Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Please… do I have to go out tonight? you begged.

“Yes, it’s your 35th birthday, and you only get one of those.”

While, it might be special day for somebody else, to you it was just another constant reminder of how chronically lonely you were. You had been too busy, always prioritizing your career over relationships, which left you without ever finding something serious—even now, in the later stages of life. You groaned in defeat, admitting that one night of fun in your 30s couldn’t hurt. What’s the worst that could happen?

“Fine, I’ll meet you there at 9.”

Digging through your closet, you searched and searched for the perfect outfit. Looking over the mound of sweatshirts and crop tops, you found the lonely black mesh mini dress you had been hiding for years in the corner. It was purchased with the intent to wear on a date, but it sat unused and forgotten for three years. Maybe tonight would be the night. Maybe you’d finally meet somebody special, even if it only lasted a couple of hours. With the dress on and your hair perfectly curled back in a half-up, half-down ponytail, you headed out to meet your friends at the nightclub downtown.

“The Underworld” was the place to be on Friday nights. In your early 20s, it had been one of your favorite spots—you couldn’t recall a Friday night when you weren’t dancing on tables. But that was many years ago, and now stepping into the security line felt foreign. As you waited behind a couple of freshly 21-year-olds, you started to reminisce about the good old days when you didn’t have a care in the world and were just looking to enjoy the night. In your teenage years you used to sneak in with your older sisters using fake IDs, but now, with electronic scanners, it was impossible to even try.
Finally, it was your turn. You stepped up to the bouncer, who asked for your ID. It felt odd—four hours away from turning 35, you didn’t quite understand why he would ask, but you showed it anyway. After looking it over, he placed a gold wristband on your wrist. Strange, but it must have had something to do with your birthday. You thanked him and entered the club.

Just as you remembered, the bass was booming, blasting a high techno beat that thumped in your chest. Pushing past the crowd of people dancing and grinding, you rushed to the bar, urgently needing a drink if you were going to survive tonight. Your friends were already waiting in a booth in the VIP area, ready to celebrate your birthday, but you wanted a drink in hand before joining them.

“Repasado Tequila and Red Bull, please.”

“All right, love, that’ll be $12.50.”

You nodded, digging into your purse for your wallet. The bartender glanced at your wrist and noticed the bracelet.

“I’m so sorry! I… I didn’t know. Your drinks are on the house tonight! Again, I’m so sorry for the mix-up—I didn’t realize!” he rambled.
You figured it was some kind of birthday discount tied to the bracelet.
“Oh, it’s all good. I know it’s busy in here. I’m just grateful for the discount on such a special night.”
You lifted the glass to your lips, letting the burn of tequila mix with the sweetness of the energy drink.

The crowd pulsed around you, neon lights flashing across the room, and for a moment you felt suspended between past and present. That’s when you noticed him—tall, broad-shouldered, cutting through the chaos like the music bent to his stride. People seemed to shift unconsciously out of his way, their laughter dimming as he passed, as if the air itself thickened around him. His eyes locked onto yours, and the room’s rhythm faltered, the beat suddenly feeling slower, heavier, more deliberate.
Before you could process it, he was in front of you, his hand firm at your waist as he pulled you into the sway of the music. Careful not to spill your drink, you danced. The crowd blurred, the bass thumped, and suddenly it was just the two of you moving together. His voice rumbled low, close to your ear:

“How’s my birthday girl?”

He smirked, leaning into you just enough to let the words linger.

“I don’t like being called girl. I’m a woman… and if you insist on titles, goddess will do”

His lips brushed against the skin between your throat and shoulder, laughter vibrating against you like a secret only you could hear.

“Of course my angel would prefer goddess.”

And as the music surged around you, the crowd seemed to fade into shadows, leaving only his presence—magnetic, unsettling, and irresistible. Something about him felt dangerous, ancient, and yet you couldn’t look away. Tonight, you realized, was going to be unforgettable.

Chapter Text

The music surged, but it no longer felt like the same song. With his hand at your waist, every beat seemed to bend around him, slowing, sharpening, as though the club itself was caught in his gravity. The crowd blurred into silhouettes, their movements sluggish, their laughter muffled, until it felt like you were dancing in a world carved out just for the two of you.

His eyes glowed faintly under the strobe lights, not with reflection, but with something alive—something ancient. You tried to look away, but the pull was magnetic, impossible to resist.

“Do you feel it?” he murmured, his voice low, vibrating through your chest more than your ears.
You swallowed hard, unsure if he meant the music, the heat of his body against yours, or the strange hum in the air that made your skin prickle. The bracelet on your wrist seemed to burn faintly, as though reacting to him.

The lights flickered, and for a heartbeat his reflection in the mirrored wall wasn’t the same man holding you. It was something larger, darker, with too many eyes and a grin that stretched wider than human. You blinked, and the image was gone—but the chill it left behind lingered.

Still, instead of recoiling, you leaned closer.
“I don’t scare easily,” you whispered, your lips brushing his ear. “If this is your true self… maybe I want to see more.”

His laugh was low, dangerous, and strangely reverent.

“Then you are exactly what I’ve been waiting for, Goddess.”

“Hopefully you weren’t waiting long,” you teased, letting the words hang between you.
With all the dancing, you hadn’t realized until now that your drink had slipped from your hand, crashing to the floor and leaving a puddle of tequila and shards of glass scattered across the tiles. For a moment, panic rose in your chest—you worried he would be angry. But with a snap of his fingers, the beat cut off instantly. Three servers rushed forward, cleaning the mess with frantic precision, as though the command had been rehearsed a thousand times.
You let out a nervous laugh, trying to ease the weight of so many eyes on you.

“It’s only my first drink and I’m already cut off,” you muttered.

His mouth curved into a smirk, his grip tightening at your waist.

“Maybe I prefer you sharp, not dulled,” he said,
voice low enough that only you could hear.
Your confidence faltered under the spotlight, wrapped in his arms at the center of the room. The crowd’s attention pressed in as your friends’ laughter cut through the silence as they finally spotted you, weaving their way toward the dance floor. Their teasing remarks spilled out—jokes about you disappearing, about finally letting loose on your birthday—but none of it eased the knot in your stomach.

Sukuna’s grip at your waist tightened, subtle but unmistakable. His eyes flicked toward them, sharp and unamused, the faintest curl of annoyance tugging at his mouth. The crowd seemed to sense it too; conversations dulled, movements slowed, as though the entire club was waiting for his reaction.
One of your friends reached for your arm, playful and oblivious. “Come on, birthday girl, we saved you a seat in VIP!”

You felt Sukuna’s chest rumble against your back, a low laugh that was anything but amused. With a deliberate pull, he guided you off the dance floor toward a velvet booth tucked against the mirrored wall. He sat first, then drew you down on his lap , his arm draped possessively across your midsection.
“She’s already seated,” he said, voice cutting like a blade.

The crowd held its breath for a moment longer, but then the beat surged back to life. The lights strobed, the dancers resumed, and the focus shifted away from you. Still, the weight of his presence lingered, a reminder that even when the music continued, Sukuna controlled the rhythm.

Your friends gathered around the booth, their laughter spilling over the table. One of them slid in beside you, eyes wide as they ran a hand over the velvet cushions.

“Damn, this is fancy. VIP of the VIP, huh?” another chimed, grinning as they settled in.
But when one leaned in with a teasing smile and said, “Happy birthday, girl,” Sukuna didn’t bother to speak. He simply side‑eyed them, his gaze sharp and unamused, a silent mugging that made the friend falter mid‑laugh. The tension was brief but unmistakable, his arm tightening around you as if to underline the point.

The others quickly followed suit, filling the booth with chatter about the luxury of the space, their voices rising to cover the awkward pause. Yet beneath the surface, you could feel Sukuna’s irritation simmering, curling at the edges of his smile as he kept you close.

And though your friends laughed and marveled at the booth’s luxury, you could feel Sukuna’s gaze lingering—sharp, possessive, and unyielding—reminding you that no matter how crowded the room became, you were seated exactly where he wanted you.

Chapter Text

“You’re acting weird,” one said, arms crossed. “He’s dangerous. You need out.”

Another shook their head, eyes wide. “Seriously, you don’t even know him. That guy… he’s not normal.”
You met their concern with a sharp laugh, the kind that cut more than soothed. “I study civilizations for a living. I’m an anthropologist at the museum of science, working on my doctorate. I know patterns, I know power, and I know when something ancient is staring me in the face. Don’t mistake caution for weakness.”
Your tone was clipped, unapologetic. You weren’t the type to soften edges for comfort, and they knew it.
One friend muttered, “You’re not yourself.”
You glanced down at your wrist, the bracelet burning faintly again. With a frustrated tug, you tried to slip it off. It resisted, biting into your skin, until finally it gave way. The metal clattered against the sink, and for a heartbeat, faint engravings shimmered across your skin—lines and symbols older than language, glowing before fading into silence.

