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wh0-1s-m1aaaa · 20 days ago

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Just cried this is literally beautiful

i found you again g. satoru

A/N: okay so usually don't write notes. this isn't a note this is a warning. i cried writing this. so read at your own risk :)

w.c: 2.5k

warnings: reincarnation, vague smut, emotional hurt/comfort, yearning

gojo satoru has lived more lifetimes than there are stars in the sky. hundreds, maybe thousands. time bleeds between them now, thin and threadbare like gauze soaked in old blood. he is tired in a way that no amount of sleep can fix, in a way that’s ancient, mythic, cursed.

and yet, he wakes up in every life with one purpose: to find you.

he doesn’t always know how. sometimes it’s instant. the moment his eyes meet yours, it’s like the world shifts back into place. like he’s been out of breath for years and finally gets to breathe again. other times, it takes a while. you’re a passing stranger on a train, or a coworker in an office where he wears glasses. sometimes you’re older than him, sometimes younger. sometimes you love him immediately, sometimes you hate his guts and he has to earn it (which he always does.)

but you never remember.

you don’t remember the time you were a nurse in the 1800s and stitched up a bloody version of him under candlelight. you don’t remember the version of yourself that wore red lipstick and sang in jazz bars, where he sat in the back in a tailored suit and admired you. you don’t remember the lifetime where he was a war general and you were a spy and he risked everything to get you out. you don’t remember the time you were a jujutsu sorcerer too, and you died before he did.

he remembers all of it.

you never remember the thousand promises. never remember the vows whispered into the curve of your neck, or the way your body knew his like it was written into the code of the universe. you never remember the final moments, the deaths, the heartbreaks. you only ever look at him for the first time, again and again, and say:

“do i know you?”

And it shatters him. Every single time.

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this time, you're a girl in tokyo who works in a quiet bookstore. you wear soft sweaters and tie your hair in lazy half-knots. you hum under your breath while shelving books and forget your tea on the counter while helping customers. and when you look up that day, eyes brushing over his frame in the entrance, he knows. immediately. It hits him like gravity, like a long-awaited breath finally exhaled. there’s no doubt, no hesitation.

it’s you.

but you don’t know him.

“can i help you find something?” you ask, smiling like it’s just any other tuesday. like your soul hasn’t been haunting his through centuries.

he swallows everything down. every ache, every memory, every "please remember me" and nods. “yeah,” he murmurs. “been looking a while, actually.”

you laugh, soft and oblivious, and he lets himself live in that sound for a little while. it's the first moment again. the moment before everything.

he visits you again. and again. he buys books he won’t read and drinks tea he doesn’t like, just to see you smile. you recognize something in him, maybe not the memories, but the tether. the gravity. the way your breath stutters sometimes when he says your name. you begin to wonder about him. you ask him questions. you lean in closer. he watches you tilt your head and squint at him as though trying to place him from a dream you can’t quite remember.

“you’re so familiar,” you murmur once, tilting your head as he walks you home. his heart cracks. he smiles anyway. “déjà vu, maybe.”

you don’t know he said that same line to you in 1847.

he knows the moment you start falling for him. you always do, eventually. it’s written in your soul.

but every time, it’s new for you.

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weeks pass.

he dreams of you every night. some dreams are soft; a memory of you brushing snow out of his hair, or telling him your favorite song on the radio. some are awful; visions of you dying in his arms, blood on your lips, curses howling in the dark.

he wakes up sweating.

this life is peaceful. too peaceful. he’s retired from jujutsu. no more cursed energy. no more students. no more killing. but the price is you not knowing him. not really. not fully.

“what are you thinking about?” you ask one night, on his couch, legs over his lap.

you always ask him that. every life.

he says what he always says. “you.”

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he kisses you the first time on your couch, your legs over his lap, your cardigan falling off one shoulder. you taste like strawberry tea and innocence, and he swallows the urge to sob into your mouth. his hands tremble against your waist. yours find his cheeks, fingers splayed like you’re trying to read something hidden underneath his skin.

that night, you tell him you want more, and god, he gives it to you.

it’s slow, at first. gentle. worshipful. he undresses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, lips trailing reverent paths down skin he’s kissed a thousand times before. he kisses the inside of your wrist, your stomach, your thighs, remembering every life your body once held. you arch for him like you always do, instinctual, breathy, the way you’ve moved for him since the beginning of time.

