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Tags/warnings: Angst to comfort, fluff, my most suggestive/sexual story but no actual smut, mentions of painful/toxic past relationships, discussions of coercion, hypersexual undertones for Sukuna, avoidant attachment undertones for reader, weird passages of time, flawed characters, discussions of drug usage and addiction (side character), unhealthy coping mechanisms, culturally accurate misogyny, retiredteabag's first scary adventure into dialogue-heavy storytelling
When Harry Met Sally AU: (see summary)
Recent College graduates share a contentious car ride from their hometown to the big city where they have been newly employed, during which they argue about whether men and women can ever truly be strictly platonic friends. Years later, they meet again, and in the company of their respective friends, attempt to prove the lifelong question one way or another. Can they move from unwilling to deep friendship without sex becoming an issue between them? And after the pain of their previous loves, are either of them even fit for love?
synopsis: Behind the mask she wears at an exclusive underground club, she is untouchable—a dancer for the city’s wealthiest men who can buy her time, but never her face. Her rules are simple until he arrives: rich, patient, and far too observant, with eyes that never leave her and an obsession he makes no effort to hide. He doesn’t want a night with her—he wants to know her, to unravel her, to be the one she chooses. As curiosity turns into dangerous attraction, she finds herself drawn into his world of luxury, control, and quiet obsession, where every kindness feels like a warning and every touch feels like surrender. Somewhere between desire and danger, she must decide if he is the safest place she’s ever known—or the most beautiful mistake she’ll ever make.
if you'd prefer to hear it narrated, follow this link
MDNI 18+ | Smut to come
Session One: The Mask
She wasn’t allowed to remove her mask.
Not here. Not at events like these.
High rollers didn’t want faces. They wanted illusions—something beautiful, distant, and easy to forget before they went home to their wives.
And she preferred it that way.
It wasn’t her first gig. It wouldn’t be her last.
She wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight.
But her friend called that morning—mono, desperate—and she said yes before she could think too hard about it.
Now she stood backstage, adjusting lace that wasn’t meant to stay in place, listening to the muffled pulse of money and music on the other side of the wall.
The night was young.
Which meant it would be long.
He shouldn’t have come.
He knew that the second he stepped inside.
Too loud. Too crowded. Too predictable.
His friends were already halfway drunk, laughing too hard at things that didn’t matter, clapping him on the shoulder like they could drag him into their kind of boredom.
“Relax,” one of them said. “You’ll like this one.”
He doubted it.
He always did.
Until the door opened.
Black lace.
Dark hair.
A mask.
And eyes that didn’t belong in a place like this.
She bowed slightly to the men who would pay her night’s salary and she excused herself quickly to her tiny stage. The robe fell down her shoulders, slipping past her back and hips, and flowing seductively to the floor. It was forgotten for the time.
The pole waited for her patiently, warming up in the places she grabbed it. Wrapped around it. Twirled, spun, slid.
It was not sexual to anyone who wasn’t filled with lust like his idiot friends were. It was an art.
And he couldn’t look away.
His friends were too busy howling at her to notice that–for once–he actually paid attention to the dancer. The rare times he would actually attend these events, he ignored the girls and drank a single dram of whiskey neat before he called it a night.
She was on the floor of the small stage now, rolling her hips, tilting her head back into a welcoming pose. And as if he’d been summoned to that exact spot, he approached.
And his friends went silent.
He had a stack of something in his left hand that she came to realize was money. And she sat up straight, eyes wide. Her dance came to a halt as she watched him, curious. What did he want? Why did he approach her?
It felt like a Twilight Zone moment for her.
He stepped closer when she didn’t move. He moved a hand toward her, graceful, unassuming, and he held onto her shoulder before leaning in. His mouth met her ear so she could hear him over the loud music. He smelled so good it almost made her knees weak and she was glad the she’d been on the floor already.
“Take it off.”
That’s what the money was for.
She pulled back quickly, almost recoiling from him. Was it fear? Shock? She wasn’t sure. No one ever asked that unless their plan was to take the girl home. That very night.
She had never been asked, never been requested. She made sure her art was only seen by high-paying gentlemen. But none offered to take her home. She crafted her routines well to avoid moments like these.
He waited.
Not impatient.
Just certain.
Her eyes bore into his, shock still fresh in those pretty, brown eyes.
Finally, her answer came. But it was not what he initially expected.
Impulse kills quicker than curiosity.
She never let them see her face.
That was where she ended and they began.
And the shake of her head felt like a knife in the gut. ‘Fuck.’
He tried once more, making sure she felt his voice in it this time.
“I need to see you.”
She forced down the shiver in her spine from the depth of his voice, the proximity of his mouth against her ear.
She knew what this would become. But if she said yes first, what would happen?
He might not be interested anymore and leave everything where it was.
Why did this scare her more than being touched?
She held onto herself, stilled in hopes he would give up.
And when she didn’t move, he placed the stack of cash on the stage for her.
He said he’d be back.
And he kept his word.
Anxious wasn’t quite the feeling. Something more would have been accurate.
But she was not quite fearful either.
She had seen him twice since that night.
He didn’t request her, didn’t go into a private room. He was always front row for her, and only her. He left her with more money than she’d received from any highroller or regular.
He whispered something to her the second night he returned that she would not soon forget before he disappeared into the sea of men.
Her routines had begun to change, more raw, loose, sexier.
It wasn’t for him.
Practice was the only thing that took her mind off of him, his offer, his persistence.
It was all she could do not to fold.
He was gorgeous. And he was rich.
And he didn’t smell like the old, touchy men from upstate.
She ignored him. She had no intention of giving herself over for a night even if the money was worth it.
She still hoped for true love, romance, and lustless desire.
But then he requested her a few months later.
He’d watched her from backgrounds, front rows, upstairs. All the possible angles.
She followed him everywhere—into meetings, into silence, into sleep.
His shower was only for thoughts of her. His pillow stored the memory of her scent, the dreams of her, and the sweet sigh he caught from the night he asked her to take off her mask.
Before she shot him down. Even though it was kind–fearful even–it hurt his pride and ego more than anything.
He was still there. Still asking with his eyes, still placing her features, or their potential.
But he knew her beauty was unlike any other.
She stood before him, bowed once with little respect and proceeded to her stage. The same room as before. But this time…it was just him.
He watched her dance, watched her slowly twirl and crawl her way toward him as he’d requested. A lap dance. Only for proximity.
He never meant to demean her.
He just wanted to be closer after months of distance. He wanted her to perform only for him.
And the club owner probably wouldn’t mind if he paid extra just for her to be exclusive for only him.
But she might not like that so much. And he wanted to be respectful of her wishes.
Her ass slid against his legs, all the way up to his hips and back down. She did it again, ran a hand up his thigh before she turned back to face him, popping either cheek against his groin and she gasped loudly when one of his hands gripped her hip. It stilled her right on top of his hardness.
She didn’t turn away from him for a long moment. Her eyes were blown wide when his eyes finally met hers.
He didn’t speak for a long moment.
They just stared at each other while she was coming undone above him from shock, and he sat cozily and comfily underneath her but worried she might run away.
She didn’t.
That was good.
His jaw flexed, and so did something else.
She didn’t have the courage to look away. She needed to watch him, make sure he didn’t pull out any other tricky stops. But she couldn’t look away from those damned eyes, that fucking face. And his hand tightened against her hip.
“I want to take you home tonight.”
Her heart sank a little bit and he felt it.
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
She pressed her lips together tightly behind the mask, her eyes began to lose that fear and slowly coiled into something fierce. She would fight if she had to.
She didn’t care how kind he was in the club–his home was a different situation. A place unknown to her. Dangerous.
“Don’t worry. I won’t cause you any harm. You’ll be perfectly safe. I’ve already paid for your service for the night, even if you choose not to do anything. And I don’t expect anything from you.”
His lips were moving but all she heard was sirens.
And then, “I want to give you some privacy. And I’m prepared to pay you generously for just that.”
She looked down at his hand, the free one. It rested gently against his thigh, very close to her body. And she looked back up at him slowly. His eyes had darkened at that moment and her lips were suddenly dry.
His fingers twitched against her skin, the lace.
“Don’t look at me like that, Saint, I’m trying to behave.”
‘Was that his idea of a nickname,’ she wondered?
She blinked and turned away from him slightly, but a hand brought her face back toward him.
“Don’t look away from me. I want your eyes on me only, right now.”
‘What was with this push and pull bullshit? Don’t look at him, do look at him, what the hell did he want?’
“I just want to see your face. Will you accept?”
And a part of her wondered why she did. The ride back to his penthouse was silent, and the anxiety ate her up during the ride.