Her breath caught as the ancient lines pulsed once before vanishing. Unease twisted in her chest, but the pull to understand was undeniable.
The silence stretched until one of your friends broke it, voice shaky but practical. “Come on, you need water. Calm down.”

Another added quickly, “What if he spiked your drink? We should grab a shot to relax, reset.”
They exchanged uneasy glances, then nudged you toward the door. The throb of the music grew louder as you stepped back into the hallway, the bar glowing ahead like a stage you weren’t sure you wanted to return to—but knew you would.

Your friends clustered close as you stepped back into the pulsing glow of the club. They moved deliberately, bodies angled to shield you from Sukuna’s line of sight, though you knew it was pointless. His gaze was too sharp, too consuming—no wall of friends could block it.

Still, you slipped free of his hand, forcing a smile as you headed toward the bar. “Birthday shot,” you announced, trying to sound lighter than you felt. The bartender lined up glasses, and your friends raised theirs high, grinning.

You tipped yours back with them, the liquid cold against your tongue. They cheered, clapping you on the shoulder. “Took that like a champ!” one laughed.
But your smile faltered. It wasn’t alcohol. It was water. Flat, tasteless, unmistakable. Confusion flickered across your face, too sharp to hide.
Before you could speak, the air shifted. A presence pressed in from behind, unmistakable. Sukuna’s arms locked around you, firm but not enough to hurt—yet you knew you were at his mercy. His hand slid up, fingers curling along your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes burned sharp and fiery, cutting through the haze of neon.

“Must I remind you that you’re cut off, my dearest?” His voice was low, dangerous, vibrating through you more than the music.

You swallowed hard, lips parting. “I didn’t think you took the joke seriously. I was just playing around.”
His smirk curved, but there was no humor in it. “I never play.”

The words hung heavy, louder than the bass, sharper than the strobe. And in that moment, you understood—every beat, every breath, every choice was his game, and you were already inside it.

Chapter Text

“You see what I mean? He’s dangerous,” one of your friends muttered, voice sharp enough to cut through the pounding bass. Their eyes flicked between you and Sukuna’s grip, unsettled by how easily he commanded the space around you.
Another leaned in, trying to mask their nerves with a shaky laugh. “Birthday girl or not, this is too much. You need out.”

You exhaled slowly, jaw still caught in Sukuna’s hand, his fiery gaze refusing to let you look anywhere else. The weight of their words pressed against you, but your own reply came clipped, unapologetic. “I don’t need saving.”
Sukuna’s smirk deepened, as if your defiance pleased him more than their concern. His arm loosened just enough for you to move, but not enough to forget who held the reins.
Your friends exchanged uneasy glances, then one finally said, “Fine. At least let’s sit back down. Calm down. Away from the bar.”

It was a compromise, but you knew where it led. Sukuna guided you effortlessly, his hand never leaving your waist, steering you back through the crowd. The dancers parted without realizing why, the rhythm bending around his presence.
The velvet booth loomed again, its mirrored wall catching the strobe lights in fractured shards. Your friends slid in reluctantly, their chatter forced, trying to mask the tension. Sukuna settled you beside him, arm draped possessively across your shoulders, gaze sharp enough to silence the table.
A pang of guilt twisted in your chest as you thought of the $500 booth your friends had split for the night, now sitting abandoned. You’d have to pay them back for it, you knew. Still, it wasn’t so bad here, as long as you kept them engaged in conversation, distracting them from noticing how Sukuna only stayed satisfied with you in his lap. Any time you shifted away, the death glare kicked in, sharp enough to silence the table.

Just past midnight, the bottle servers arrived with a massive bottle of tequila and a birthday cake blazing with sparklers. The room erupted, a third of the crowd joining in to sing Happy Birthday. Heat rushed to your face, and you turned back into Sukuna’s chest, hiding in embarrassment. His hand pressed lightly against your back, steady, unyielding.
When the song ended, Sukuna raised his glass and thanked everyone on your behalf, his voice commanding enough to hush the room.
That’s when you noticed it—his hand playing with the hem and pushing up your already short dress. You smacked it away, sharp and immediate.
“Not here, in front of everyone.”
His gaze narrowed, fire sparking in his eyes. “Don’t tell me no. I own this place and everyone in it. It’s my domain.”

You straightened, defiance cutting through your embarrassment. “Own? You don’t own me. You have to earn my trust and love. You can’t just give me a VIP room and expect that means I’m yours.”
The words hung heavy, sharper than the bass. For a moment, his smirk faltered. Then a server leaned in, whispering something urgent. Sukuna rose, his hand lingering on your shoulder before he stepped away. “I’ll be back.”

At his exit, your friends finally relaxed, their laughter loosening as the tension in the booth eased. For the first time all night, the velvet alcove felt like it belonged to you again.

You waited. Forty-five minutes passed. The music throbbed, your friends laughed, but sobriety sharpened your thoughts. You weren’t upset at what you’d said—he needed to hear it. He needed to learn how to talk to people. But sitting there, surrounded by drunk chatter, you couldn’t ignore the truth.
Maybe it was the clarity of being sober in a sea of intoxication. Maybe it was the wisdom that came with thirty-five years. But heavens, what were you doing here? Waiting for a man who didn’t respect you? A demon who had literally shown you his true form? And because he was irresistibly attractive, alluring beyond reason, you just sat there in his lap like a servant?

No. If you didn’t get out now, you never would.
You leaned toward your friends. “Hey lady’s , I’m gonna head home. I’ve had too much fun, and I have to be back at the office at 7 a.m. for a shipment of artifacts.”

“On a Saturday?” One blinked.

“When they’re on loan from the Japanese museum, you take any arrival date possible,” you said with a wry smile.

You stood, smoothing your dress, the sparklers long extinguished. “Goodnight.”

As you left the booth, the thought gnawed at you—what would his reply have been, if any at all? And though you hated to admit it, your friends had been right all along. You’d apologize to them later.

Chapter Text

The velvet booth was quieter now, laughter fading into the throb of bass. Your friends leaned back, relieved in your absence, but the air shifted the moment Sukuna returned. His gaze swept the alcove, sharp and searching, until it landed on the empty space where you had been.
The smirk vanished.

A silence fell over the booth, unnatural, heavy. The lights above flickered once, then again, shadows stretching across the mirrored wall as though the club itself bent to his mood. Your friends froze, wide‑eyed, realizing for the first time that his intensity wasn’t just human.

“Where is she?” His voice cut through the music, low and dangerous, vibrating in their bones.
No one answered. The crowd outside kept dancing, oblivious, but inside the booth the air grew thick, oppressive. The sparklers from your cake had long burned out, yet the scent of smoke seemed to linger, curling in the corners of the room.
One friend tried to laugh, shaky and thin. “She… she went home. Said she had work.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, fire sparking in their depths. The shadows recoiled, then surged again, stretching like living things. For a heartbeat, the markings from your bracelet seemed to shimmer faintly on the mirrored wall, echoing your absence.
“She thinks she can walk away,” he murmured, more to himself than to them. His hand clenched at the edge of the table, the velvet groaning under his grip. “She forgets whose domain she stepped into.”
The club dissolved around him, neon fading into shadow. When Sukuna blinked, he was no longer in the booth but seated upon his throne, his true form revealed in full.

Four eyes burned like embers, his aura pressing down on the chamber with suffocating weight. Around him, his followers knelt, heads bowed low, waiting for his command.
“You let her walk out,” he snarled, voice reverberating like stone cracking. “A stupid issue, a failure of vigilance. Do you understand what you cost me?”

The crowd trembled, murmuring apologies, but Sukuna’s fury was not easily soothed. His gaze snapped to the bouncer who had stood at the door, the one who had let you slip past without question.
“You,” Sukuna growled, rising from his throne. “You opened the door.”
The bouncer stammered, falling to his knees. “My lord, I—”
The words never finished. Sukuna’s hand lashed out, claws tearing through flesh in a single, merciless strike. The body crumpled to the floor, lifeless, the chamber echoing with silence.

“Let this be a reminder,” Sukuna said, voice sharp, commanding. “Failure is death. Hesitation is death. She is not gone. Not truly. The marks remain.”
He lifted his hand, and in the dim glow the faint engravings shimmered—echoes of the bracelet that had burned against your skin. The symbols pulsed once, alive, tethered to you even across distance.
“She carries my seal,” Sukuna continued, his tone colder now. “She may think herself free, but she is mine. And I will train you all until none dare falter again. Until none dare let my queen slip from my grasp.”