“toru,” you whisper, voice shaking, nails in his shoulders.

he groans like your name hurts. like it undoes him. “you always say it like that,” he says, breathless. “every time.”

you blink, dazed. “what?”

he doesn’t answer. just sinks into you slowly, deeply, like coming home. and as you clutch him to you, legs wrapped around his hips, gasping against his mouth like your soul remembers even if your mind doesn’t. he breaks all over again.

he makes love to you like he’s begging the universe not to take you away again. and maybe, just maybe, for a few minutes, it listens.

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it began the way most fragile things do.

you couldn’t sleep. you never said the words out loud, but he could feel it in the way you curled too tightly against yourself beneath the covers, how your eyes stayed open long after your breath had evened, always pretending to have drifted off when he turned to check. satoru never called you out on it. he only opened his arms and let you fall into them, wrapping around you like a promise he couldn’t keep.

“want me to tell you a story?” he asked once, one hand cradling the base of your skull, the other tracing soft circles into your back.

you gave a sleepy laugh, the sound half-buried in his chest. “i’m not a child.”

“you’re not. but your body needs rest and your mind keeps chasing shadows. i know the feeling.” he waited a beat. “let me help.”

you didn’t say yes. you just exhaled into his throat, a breath that sounded like surrender.

so he told you one. his voice dipped low, slower than usual, threading through the stillness like smoke curling in candlelight.

“there was a girl,” he began, “in a city made of stone. she had ink on her fingers and a book always in her lap. she didn’t speak much to anyone, except to the man who kept finding excuses to walk by her table.”

you smiled into his shirt, already fading toward sleep. “was he in love with her?”

“he’d already loved her for a dozen lifetimes.”

that made your head tilt slightly. you didn’t speak again, but he could feel the way your body stilled, the way something delicate shifted in the quiet space between his ribs and yours, like your soul had paused to listen, even if your mind couldn’t understand why.

the stories became your nighttime ritual. in every version, the details changed, different settings, different tragedies, different kinds of impossible love. but there were always two constants: a man with winter eyes and a woman who never remembered him.

he told you about a girl who smuggled letters across enemy lines, passing paper hearts into the hands of a soldier with white hair and a secret. about a prince who gave up royalty to live a simple life with the village weaver. about a queen who knelt before a man in chains and fed him pieces of bread until the world burned for them both.

you laughed sometimes. other times you curled into him with something heavy in your silence, your fingers drifting absently over his chest like you were searching for something familiar, something just out of reach.

“they’re beautiful,” you whispered once, long after the story ended. “but they always die.”

he kissed your temple, his voice caught in the back of his throat. “love doesn’t need to survive the body to be real.”

that night, your nails pressed faint crescents into his side as you fell asleep.

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one night, you asked him to tell the story of the garden again.

you were curled up beside him on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, your head on his shoulder, the rain whispering against the windows like an old friend. the world outside was slow and soft and soaked in silver.

“the one where she keeps trying to grow tomatoes,” you murmured, “but he always ruins them and she forgives him anyway.”

he blinked. “you remember that one?”

your voice was thick with exhaustion, barely there. “i think so. feels like i do. i don’t know why.”

he tucked you closer, lips brushing your temple. “she planted them in a field once. in a lifetime that smelled like honey and sunburn. he couldn’t keep his hands off her. she laughed like it was the only thing that could keep the earth turning.”

you smiled, eyes fluttering closed. “you always make them sound like love songs.”

“they are.”

“even the sad ones?”

“especially the sad ones.”

you fell asleep like that, warm and folded into him, his hand stroking through your hair in lazy, reverent loops. he stayed awake long after, staring at the rain, wondering if the story had reached somewhere deeper this time. if some part of you, the part that lived in dreams and blood and memory, had begun to stir.

you didn’t wake when he carried you to bed. but you curled toward him in your sleep and whispered his name like it was older than language.

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he starts dreaming of the first time he found you.

before you were ever born. before you had a name. you were light in a void. a soul that gravitated to his.

he remembers the promise he made to you then. “i’ll always find you. no matter how many lives.” you said you’d try to find him too.

but he’s always the one who remembers. you never do.

and he wonders what he did to deserve this. to carry the weight of every version of you alone.