When he parked and turned off the car, she reached for the handle almost immediately. Before her fingers could pull, his hand wrapped lightly around her wrist.
“What are you doing?”
She blinked. “Getting out?”
A small smile touched his mouth, amused, like she’d said something ridiculous.
“No, Saint.”
The nickname landed warm and dangerous all at once.
“I open the door for you.”
“It’s quicker if I open it myself,” she said, already half turned toward him.
His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was enough.
Enough to make her look at him.
Enough to make her stay.
For a second, he just watched her—calm, unreadable, like he was deciding how honest to be.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted.
“Quicker isn’t the point, Saint.”
Her breath caught.
The nickname again. Low this time. Intentional.
He leaned back slightly, still holding her wrist like it belonged there.
“If I let you rush away from me every time, I’d never see you again.”
She tried for sarcasm, for distance.
“Maybe that’s the idea.”
His smile deepened, slow and dangerous.
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
Silence.
Thick. Warm. Terrible.
Then finally, he let her go.
“Stay.”
Just one word.
Not a command.
Worse—because it sounded like certainty.
He stepped out, shut the driver’s door, and walked around the front of the car like the conversation had already been decided.
She sat there staring at the windshield, annoyed at him.
More annoyed at herself.
Because she stayed.
And when he opened her door and offered his hand, she took it anyway.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured.
And that—that almost made her turn around and get right back in the car.
But, like him, she persisted and followed his movement forward.
His garage was separate from everyone else’s. It led right to his entrance. And you needed specified access to even get onto his level of the building.
Shortly, she was in his living room, which looked more like a grand ballroom with sofas and side tables.
He dropped his keys on the nearest side table along with his phone and wallet.
He gestured to the sofa, "Make yourself comfortable.”
He settled on the sofa across from the one he directed her to. He offered a drink on the way in, but she declined.
She didn’t sit.
Most girls would have taken the invitation immediately–sank into the softness, reached for comfort, tried to belong in a space that was never meant for them.
She stayed standing.
Guarded.
Eyes moving–taking in exits, distance, him.
Good.
He leaned back into the sofa like none of it mattered, one arm stretched along the back, posture loose in a way that was entirely deliberate.
“Relax, Saint,” he coaxed, voice smooth. “You look like you’re planning your escape.”
“I always am,” she quipped.
No hesitation.
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
“Then you won’t mind staying a little longer,” he hummed.
Her eyes narrowed slightly at that–measuring, recalculating.
Still standing.
Still not playing into him.
He let the silence stretch.
Not awkward.
Not heavy.
Just… there.
“You can keep the mask on.”
A flicker. Small, but real.
“I didn’t bring you here to take anything from you,” he continued. “If anything, I’ve done the opposite.”
Her gaze dropped–just for a second–to the table, like she could still see the weight of everything he’d given her over the past months.
Then back to him.
“You paid for my time,” she said carefully. “That’s all.”
“That’s never all,” he chuckled.
Soft.
Certain.
Not arguing–just correcting.
Silence again. Longer this time.
He didn’t move toward her.
Didn’t reach.
Didn’t close the distance.
And somehow…that made it worse.
Because now it was hers to cross.
Her fingers lifted–barely–toward the edge of the mask.
Then stopped.
Dropped.
“No,” she whispered, more to herself than him.
His eyes tracked the movement, sharp but unreadable.
“Tell me why,” he suggested.
Not a demand.
A question.
That made it more dangerous. Her jaw tightened behind the lace.
“You don’t need a reason.”
“I don’t,” he agreed easily. “But you do.”
That landed.
She hated that it did. Her arms crossed loosely over herself–not defensive, not quite–but holding something in place.
“If they see your face,” she started, slowly, “they think they know you.”
His expression didn’t change–but something in his gaze sharpened.
“And once they think they know you, they think they own you,” she continued, voice quieter now, “they stop asking. Stop wondering.”
She looked at him then.
Direct.
Unflinching.
“They decide what you are–who you are.”
A beat.
“And I don’t belong to anyone like that.”
Silence.
Not empty.
Full.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, attention completely, dangerously focused.
“And you think I would?” he questioned.
She didn’t answer. That was answer enough.
Something in his jaw shifted–just once–like he was adjusting to a challenge he hadn’t expected to respect this much.
Then–
“I don’t want to decide what or who you are,” he offered.
Honest.
Too honest.
“I want to see what you choose to be.”
That…was new.
Her breath caught–just slightly.
He saw it. Of course he did.
He always did.
“I paid for your time,” he continued, softer now. “Not your compliance.”
He leaned back again, settling into the sofa.
She took a step back.
Another removal of pressure. And somehow–
That was the thing that broke her.
Because now–
If she did it–
It would be hers.
Not his.
Her fingers rose again.
Slower this time.
No hesitation–just…weight.
The room felt too quiet, too still.
Even the city outside seemed to pause with her.
His gaze didn’t leave her. Not once.
Not blinking.
Not pushing.
Just there.
Waiting.
Her fingers hooked beneath the edge of the mask.
A breath.
Another.
Then–
She pulled.
Slowly.
Not dramatic.
Not performative.
Just enough.
The lace lifted.
Revealing–
First her mouth.
Soft. Tense. Uncertain.
Then her nose.
The curve of her cheek.
And finally–
Her eyes met his fully, nothing between them now.
No barrier.
No illusion.
Just her.
The mask slipped from her hand and fell somewhere behind her, forgotten.
Silence.
Real silence this time.
Not controlled.
Not intentional.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
And that–
That was the moment she realized…
He hadn’t been prepared for this either.
His composure didn’t break. But it shifted.
Subtle. Barely there. Like something inside him had just locked into place.
“Saint,” he said quietly.
Not teasing. Not amused.
Something else.
Something deeper.
And then–almost to himself–
“...fuck.”
Her breath hitched.
Not because of the word.
Because of the way he said it like he’d just lost something.
Or found it.
And wasn’t sure which was worse.
He leaned back slowly, dragging a hand across his mouth like he needed a second to recalibrate.
“You should sit,” he whispered.
Not commanding.
Not soft. Careful.
Like she’d just become something fragile. Or dangerous. Or both.
She didn’t move right away. Because now she understood something she hadn’t before.
This wasn’t about a face.
This wasn’t about curiosity.
This… was about recognition. And whatever he saw–
It mattered.
Too much.
Her mask had been retrieved. She still did not sit.
He didn’t offer again. Just watched her from his spot on the sofa, one hand covered his mouth slightly.
He didn’t stare, didn’t devour. Just… watched.
Like he was learning her.
That was worse.
Her face still felt exposed, like the absence of the mask was something physical, something missing. Her fingers twitched once against the mask before she stilled them.
“You got your money’s worth,” she rubbed a finger against her nose swiftly.
He scoffed, low. “I got a lot more than that, Saint.”
The nickname was annoying, but she still hadn’t commented on it.
“I need to rest. I have a long day tomorrow.”
“Fine. I’ll drive you home. But this conversation isn’t over.”
“It never started.”
She turned away from him before he could stand and walked the extended distance to the elevator. It required a keycard to use it, and when she realized it, she stopped and stared at the door.
So much for planning an escape.
Not that she felt the need to. He made good on his promise.
It was just a fail-safe, a contingency plan.
In case he lied.
“You need a hand?”
He stood just a few feet away from her, keycard in hand, twirling.
She didn’t turn around, afraid the embarrassment would be easily read. “Please open the door.”
He sighed, amused, “You learn fast.”
She nodded once, still facing the elevator door.
He stepped closer, enough that she could feel him at her back. He didn’t speak immediately, he was waiting. Like he was watching for a sign that she wanted to stay longer, change her mind and have that conversation in that instant and not later.
Wishful thinking. He had a lot to catch up on.
Her hair looked soft. “May I touch your hair?”
Something shifted in her chest, but she shoved it down. Most of the highrollers or other rich men that strolled proudly through the club never asked. They just yanked and pulled and stroked and never asked. They just assumed they could take what they wanted without consent because they have all the money and the girls are just there for show.
“Okay…”
She flinched slightly, almost unnoticeable when his hand met her head, stroking from the root to the ends. He seemed satisfied, but then both hands pressed against her head, and she wondered what he was doing until it felt good.
He was massaging her scalp.
She was confused, surprised, worried all at once.
But it felt so good she didn’t pull away, or ask him to stop. She just…let him do it.
“That’s it…relax into it.”
She hadn’t realized that she had leaned against him, allowing him to hold her up while he stroked her hair and scalp, her eyes half-lidded from the sensation.
She sighed, short, quick and then shivered and pulled away.
“Uhm…”
“I know.”
