Chapter Text
Mitsuki would describe life at Sukuna’s shrine as simple. Enjoyable. Monotonous, but enjoyable nonetheless. Sometimes all a man needed after a lifetime of clan-related complications, conditional love, and pain was being treasured by another. The shrine, nestled in the lush embrace of the mountains, offered a tranquility he never thought he would cherish.
There was no need for pretense here. Sukuna, for all his fearsome reputation and overwhelming power, had become the anchor which steadied Mitsuki’s weary soul. The excitement of a good fight or the thrill he got from sparring with his husband occasionally paled in comparison to the domesticity they indulged in together. He had learned to treasure these quiet moments—the mornings spent sipping sake on the engawa, evenings walking in the forest beneath the moonlight, or afternoons like this one, where creativity flowed, guiding Mitsuki like an unbroken stream. Crickets had begun to emerge, mixed with the occasional song of a uguisu served to provide a soothing background for him to get lost in concentration.
So here he was, sitting cross-legged, brush moving furiously against his leather-bound scroll. His goal was clear: to create something worthy of Sukuna, a gift to honor the day that had forever changed both their lives—the day he walked away from the Zenin Clan to stand by Sukuna’s side. He hadn’t had much time, only a few days, to be specific.
His plan was equally formed in his mind—first, a painting. Sukuna would be its centerpiece, a figure sitting beneath a canopy of trees. A symbolic nod to the day Mitsuki left everything behind and the man who welcomed him. In the distance, he envisioned the faint outline of the Zenin estate, fading into shadows to show their irrelevance in the face of what Sukuna had become to him. And, a haiku with the same prompt to match. It was perfect. A masterful idea Mitsuki had formulated.
Alas, artistic paralysis was hardly ever forgiving.
Mitsuki tapped the end of the brush against his face, violet eyes narrowing in thought. The pages brimmed with scattered words, phrases, and half-formed sketches. About to rip his hair out in frustration, he briskly shut the scroll tight. He turned around, only to be met with the prying gaze of his husband entering the scene. How he didn’t notice the footsteps of such a heavy brute was beyond him.
“Art or poetry?” Sukuna asked, breaking the silence, attempting to take a peek at whatever Mitsuki was working on.
“Both,” Mitsuki replied, a stray strand of his layered black hair falling into his face. He scrambled to hide the scroll away, bringing it close to his chest. “The poem inspires the painting, and the painting reinforces the poem. A cycle, if you will.”
Sukuna chuckled, his sharp canines briefly flashing in amusement. “You make it sound more complicated than summoning a Shikigami.”
“You of all people should understand,” he retorted, rolling his eyes. “I’ve had to endure my fair share of your complaints when you couldn’t find the ideal word for your haiku or the plant you wanted to add to our collection.”
Sukuna’s laughter filled the expanse of the shrine garden as he folded his arms, leaning against a pine tree. “Fair enough,” he admitted, the corners of his lips curling in gaiety. His crimson orbs gleamed as they lingered on Mitsuki, who was now feigning nonchalance, though his tightly clasped scroll betrayed his nervousness. “Still. You’ve piqued my curiosity. Why the secrecy? You never shy away from showing me your work.”
“It’s… personal, also very important,” Mitsuki mumbled, suddenly fixated on a loose thread on his sleeve. “Not to mention it’s unfinished.”
“Important, huh?” Sukuna mused, his tone softening just a fraction. He crouched down to meet Mitsuki at eye level, his towering frame folding with surprising grace. “Then I won’t press—yet. But I’ll expect something spectacular if it’s for me.”
Mitsuki’s cheeks flushed into a faint rosy tint. He quickly turned away, his stare fixated at the garden as if he were trying to have a conversation with the flora. “Who said it’s for you?”
“Please. If it were for anyone else, you wouldn’t be sitting here sulking over it like it’s a matter of life and death.”