His people bowed deeper, the chamber vibrating with his wrath. Yet beneath the fire in his eyes, there was something more certain, more dangerous.
“She won’t be gone for long,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The marks will bring her back.”

Chapter Text

The night air hit you like a revelation, cooler than the velvet heat of the club. Neon spilled across the pavement, sparklers still echoing in your mind as if they hadn’t burned out hours ago. Your heels clicked against the sidewalk, each step steadier than the last.

Inside, the music carried on without you. Your friends had stayed behind, laughter rising now that Sukuna’s shadow no longer pressed against them. You knew they were right, and you’d apologize later—for ignoring their warnings, for dragging them into a night that had spiraled far beyond birthday fun.

Still, the guilt of the wasted booth lingered. Five hundred dollars split between them, gone to velvet cushions and death glares. You’d pay them back, of course. It was the least you could do.

But as you walked, sobriety sharpened everything. The clarity of thirty‑five years, the weight of your doctorate work, the endless hours cataloging artifacts—all of it pressed against the absurdity of the night. What were you doing, waiting for a demon who had shown you his true form? Sitting in his lap like a servant, convincing yourself it was allure instead of control?

No. Tonight had been a lesson. You weren’t his possession. You weren’t anyone’s.

The streetlights hummed overhead, and you pulled your coat tighter, the faint markings from the bracelet still tingling against your wrist. They unsettled you, but the pull to understand them was undeniable. Ancient symbols didn’t appear without reason. And if Sukuna was tied to them, then walking away wasn’t the end—it was only the beginning.

---

The week that followed blurred into distraction. Work became impossible to focus on; every artifact you cataloged seemed to whisper his name. The shipment from Japan only made it worse—ceremonial blades, lacquered masks, scrolls inked with Heian‑era symbols, Sukuna’s time. You traced them with gloved fingers, and the connection was undeniable. It felt as though he had followed you into the museum, his presence stitched into the relics themselves.

And then there was your arm. The strange markings left behind by the bracelet refused to fade. You tried covering them, tried ignoring them, but they pulsed faintly at odd hours, a reminder you couldn’t shake. No one in the linguistics department recognized them. They laughed, called it a fun tattoo design, a quirky choice. You smiled tightly, but inside it was a nightmare—knowing the truth, knowing they weren’t ink at all.

By the start of the second week, the postcards began arriving. At first, one slipped through your mail slot, glossy and impersonal: “Free drink for a beautiful lady at the Underground.” Then another: “Come back to the Underworld.” A third: “We’ve missed you, stop by.”

You never gave your address. The realization hit hard—the doorman must have taken it from your ID. The thought of returning, of stepping back into that velvet booth, dissolved with every new piece of postage. You tossed them aside, tried to ignore them, but they piled up, their sameness oppressive.

And yet… one card was different. It looked like the others, the same glossy print, the same stylized logo. But the message was handwritten in perfect cursive, the ink pressed deep into the card:

“My goddess divine, won’t you stop by for a moment?”

You stared at it longer than you should have, the words burning into your mind.

Chapter Text

The postcard sat on your desk, its glossy surface catching the morning light. You had meant to throw it away with the others, but the handwriting stopped you. Perfect cursive, deliberate strokes, each word pressed deep into the card as though carved rather than written:

“My goddess divine, won’t you stop by for a moment?”

You should have burned it. Instead, you kept staring, fingertips brushing the ink. The moment you touched it, the markings on your arm pulsed faintly, as if acknowledging his call. A shiver ran through you.

With the linguistics department dismissal at the symbols, you knew better. They weren’t ink. They were alive. And now, they seemed to respond to him.

You tried to bury yourself in work, cataloging the artifacts that had arrived. Scrolls inked with curses, ceremonial blades etched with patterns that mirrored the marks on your skin. Masks lacquered in black and crimson, their hollow eyes staring back at you as though they recognized the seal you carried. Every piece felt like it belonged to him, like the shipment itself was a reminder that you hadn’t escaped.

That night, sleep brought no peace. You dreamed yourself into the empty club, dressed in a sparkling red and black ball gown that shimmered under phantom lights. Across the room, Sukuna stood waiting, dressed sharp, silent, his gaze consuming. He didn’t speak—he simply reached for your hand, pulling you in with a dominance that made the markings on your arm flare and sparkle under his kiss. His eyes locked with yours as he drew you close, spinning you across the vacant floor in a dance that felt endless. Breathless, you whispered against him, “I prefer you as you truly are.” And then you woke, the echo of his touch lingering like smoke.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, screen lighting up with dozens of group chat messages from your friends. Their laughter, their concern, their teasing—all waiting for you to reply. But shame pressed heavier than the notifications. You couldn’t bring yourself to answer, not yet. Not after everything.

By the end of the week, you found yourself checking the mail with dread and anticipation. Each new postcard was a violation. You tossed them aside, tried to ignore them, but they piled up, their sameness oppressive. And yet… that one card was different, personal.

“My goddess divine,”

You stared at it longer than you should have, the words burning into your mind.

And that was the most dangerous part.

——

You almost lost your mind and showed up at the club. The postcards had been gnawing at you, the handwritten one especially, its cursive looping through your thoughts like a spell. But fate intervened. A work conference pulled you out of town for three weeks. It should have been two, but when the opportunity to fly to Egypt arose, you couldn’t refuse.

The desert air was nothing like the damp heat of the place you’d grown up. It was dry, ancient, carrying whispers through the sand instead of the heavy hum of cicadas. You stood among relics that had survived millennia, their hieroglyphs carved deep into stone, their symbols echoing the same pulse that shimmered faintly on your wrist. The markings responded here too—sparks beneath your skin whenever your fingers brushed a sarcophagus or traced the painted lines of a funerary mask.

At night, in your hotel room overlooking Cairo, you tried to ignore the postcards tucked into your suitcase. You hadn’t meant to bring them, but somehow the handwritten one had slipped inside. Its ink seemed darker here, its words heavier, as if the desert itself amplified them.

That night, sleep claimed you again. The dream was sharper this time, less glamorous, more intimate. The club was empty, shadows stretching across the velvet floor. Sukuna appeared across the room, dressed in tailored black, his gaze burning through the silence. His figure seemed taller than the last time he had invaded your dreams, the shadows stretching with him as though the club itself bent to his shape. And his face—no longer fully human—mirrored more of his demon form now, the sharp lines of his jaw fractured by the faint glow of markings that pulsed beneath his skin. Four eyes flickered in and out of view, ember‑bright, watching you with a hunger that made the air itself tighten.

He spoke first, voice low and mocking: “Can’t seem to get me off your mind, can you?”

Anger surged. You stepped forward, calling him an “arrogant bastar…..,” your hand rising to slap him. But before you could, his grip closed around your wrist—unyielding, forceful, a warning in the pressure of his fingers. His eyes locked with yours, fire sparking in their depths.

“Careful,” he murmured, tone edged with danger. “You forget whose marks you carry.”

The words reverberated like stone cracking, and then you woke—heart pounding, wrist aching as though his hand had truly been there. The postcard lay on the desk, its cursive looping through your thoughts like a spell.

Chapter Text

The duration of the trip was otherwise uneventful but enjoyable. You traced hieroglyphs with your eyes, the same way you had once traced Sukuna’s marks, but here the symbols spoke of gods and kings, not demons. You even laughed at the absurdity of having lunch at the infamous Pizza Hut across from the Giza plateau, a modern shadow cast against ancient wonder.

By the time you returned, you were buzzing to get back to work, inspired anew by the sites that had first made you dream of becoming an anthropologist. But what you weren’t expecting was what waited at your door.

A box sat neatly on the step, plain and unmarked. Inside, cushioned in black velvet, lay a pendant. Its surface gleamed faintly in the afternoon light, etched with the same markings that pulsed on your wrist. The design was unmistakable—his seal, replicated perfectly, as though the metal itself had been forged in his domain.

You lifted it carefully, the chain cool against your fingers, but the pendant itself seemed to hum with warmth. The symbols shimmered once, alive, tethered to you even across distance. It wasn’t a gift. It was a reminder. A claim.

You didn’t need a note to know who had sent it. Sukuna wanted you to have this, to wear it, to carry him with you.

Just then, Miss Dana appeared at the edge of the walkway, carrying a small basket of muffins. “Welcome back, dear! I thought I’d stop by to see how your trip went.” Her eyes fell to the velvet box in your hands, the pendant gleaming inside.

“My word,” she said softly, tilting her head. “That’s quite a piece. Someone must think very highly of you.”