He smoothed her as best as he could, though he did prefer it a mess already. She stayed in her spot, unmoving, allowing.
“I don’t agree with men taking advantage of women. I’ll let you go.”
He stroked her arm, her back still pressing into his chest where he held her still with his other hand on her hip. “I’m persistent. I’ll keep trying until you’re finally begging for me.”
Her breath slowed, uneven, slightly ragged.
She’d never heard that before. She had never felt it before. This desire, unbridled, unburdened, unhinged. And the way he touched her with the softness of a thousand flower petals…she sighed internally.
A relief flooded her body, her nervous system felt safer almost instantly.
He pulled the keycard out of his blazer pocket and put it in her hand. Slid against her wrist, his hand traveled up her arm once more. “You can hold onto that. Something tells me you’ll need it later.”
The warmth of his body disappeared. He took a few steps back and watched her fight with herself mentally before a part of her he knew would win forced her feet forward and she scanned it, the card that allowed her access to run home.
“I don’t trust this city at the best of times. But I want you to let my chauffeur drive you home, since you prefer to go along without me. I’ll allow it this time.”
She scoffed, but said nothing. She didn’t know what to say to that. But it was kind enough. A little controlling.
He could have let her walk home.
He could have done a lot of things.
But he didn’t. He saw her face, paid her, and let her go home on her own instead of keeping her around company she still hadn’t made a decision about.
He watched her intently as she stepped onto the elevator, the doors closed behind her and she looked up at the last second, eyes meeting his. She’d never forget that look.
And home came sooner than she realized.
She knew he would be persistent. He made that abundantly clear. But she wondered if she could avoid him. If she should avoid him.
She needed the money. But she wasn’t willing to sell herself for it.
Not anymore. Not like this.
If she gave in, it would be on her terms.
She barely removed her makeup, her clothes.
Her shoes were kicked off at the door. Forgotten already.
Her bed welcomed her like a cloud’s hug. And she drifted off to sleep.
Somewhere nearby–unseen, unheard–a small device blinked once.
synopsis: Behind the mask she wears at an exclusive underground club, she is untouchable—a dancer for the city’s wealthiest men who can buy her time, but never her face. Her rules are simple until he arrives: rich, patient, and far too observant, with eyes that never leave her and an obsession he makes no effort to hide. He doesn’t want a night with her—he wants to know her, to unravel her, to be the one she chooses. As curiosity turns into dangerous attraction, she finds herself drawn into his world of luxury, control, and quiet obsession, where every kindness feels like a warning and every touch feels like surrender. Somewhere between desire and danger, she must decide if he is the safest place she’s ever known—or the most beautiful mistake she’ll ever make.
if you'd prefer to hear it narrated, follow this link
MDNI 18+ | Smut to come
Session One: The Mask
She wasn’t allowed to remove her mask.
Not here. Not at events like these.
High rollers didn’t want faces. They wanted illusions—something beautiful, distant, and easy to forget before they went home to their wives.
And she preferred it that way.
It wasn’t her first gig. It wouldn’t be her last.
She wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight.
But her friend called that morning—mono, desperate—and she said yes before she could think too hard about it.
Now she stood backstage, adjusting lace that wasn’t meant to stay in place, listening to the muffled pulse of money and music on the other side of the wall.
The night was young.
Which meant it would be long.
He shouldn’t have come.
He knew that the second he stepped inside.
Too loud. Too crowded. Too predictable.
His friends were already halfway drunk, laughing too hard at things that didn’t matter, clapping him on the shoulder like they could drag him into their kind of boredom.
“Relax,” one of them said. “You’ll like this one.”
He doubted it.
He always did.
Until the door opened.
Black lace.
Dark hair.
A mask.
And eyes that didn’t belong in a place like this.
She bowed slightly to the men who would pay her night’s salary and she excused herself quickly to her tiny stage. The robe fell down her shoulders, slipping past her back and hips, and flowing seductively to the floor. It was forgotten for the time.
The pole waited for her patiently, warming up in the places she grabbed it. Wrapped around it. Twirled, spun, slid.
It was not sexual to anyone who wasn’t filled with lust like his idiot friends were. It was an art.
And he couldn’t look away.
His friends were too busy howling at her to notice that–for once–he actually paid attention to the dancer. The rare times he would actually attend these events, he ignored the girls and drank a single dram of whiskey neat before he called it a night.
She was on the floor of the small stage now, rolling her hips, tilting her head back into a welcoming pose. And as if he’d been summoned to that exact spot, he approached.
And his friends went silent.
He had a stack of something in his left hand that she came to realize was money. And she sat up straight, eyes wide. Her dance came to a halt as she watched him, curious. What did he want? Why did he approach her?
It felt like a Twilight Zone moment for her.
He stepped closer when she didn’t move. He moved a hand toward her, graceful, unassuming, and he held onto her shoulder before leaning in. His mouth met her ear so she could hear him over the loud music. He smelled so good it almost made her knees weak and she was glad the she’d been on the floor already.
“Take it off.”
That’s what the money was for.
She pulled back quickly, almost recoiling from him. Was it fear? Shock? She wasn’t sure. No one ever asked that unless their plan was to take the girl home. That very night.
She had never been asked, never been requested. She made sure her art was only seen by high-paying gentlemen. But none offered to take her home. She crafted her routines well to avoid moments like these.
He waited.
Not impatient.
Just certain.
Her eyes bore into his, shock still fresh in those pretty, brown eyes.
Finally, her answer came. But it was not what he initially expected.
Impulse kills quicker than curiosity.
She never let them see her face.
That was where she ended and they began.
And the shake of her head felt like a knife in the gut. ‘Fuck.’
He tried once more, making sure she felt his voice in it this time.
“I need to see you.”
She forced down the shiver in her spine from the depth of his voice, the proximity of his mouth against her ear.
She knew what this would become. But if she said yes first, what would happen?
He might not be interested anymore and leave everything where it was.
Why did this scare her more than being touched?
She held onto herself, stilled in hopes he would give up.
And when she didn’t move, he placed the stack of cash on the stage for her.
He said he’d be back.
And he kept his word.
Anxious wasn’t quite the feeling. Something more would have been accurate.
But she was not quite fearful either.
She had seen him twice since that night.
He didn’t request her, didn’t go into a private room. He was always front row for her, and only her. He left her with more money than she’d received from any highroller or regular.
He whispered something to her the second night he returned that she would not soon forget before he disappeared into the sea of men.
Her routines had begun to change, more raw, loose, sexier.
It wasn’t for him.
Practice was the only thing that took her mind off of him, his offer, his persistence.
It was all she could do not to fold.
He was gorgeous. And he was rich.
And he didn’t smell like the old, touchy men from upstate.
She ignored him. She had no intention of giving herself over for a night even if the money was worth it.
She still hoped for true love, romance, and lustless desire.
But then he requested her a few months later.
He’d watched her from backgrounds, front rows, upstairs. All the possible angles.
She followed him everywhere—into meetings, into silence, into sleep.
His shower was only for thoughts of her. His pillow stored the memory of her scent, the dreams of her, and the sweet sigh he caught from the night he asked her to take off her mask.
Before she shot him down. Even though it was kind–fearful even–it hurt his pride and ego more than anything.
He was still there. Still asking with his eyes, still placing her features, or their potential.
But he knew her beauty was unlike any other.
She stood before him, bowed once with little respect and proceeded to her stage. The same room as before. But this time…it was just him.
He watched her dance, watched her slowly twirl and crawl her way toward him as he’d requested. A lap dance. Only for proximity.
He never meant to demean her.
He just wanted to be closer after months of distance. He wanted her to perform only for him.
And the club owner probably wouldn’t mind if he paid extra just for her to be exclusive for only him.
But she might not like that so much. And he wanted to be respectful of her wishes.
Her ass slid against his legs, all the way up to his hips and back down. She did it again, ran a hand up his thigh before she turned back to face him, popping either cheek against his groin and she gasped loudly when one of his hands gripped her hip. It stilled her right on top of his hardness.
She didn’t turn away from him for a long moment. Her eyes were blown wide when his eyes finally met hers.
He didn’t speak for a long moment.
They just stared at each other while she was coming undone above him from shock, and he sat cozily and comfily underneath her but worried she might run away.
She didn’t.
That was good.
His jaw flexed, and so did something else.
She didn’t have the courage to look away. She needed to watch him, make sure he didn’t pull out any other tricky stops. But she couldn’t look away from those damned eyes, that fucking face. And his hand tightened against her hip.
“I want to take you home tonight.”
Her heart sank a little bit and he felt it.
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
She pressed her lips together tightly behind the mask, her eyes began to lose that fear and slowly coiled into something fierce. She would fight if she had to.