Mitsuki huffed, but a small, unwelcome smile took over despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”
“But I’m also right,” Sukuna responded bluntly. “Take your time with it, Mitsuki. Whatever you’re planning, I’ll appreciate it—even if it’s not perfect.”
It was strange how this fearsome creature could make Mitsuki feel so cherished when the Zenin Clan—his own family—couldn’t. “I’ll hold you to that,” Mitsuki answered after a few seconds. His voice was more muffled, the previous tension in his shoulders melting away. “But don’t expect something which will blow your mind. It’s a gift, not a masterpiece.”
“Then I’ll take it as it comes,” Sukuna said with a smirk, rising to his full height. He stretched his arms out, cracking his neck before giving Mitsuki one last lingering glance. “I’ll be around if you need me. Don’t be late to dinner. Uraume cooked one of your favorites this time.”
Mitsuki nodded absently, drifting back to the scroll. Even after his husband’s exit, his words were still stuck in his head. They weren’t as flippant as they sounded. Sukuna wasn’t one to offer false praise. He didn’t need grandeur—just Mitsuki’s honesty, his heart, and whatever gift he could humbly offer. The realization alone eased Mitsuki’s mind considerably.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Sukuna’s assurance had served its purpose. After a while, Mitsuki’s brush strokes became clearer, much more accurate at representing his vision. He allowed himself to get lost in the creation process, his intuition guiding him on the steps he had to take. He poured his heart into his work, humming along with the gentle noises of nature enveloping him. Each stroke of color—from the vermillion red of his husband's eyes to the fading greys of the bleak Zenin estate—and each carefully chosen word brought the creation he imagined closer to life. Time seemed to slip away as he worked, the sun dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the garden.
It was only when a new presence broke his concentration that Mitsuki realized how much time had passed. He was about to dip his brush into the freshly ground, pitch black ink next to him, beginning the draft for his haiku. Then Uraume’s voice rang out, pulling him from his trance back to reality. “Pardon my interruption, Mitsuki-sama. The evening meal has been prepared. Sukuna-sama awaits your presence.”
“Ah, I’ll be there in a second! How my beast of a husband managed to find someone as competent and respectful as you still baffles me. I’ve told you countless times, there’s no need to be so formal, Uraume.”
Mitsuki set his brush down with care, wiping his ink-stained hands on a nearby cloth. He stood, smoothing out the creases in his kimono, and turned to Uraume, whose composure remained impeccable. Their head inclined politely, a glimmer of enjoyment flickering in their cool gaze.
“Your kindness is appreciated, Mitsuki-sama,” Uraume replied evenly. “However, Sukuna-sama expects decorum from his retainers. I see no reason to deviate.”
Mitsuki sighed, knowing any further attempt to dissuade Uraume would be futile. Despite the oddities of their household, they clung to their formality like moss to a stone—a stark contrast to both his and Sukuna’s laid-back lifestyle.
“Very well,” Mitsuki muttered with an air of resignation, tucking the scroll deep into his sleeve. “Lead the way. I wouldn’t want to keep the monster waiting, especially when he’s hungry. He might end up eating both you and me.”
Uraume's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. “As you wish.”
The walk to the dining room was silent, save for the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the occasional rustle of wind through the garden’s bamboo groves. The shrine’s understated elegance was apparent in every detail, from the polished wood of the engawa to the hanging lanterns casting a warm, cozy glow. The shoji screen moved subtly against the wood frame gliding along the track with a swish, both of them entering the dining area.
The dining area was as serene and thoughtfully arranged as the rest of the shrine(courtesy of Uraume, because Mitsuki and Sukuna certainly weren’t partaking in much of the organizing or maintenance). The low, long wooden table was placed atop the comforting tatami floors. A faint scent of cedar and incense lingered in the air, mingling with the mouthwatering aroma of the meal laid out. The shoji screen slid shut behind them with a whisper, sealing off the outside world.