You gave a small, rueful smile, clutching the pendant tighter than you meant to. “Oh, Miss Dana… he’s trying to win me over.”

By the look on your face, she could tell you’d already been won over, at least in part. She reached out, squeezing your arm gently. “Well, if you ever want to talk about it, you know where to find me.”

You nodded, slipping the pendant back into its velvet box, though your wrist still tingled as if it were already around your neck.

Chapter Text

You couldn’t resist sweets. Miss Dana’s muffins sat warm in their basket, and after unpacking from your trip you gave in, savoring one before bed. The matcha’s earthy bitterness lingered at first, sharp and unyielding, until the white chocolate melted across your tongue, softening it into something dangerously sweet. The indulgence lingered, its sweetness masking something you couldn’t quite name.

Sleep came quickly, but peace did not.

The dream was different this time. No nightclub, no phantom music. You were walking through Sukuna’s domain expansion—an empty throne room carved from shadow and silence. The air was heavy, tinged with iron. Mountains of bones rose in jagged piles along the walls, artifacts from countless eras scattered among them: a cracked Roman shield, a rusted katana, fragments of clay tablets. You only caught them in glances, as if the dream itself refused to let you linger too long.

Above, the sky burned red, streaked with veins of black. In the distance, rivers ran deep blue, their currents slow and endless, carrying whispers you couldn’t quite decipher. You wandered, lost in the relics, until you realized you were no longer alone.

He had appeared out of nowhere, draped in layers of black and white silk that moved like smoke around him. The fabric shimmered a faint tone of red under the dark sky, embroidered with jagged patterns that echoed the markings on your wrist. His shoulders were broad, his figure even taller than you remembered from the last dream, and the robes hung from him with the weight of authority, as if they had been cut from shadow itself.

The sight of his demon face, with four ember‑bright eyes flickering in and out of view, had become almost familiar to you now—terrifying, yes, but no longer wholly unexpected. Yet beneath the folds of his robe, you caught it: a second mouth, jagged teeth glinting as it shifted unnaturally across his chest. It opened once, silently, as though tasting the air, before vanishing again into the fabric.

Confidence radiated from him, every step deliberate, every glance sharpened by that monstrous presence. He was no longer just a man cloaked in power—he was a demon enthroned in it.

“I knew you’d enjoy my gift,” Sukuna said, his voice smooth, edged with amusement. His eyes flicked to your wrist, then to your bare neck where the pendant should be but it had been left untouched in its box. “The pendant will bring you here when you choose it. But tonight… it was the sweetness you couldn’t resist.”

Your breath caught. The muffin. How had he known? The ordinary act of eating, something so small, twisted into a tether. The thought chilled you—was he watching that closely, close enough to see you reach for sweets before bed? You hadn’t known, but he had.

The relics around you seemed to pulse in agreement, as though history itself had conspired to deliver you to him.

The next morning, you stood before your mirror, the pendant dangling from its chain in your hand. You tried it on, the metal cool against your skin, the markings glowing faintly as they aligned with the seal on your wrist. For a moment, you felt whole, powerful, tethered to something greater than yourself.

But then doubt crept in. Should you wear it? To work, to the museum, to the world beyond your door? The thought of carrying him with you, of letting his claim show, made your chest tighten. You unclasped it, set it back in its box, then picked it up again. Divided.

By the time you left for work, the pendant was still in your bag, hidden but close. You couldn’t decide if that was resistance or surrender.

Chapter Text

The museum was quiet when you arrived, the kind of silence that clung to the walls before the first visitors trickled in. You dropped your bag on the chair, raised your coffee to your lips—and froze.

A folded note sat on your desk. Not your coworkers’ handwriting, not the curator’s scrawl. The paper was thick, edged in faint red, as though it had been pulled straight from a dream.

You opened it with trembling fingers.

“If you want to linger in my domain, you’ll earn it. Choices sharp enough to carve you open, there are trials awaiting. Begin when you dare. No tricks, no mercy. Your will is the key… and if you endure, it won’t just be my domain you claim.”

The ink seemed to shimmer, as if written in blood. Below, a second line curved like a smile:

“You’ll come crawling soon enough. You’ve already tasted what I offer. Sweetness, danger—it’s all the same. Don’t pretend you don’t want more.”

Your breath caught. The words were dirty, taunting, but confident—he wasn’t begging, wasn’t pleading. He was certain you’d choose him, certain you’d reach for the pendant and surrender to the trials.

You set the note down, the pendant heavy in your bag. The choice was yours. He couldn’t drag you in this time. You would have to will it.

And yet, the thought of refusing felt impossible.

You shoved the cursed note beneath a stack of accession forms, but the words clung to you like smoke. Every artifact you cataloged seemed to echo the trials he promised. A cracked ceremonial mask stared back at you from its case, its hollow eyes reminding you of the relics in his throne room. The river stones in the geology exhibit gleamed slick and dark, like the cursed waters you’d seen in dreams. Even the banquet display in the medieval wing made your stomach twist, plates lined in neat rows, daring you to choose.

The silence broke with the sound of heels on tile. Dana’s voice followed, warm and familiar.

“Thought I’d surprise you,” she said, leaning against the corridor with a paper bag in hand. “Brought cookies. Figured you could use something sweet.”

Your stomach twisted. Sweetness. Danger. Sukuna’s words pulsed in your head.

Dana set the bag on the edge of a nearby bench, her eyes scanning over you, lingering too long on your bag at your side. “You look pale. Bad dream again?”

You forced a smile, fingers brushing the pendant hidden inside. “Something like that.”

She tilted her head, studying you with a softness that felt almost too careful. “You should talk to someone about it. Dreams can mean more than you think.”

The note tucked beneath your paperwork flickered through your mind, its words biting against her concern. No tricks, no mercy. Your will is the key.

You let out a small laugh, trying to shake it off. “Thanks, Dana. Maybe we’ll have a glass of wine sometime—could be good to talk.”

Her smile lingered, warm but edged with something unreadable. The air between you felt heavier than the museum’s silence, her kindness pressing close, her gaze watchful—as though she was waiting for you to slip.
“Anytime, my dear.”

When she finally left, the quiet returned, sharper than before. You pulled the pendant from your bag, its weight dragging against your palm. It pulsed faintly, as if aware of your hesitation.

The rest of the day blurred—visitors, questions, the curator’s clipped instructions. Yet every moment felt like waiting. Waiting for night, waiting for silence, waiting to decide.

Chapter Text

Whenever the weight of a choice threatened to split you in two, there was one ritual that never failed to steady the edges of your world—a café date with the girls.

The usual café was alive with sunlight and chatter, the clink of glasses and the smell of syrup thick in the air. You sat tucked between friends.

“So,” one of them said, leaning across the table with a grin, “you’ve got that look again. Don’t tell me you’re hung up on another bad boy.”

Another chimed in, mock‑serious: “Let me guess, classic touch‑her‑and‑die energy. You always fall for the dangerous ones.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but the sound came out softer than you meant. “It’s not like that. Not exactly.”

“Oh, come on, the club owner all over again! Be serious,” they pressed, teasing. “You like the thrill. Admit it.”

You swirled your coffee, watching the sunlight catch on the rim. “There’s… something about him. Something I can’t explain. It’s not just danger—it’s like he sees me, in a way no one else does. But I don’t know if that kind of relationship is worth pursuing. It could burn me alive.”

Your friends exchanged looks, half amused, half concerned. One raised a brow. “Special or not, you’ve got to ask yourself if the fire’s worth the scars.”

You hesitated, then set your coffee down, the words heavier than you expected.

“And… I really need to apologize for how I was on my birthday. I know I seemed miles away, distracted, maybe even ungrateful. The truth is, I was caught up in things I couldn’t explain, and I hate that it made me pull back from you. You’ve always been there for me, and I don’t ever want you to think I take that for granted. And I don’t want some boy—or anyone—to ever come between us.”

The table quieted, their teasing replaced by warmth. One friend reached for your hand, another leaned in with a smile. The apology earned a round of hugs and soft I love you’s. They were your anchor, the chorus of teasing voices and knowing smiles, always ready to remind you who you are outside of the shadows. And today, with the pendant hidden beneath your shirt, you needed that reminder more than ever. Sweetness and danger—it was all the same.

---

The café sunlight faded into memory, replaced by the low glow of Dana’s apartment. A bottle of wine sat open between you, glasses half‑filled.

She leaned back, studying you with that same careful softness. “You seemed lighter today. Brunch must’ve helped.”