She didn’t care how kind he was in the club–his home was a different situation. A place unknown to her. Dangerous.
“Don’t worry. I won’t cause you any harm. You’ll be perfectly safe. I’ve already paid for your service for the night, even if you choose not to do anything. And I don’t expect anything from you.”
His lips were moving but all she heard was sirens.
And then, “I want to give you some privacy. And I’m prepared to pay you generously for just that.”
She looked down at his hand, the free one. It rested gently against his thigh, very close to her body. And she looked back up at him slowly. His eyes had darkened at that moment and her lips were suddenly dry.
His fingers twitched against her skin, the lace.
“Don’t look at me like that, Saint, I’m trying to behave.”
‘Was that his idea of a nickname,’ she wondered?
She blinked and turned away from him slightly, but a hand brought her face back toward him.
“Don’t look away from me. I want your eyes on me only, right now.”
‘What was with this push and pull bullshit? Don’t look at him, do look at him, what the hell did he want?’
“I just want to see your face. Will you accept?”
And a part of her wondered why she did. The ride back to his penthouse was silent, and the anxiety ate her up during the ride.
When he parked and turned off the car, she reached for the handle almost immediately. Before her fingers could pull, his hand wrapped lightly around her wrist.
“What are you doing?”
She blinked. “Getting out?”
A small smile touched his mouth, amused, like she’d said something ridiculous.
“No, Saint.”
The nickname landed warm and dangerous all at once.
“I open the door for you.”
“It’s quicker if I open it myself,” she said, already half turned toward him.
His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was enough.
Enough to make her look at him.
Enough to make her stay.
For a second, he just watched her—calm, unreadable, like he was deciding how honest to be.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted.
“Quicker isn’t the point, Saint.”
Her breath caught.
The nickname again. Low this time. Intentional.
He leaned back slightly, still holding her wrist like it belonged there.
“If I let you rush away from me every time, I’d never see you again.”
She tried for sarcasm, for distance.
“Maybe that’s the idea.”
His smile deepened, slow and dangerous.
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
Silence.
Thick. Warm. Terrible.
Then finally, he let her go.
“Stay.”
Just one word.
Not a command.
Worse—because it sounded like certainty.
He stepped out, shut the driver’s door, and walked around the front of the car like the conversation had already been decided.
She sat there staring at the windshield, annoyed at him.
More annoyed at herself.
Because she stayed.
And when he opened her door and offered his hand, she took it anyway.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured.
And that—that almost made her turn around and get right back in the car.
But, like him, she persisted and followed his movement forward.
His garage was separate from everyone else’s. It led right to his entrance. And you needed specified access to even get onto his level of the building.
Shortly, she was in his living room, which looked more like a grand ballroom with sofas and side tables.
He dropped his keys on the nearest side table along with his phone and wallet.
He gestured to the sofa, "Make yourself comfortable.”
He settled on the sofa across from the one he directed her to. He offered a drink on the way in, but she declined.
She didn’t sit.
Most girls would have taken the invitation immediately–sank into the softness, reached for comfort, tried to belong in a space that was never meant for them.
She stayed standing.
Guarded.
Eyes moving–taking in exits, distance, him.
Good.
He leaned back into the sofa like none of it mattered, one arm stretched along the back, posture loose in a way that was entirely deliberate.
“Relax, Saint,” he coaxed, voice smooth. “You look like you’re planning your escape.”
“I always am,” she quipped.
No hesitation.
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
“Then you won’t mind staying a little longer,” he hummed.
Her eyes narrowed slightly at that–measuring, recalculating.
Still standing.
Still not playing into him.
He let the silence stretch.
Not awkward.
Not heavy.
Just… there.
“You can keep the mask on.”
A flicker. Small, but real.
“I didn’t bring you here to take anything from you,” he continued. “If anything, I’ve done the opposite.”
Her gaze dropped–just for a second–to the table, like she could still see the weight of everything he’d given her over the past months.
Then back to him.
“You paid for my time,” she said carefully. “That’s all.”
“That’s never all,” he chuckled.
Soft.
Certain.
Not arguing–just correcting.
Silence again. Longer this time.
He didn’t move toward her.
Didn’t reach.
Didn’t close the distance.
And somehow…that made it worse.
Because now it was hers to cross.
Her fingers lifted–barely–toward the edge of the mask.
Then stopped.
Dropped.
“No,” she whispered, more to herself than him.
His eyes tracked the movement, sharp but unreadable.
“Tell me why,” he suggested.
Not a demand.
A question.
That made it more dangerous. Her jaw tightened behind the lace.
“You don’t need a reason.”
“I don’t,” he agreed easily. “But you do.”
That landed.
She hated that it did. Her arms crossed loosely over herself–not defensive, not quite–but holding something in place.
“If they see your face,” she started, slowly, “they think they know you.”
His expression didn’t change–but something in his gaze sharpened.
“And once they think they know you, they think they own you,” she continued, voice quieter now, “they stop asking. Stop wondering.”
She looked at him then.
Direct.
Unflinching.
“They decide what you are–who you are.”
A beat.
“And I don’t belong to anyone like that.”
Silence.
Not empty.
Full.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, attention completely, dangerously focused.
“And you think I would?” he questioned.
She didn’t answer. That was answer enough.
Something in his jaw shifted–just once–like he was adjusting to a challenge he hadn’t expected to respect this much.
Then–
“I don’t want to decide what or who you are,” he offered.
Honest.
Too honest.
“I want to see what you choose to be.”
That…was new.
Her breath caught–just slightly.
He saw it. Of course he did.
He always did.
“I paid for your time,” he continued, softer now. “Not your compliance.”
He leaned back again, settling into the sofa.
She took a step back.
Another removal of pressure. And somehow–
That was the thing that broke her.
Because now–
If she did it–
It would be hers.
Not his.
Her fingers rose again.
Slower this time.
No hesitation–just…weight.
The room felt too quiet, too still.
Even the city outside seemed to pause with her.
His gaze didn’t leave her. Not once.
Not blinking.
Not pushing.
Just there.
Waiting.
Her fingers hooked beneath the edge of the mask.
A breath.
Another.
Then–
She pulled.
Slowly.
Not dramatic.
Not performative.
Just enough.
The lace lifted.
Revealing–
First her mouth.
Soft. Tense. Uncertain.
Then her nose.
The curve of her cheek.
And finally–
Her eyes met his fully, nothing between them now.
No barrier.
No illusion.
Just her.
The mask slipped from her hand and fell somewhere behind her, forgotten.
Silence.
Real silence this time.
Not controlled.
Not intentional.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
And that–
That was the moment she realized…
He hadn’t been prepared for this either.
His composure didn’t break. But it shifted.
Subtle. Barely there. Like something inside him had just locked into place.
“Saint,” he said quietly.
Not teasing. Not amused.
Something else.
Something deeper.
And then–almost to himself–
“...fuck.”
Her breath hitched.
Not because of the word.
Because of the way he said it like he’d just lost something.
Or found it.
And wasn’t sure which was worse.
He leaned back slowly, dragging a hand across his mouth like he needed a second to recalibrate.
“You should sit,” he whispered.
Not commanding.
Not soft. Careful.
Like she’d just become something fragile. Or dangerous. Or both.
She didn’t move right away. Because now she understood something she hadn’t before.
This wasn’t about a face.
This wasn’t about curiosity.
This… was about recognition. And whatever he saw–
It mattered.
Too much.
Her mask had been retrieved. She still did not sit.
He didn’t offer again. Just watched her from his spot on the sofa, one hand covered his mouth slightly.
He didn’t stare, didn’t devour. Just… watched.
Like he was learning her.
That was worse.
Her face still felt exposed, like the absence of the mask was something physical, something missing. Her fingers twitched once against the mask before she stilled them.
“You got your money’s worth,” she rubbed a finger against her nose swiftly.
He scoffed, low. “I got a lot more than that, Saint.”
The nickname was annoying, but she still hadn’t commented on it.
“I need to rest. I have a long day tomorrow.”
“Fine. I’ll drive you home. But this conversation isn’t over.”
“It never started.”
She turned away from him before he could stand and walked the extended distance to the elevator. It required a keycard to use it, and when she realized it, she stopped and stared at the door.
So much for planning an escape.
Not that she felt the need to. He made good on his promise.
It was just a fail-safe, a contingency plan.
In case he lied.
“You need a hand?”
He stood just a few feet away from her, keycard in hand, twirling.
She didn’t turn around, afraid the embarrassment would be easily read. “Please open the door.”
He sighed, amused, “You learn fast.”
She nodded once, still facing the elevator door.