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this life lasts longer than most.

you say you love him on accident. he says it back like he’s been holding it in for lifetimes (he has).

you move in. you paint the walls. he teaches you how to cook. but deep down, he’s waiting.

because something always comes. a sickness. a curse. a war. something that takes you.

he thinks maybe, this time, it won’t.

until it does.

you’re hit by a car.

no cursed spirits. no revenge. no evil. just a car. just a slick road. just stupid, awful, human randomness.

he sees it happen from across the street.

he’s too slow.

and it’s just like before. he holds you in his arms. your blood seeps into his shirt. you’re blinking up at him like you don’t want to go.

he’s shaking.

“don’t- don’t leave me,” he begs. “not again, please. please.”

you’re crying.

“toru,” you whisper. “i don’t… i don’t want to forget…”

he presses his forehead to yours. he’s sobbing now. you’ve never said that before. not once.

maybe you remember. maybe you don’t.

he kisses you. you die in his arms.

again.

he lives another life.

and another.

each time, he finds you.

in a garden. on a battlefield. in a subway station. in a storm. you always look different. but your soul is the same.

he’s tired. so tired.

but he keeps looking. keeps waiting. keeps finding you.

he wakes in a body that doesn’t belong to the name on the mail by the door. he’s in his thirties. again. new life, new skin. but he remembers.

and he knows, without needing to be told. this is the last one.

there’s something irreversible about it. sharp. infinite. a full stop at the end of a sentence centuries long. there are no curses here. no clans, no talismans, no death wrapped in duty. just cities that hum gently in the distance, and skies that bleed peach-orange at dusk.

the world is normal. he’s just a man now. and for the first time in hundreds of years... that’s enough.

he sees you on a thursday. you’re in his building. you live one floor down. he finds you in the shared laundry room, sleeves pushed up, your fingers flipping through a book while the machine hums behind you.

you look up when he steps in. and for a moment, it’s nothing. just the blink of a stranger seeing another stranger.

but then...

your eyes change. your lips part. your fingers go still on the page. and you say his name.

soft. uncertain. like a question carved from every lifetime you never got to finish asking.

“satoru?”

his breath punches out of him.

he stares at you. older, softer, utterly unfamiliar in every way that doesn’t matter. and somehow you know.

you drop the book. it hits the floor with a thump. your hands cover your mouth and you’re already crying. no hesitation, just recognition. grief, love, memory. spilling all at once like a dam giving way.

he crosses the room in a heartbeat. he’s holding you like you’ll vanish if he blinks too hard. and you bury yourself into him like you’ve done a hundred times before, in a hundred different forms, a hundred different deaths.

“you remember,” he whispers, stunned. cracked. “you remember.”

your fingers clutch the fabric of his shirt. you nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. “i remember everything,” you choke out. “every life. every time. i always loved you.”

and he breaks. completely.

because for lifetimes, he carried it all alone. every death, every kiss, every time you smiled without knowing why, every time you died without remembering him. but now... now, in a quiet building with humming machines and coffee-stained paperbacks— you do.

“you found me,” you whisper, tears caught on your lashes.

he laughs. it’s hoarse. broken. joyous. “of course i did,” he breathes. “i always do.”

your smile is wrecked. radiant. you touch his face like you’ve done it a thousand times. and this time. this one time. you say: “this time, i found you too.”

he kisses you in the hallway, beneath flickering fluorescent lights. it doesn’t matter. nothing matters except the feel of your mouth against his, the weight of your memories pressed between your chests.

this life is quiet. unmagical. miraculous.

there are no curses here. no fates to outrun. no knives between ribs or lives left unlived. just two people who’ve burned through eternity to get here.

and this time— you remember. you both do.

in this life, you begin again. not from scratch. but from everything you carried here.

together. fully. finally. forever.

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wh0-1s-m1aaaa · 1 month ago

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Gonna chill out the rest of May and then change my entire life in June. Possibly July if that doesn't work out. Certainly no later than September or October.