You smiled faintly, swirling the wine. “It did. And… I should probably say sorry again for how weird I was acting these past two months. I know I seemed distracted. I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

Dana’s laugh was gentle, but her eyes lingered. “We all noticed. You vanished into yourself for a while. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

You nodded, grateful for her patience, though the pendant’s existence felt like a secret you couldn’t share.

She tilted her glass, voice low. “Dreams, obsessions… they don’t just fade. Sometimes they’re trying to tell you something. Maybe it’s time you stopped running from whatever’s haunting you.”

Her words slid too close to Sukuna’s taunt, echoing the note you’d buried. No tricks, no mercy. Your will is the key.

You laughed softly, trying to keep the mood light. “Maybe. Or maybe I just need more wine.”

Dana smiled, warm but edged with something unreadable. “Hold on to the sweetness, my dear. Danger always follows.”

The night stretched on, her kindness pressing close, her gaze watchful. And when you finally left, the pendant felt heavier for the first time in months, as though it had been listening too—sweetness and danger pulsing with your hesitation.

---

The night air was sharp when you stepped outside, colder than it had been in weeks. Dana’s words clung to you, her smile lingering like smoke, but it was the pendant that pressed hardest, dragging against your side with every step.

For two months you had waited—brunches, laughter, wine nights, cataloging artifacts—and no strange dreams to haunt you. Just ordinary sleep, the kind that almost convinced you the danger had passed. The silence itself had been its own trial, sharpening your resolve until hesitation felt like cowardice. But tonight, the quiet broke. The pendant had begun to buzz against your skin, faint at first, then insistent, as though it had been waiting for you to notice.

Back in your apartment, silence wrapped around you. You pulled the pendant from beneath your shirt, its pulse now undeniable, a rhythm that matched your own heartbeat. When you rolled back your sleeve, the marking on your arm glowed faintly, heat blooming under your skin, threads of power stirring as if the relics themselves had awakened. Sweetness and danger—it was all the same.

You held the pendant in your palm, the weight dragging you down, daring you to choose. No tricks, no mercy. Your will is the key.

And at last, you willed it.

The world tilted, shadows folding in, the familiar walls dissolving into something darker. The museum, the laughter, Dana’s watchful gaze—all fell away.

You were no longer waiting. You were entering.

Chapter Text

The shadows folded back, and you were standing once more in the throne room. The vast chamber stretched around you, its walls breathing like a dreamscape—stone shifting, symbols flickering, the air heavy with silence. Sukuna was nowhere in sight.

Instead, a figure waited. A demon server, cloaked in shadow, stood behind a long table. Three objects rested upon it, each gleaming faintly in the torchlight.

The demon’s presence unsettled you. Something about the tilt of its head, the cadence of its movements, felt familiar—too familiar. You couldn’t place it, but the recognition tugged at you like déjà vu.

“Choose,” the demon said, voice low and resonant, echoing as though spoken from inside your own mind. “One object has one guard. Only then may you ascend the steps. Be warned—the choice you make will shape your chance. Choose wisely.”

You stepped closer, heart pounding. The objects shimmered, uncanny in their resemblance to relics you had cataloged at work, and to the artifacts you remembered from your last time in this chamber.

• A fragmented mask, cracked but alive with faint light, as though it had seen too many faces.
• A chalice of obsidian, etched with runes that shifted when you blinked, promising both sweetness and ruin.
• A dagger of bone, jagged and pulsing faintly, like it carried a heartbeat not its own.

The air thickened, dreamlike, as though you were walking through water. Every sound was muffled, every movement slowed. You felt both awake and trapped in a dream escape, the unreality pressing against your skin.

The pendant buzzed against your chest, the marking on your arm burning faintly. The relics were awake, and they demanded a choice.

You reached out, fingers trembling, and brushed the edge of the object that called to you most. The moment your skin touched the chalice the torchlight flared, shadows convulsing across the chamber.

The obsidian was cold beneath your fingers, runes shifting like breath across its surface. The moment you lifted it, the air thickened until every sound was muffled, every heartbeat louder than thought.

The demon’s eyes glowed faintly, watching. “Your path begins here. Guard what you have chosen, or be consumed by it.”

From the shadows, the guard rose—a towering figure of liquid shadow, its body rippling like wine poured endlessly from an unseen source. The scent was sweet, intoxicating, almost familiar.drawing you in. It moved with a slow grace, circling you, the chalice in your hand glowing faintly in response.

“Drink,” the demon’s voice whispered, though its lips never moved. “Sweetness will steady you. Danger will pass.”

The guard extended a hand, its surface shimmering, offering you the chalice as though it had always belonged to it. The pendant buzzed against your chest, the marking on your arm burning faintly, urging caution.

You raised the chalice, the liquid inside swirling, promising relief, warmth, even joy. For a moment, you wanted to believe it. To drink, to let the sweetness drown the danger.

But you remembered Dana’s words. Hold on to the sweetness, my dear. Danger always follows.

You lowered the chalice, refusing the lure. The guard’s body rippled violently, its form collapsing inward, then surging outward in a wave of shadow. It struck at you—not with fists, but with pressure, a suffocating weight that pressed against your lungs, trying to force surrender.

You staggered, bracing yourself, forcing your breath steady. This was not a trial of strength, but of will. You held the chalice firm, refusing to drink, refusing to yield.

The shadow recoiled, shrieking without sound, its body unraveling into mist. The chalice grew warm in your hand, the runes settling into stillness.

The demon server’s eyes glowed faintly, watching. “You resisted. The steps await. But know this—restraint alone will not carry you through. Force will be demanded. Pain will be endured.”

The steps shimmered above, impossibly tall, vanishing into shadow. You tightened your grip on the chalice, heart pounding. A part of the trial was passed, but the warning lingered.

—-

The chamber pressed in around you, rows of obsidian chalices gleaming faintly in the torchlight. The scent of wine was thick, cloying, almost suffocating. The shadow‑guard loomed larger now, its body sharper, limbs jagged, movements no longer fluid but violent.

It lunged. You stumbled back, clutching the real chalice tight. The pendant buzzed against your chest, the marking on your arm burning hotter, but none of it told you what to do. Instinct screamed: protect the cup.

You darted to the side, setting the chalice down behind a pillar, hiding it among the shadows. The guard shrieked without sound, its body convulsing, sensing the loss. It surged toward you, claws sweeping. You ran, feet pounding against stone, breath ragged.

Every sound was muffled, dreamlike, except for the thundering of your heartbeat. Your senses sharpened—torchlight too bright, shadows too deep, the monster’s movements too fast. You had no plan, no training. Just adrenaline.

It cornered you against the table of fakes, chalices rattling as its weight pressed forward. One claw hooked around a cup, forcing it toward your lips. You twisted, shoving back with your shoulder, the impact jarring through your bones. The rim grazed your mouth, the scent of sweetness flooding your senses.

And the thought lingered, bitter and raw: All of this—for a love that might devour you whole.

You grabbed a fake chalice, smashing it against the floor. Obsidian splintered, shards scattering. The guard recoiled, shrieking, its body rippling with fury. You seized another, thrusting it forward like a shield. The monster crushed it in its grip, liquid spilling, glowing faintly before hissing into vapor.

The guard lunged again, heavier this time, pinning you against the wall. Its weight pressed down, suffocating, claws scraping stone. You shoved back, teeth gritted, adrenaline burning through your veins. You weren’t strong enough to overpower it—but you were desperate enough to fight.

Your hand closed around another fake cup. You smashed it, the stem splintering into a jagged shard. The guard convulsed, distracted by the shattering. Seizing the moment, you drove the shard forward, piercing its chest.

The impact reverberated, the shard cutting through its liquid form. The guard shrieked silently, body unraveling into mist. The chalices faded, leaving only the one you had hidden.

You staggered, breath ragged, body trembling. Your first battle, survived by instinct, by fear, by sheer refusal to yield.

The demon server’s voice echoed from the doorway, low and unreadable:
“Sweetness can be broken. Danger can be turned. You have done well, now hand me the chalice.”

You retrieved the real chalice, clutching it tight. Your heart still pounded, your body still shook. Relief washed through you, sharp and dizzying, ready to hand it over, ready to be done. The room shimmered above, impossibly tall, but for the first time they felt within reach.

The demon stepped forward, its shadowed form waiting, hand outstretched. You moved to place the chalice in its grasp—until something caught your eye. The hand was wrong. Too pale beneath the shadow that before.

Your breath hitched. The pendant buzzed violently, the marking on your arm flaring hot.

Then, in a blur, the demon seized the chalice and wrenched the pendant from your chest. The chain snapped, the relic falling into its grasp. The burning on your arm went cold, the buzzing silenced.