He stepped closer, enough that she could feel him at her back. He didn’t speak immediately, he was waiting. Like he was watching for a sign that she wanted to stay longer, change her mind and have that conversation in that instant and not later.
Wishful thinking. He had a lot to catch up on.
Her hair looked soft. “May I touch your hair?”
Something shifted in her chest, but she shoved it down. Most of the highrollers or other rich men that strolled proudly through the club never asked. They just yanked and pulled and stroked and never asked. They just assumed they could take what they wanted without consent because they have all the money and the girls are just there for show.
“Okay…”
She flinched slightly, almost unnoticeable when his hand met her head, stroking from the root to the ends. He seemed satisfied, but then both hands pressed against her head, and she wondered what he was doing until it felt good.
He was massaging her scalp.
She was confused, surprised, worried all at once.
But it felt so good she didn’t pull away, or ask him to stop. She just…let him do it.
“That’s it…relax into it.”
She hadn’t realized that she had leaned against him, allowing him to hold her up while he stroked her hair and scalp, her eyes half-lidded from the sensation.
She sighed, short, quick and then shivered and pulled away.
“Uhm…”
“I know.”
He smoothed her as best as he could, though he did prefer it a mess already. She stayed in her spot, unmoving, allowing.
“I don’t agree with men taking advantage of women. I’ll let you go.”
He stroked her arm, her back still pressing into his chest where he held her still with his other hand on her hip. “I’m persistent. I’ll keep trying until you’re finally begging for me.”
Her breath slowed, uneven, slightly ragged.
She’d never heard that before. She had never felt it before. This desire, unbridled, unburdened, unhinged. And the way he touched her with the softness of a thousand flower petals…she sighed internally.
A relief flooded her body, her nervous system felt safer almost instantly.
He pulled the keycard out of his blazer pocket and put it in her hand. Slid against her wrist, his hand traveled up her arm once more. “You can hold onto that. Something tells me you’ll need it later.”
The warmth of his body disappeared. He took a few steps back and watched her fight with herself mentally before a part of her he knew would win forced her feet forward and she scanned it, the card that allowed her access to run home.
“I don’t trust this city at the best of times. But I want you to let my chauffeur drive you home, since you prefer to go along without me. I’ll allow it this time.”
She scoffed, but said nothing. She didn’t know what to say to that. But it was kind enough. A little controlling.
He could have let her walk home.
He could have done a lot of things.
But he didn’t. He saw her face, paid her, and let her go home on her own instead of keeping her around company she still hadn’t made a decision about.
He watched her intently as she stepped onto the elevator, the doors closed behind her and she looked up at the last second, eyes meeting his. She’d never forget that look.
And home came sooner than she realized.
She knew he would be persistent. He made that abundantly clear. But she wondered if she could avoid him. If she should avoid him.
She needed the money. But she wasn’t willing to sell herself for it.
Not anymore. Not like this.
If she gave in, it would be on her terms.
She barely removed her makeup, her clothes.
Her shoes were kicked off at the door. Forgotten already.
Her bed welcomed her like a cloud’s hug. And she drifted off to sleep.
Somewhere nearby–unseen, unheard–a small device blinked once.
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— a/n: i was writing something for shouto yesterday then this idea hit me and i had to try something. i want to gnaw on his biceps.
it's 3 a.m. Your eyes blink open to find the bed empty—your lover's side still pristinely made and unbearably cold. That just wouldn't do.
It doesn't take you long to figure out where he could possibly be at this hour, and despite your sleep-sluggish movements, you're off the massive four-poster bed and into your slippers in no time, grabbing your satin robe to slip on over your nightgown.
As you slip into the winding hall, the first guard you spot is quick to flick his eyes toward Zuko's whereabouts. His name is Luke, and he's been devoted to you both ever since Zuko decided to invite him to dinner instead of punishing him for stealing from the kitchen. Your chin dips in gratitude before you beckon him to your side, where he falls into step without hesitation.
“How long?” You keep your eyes trained ahead, tamping down a yawn as you're led to the throne room.
“He hasn't moved since the coastal meeting, m’lady,” Luke divulges. His voice is devoid of emotion, but his hazel eyes swim with worry for his lord-turned-close friend.
“I knew it was bothering him more than he let on.” You tut as you approach the double doors leading to the throne room.
“Zuko,” you call as you step further in, and his spine straightens, his haggard features smoothing into something blank and unbothered.
“Dearest.” He responds almost immediately, his gaze tracking you from the door until you're standing in front of him, his greedy hands pulling you to straddle him once you're in reach.
“You're still awake.”
“Yes, I noticed.” He blinks once before his ever-warm hands find their favorite spot on your hips.
You bump your forehead against his. “You think you're so funny.” Gripping his chin, you make him look up at you. “Sleep on it, Zuko. You've been at it for hours.”
He sighs, head falling to your chest. “Father made it look so easy. He made it seem like the entirety of the Fire Nation was aligned, but after today, I see it's much different.” He nuzzles your cleavage, pulling you even closer as your hands find his hair.
“How so?” You pet at the nape of his neck, fingers looping through thick brunette strands and tugging occasionally—a move that makes your husband sink even further into the chair.
“It seems as if they respected him more, and I'm just a joke.” He huffs, a dejected sound that unsettles you.
“You are anything but.” You kiss his cheek, then his other, and his body sags, face tilting to make sure he catches each pucker of your lips fluttering along his skin.
“You're supposed to say that—we're married,” Zuko grumbles, bottom lip jutting into a pout you can't resist nipping at.
You scooch even closer and he welcomes it, exhaling a ragged breath as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. “Point taken,” you quip, and he leaves his hiding place at the junction of your neck to level you with a withering look.
“Don't give me that look.” You laugh, a quiet sound befitting the late hour, and the rigid lines of tension in those powerful shoulders smooth out a tad. “It's stupid and, quite frankly, childish in my opinion—but I'd wager they're acting like this to see if you can manage the weight.”
“Even after all this time?” Zuko's look is incredulous. “Seems long-winded, and if I say anything, I fear it would make matters worse.”
You shrug. “Hey, I’m just speculating, dearest. My next guess is testosterone.”
Zuko chuckles—a tired little thing that makes your face pinch in sympathy.
“Do you feel disrespected? If so, off with their heads or something.”
“Legally, I can't do that.”
“And here I thought being Fire Lord came with some perks.” You kiss his nose before standing and pulling him up as well. His hand squeezes yours three times before you let it drift to slot into the crook of his left elbow. “Now then—bedtime. You do have an early morning.”
Zuko sighs, leading you from the throne and out the chamber doors. His head bumps yours in gratitude. “Thanks for coming to get me, though I'm not sure how you figured out where I was.” He gives Luke a stern look, but the mischief is easy to see in his tired amber eyes.
The guard keeps his head forward, face impassive except for the tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth. As per Zuko's rule, the Royal Procession on night watch need not wear a mask inside the palace. “I took measures I saw fit, m’lord.”
“Telling my wife?” Zuko scoffs primly as Luke falls into step behind you both.
“You leave him alone.” You snicker before sliding your hand down to hold Zuko’s, then stepping ahead to lead him the rest of the way to your bedroom.
Bidding Luke goodnight, the double doors close behind you, and that's when Zuko falls onto the bed like a marionette with its strings cut. His sigh is deep and weighted as he lifts his arms toward you in a wordless gesture.
Slipping your shoes off, you immediately press into his side, sliding a leg across his body where he drops a warm hand on your thigh. “I know we said no outside dress on the bed. I'll get up soon,” he murmurs into your hair, and you just kiss his shoulder.
Summary: In where you’ve been friends with Rindou for the longest time, and you’re still scared shitless of his brother.
Warning: Ran Haitani, Smut, MDNI, sub reader with a vagina, yandere-ish(?), dubcon, blood, tears, obsessive/possessive behaviors, manhandling, violence if you squint, cunnilingus, She/her, verbal fight, fingering, penetrative sex, creampie, dick rubbing, mentions of shooting, injuries, Age in blogs to interact.
A/N: Part of Sei’s ( @sei-zu ) 800 followers event/collab Double Trouble | Idk what I did 🧍🏻♀️💕💜 hehe I’m sorry
... a continuation of this >> pen pals but can be read as a standalone kinda?
People think power comes loudly.
Mine started in ink.
The silence he left was louder than anything he ever said.
He wrote to me again—a final pen pal correspondence.
But I understood what it really was.
It wasn’t over.
It was never going to be over.
I could still feel him watching.
At work. At the gym. In the quiet moments in between where I found myself pausing for no reason, listening for something I couldn’t explain.
I told myself it was paranoia. It was easier that way.
Still, I felt safe in a way I didn’t trust.