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wh0-1s-m1aaaa · 1 month ago

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what if the new pope is problematic :/

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wh0-1s-m1aaaa · 1 month ago

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wh0-1s-m1aaaa · 2 months ago

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Backshots...? No, I could never strike my enemy whilst he isn't looking. It would be most dishonorable

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wh0-1s-m1aaaa · 2 months ago

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choso my beloved empath

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wh0-1s-m1aaaa · 2 months ago

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I keep coming back to this post omg ive read it like 8 times liking and re-liking it😞 so good 💔

— a cruel god’s memory;

sukuna ryomen x reader, reincarnation au.

cw: angst, blood, mild descriptions of gore, mentions of masturbation, mentions of character death, nothing explicit yet i guess, not sure if there will be part 2 this was very random. art in the header belongs to @/kcokaine here on tumblr tho i found it on pinterest and yes, i know it’s from a sukugo art, i don’t care.

sukuna was ten years old the first time he dreamed of blood.

not just any blood. not the kind that comes with scraped knees or nosebleeds on the playground. no—this was thick, dark, slow. the kind that soaked through silk robes and marble cracks alike, that oozed instead of dripped. he was standing barefoot in it, feeling it stick between his toes. he could smell it, metallic and old, like rusted coins and sacrifice. there were sounds, too.

voices. not in a language he recognized—gutteral, layered, echoing through him like the rumble of something divine buried in the dirt. they were screaming a name. his name. not “sukuna,” though. not the one his mother called him in the morning or the one written neatly on school forms. no, this name was ancient. heavy. it reverberated in his chest like a war drum. it made the inside of his bones ache.

he woke up screaming.

his mother sat with him on the edge of his bed, rubbing his back, whispering reassurances as if that could banish something so old and crawling. she told him it was just a dream. just a nightmare. normal for little boys. but it didn’t feel normal. and it didn’t fade.

because the thing was—he knew that place. not in a way he could explain, but in the way you recognize the taste of your own blood when you bite your tongue. it was his. the cracked marble. the crimson pools. the people kneeling, weeping, bowing. it wasn’t his imagination. it was his memory.

and it kept happening.

year after year, the dreams returned, each time sharper. more detailed. more real. they unfolded like history, like scripture carved into his skull. temples with columns that reached toward fire-colored skies. men in robes with mouths stitched shut in reverence. monsters that bowed when he raised one of his four hands. because in those dreams, he was not just a man. he was a god. or something close. with a crown of flame and a laugh like thunder. feared. worshipped. untouchable.

and yet, in the middle of all the blood and chaos, there was softness. there was silk-draped darkness and the scent of myrrh. a woman. faceless at first, always kneeling beside him, hands tracing prayers over the planes of his chest, her voice a hush against the storm that raged outside their chamber. she touched him like he wasn’t a monster. like he wasn’t divine. she touched him like he was hers. like she’d known him before the world did.

he didn’t see her face clearly—until the day he met you.

it was stupid, how anticlimactic it was. a random tuesday. a shitty café. you weren’t glowing. there was no divine chorus. you were just… there. hair in your face, shoulders hunched in a hoodie too big, earbuds shoved in as you bumped into him with a distracted murmur of apology. you didn’t look twice. but he did. and the second he did, everything split open.

the air around him went thin. his head rang like a struck bell. because suddenly, all those half-formed dreams—all those blurred, hazy figures—clicked into clarity. the woman in his bedchamber, in his arms, on his throne. the one who whispered his name like it was a secret. it was you.

after that, the dreams changed. sharpened.

you were in all of them. no longer a blur. you wore the same face you did now. same voice, too. he heard it echo through golden halls, calling to him, comforting him, scolding him for coming home bloodied again. he saw you wrapped in crimson silk, lying across his lap as he fed you pomegranate seeds with ink-stained fingers. saw you kneel before him, not in worship, but in intimacy. hands curled around his thighs. lips parting. eyes meeting his in challenge and adoration.

he tried to avoid you after that. convinced himself it was coincidence. obsession. maybe he’d seen you before—on a train, in a dream—and his brain filled in the rest. that was more logical. more human.

but logic didn’t hold for long.

because the world kept pushing you into his path like some cosmic joke. he saw you again the next week—at some library, sliding into a seat across from him by accident. then again at a gallery exhibit, surrounded by statues of forgotten gods and broken idols. he saw you stop in front of a replica of a throne—somehow resembling his hrone—and rest your fingers on the armrest like it belonged to you. like he belonged to you.

he left that day early. ran home. came in his hand in the dark to the sound of your voice in his head, a phantom echo. your name seared into the hollow of his throat.

and the dreams didn’t stop. they worsened.

they showed him the throne room where you first knelt. the blood-wet altar where you swore yourself to him. the garden where he kissed your wrists under starlight. and the battlefield where he held your cooling body and screamed until the heavens cracked. he remembered it all now. not just the love. not just the lust. but the loss.

and you? you walked past him in the bookstore without a second glance.

until one day, you didn’t.