Sukuna was already seated at the head of the table, his broad frame commanding the space effortlessly. His dark haori draped loosely over his shoulders and his rumpled white hakama prioritized comfort over formality. The garments did little to conceal the striking tattoos that marked his body, bold black lines curling and stretching like the marks of a deity. His sharp features, illuminated by the warm lantern light, abated in intensity by the faint simper of his lips.
A sakazuki cup balanced casually in his hand, the faint aroma of sake inside mingled with the scents of the food spread across the table. His crimson eyes, glimmering with a mix of amusement and mischief, locked onto Mitsuki as soon as he entered. “Finished sulking?” he teased lightly.
“I wasn’t sulking. I was working!” Mitsuki objected, but couldn’t suppress a giggle. “Going straight for the sake, I see. What a drunkard I've married! Why, I'm shocked you haven't grown a belly the size of a ball yet.”
Sukuna shrugged, taking a large gulp of his drink. “Ah, so you’re calling it work now?” his grin widened as he gestured to the empty spot beside him. “Sit. Uraume’s been waiting to serve you.”
Mitsuki obeyed, settling into the space beside his husband. The table was laden with an array of dishes: freshly grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and an appetizing soup. A small platter of tofu, drizzled with a light soy-based sauce, garnished with finely chopped scallions caught Mitsuki’s eye. It was his favorite, an indulgence which never failed to bring him comfort.
“Since when—how did you get your hands on tofu?” Mitsuki interrogated, his tone laced with disbelief.
"Tch. It’s not that hard to find soybeans," Sukuna answered, hiding his satisfaction behind another gulp of sake. "Got Uraume to make it. There's more coming - I planted some in the garden while you were too busy laboring away on your ‘secret project’ to notice."
“Interesting. You really didn’t intimidate the vendors down at the village into giving you their whole stock?” Mitsuki picked up a piece of the delicacy with his chopsticks, scrutinizing it.
“Psht. How I sourced it doesn’t matter,” he waved his hand around flippantly.
"Mhm, exactly like how it didn't matter when you 'acquired' those rare ink stones last month?" Mitsuki raised an eyebrow, popping the tofu into his mouth. His expression melted at the taste, beaming in contentment.
"Those merchants were overcharging anyway," Sukuna scoffed, but he relaxed upon observing Mitsuki savor the food. "Besides, you didn't complain when you were using them."
"Because I know better than to question your methods at this point." Mitsuki reached for another piece, then paused. "Though I do hope you at least left them their carts this time."
Uraume moved silently around them, refilling Sukuna's sake cup with practiced grace. The King of Curses let out a low chuckle, neither confirming nor denying the accusation.
“Why don’t you come eat with us?” Mitsuki addressed Uraume. “You go through all this effort to feed two gluttons every day, and you don’t even take a seat at the table yourself! Come on, you must be starving.”
"Uraume dines separately," Sukuna interjected before Uraume could respond, though his tone held no real rebuke. "They prefer it that way."
"Always so rigid with traditions," Mitsuki sighed, but his attention was quickly drawn back to the spread before them. "Just know you’re always welcome."
"Your concern is appreciated, Mitsuki-sama," Uraume said with their usual calm demeanor. "However, I find greater satisfaction in ensuring your meals are properly served."
Mitsuki shook his head fondly, reaching for the soup. "One of these days, I'll get you to relax a little. Mark my words."
"You've been saying that for years," Sukuna remarked mirthfully. "Yet here we are."
"Yes, well, I'm nothing if not persistent." Mitsuki took a sip of the soup, his eyes widening slightly. "Oh, this is different. What did you put in it, Uraume?"
"A blend of mushrooms from the forest, Mitsuki-sama. Sukuna-sama gathered them himself."
Mitsuki turned to his husband with mock suspicion. "First tofu, now mushroom hunting? You're being awfully domestic today. Should I be worried?"
"Can't a man ensure his husband is well-fed without ulterior motives?"