The chamber dissolved around you. One moment you were clutching air, the next you were falling backward through shadow, the floor vanishing beneath your feet.

You landed hard, breath knocked from your lungs, back in the waking world—or something close to it. Silence pressed in. No demon, no guard, no chalices. Only the memory of the fight, the shards, the suffocating weight.

Had you won? Had you failed? The demon’s words echoed still: “You have done well.” But the emptiness in your chest told you otherwise.

The silence after the pendant was torn away was unbearable. It was as though a heartbeat had been ripped from you, leaving only emptiness. The marking on your arm, once burning, now lay cold against your skin.

And the thought lingered, bitter and raw:
All of this—for a love that might devour you whole.

Chapter Text

You woke sprawled across the cold floor, lungs aching, body trembling. Every muscle screamed from the fight, every breath dragged like stone. The mark still burned faintly on your wrist, proof that this was more than just a dream. The pain was real. The exhaustion was real.

For a moment, you lay still, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince yourself it hadn’t happened. But the ache in your bones, the emptiness where the pendant had been, told you otherwise.

You pushed yourself upright, battered and bruised, and found the small bundle left beside you. A cookie—simple, sweet, wrapped in cloth. Dana’s gift from earlier.

You broke it in half, crumbs scattering, and took a bite. The sugar melted on your tongue, grounding you, reminding you of something ordinary, something human. For a heartbeat, it almost worked. For a heartbeat, you almost believed you could laugh at the absurdity of it all.

But the sweetness only sharpened the bitterness. You had fought, you had bled, and still you had failed. The cookie was comfort, but it was also reminder of your trials end.

---

The shadows stirred. The throne room unfolded around you, vast and suffocating. Sukuna’s voice thundered across the chamber.

“You disappoint me.”

The words cut sharper than any blade. But his gaze wasn’t on you—it was fixed on the figure standing at the edge of the room. You pressed yourself deeper into the darkness, unseen

Sukuna roared, fury shaking the walls, “You dared to strip her of the advantage I gave. You meddled. You withheld. You turned my trial into trickery.”

The figure bowed its head, silent, movements graceful yet unsettlingly familiar.

Sukuna rose from his throne, the air trembling with his anger. His hand lashed out, faster than sight, striking the figure across the chamber. The impact reverberated like thunder, shadow scattering, the body crumpling against the stone.

You flinched, breath caught in your throat. Hidden in the dark, you felt the mark on your wrist burn hotter, as though it recognized the violence. For a moment, doubt pierced you—if he could do that to them, what might he do to you?

But Sukuna’s fury was not for you. His voice was cold, commanding:
“Do not mistake me. She may fail on her own terms, but you will not rob her of what is mine to test. Because of the work you have done for me, I shall spare your life this time. But hear me—if there is ever another hint of disobience, another trick, I will not be so merciful.”

The figure dissolved into mist, retreating, leaving only silence.

You pressed your hand to your wrist, the burn searing through you. Sukuna’s voice echoed still, low and dangerous, filling the chamber:
“She will endure. She will suffer. She will break, And she will rise.”

You stayed hidden, clutching the cookie, the mark burning against your skin. You had survived, but you had not escaped.

The silence stretched after the figure dissolved, heavy and suffocating. You thought you were safe in the dark, unseen, clutching the cookie like a talisman. But Sukuna’s gaze shifted, deliberate, cutting through the shadows.
“You’ve been there all along,” he said, voice smooth, mocking. “Watching. Listening. Thinking I wouldn’t notice.”
Your breath caught. The mark on your wrist seared hotter, betraying you.

Sukuna rose from his throne, steps measured, predatory. He didn’t strike as he had at the other. Instead, he leaned forward, eyes gleaming with something sharper than anger.
“Curious little thing,” he murmured. “Always snooping. Always hungry for what isn’t yours. Dangerous habit.”
The words were edged with threat, but his tone carried something else—playful, almost flirtatious. He was savoring your fear, enjoying the way you flinched under his gaze.
“You saw me break him,” Sukuna continued, voice low. “And for a moment, you wondered if I’d break you too.” His smile widened, dangerous and knowing.

“But I won’t. Not you. Not yet.”

Relief tangled with dread in your chest. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you—but the way he lingered on the possibility left you trembling.
He straightened, voice turning cold again. “Still… you lost what I gave you. You stumbled. You failed, not entirely your fault. Still displeasing none the less”
The words cut deeper than any blow.
“But,” Sukuna said, lips curling faintly, “I will give you another chance. Not because you deserve it. Because I will it. From now on, the trials are mine to choose. You will not dictate the path. You will endure what I set before you.”
The mark on your wrist burned hotter, binding you to his will.

Sukuna’s gaze lingered, sharp and knowing, as though he could see straight through the tremor in your breath. His voice dropped lower, almost intimate, almost cruel:
“You trust too easily,” he said. “A good heart has strength, yes—but it is fragile. Let the wrong ones in, and they will shatter you from within.”
The words hung heavy, a warning and a promise all at once.
“Remember that,” Sukuna continued, lips curling faintly. “If you continue down this path for my affection, you will bleed for it. And when betrayal comes—and it will—you will know whether your heart was strong enough to endure.”
The chamber seemed to tighten around you, shadows pressing closer, the mark on your wrist searing as though it agreed with him.
You clutched the cookie tighter, crushing the last pieces against your palm until they crumbled to the floor. The sweetness turned bitter on your tongue, his warning echoing inside you, sharp and raw:
Be careful who you let in.

Chapter Text

Sukuna was intense, dangerous, alluring—but he had never lied to you. That truth was its own kind of torment. You waited, and waited, always on edge, fearful of being pulled down into another impossible challenge. Your confidence was shaken by the tricks of the last trial. Was it always going to be this difficult? How were you supposed to manage?
Time passed. The artifacts you had catalogued all those months ago were now fully on display in the Ancient Japan wing of the museum. Visitors admired them, whispered about their beauty, but to you they were no longer just relics. Each item that once called to you now served as a reminder: Sukuna’s eyes were always on you.
The mark on your wrist burned faintly whenever you lingered too long in that wing, as though the shadows themselves were watching.
And in that time, you had even finished your doctorate in anthropology—your dissertation written on those very relics you had catalogued. The culmination of years of study, a triumph that should have been yours alone. Yet even that victory felt haunted. The parchment in your hands was real, the applause genuine, but beneath it all was the reminder that you were still bound to him.
You grew restless. Desperate enough to search for him yourself. One night, you slipped into the Underworld club, chasing rumors, hoping for a glimpse. The music throbbed, bodies pressed close, shadows flickered—but there was no golden bracelet, no Sukuna. Only the reminder of how you had failed the trial, how you were truly at his mercy.
You left empty-handed, the mark on your wrist aching, the taste of bitterness clinging to you.

The weeks blurred into months, life went on, or at least it pretended to. You gave seminars on your finding, signed papers, smiled politely at colleagues who congratulated you on your success. Yet beneath the surface, you waited—always on edge, fearful of being pulled into another impossible trial. Your confidence had been shaken by the tricks of the last challenge. Was it always going to be this difficult? How were you supposed to manage?
It was in that fragile lull, when you were most desperate for something ordinary, that Miss Dana’s invitation arrived.
Her kitchen smelled of chamomile and honey, the kind of comfort you’d come to expect after years of neighborly chats. She ushered you to the table with grandmotherly ease, her smile soft, her eyes sharp in way you haven't noticed before.

Chapter Text

Miss Dana’s kitchen smelled of chamomile and honey, the kind of comfort you’d come to expect after years of neighborly chats. She ushered you to the table with grandmotherly ease, her smile soft, her eyes sharp in ways you almost didn’t notice.

“So,” she said, pouring tea into porcelain cups, “tell me about this man who has captivated your world.”

You laughed, more at ease here than anywhere else. “You’ve known me three years, Miss Dana. Not once have I brought a boy over. So what makes him special?”

Dana chuckled, sliding a cup toward you. “That’s exactly what I’m wondering, dear. You’ve always been so focused on your work, your studies, your artifacts. And now suddenly there’s someone who can pull your attention away from all that.”

You set the teacup down on the table, warmth still radiating against your fingertips. “He’s… complicated. Dangerous. But he knows how to make words feel like chains.”

Dana leaned closer, her voice low, coaxing. “Chains can be heavy, dear. But sometimes they’re gilded. Sometimes they’re meant to guide us, to test us, to remind us of our place.”

Her smile sharpened. “You have done well.”

The words froze you. Something in her tone was wrong—too knowing, too final. Your gaze fell to her collar, high and stiff, and for the first time you saw the faint ridges beneath—scars that matched the strike you had seen Sukuna deliver in the throne room. The sight hollowed you out. She had been there. She had survived. And she had lied.