it was a chance meeting. another coincidence. the universe’s cruel humor. you were stepping out into the sun, squinting against the glare, arms full of books. he was passing by, heart in his throat. and you looked up.

your eyes met.

and for one breathless second—just one—something shuddered in your expression. confusion. shock. recognition.

he saw your lips part. your brows furrow. your eyes go wide, like some lost part of you stirred.

but then it dissolved and you looked at him like he was nobody. like he wasn’t yours.

and that was the worst part. not the past. not the death. but this. being forgotten. being reborn into a world where you didn’t wake from dreams of him.

sukuna—human, mortal, aching sukuna—didn’t sleep that night.

he lay in bed and fucked his fist raw to the memory of your tears, your moans, your hands on his face in a past life. he cursed your name and wept for you in the same breath. and still, it wasn’t enough.

he lay in bed with your name on his tongue, and hatred in his bones. hatred for fate. for time. for the gods that had made him mortal again. hatred for how much he missed you, even as you stood alive in this world, only a few subway stops away, utterly unaware that you had once been the only thing that kept him tethered to sanity. hatred for remembering something that was his but also wasn’t.

he dreamed that night of your nails clawing down his back, of your voice trembling as you called him “my king,” of your arms clutching him in the dark. and he woke with sweat on his skin, tears in his eyes, and nothing in his arms.

he told himself he wouldn’t follow you. that he wasn’t insane. that it was bad enough that he saw the things he did, things that were supposed to perish under the cruel hands of universe and the circle of life. he told himself that he didn’t need you to remember. but he did. oh, god, he did.

and still, the dreams grew darker.

they showed him the night you died.

it came in pieces—first, your tears as he left for war, your fingers curled in the hem of his robes, begging him to stay. then, the shadow of a blade. the flash of your body stepping in front of him. the sound of you choking. gurgling. reaching for him even as you bled out.

he remembered what he did afterward. how the earth cracked beneath his roar. how cities burned. how rivers ran red. how he tore the sky apart in his grief and still could not bring you back.

and now here you were.

breathing. laughing. buying overpriced tea and highlighting textbooks with that same thoughtful pout you used to wear while pouring him wine as your eyes skimmed over ancient scriptures.

because now that he remembered—now that the truth had wrapped around his spine and sunk its teeth in—he couldn’t live in a world where you didn’t know.

because he remembered.

and now, he needed you to remember too.

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wh0-1s-m1aaaa · 2 months ago

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wh0-1s-m1aaaa · 2 months ago

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em dash is so fucking sexy. puts her in a paragraph 8 times.

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wh0-1s-m1aaaa · 2 months ago

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I LOVE THIS SOSOSOSOOSOSSOSOSOSOSOSOSOOSSOSOSOSOO MUCH

sukuna as a history/geography buff | f. reader, s/h prns., crack 'n fluff, estb. rl ؛ ଓ

it’s a quiet sunday morning, and sukuna is sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, shirtless as usual, his (now) long hair tied up, tattoos stark against his skin as the sun filters in through the gauzy curtains. the twins are perched in front of him on tiny cushions — your son already mimicking his father’s broad-legged sprawl, your daughter with her hands tucked neatly in her lap like she’s attending court.

you’re curled on the couch with your tea, watching sukuna pretend like he isn’t thrilled by the attention.

“the earth wasn’t always split like this,” he starts, picking up a toy globe that had been rolling under the couch last week. he spins it lazily. “not when i was your age. or even before.”

“before what?” your daughter asks, eyes wide.

sukuna huffs. “before anything. before kings. before borders. before all this nonsense about ‘nations’ and ‘leaders’ pretending they invented order.”

he says it with a growl, but you see it — the glint in his eyes, the way his thumb rests reverently on the continent of africa, like he remembers walking those lands before they were ever carved into colonies.

“so you’re old, huh,” your son says, blinking up at him.

“watch your mouth,” sukuna mutters, but there’s no heat behind it.

he shifts forward, his voice dropping just a little as if the walls might overhear. “when the nile flooded, it told us what the gods wanted. now? now men build dams and wonder why the land turns sour.”

your daughter gasps. “you knew the nile?”

“walked beside it,” he mutters. “ate dates from trees by the riverbank. saw them stack stones for pyramids, not to worship, but to remember.”

you almost choke on your tea.

he glances at you briefly, as if embarrassed by the softness in his tone, and then clears his throat, tossing the globe lightly to your son. “anyway. history is a circle. greedy men fall. then the earth spins again.”

you watch as the kids lean in closer, soaking him up like he’s storytime and science class all in one.