"A normal man? Perhaps. You? Absolutely not!" Mitsuki pointed his chopsticks accusingly at Sukuna. "Last time you arranged a feast like this, you decimated half of the Zenin’s territory and wanted to ease the blow of telling me. As if I'd shed a tear over those bastards. I was more upset that you didn’t just confess directly and felt the need to dance around the matter.”
Mitsuki reached for more tofu. His appetite had improved dramatically since leaving the clan, something Sukuna took particular pride in. "Besides, they had it coming. They always do. Never change, never reflect, never learn—no matter how many mistakes they make."
The room was filled with a brief silence as they ate their meals. Uraume moved to refill their cups of sake, but Sukuna lightly wrapped his hand around their wrist, keeping it in place. “Speaking of poetry, how’s your project going? Still worried about perfection?”
Mitsuki nearly choked on his food. "I told you it's not finished," he mumbled. "And stop trying to peek into my thoughts. It ruins the surprise."
"Hmm." Sukuna released Uraume's wrist, allowing them to continue their task. "You know, the first poem I wrote you was hardly perfect. Didn't stop you from keeping it."
"That's different," Mitsuki argued, remembering the carefully folded paper he still kept under his futon, delivered by a terrified Zenin servant Sukuna coerced. "I was just impressed that you managed to write anything romantic that wasn't about dismembering someone back then."
"Dismemberment can be poetic too," Sukuna countered, but his expression softened as he watched Mitsuki eat. The sight of his husband healthy and well-fed, a far cry from the malnourished heir he'd first encountered in his forest, always stirred something in his chest. Happiness, protectiveness, whatever it was, he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge it.
"Poetic dismemberment," Mitsuki mused, reaching for his sake cup. "Is that what you call what you did to those Zenin scouts last week? The ones who got too close to the shrine?"
Sukuna's grin widened, revealing more of his fangs. "They were trespassing. I simply... expressed my displeasure through artistic means."
"By turning them into human confetti?" Mitsuki snorted, but there was no real judgment in his tone. "I suppose that's one way to send a message."
“At least I’m direct about it.”
“You’re always direct. Sometimes too direct.”
“Too direct? What, would you rather I write a strongly worded letter instead?” he laughed.
"I suppose it wouldn't have had the same… impact." Mitsuki took another sip of sake, the drink warming him from the inside out. A giddy smile made its way onto his face. Ah, sake was truly a blessing!
Sukuna leaned forward, poking his husband on the cheek. “Lightweight.”
“Not everyone is a burly barbarian who consumes alcohol like it’s water,” Mitsuki scowled.
Their easy banter flowed continuously throughout dinner, punctuated by agreeable silences and the clink of chopsticks against porcelain. Mitsuki found himself staring at his husband far too often than he would admit. The same hands that could effortlessly tear apart armies moved with fascinating dexterity. Then again, Mitsuki had always been exceptionally fond of Sukuna’s appearance, even if he wasn’t conventionally attractive by any means.
“You’re staring,” Sukuna pointed out. “The sake is finally getting to you.”
“Maybe I'm just appreciating the view. Is that such a crime?" he quibbled, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and other factors.
"If it were, you'd be a repeat offender." Sukuna's grin widened as crossed his arms over his stomach, guffawing. "Though I suppose I'd have to arrest myself too."
Uraume, who had been silently clearing away empty dishes, paused unnoticeably at their master's tender words. Even after all this time, it was still somewhat jarring to see the feared King of Curses engage in such domestic affection.
“A brute, a drunkard, and a professional pervert. What has my life come to? I must have terrible taste in men.”
“Oh, please. You don’t have to lift a finger, lazing around every day. I even dedicate entire poems and countless artworks to you. Ungrateful brat,” Sukuna retaliated smugly.
“You only started courting me properly after you battered me up worse than any other beating I had!”
Sukuna snickered, a hint of embarrassment in his expression. "How was I supposed to know that beating you in a spar wasn't a clear enough declaration of interest? Besides, you're the one who didn't show up to our next meeting."
"Because I thought you hated me!" Mitsuki clarified. "Normal people don't express affection through combat, you know."