And suddenly, the pieces fell into place.

The surprise visits to your work.

The way she pressed for details about the relics.

Every baked good—the muffins, the cookies—comforts that now felt like surveillance.

The clue she had slipped over a glass of wine, steering your choice.

The advice about Sukuna, always too convenient, always too close.

It all unraveled at once, and you saw the web she had spun around you. That was why he hadn’t killed her when she broke the first trial. She had been feeding him everything. Quietly, patiently, with grandmotherly ease.

Your chest tightened, betrayal cutting deeper than any blade. Rage surged. Before you could stop yourself, your hand lashed out, striking her across the face. The sound cracked through the kitchen, louder than porcelain, louder than breath.

Dana’s eyes widened, not with pain but with satisfaction.

You froze, horror flooding in. You were becoming like him. Violence was his way, not yours. Your hand trembled as you pulled it back, shame burning hotter than the mark on your wrist.

“No,” you whispered. “I won’t be him. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have hit you.”

And in that moment, you understood: this was the next step in the challenge. Not a trial of strength, but of restraint. You had faced betrayal, lashed out, and chosen to stop. You would not be consumed by Sukuna’s violence. You would turn Dana’s spying into your advantage, even if it meant carrying the wound of her treachery.

The mark on your wrist burned, but softer now—acknowledging, almost approving.

You had passed the second trial.

“It’s okay, dear. You were always going to figure it out,” she said softly, touching her collar. “He knew you would. I knew you would. That was part of the trial.”

“Why!” you screamed at her in frustration.

Dana’s voice was calm, almost pitying: “Why do it? Because if you ever want a chance of surviving in his world as an equal, you must learn. Yours is a world of light and dark and everything in between—but his is a world where only the darkness thrives. There, kindness is weakness, trust is a trap, and deception is the only language that endures. I betrayed you because you needed to feel it, to bleed from it, to understand that nothing in his realm will ever be gentle. If you cannot face that, you will never stand beside him—you will only be devoured. Better you hate me now than die unprepared later.”

You steadied yourself, voice raw but defiant. “You may have hurt me, but I’m not broken.”

Dana smirked faintly, her voice almost tender. “Then perhaps you’ll learn to use me to your advantage?”

Chapter Text

You hesitated, the weight of her betrayal pressing down. Trust could never be restored—not fully. But for the sake of the next trial, you would have to lean on her, however grudgingly. The thought left you hollow, upset that it had all been part of Sukuna’s plan.

Your hand tightened around the mark on your wrist, the words spilling out like a command: “You want to prove your loyalty to me? Then prove it. Tell me everything you know about the next test.”

The kitchen lingered in silence long after Dana’s words faded. The chamomile tea sat forgotten on the table, steam long gone, its sweetness soured by the weight of betrayal. At some point, Dana had set it aside and poured something stronger—amber liquor that caught the light like fire. Comfort abandoned for something that burned.

Dana’s eyes flickered, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. She swirled the liquor in her glass, as if stalling, as if savoring the moment. “The next trial,” she said slowly, “is not fought with blades or will. It is fought at a table. A dinner. Invitations already sent, courses already chosen. Said to go sour before the second course is even finished. A cautionary tale still yet to be said—fail this one, and not even he can spare you.”

You frowned, the cryptic phrasing twisting in your mind. “What does that mean?”

The mark on your wrist pulsed, as though confirming her words.

You leaned back, unsettled. The thought of a dinner dressed as a trial made your stomach turn. Betrayal had already poisoned the taste of tea—what would it do to a feast?

Dana raised her glass, scars hidden beneath her collar. “You asked me to prove my loyalty. This is it. I’ve told you what I know. But remember, dear—knowledge is not kindness. It is survival. And survival is never gentle.”

Then, with deliberate care, she reached for a small plate and set a baked good in front of you. The gesture was ordinary, neighborly even, but her words made it feel like a ritual. “To begin the next trial, something must be devoured—or you will face the threat yourself.”

The pastry sat between you, innocent in appearance, heavy with implication. You stared at it, knowing this was no simple offering. It was a symbol, a warning, and perhaps the first bite of the trial to come.

You stared at the pastry, its golden crust catching the dim light. It looked harmless, even inviting—like every cookie and muffin Dana had ever offered before. But now those memories felt poisoned, each sweetness a mask for surveillance, each kindness a thread in Sukuna’s design.

Your stomach twisted. To eat was to accept. To refuse was to defy. Either way, the trial had already begun.
The mark on your wrist throbbed, a pulse that seemed to whisper: Choose.
Dana’s gaze never wavered. “Something must be devoured,” she repeated softly, “or the threat will devour you. That is the law of his world. Hospitality is never gentle. It tests, it binds, it consumes.”

You reached out, fingers hovering above the plate, the weight of betrayal pressing down like a shadow. Trust could never be restored—not fully—but for the sake of survival, you would have to lean on her, however grudgingly.
The pastry sat between you, innocent in appearance, heavy with implication. You knew this was no simple offering. It was the first bite of the trial to come.

Chapter Text

You bit into the pastry. Sweetness bloomed across your tongue, but before you could swallow, the world shifted. The kitchen dissolved into shadow, the air thick with incense and iron.

You stood in Sukuna’s domain.

He sat upon the throne in his full demon form—four eyes gleaming, two sets of arms draped with casual menace, an extra mouth yawning across his stomach, his body covered in markings that pulsed faintly like living script. He was terrible, irresistible, and you fought to control your gaze. He knew you were looking. He had counted on it.

“Always one for the dramatics,” you muttered, forcing your voice steady.

His lips curled into a grin. You glanced down and froze. A gown clung to your body, lower cut than anything you would have chosen for yourself, fabric shimmering like liquid shadow.

Sukuna’s eyes roved over you, deliberate, unashamed. “Delicious,” he said, the word heavy with implication.

Your pulse quickened. Dana’s warning echoed in your mind—something must be devoured, or you will be devoured. For a moment, you wondered if he meant to eat you whole. But the hunger in his tone was not for flesh. It was something more dangerous.

He rose from the throne, guiding you with a gesture toward the dining hall. The table stretched before you, piled high with food that smelled divine—roasted meats, spiced fruits, breads glistening with honey. The sight made your stomach twist.

“Is this like the test before?” you asked, wary. “Am I not supposed to eat anything?”

Sukuna chuckled, seating himself at the opposite end of the table. “Patience. Dana’s words were not without meaning. There is more here than hunger. Wait, and you will see.”

He reached for the glass of wine waiting at his place, raising it high. “Cheer, my goddess. To the trials you have conquered, and to the ones yet to be faced.”

His glass lingered in the air, waiting for you to join him.

You looked down at your own cup. The wine smelled of the last trial—sweet, bitter, poisoned with memory. You hesitated.

“What’s the matter?” Sukuna taunted, his tone playful, as if he had forgotten the torment he had put you through.

You forced a smile, lifting the glass. “Oh, it’s nothing. I thought you preferred me sharp, is all.”

He laughed, eyes gleaming. “Don’t play coy. You’ve already had some earlier.”

Your breath caught. He had noticed. Even in his silence, he was watching.

“Lovely to see you still watch me,” you said, raising your glass to meet his.

“Always,” he replied, his voice low, dangerous, and intimate.

The toast rang out, and the dinner began.

Wine burned down your throat like memory. The table stretched between you, heavy with dishes that gleamed under the torchlight.

Sukuna set his glass down with deliberate grace, one of his lower hands reaching for a lacquered wooden soup spoon, the other gesturing toward the first course. A bowl was placed before you—what appeared to be a dazzling bowl of miso soup. But the pork was raw, bleeding into the broth as it mixed. The scent was intoxicating, sweet and sharp.

“Eat,” he said, his voice low, amused. “Or watch me devour it instead.”

You hesitated, fingers brushing the stem of your glass. “Is this another trick? Dana said something must be devoured… but she didn’t say it would be safe.”

His four eyes gleamed, the grin widening. “Safe? Nothing in my world is safe. But you look exquisite when you hesitate. Delicious, even.”

Your pulse quickened, though you forced a smile. “Careful. If you keep calling me that, I might start wondering if you mean to eat me.”

The mouth across his stomach curved into a grotesque smile, while his upper lips curled in amusement. “Perhaps I do. But not in the way you fear.”

You shifted in your gown, fabric clinging too close, too low. “I see you’re a fan of poetry,” you muttered, trying to change the subject, though your gaze betrayed you, flicking toward him before you could stop yourself.

Not willing to back down, you picked up your spoon to try the soup yourself—and to your surprise, the flavor was good, not what you expected. Sukuna watched you, waiting.