“borders,” he scoffs again, waving a hand. “lines drawn by cowards too afraid to bleed for what they take.”

“sukuna,” you warn gently. “maybe skip the bleeding part.”

he raises a brow. “they’re three. they’re not stupid.”

and they aren’t. they look at him like he’s the whole world, and maybe he is — a brutal, ancient, bruised world, still turning. “you’re really into this, huh?” you say, sipping.

he shrugs, trying to play it off. “they asked.”

“no, she asked,” you nod at your daughter. “you’ve been going on for twenty minutes about trade routes and roman currency.”

“it was cattle,” he grumbles. “before coins. that means something. things meant something.”

and there it is again — that flicker of something almost tender behind the scowl. he knows too much. remembers too much. his fists know how to kill, but his brain? it’s a goddamn library.

your daughter yawns and leans into his side, and without missing a beat, he scoops her into his lap. your son’s already half-asleep against his thigh.

he doesn’t stop talking, even then.

“remember this,” he murmurs. “empires fall. but the earth—” his voice softens to a rumble, one you feel more than hear, “—the earth don’t give a damn about crowns.”

and even though he’s talking to them, he looks right at you when he says it.

and if history was not enough, your husband now ventured into the world of modern-day politics.

it starts with a documentary left playing on mute, some grainy footage of cold war drills and mushroom clouds you forgot to turn off. you’re in the kitchen, slicing fruit for the kids, and when you come back with the tray, sukuna’s already sprawled across the floor like a bored warlord babysitting future generals.

“what’s a communism?” your son asks, mouth sticky with mango.

sukuna pauses, one hand draped across the back of his neck. you know that look — the way his jaw sets like he’s about to launch into a rant but is trying very hard to be normal about it. he hums like he’s disinterested. “it’s not a thing. it’s an idea. one they butchered before it could walk.”

“who’s ‘they’?” your daughter asks, legs swinging off the side of the couch. he exhales sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing like he’s staring through time. “men in suits. with missiles. and fear. mostly fear.”

you settle on the armrest, sipping your tea, trying not to smile. “you’re talking about america again, aren’t you?”

“am i?” he says, feigning innocence. “i just said men. the shoe fits.”

he picks up one of the twins’ storybooks and tosses it aside like it offends him. “you know what the problem is? people think the last hundred years just happened. like the world woke up one day and boom — borders, bombs, billionaires.”

“what about the wars?” your son asks. “was there a good guy?”

sukuna laughs, low and bitter. “there are no good guys. just victors. and victims.”

“what about gandhi?” your daughter offers, hopeful.

he clicks his tongue. “mm. a clever man. said pretty things. but freedom’s never clean, sweetheart. someone’s always bleeding for it. whether they admit it or not.”

you glance at the twins — not scared, just curious — and then at him, wondering how much he’s holding back. because you know he was there. not on the sidelines. there. trench mud on his boots. ash in his lungs.

he leans back, resting his weight on his palms, flexing his fingers like they still remember the weight of swords and secrets.

“i saw berlin fall. twice,” he says after a moment. “once with fire. once with flags. both times they claimed it was peace.”

you blink. “and which time was better?”

he shrugs. “neither. peace is just war with better marketing.”

“but isn’t peace good?” your son frowns.

sukuna’s voice softens just a little. “it can be. but not if it comes with chains.”

the kids are quiet now, thinking it over like a bedtime story with no ending. sukuna reaches for a slice of apple from the tray and tosses it into his mouth without much thought.

“dad,” your daughter says quietly, “do you know everything?”

he snorts. “hell no. just lived through enough to see how often people forget.”

you watch him scratch lazily at his temple, faking indifference, but his gaze drifts back to the television, now showing an interview from the ‘90s — some man in a crisp suit talking about the fall of the soviet union.

sukuna mutters, “that prick’s lying.”

you roll your eyes. “they all are.”

“exactly,” he says, grinning wide and wolfish. “finally. someone’s listening.”

your daughter leans her cheek against his shoulder. your son plays with the edge of his tattoo like it’s a road to follow.

and sukuna, for all his bluster and old wounds, lets them — his future, his legacy — crawl all over him like he doesn’t mind carrying the weight of history one more time.

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