“As if you’re normal yourself, barging into my territory and asking me if I was the ‘monster’ your clan kept condemning.”
"Well, you weren't very monstrous." Mitsuki got up from the opposite side of the table, settling against Sukuna's side. "Just dramatic. Still are, actually."
"Says the man who's been agonizing over a secret project all day."
“I told you that doesn’t count!”
“Mhm…” Sukuna’s hands wandered, pulling his husband closer to his side. “You don’t have to try so hard. Whatever you make—perfect or not—I’ll treasure-”
“If you say that one more time I’m going to dump the rest of the sake bottle on your head,” Mitsuki threatened, with no real heat in his words.
Sukuna chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Violent little thing. And here I thought I was the monster!"
"You're rubbing off on me," Mitsuki yawned, the combination of delicious food, sake, and his husband's warmth making him drowsy. "Besides, you're not a monster. You're just... Sukuna. My Sukuna."
No matter how many years passed, these tender moments never failed to make Sukuna’s chest tighten, his heart ache, and his body shudder. All he knew, or believed he knew, was hatred. An all-consuming hatred for the cruel world, the pathetic humans that infested it, and the very concept of weakness. He had never sought connection, and had actively scorned it as a weakness. Yet, in Mitsuki, he found a resonance, a shared understanding forged in the fires of their respective pasts. Mitsuki didn't merely see him; he understood the weight of his existence, the burden of his power, the loneliness that gnawed at his core.
For as long as he could remember, Sukuna found the concept of soulmates ridiculous. Yet, there was no other definition which fit Mitsuki. His soulmate, a lifelong companion. Huh. Perhaps he really had become soft.
"Uraume," he called out quietly, not wanting to disturb Mitsuki, who was already half-asleep against his shoulder. "We're done for the night."
"Very well, Sukuna-sama." Uraume bowed, gathering the last of the dishes. "Shall I prepare a bath?"
"No need. This one's about to pass out anyway." He gestured to Mitsuki, who muttered something incomprehensible in response. "Lightweight indeed."
As Uraume silently left the room, Sukuna carefully adjusted his position, supporting Mitsuki's weight. The scroll that had consumed so much of his husband's attention was still safely tucked away somewhere, but Sukuna found he wasn't as curious about its contents anymore. Whatever Mitsuki was creating, whatever anniversary or moment he was trying to commemorate, it would be perfect simply because it came from him.
“Come on,” Sukuna murmured, lifting Mitsuki into a bridal carry without difficulty. “Let’s get you to bed before you start drooling all over my haori. Uraume works hard tailoring them.”
“‘m not drooling...” he protested weakly, nestling into Sukuna’s chest. “And I can walk, for your information.”
"Sure you can." Sukuna started toward their shared chambers, his steps measured and gentle. "Just like you could 'handle your sake' earlier?"
“Mmph. Bully. My husband is such a bully.”
“I thought I was a brute.”
“You are. But you’re my brute, my monster, and my bully. Always…” Mitsuki whispered, finally drifting off to sleep.
The moon cast long shadows through the windows, painting the tatami mats alternating patterns of silver. Somewhere in the distance, a komadori called out its evening song, the sound echoing through the surrounding trees.
Sukuna laid his husband’s body onto the futon in calculated movements, unwilling to disturb his rest. He’d have to deal with the man’s inevitable complaints about sleeping in his normal clothes once he awoke—a small price to pay. Frankly, he couldn’t care less. In a fluid motion, he tucked a thin blanket around Mitsuki, his hand lingering on his cheek before urging towards him and pressing a fleeting kiss on his forehead. The scent of sake lingered in both of their breaths. He lingered for a moment longer, watching the peaceful rise and fall of Mitsuki's chest.
Minutes passed by remaining at Mitsuki’s bedside until eventually, Sukuna reluctantly paced back to the main quarters, a singular thought overwhelming his mind. God, he loved this man. Loved—adored—him so much it burned.