You took another drink of the wine, a longer sip than before, lured into false hope that the soup was the test. It burned sweetly down your throat, warmth spreading too fast, too heavy. The room tilted, shadows bending at the edges of your vision. Your thoughts blurred, judgment slipping.

You set the glass down sharply. “You drugged me,” you accused, voice trembling with both fury and dizziness.

Sukuna laughed, four eyes gleaming. “Drugged? No. The wine of my land is not fit for humans. It is meant for gods and demons. For you, it impairs. A reminder, little goddess: if you wish to stay here, know that sweetness is dangerous.”

Your wrist throbbed, the mark pulsing as though agreeing. You clenched your jaw, forcing your mind to sharpen against the haze. Use your will. Fight through it.

Then the main course was laid before you. Three plates, each gleaming under the torchlight:

On the left: a steaming bowl of rosemary‑infused chicken stew, broth golden and rich, vegetables softened to perfection. Beside it, a slice of warm bread, crust crisp, interior fluffy. Comfort radiated from it, the scent of home kitchens. Yet the bowl itself had a dull, lacquered sheen that caught the light strangely—muted, heavy, almost resonant in your wine‑blurred vision.

In the middle: a platter of raw, marbled beef, spiced with crimson chili paste and garnished with black sesame. The meat glistened, juices pooling like blood, the spices sharp enough to sting your nose. The plate beneath it carried the same muted sheen, dull and gray, echoing the bowl beside it. In your haze, the similarity tugged at you, though you couldn’t place why.

On the right: a delicate plate of shellfish—glossy oysters on the half shell, drizzled with lemon and garnished with herbs. The shells gleamed like polished bone, the flesh pale and glistening. Unlike the others, the oysters remained in their own vessels, untouched. Briny, sharp, alluring—but for you, deadly. Even the aroma made your throat tighten, your skin prickle. It was defiance incarnate, a way to spit in his face, but also reckless, self‑destructive, suicidal.

Sukuna leaned back, watching you with predatory amusement. “Choose. One must be devoured. One is yours, one is mine, and one will kill you. The trial is not about hunger—it is about loyalty, desire, and restraint. Choose wisely, though the wine clouds your mind.”

Your vision swam, the plates shimmering, blurring together. You reached out, hesitated, pulled back. The wine made every thought slippery, every instinct suspect.

Your favorite dish smelled of home, of safety—but was that weakness? His dish burned with temptation, daring you to match his hunger—but was that surrender? The forbidden plate gleamed like defiance, a way to spit in his face—but was that suicide?

Your hand hovered, trembling. The mark on your wrist pulsed harder, whispering: Choose.

Sukuna’s grin widened. “Lovely to see you struggle. Lovely to see you hesitate. You look exquisite when you suffer.”

You swallowed hard, forcing your will against the haze.

Your vision swam, the wine thick in your veins, judgment slipping like sand through your fingers. The three plates shimmered before you, each one heavy with meaning, each one a trap.

You clenched your jaw, pulse hammering, and whispered to yourself: Screw it.

Your hand shot forward, no hesitation, no pause. You seized the oyster, its shell gleaming like polished bone, and slammed it down. The briny flesh slid across your tongue, sharp and cold, a taste of defiance.

The mark on your wrist seared, burning hotter than the wine. Your throat tightened, your skin prickled, the allergic fire already spreading through your body.

Across the table, Sukuna’s four eyes gleamed, his grin widening into something terrible and delighted. “Beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous. “So foolish. All mine.”

The room tilted, shadows bending, the feast blurring into darkness. The last thing you felt was the burn of the mark and the echo of his laughter, wrapping around you like chains.

And then—nothing.

Chapter Text

You were back in the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator grounding you in reality. Your hands trembled as you braced against the counter searching for your in kitchen drawers for your medication.
Why did I do that? The thought gnawed at you. Why not just bite the raw meat? Or even better—your favorite dish. It would have saved you one of your EpiPens and a trip to the hospital. You literally could have died.
And yet… it had worked. Coming home from the doctors, when you opened your nightstand, was the pendant that had been returned to its original case, gleaming as if untouched. But this time, there was something else tucked inside the case with it.
A folded slip of parchment, ink dark and sharp, written in Sukuna’s unmistakable hand. It read:
“You do have a taste for danger, little goddess. I counted on it.
Sweet things may kill you, but bitter choices keep you mine.
Three trials devoured, one remains.
Don’t keep me waiting—your appetite is exquisite.”
Your stomach twisted, heat rising to your cheeks. Playful, taunting, flirty—yet undeniably a reminder that the final trial was coming.

You shoved the note back into the case, heart pounding. Life didn’t pause for trials. You went to work as usual, the museum halls echoing with the shuffle of visitors and the quiet reverence of exhibits.
-----

Your coworker leaned over, eyes catching the pendant nestled in your bag. “Oh—this piece is stunning. Is it part of the exhibit?”
Your breath caught. The pendant pulsed faintly, as if aware of being seen.
You forced a smile, heart racing. “Yes,” you said quickly. “It belongs here.”
They studied it closer, brow furrowed. “It looks old. What period is it from?”
You slipped into the safety of your training, words flowing automatically. “It resembles jewelry from the Heian era in Japan. Pieces then weren’t just decoration—they were talismans. Gold and gemstones were often carved with Buddhist symbols, meant to protect the wearer as much as adorn them.”
Your coworker nodded, satisfied, and moved on.
But you knew better. This pendant wasn’t protection. It was a trial. And now, under the museum lights, behind glass, it looked ordinary to everyone else—but to you, it was watching.....

Dana still came around sometimes, trying to slip back into your good graces. She would chat as if nothing had happened, as if betrayal could be erased with small talk. But the mistrust lingered, a shadow between you. She brought pastries, delicate and sweet, gifts you accepted with a polite smile but never ate. Instead, you tossed them away or offered them to coworkers, hoping to gain favor at work. It never seemed to work.
That night, lying in bed, you drifted into sleep.
You woke in a glittering red velvet mermaid dress, the fabric clinging to your body like molten wine. Instantly, you recognized the place—his domain. You walked with confidence now, having been here enough times to remember the layout. Bones and relics lay in piles, and you began sorting them by time and use, as if cataloging a museum collection.
A voice curled around you, low and amused.
“You love to keep your hands full with things that don’t belong to you, don’t you, my dear?”
You didn’t look up. “If it wasn’t a mess, I wouldn’t have to.”
He chuckled. “You wound me. Goddess.”
“You’ll live,” you shot back.
Sukuna appeared at your side, pulling you close with rough insistence.

Sukuna appeared at your side, pulling you close with rough insistence.
“Still so cold with me?”

You snapped, voice sharp. “Cold? I nearly died. That wine left me stumbling, and you forced me into a choice that could have killed me. Do you think that’s fun?”

His grin widened, unrepentant. “You survived. That’s what matters.”

You glared at him, heat rising in your chest. “I had to eat the one thing I’m allergic to because it was the only safe option. The other two dishes were served on lead plates. Did you think that even under the haze of your wine I wouldn’t notice? That’s archaeology 101. Or would you have preferred I go mad instead?”

Sukuna’s laugh rumbled low, delighted. “Exquisite. Even poisoned, you saw through it. That’s why I enjoy you—you notice what others would miss. Madness would have been entertaining, but defiance tastes sweeter.”

You clenched your jaw, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. “You’re insufferable.”

He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “And yet you keep coming back.”

Suddenly, your dress began to transform against your will. The velvet shifted into a loose gold gown, something flowing—then betrayed you, turning sheer, nearly transparent, exposing you to him.

He smirked. You raised your hand to slap him. “Pervert. Fix it.”

His voice dropped, dangerous. “Now, what have I said before about you trying to hurt me? It won’t end well. Last warning.” His grin deepened. “Besides, I quite like how this looks on you. You could always change it yourself—if you truly demand it.”

He punctuated the words with a heavy slap across your backside. You squealed, but before you could react, music began—one lone musician playing a rhythm that filled the hall.

You were dancing.His hands guided you, all four finding their own perfect places on your body. One lingered too low on your back, resisting your attempts to shift away.

The silence stretched until you broke it. “When is the final test?”
He leaned close, his breath hot against your ear. “So eager to stay? I’ve waited a millennia for you, and I’d wait even longer if it meant keeping you forever.”
Your pulse quickened. “That being said… I don’t control the last one. You do.”
You frowned. “But I thought—”
“There will be no hints. No clues. Only your memories to guide you.”
“That’s not fair, is it?” you whispered.
You tried to ask more, but the domain began to fade, the music dissolving into silence, his hands slipping away.