Like comfort and danger had learned to exist in the same space.
He was not the kind of protection I once imagined.
Not an angel.
I knew that much for certain.
I just didn’t know it could feel like this—like the beginning of something I would no longer be able to walk away from.
—
I would never give a stranger a key.
Even if I could still feel him in places he shouldn’t have been.
So why was there another gift box on my nightstand?
It hadn’t been there last night.
I knew that much.
I asked my roommate about it, half-expecting her to laugh it off. She didn’t.
She just stared at it too long before looking away.
“I didn’t see anyone come in,” she said quietly.
That was worse than an explanation.
She moved out two days later.
Said she needed somewhere “safer.”
She didn’t look at me when she said it.
And suddenly the apartment felt too big for one person who couldn’t prove she was alone.
If something happened to me…
No one would know quickly enough to stop it.
Would they?
The next day, he visited me.
It had been four months since I last saw him.
He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t need to.
When I opened the door, it already felt like he had been there longer than I had.
He didn’t say much at first. Just looked around—slowly, like he was measuring something I couldn’t see.
Not the apartment.
Me.
He sat on the sofa as if it belonged to him.
Like it always had.
Like I was the one temporarily occupying it.
And maybe I was.
My landlord called later that evening.
Said my rent had already been paid.
Covered.
In full.
For the next two years.
I didn’t ask who.
I didn’t have to.
I felt relieved when he left.
At least, I told myself I did.
But something in me resisted the feeling—like it didn’t fully belong to me.
A part of me wanted to follow him.
To see where he went when he wasn’t here.
Who he became when I wasn’t part of the room.
I didn’t move.
I stayed still instead.
Like that meant something.
He returned again soon after.
This time, he didn’t just sit down and watch me.
He spoke.
Casually.
Like what he was saying was ordinary.
He showed me things I shouldn’t have seen.
Proof of a life I hadn’t been given access to yet.
I kept my face neutral.
Careful.
Like reaction itself might be expensive.
He noticed anyway.
Of course he did.
His eyes stayed on me for a long time after that—quiet, patient.
Until whatever he showed me no longer felt sharp.
Just… distant.
Like something that had already been absorbed into me without permission.
He never brought it up again.
Instead, he started bringing other things.
Fragments of his days.
Random details.
People. Places. Outcomes.
Like he was filling in a picture I hadn’t realized I was missing.
I didn’t know what kind of life he lived.
Not until that moment.
He made it clear who he was.
He always had.
I was just finally starting to understand what that meant.
He started coming without warning.
Not in a chaotic way. Not loud.
Just… certain.
Like I was already supposed to be expecting him.
I stopped asking how he got in.
That question didn’t feel useful anymore.
One evening, he arrived while I was cooking.
He didn’t greet me.
Just leaned against the counter like he belonged there.
Like I was the one interrupting something familiar.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
It never was.
I didn’t answer right away.
I couldn’t tell if silence was safe with him… or just another form of response.
He watched me for a moment longer, then placed something on the counter.
A folded piece of paper.
Not a letter.
A list.
Names. Places. Times.
My eyes caught on the first line before I could stop myself.
And something in my stomach tightened.
“These are for you,” he said simply.
Like he was handing me groceries.
I didn’t ask what they were.
I didn’t want to give the question life.
But my silence must’ve said enough, because his gaze softened—just slightly.
Not kindness.
Assessment.
Like he was checking whether I could follow.
“Pay attention,” he added. “You’re going to need to learn the pattern.”
My fingers didn’t touch the paper at first.
Like it might change me if I did.
But eventually, I did.
Because everything about him suggested refusal wasn’t part of the structure anymore.
And when I looked back up at him—
I realized he was waiting.
Not for a reaction.
For understanding.
His hands were familiar.
Not enough that I didn’t flinch when one lifted toward me.
Just my arm.
A steadying touch.
Like I was the one losing balance in a room that hadn’t moved.
And maybe I was.
I felt it—slight dizziness, like my body was always a second behind whatever was happening.
He didn’t react to it.
He just held me there until it passed.
Not comforting me exactly.
Correcting me.
I took it as comfort anyway.
That was easier.
Gentle. Controlled. Uncertain.
His visits became more frequent.
Time stopped feeling like something I could measure cleanly.
And somewhere beneath everything, there was a growing awareness I couldn’t fully name.
Not fear.
Not yet.
More like a quiet certainty that my life was being moved without my permission.
That I was not going to remain here much longer.
But I didn’t know what “not here” meant.
It had been nearly a year since he started coming.
Walking in like the space already belonged to him.
Sharing things I wasn’t sure I was meant to know.
Eating my meals like a routine had been agreed upon long before I arrived.
Like I was the one catching up to something that had already been decided.
Time stopped announcing itself properly after that.
At some point, I realized I hadn’t seen him arrive in a while.
No footsteps I remembered. No door I could place.
Just… presence.
Like he had stopped visiting and started existing in the background of my days.
Work didn’t change.
The gym didn’t change.
My apartment did, but slowly enough that I didn’t notice what was being removed until it was already gone.
Then one evening, I checked my mail.
And there was a notice.
Not from my landlord.
From the building.
A simple confirmation.
Lease termination—by advance settlement.
Two years prepaid had ended early.
I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, reading it again and again, like repetition would change the meaning.
It didn’t.
That was when I understood something I hadn’t let myself think about before.
The rent was never kindness.
It was preparation.
A waiting period.
A countdown I hadn’t been told I was part of.
He came that night.
Not through the door this time.
He was already inside when I noticed him.
Standing near the window like he had always belonged there.
I didn’t ask how.
I stopped asking that kind of thing a long time ago.
“You’ve adjusted,” he said.
Like it was observation. Not praise.
I didn’t answer.
He looked at me for a moment, then turned slightly, glancing around the apartment.
Not approving. Not disapproving.
Measuring completion.
And then he said it, like it had already been decided somewhere I wasn’t invited into:
“It’s time.”
The country house wasn’t presented as an option.
It was already arranged.
A place I had never seen before but somehow recognized in the way the car turned off the main road—long drive, gated entrance, silence that felt too intentional.
The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty.
Just controlled.
“This is yours now,” he said, as if ownership had always been a shared understanding between us.
I didn’t correct him.
Correction didn’t feel like it worked anymore.
Inside, everything was already placed.
Not decorated.
Positioned.
Like the rooms were waiting for someone to learn how to live correctly in them.
And for the first time, I understood what the visits had been building toward.
Not closeness.
Not romance.
Not even attention.
A transition.
From ink.
To empire.
By the second week, I stopped asking what the structure of my days was supposed to be.
It already existed without me needing to define it.
He didn’t call it training.
He never called it anything at all.
But I noticed the pattern.
Learning in the morning.
Correction in the afternoon.
Silence in between.
And one evening, he told me to get dressed.
Not for comfort.
Not for rest.
For presence.
The place he took me wasn’t a home, and it wasn’t meant to feel like one.
It was too large for that kind of softness.
A gathering of people who didn’t look at each other directly for too long.
A room full of conversations that were never fully honest.
He didn’t hold my hand when we entered.
He didn’t need to.
People noticed him immediately.
Then they noticed me.
But not in the way I was used to being seen.
Not as an accessory.
Not as decoration.
As something placed.
Intentional.
I stayed close to him at first.
Without thinking.
Old instinct.
But he didn’t allow it to last.
He leaned slightly toward me once, speaking low enough that only I could hear.
“Watch.”
That was all.
He moved through the room like it already belonged to him.
Like every exchange had been rehearsed somewhere I wasn’t allowed to see.
And then—without warning—he stepped aside.
Left me in the middle of it.
Not abandoned.
Positioned.
I felt it immediately.
The shift.
Eyes that weren’t watching him anymore.
Waiting for me instead.
A man approached.
Smiling too carefully.
Speaking too smoothly.
Offering nothing and asking everything without saying it.
I felt my body instinctively turn toward where Sukuna had been.
Empty space.
No rescue.
No interference.
Only observation from a distance I couldn’t measure.
His voice didn’t come to me.
Not directly.
But I could feel it in memory:
Watch.
I answered the man.
Carefully at first.
Then less carefully.
Then not at all carefully.
Something in me clicked—not confidence, not ease.
Recognition.
That conversations were not survival.
They were structure.
When I returned to Sukuna later, I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t need to.
He looked at me once.
Just once.
And that was enough to tell me I hadn’t failed.
Not because I had succeeded.
But because I had adapted.
The car ride back was quiet.
Not uncomfortable.
Controlled.
At the house, he didn’t dismiss me immediately.
That alone felt like a change.
He stood closer than usual when I turned to leave.
Not touching.
Not yet.
