves. That part where he kissed the G.S. tattoo made me SICK to my stomach 😖😖😖😖😖 we all know who shares the same initials 👀👀👀👀👀.
I realized that I haven’t written smut in a while, so sorry if I’m a bit rusty 🙃🙃🙃🙃. I know this is a Sukuna fanfic, but I had sneak in some smutty scenes with my fav blue eyed king bc I wanted to and that’s a valid reason! 😖
I made the mistake of taking summer classes again, so idk how I had any brain cells left to write 😖😖😖😖. However, I’m now on break, so I’ll try to push out more chapters. The wedding is going to be an ANGST-fest omg. But I’ll probably work on BWAB cause that story hasn’t been updated since May. Oopsie! 🫣🫣🫣🫣
I tried to edit this chapter, but if you see any mistakes…🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣🫣.
Forgot to add that I listened to Santa Monica by Bubble Tea and Cigarettes while writing. 1000/10 sooooong, it’s so sad (who’s surprised?) but the lyrics align perfectly with this chapter.
LATERRRRRRRRR 😚😚😚😚😚😚😚
rskywalker on Chapter 1 Fri 25 Apr 2025 08:42PM UTC
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interlude_enternude on Chapter 1 Fri 25 Apr 2025 09:12PM UTC
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interlude_enternude on Chapter 2 Fri 15 Aug 2025 01:22PM UTC
Last Edited Fri 15 Aug 2025 06:31PM UTC
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