Just close enough that stillness felt like a decision.
“You did well,” he said.
It wasn’t praise.
It was confirmation.
I should have gone to my room.
I almost did.
But I didn’t.
I don’t know which of us moved first.
Only that the distance between us disappeared in a way that didn’t feel accidental.
The kiss wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t something that asked permission from anything except certainty.
And then it ended just as suddenly.
Like it had served its purpose.
He stepped back first.
His expression didn’t change.
“Go rest,” he said.
And I did.
Because that, too, felt like instruction rather than suggestion.
Morning came somewhere else.
Not in the house.
Not in the country I had started in.
The air was different before I even opened my eyes.
When I did, he was already dressed.
Already waiting.
“You’ll need to learn how to move without transition,” he said.
Like we were continuing a lesson I had fallen asleep inside of.
We had breakfast in a place I didn’t recognize.
Another country, maybe.
Or maybe it didn’t matter anymore.
The food was normal.
The world outside looked normal.
But nothing about my life had that quality anymore.
Not after him.
Not after ink had stopped being ink.
And started becoming something else entirely.
Empire.
It didn’t happen all at once.
That was the first lie my mind told me.
That something like this would announce itself clearly. Cleanly. Like a line crossed or a door locked.
But it was quieter than that.
Worse.
It came in fragments.
In pauses that felt too intentional.
In silence that didn’t feel empty anymore—just… occupied.
Like something was standing just outside the part of reality I could comfortably perceive.
At first, I thought it was exhaustion.
The travel. The training. The constant recalibration of everything I thought I knew about myself.
But it wasn’t fatigue.
It was recognition.
That something in me had started responding before thought arrived.
Not instinct.
Not learning.
Something deeper.
Like I had been rewritten in a language I didn’t fully understand yet, but my body had already begun to speak.
One night, I woke up before I realized I had been asleep.
The room was dark, but not empty-feeling.
That was the difference.
Empty rooms don’t watch you back.
This one did.
I didn’t move at first.
Because movement felt like acknowledgment.
And acknowledgment felt like permission.
From somewhere I couldn’t place, I heard nothing.
Not sound.
Not presence.
More like an echo of intention—like something vast had once been close enough to leave a trace, and I was only now becoming aware of it.
My chest tightened.
Not fear in the way I used to understand it.
Something more structural.
Like my thoughts were briefly aligning with something larger than me.
And then it passed.
Like it had only been checking.
Outside the door, I could feel him.
Not physically.
Not in the way footsteps or breath exist.
In the way certainty exists.
A fixed point in the world I could no longer mistake for coincidence.
I didn’t get up immediately.
Because part of me already knew what I would find if I did.
Not danger.
Not safety.
Something in between those words that had stopped belonging to me.
When I finally opened the door, he was there.
Standing like he had always been there.
Like the space had been shaped around him first, and I had only been allowed to notice it later.
“You’re awake,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
It never was.
I nodded.
And for a moment, I thought he would say something ordinary.
Something grounding.
Something human enough to pull me back into the version of reality I used to live inside.
But he didn’t.
He looked at me the way you might look at something that has finally begun to match its design.
Not approval.
Not affection.
Recognition.
“You’re starting to hear it,” he said quietly.
My stomach tightened.
Because I didn’t know what it was.
But a part of me—deep enough that it didn’t feel like thought anymore—answered anyway.
Yes.
Not in words.
In alignment.
Like something inside me had already agreed before I was given the chance to refuse.
And for the first time since ink became empire…
I wasn’t sure which part of me was still mine.
The house was quiet in a way I had stopped trying to interpret.
Not empty.
Not peaceful.
Just… held.
Like the walls themselves had learned not to interrupt anything that mattered.
I found him later than I meant to.
Or maybe I had known where he would be the entire time and had simply taken longer to arrive at the decision to go.
He was in the study.
Not working.
Waiting.
That distinction had started to feel important lately.
He didn’t look up when I entered.
“You’ve been changing,” he said.
It wasn’t praise.
It wasn’t concern.
It was observation.
Like noting the final piece of something settling into place.
I stayed where I was for a moment.
Unsure if distance still meant anything in a place like this.
“I don’t know what I’m becoming,” I said quietly.
That was the first time I had said it out loud.
Not as fear.
As admission.
He finally looked at me then.
Not sharply.
Not gently.
Directly.
Like I was no longer something to evaluate, but something already understood.
“That’s because you’re still trying to name it,” he said.
Silence stretched between us.
And for the first time, it didn’t feel like absence.
It felt like pressure.
Like something holding its shape just before it becomes irreversible.
“I don’t feel like I used to,” I admitted.
My voice sounded steadier than I expected.
That almost scared me more than the words themselves.
He stood up slowly.
Not approaching immediately.
Just changing the geometry of the room.
“Good,” he said.
One word.
Heavy in a way I couldn’t fully explain.
I should have asked what he meant.
I didn’t.
Because part of me already understood that asking was no longer about information.
It was about permission to remain separate.
He stopped a few feet away from me.
Close enough that I had to make a choice not to move back.
And I didn’t.
Not this time.
“I didn’t bring you here to keep you where you started,” he said quietly.
Something in my chest tightened.
Not fear.
Not anticipation.
Recognition.
Like a door I had been circling for a long time was finally no longer pretending to be closed.
His gaze held mine.
Steady.
Unyielding.
Not pushing.
Not pulling.
Waiting.
And for the first time, I realized something that made my breath catch—not because it was sudden, but because it had been true for longer than I had allowed myself to see it.
I wasn’t being taken further.
I had been moving toward this the entire time.
Every adjustment.
Every silence.
Every moment I thought I was surviving him.
Had been shaping the distance between who I was…
and what I had already agreed to become.
My voice came out quieter than I expected.
“I don’t know what comes next,” I said.
A pause.
Then honesty, fully exposed.
“But I don’t think I want to stay where I was.”
That was the moment everything stopped feeling like instruction.
Even him.
Even me.
Just stillness.
Shared.
Acknowledged.
He stepped closer then—not sudden, not urgent.
Finalizing distance rather than closing it.
And when he spoke again, his voice was lower.
Not softer.
Certain.
“Then don’t.”
His hands, once again, reached for me.
I didn’t flinch that time.
He was gentle, controlled, certain.
His lips didn’t find mine immediately.
They whispered to me.
Promises. Not the fake kind.
The aligned kind. The ones you know he will make good on.
And he kissed my neck. Soft and slow at first.
And it grew into a passionate fury, finding my lips at last and with the same fervor, I joined him in this passion.
My body was on fire as his hands traveled, feeling what he hadn’t given himself access to in a long time.
My hands found his abdomen, his chest, his neck, and the base of his skull, tugged at the hair there.
There was no man in this world that could growl the way he did, and make me feel so desired with just that.
His hands found purchase in places that only he could covet. His tongue circled nerves that only he could set on fire.
He asked me if I was sure.
Because this time he “wouldn’t pull out.”
And I knew at that moment, his eyes searching mine for any recoil, that I was sure.
historical AU, Sukuna x f!Reader, canon-typical cruelty, sadism and selfishness, historical inaccuracies
warnings: DEAD DOVE, indoctrination, cult-like doctrine, graphic body horror, loss of bodily autonomy, psychological abuse, gaslighting, violence, gore, blood, murder, manipulation, dismemberment, mutilation, attempted self-harm (burning, cutting, mutilation; can be skipped without losing much plot)
wc: estimated 100-150k
each doctrine will be marked in the notes with chapter-specific warnings
main masterlist ◦ ao3
In the shadowed heart of the Kamakura era, a desperate clan attempts the unthinkable.
When a forgotten tomb is unearthed during a drought ritual gone wrong, what they find is not salvation but rot: a severed finger pulsing in the dirt like a living heart, leaking cursed energy that withers crops and drives men mad. The elders recognize it at once. It’s one of Ryomen Sukuna’s twenty fingers.
The clan has guarded seals against yokai for generations. Still, they can't seal the finger traditionally; every barrier cracks under its power.
So they turn to you—the last of a cursed bloodline, raised for restraint, silence, and pain. A virgin vessel, “pure” enough to host the finger long enough to cage it. Long enough, they promise, for it to wither and die.
Their doctrine is absolute and unquestioned: starve the curse, restrain it, deny it power until it fades. No one considers the truth they’ve buried beneath it:
Sukuna is not a yokai. He is the King of Curses.
The ritual goes wrong—or right, depending on who you ask. The finger is fused bone-deep inside of your left forearm, and black markings begin to crawl toward your heart, day by day.
And he’s always there: a voice in your skull that never shuts up, mocking your every step, describing every brutal thing he will make you do. He narrates your suffering with not-so-quiet amusement, dissecting your rituals, your restraint, and your doctrine like they’re toys he’s already broken.
You try exorcism rites, starvation, burning your own skin, carving into the markings, consider amputation. You do everything you were taught would make a curse fade… and nothing works.
As days lose their meaning, Sukuna makes you a promise: when the corruption finally reaches your heart, you won’t scream. You’ll smile while the world burns beautifully.
doctrines:
doctrine: introduction
doctrine i
doctrine ii
doctrine iii
doctrine iv
doctrine v
doctrine vi
doctrine vii
doctrine viii
...
notes: okay, this bad boy was supposed to be a long one-shot but I just decided it'll be a series. won't stress about needing to have it all asap, especially considering i said it'll probably be out around the middle of january (ehehe, smiles in tomorrow's february). i'm not nearly halfway done with this fic, so i think serialising it makes way more sense. and that also means that in the next few days i'll start posting it!!
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Bodyguard!Hiromi is your personal protection detail. As the famous member of a girl group, with popularity comes both a need for better security and an increasing lack of time for a sex life. Hiromi has provided a remedy for both problems.
Relevant tags: sexual tension, secret relationships, casual hookups, casual with secret feelings, semi-public sex, car sex, stoic but caring Higuruma, no "y/n" for immersion, 2nd POV, reader has no defining characteristics, explicit smut, nipple play (fem receiving), oral sex (male receiving), clothed sex, riding, creampie, fingering, handjob
Recommended songs to listen to while reading: Billie Bossa Nova (Billie Eilish), Night Vision (Mareux)
Disclaimer: please don't steal my stuff and/or feed it into ai. I promise you that my writing is 100% from my own brain and fingers. I would never ever use gen ai and call myself an author.
A/N: OH MY GOODNESS first off I am so sorry for dropping off the face of the Earth. I'm sorry if I worried anyone!! Longer a/n at the end bc I wanna explain where I've been for anyone wondering. Anywho, please enjoy and lmk what you want me to write next!!
Read on Ao3 if you prefer!
Or read below cut:
It all gets to be disorienting after a while. The glitz and glam of stardom is a double-edged sword–with all of the lights trained on you, you shine, but you can only stand to be in the glare for so long before you begin to wear out.
Tours, concerts, award shows, interviews, recording in the studio, filming music videos, photoshoots, brand deals and promotions–you are always busy. There’s no time for a personal life, no time for friends, family, or love. Which, in hindsight, is well and good since your label has you under a no-dating contract until it renews in a year. No time, no temptation, right?
Wrong.
Hiromi came into your life soon after your group finally saw major success with the song you’d dropped last year. With more demand, there came more fans, and the greater need for protection for you and your groupmates. Enter Hiromi.
He was hired on as part of the new protection detail, assigned specifically to you. Your first impression of him was that he was hot, but a bit dull. He was quiet most of the time, doing his job dutifully, taking care of you and catering to your needs. He went above and beyond for you, and he made your life a lot easier. When asked why he put so much effort in, he’d told you two things: that he’s simply a hard worker, and that he’d feel bad watching you go about life so overwhelmed when he could help. You slowly warmed up to him that way.
Five months after he was hired, you two wound up alone in your hotel room in Milan, sipping wine on the balcony of the suite and talking. The rest of the girls were out clubbing, but you hung back. Clubbing was never really your thing. Since you didn’t go, Hiromi stayed as well, and wanting you to still enjoy the night, he ordered wine on his personal card and poured two glasses.
Tipsy and loose-lipped, confessions and deep, dark secrets were shared. It wasn’t long after that the two of you wound up hooking up. The morning after, an arrangement was made. You’d be each other’s dirty little secret, and seek each other out whenever you needed. No strings, no labels. Seven months pass, the two of you operating normally to the world, undoing each other only behind closed doors.
Tonight, as you leave the premier of a movie you’d sung a song for the first time as a solo act, Hiromi ushers you through the tight line of paparazzi and eager fans, his strong hand on your waist, other arm out to clear the way.
The fabric of your dress is thin tonight and you can feel the warmth of his palm through it. You can’t help but look at him as he protects you, a rush of arousal taking over you as he pulls you a little closer when someone gets too close.
He hurriedly gets you to the limousine, making quick work of closing the door behind himself once he gets in behind you. The door locks, and you glance up at the driver’s seat, only to see that the privacy window is shut. Effectively, the two of you are alone. You barely even register that the vehicle begins to drive off–your mind only has one thought.
Hiromi has just shucked off his blazer when you grab him by the jaw, pulling him in for a needy kiss. He tenses for a split second before reading the room and placing his hands on your hips, tugging your body gently but firmly so that you have no choice but to straddle his lap.
Once that’s done, he grabs your face in his big hands, cupping it gingerly in the careful way he always does, pushing his tongue into your mouth. A moan escapes your throat, and chasing it, one of his thumbs runs over the column of your neck, causing you to part your lips for air. He shamelessly licks his way into your mouth again, tongue swiping over yours dirtily. It makes you shudder, and he kisses your open cavern insistently, caressing his way down your neck to your shoulders.
The straps of your dress slink down your arms, breasts sliding into view, and he leaves a trail of wet kisses down your chin, softly devouring the skin of your neck on the way to his destination. The second his lips close around an erect nipple, his hands find your thighs, hiking up the skirt of your dress. He grabs your ass and pulls you closer, lining the tent in his slacks up with what should be the front of your panties–but is the bare, sensitive flesh of your mound instead.
He looks up at you, nose flushed from the assault on your breast, lips swollen and slick too. “You weren’t wearing panties the whole night?”
You look him in the eyes hotly and nod. “Since we were coming alone together…”
“Fuck,” He breathes, snaking his right hand up further to brush his thumb over your clit. You bite your lip, grinding against that and his clothed dick, eliciting a forceful exhale from him. He buries is face back in your chest, tongue lavishing attention on the peak of your soft flesh while his fingers slide over the increasing pool of wetness between your legs.
Your eyes look over him for a moment, regarding how unfocused his lidded eyes are, how tight his suit fits him, how good he looks beneath you…
In the next moment, you’re shifting to undo the buckle of his belt. There’s something there that you want in your mouth immediately despite all of the stimulation he had been showering you with.
It slides open and you quickly unhook the front of his pants and pull the zipper down, getting off of him to instead drape yourself belly-down over the backseat, pulling his cock out of its confines of his boxers and slacks to stand in its full thick, stiff glory.
As soon as it’s out, he draws in a deep breath, watching as you get to work and run your tongue along the length from base to tip.
Your lips kiss the head, looking up at him through your lashes, and he sighs shakily, reaching down to hold your hair out of the way for you. With that, you part your lips and take him in, unable to get the whole length but trying your hardest to stretch around his girth to fit as much as you can.
He groans, head falling back, and you begin to suck, tongue running along the veins you can feel as you pull off, then slide back down. It doesn’t take long for you to start drooling on it—but you pay it no mind. Over the course of your arrangement you’ve learned Hiromi likes it sloppy and wet.
You haven’t even noticed he’s let his other hand wander behind you until you feel his palm on your ass, pushing your dress up once again so it bunches around your waist, bare ass exposed.
Two of his long fingers make their way between your legs soon after, entering your wet heat as soon as they find it.
“Mmh,” a moan escapes you, and you press your hips back onto him, focus split between his cock in your mouth and fingers inside you. Because of that, the blow job you’ve been giving him turns even more messy, your lipstick smearing over your face as his shaft slips out and slides across your cheek instead. You tighten around him as your tongue chases it, eyes meeting his again.
“So beautiful,” he praises, looking at you with utmost desire. You give another peck to his dick, sticking your tongue out and jerking it with your hand as you let it circle the tip. “Oh, fuck…”
He drives his fingers in and out faster, reaching deep inside you, and you mewl, concentration knocked aside. “Hiromi…”
He sees you starting to lose your grip and pulls his fingers out, soothing your hair back with the hand that was holding it away.
“Up on my lap.”
As if tugged by invisible strings, you do as he instructs, straddling his lap again and watching as he licks your essence from his digits with his long tongue. He smiles softly at you.
“Tastes amazing, as always.”
An involuntary blush breaks out over your face, and he chuckles, grabbing you by the thighs and pushing your dress up again so he can see what he’s doing.
He grabs his spit-soaked shaft and rubs it against your center a few times before it catches, pushing it inside of you. Your head falls back as you sit down on it, the depths of you finally filled with his delicious size.
“Hiromi,” is what you breathe out, and he takes your hips in his hands, beginning to guide your movements on him. As soon as he starts a pace, rhythmically gliding in and out of you, the moans start tumbling out like cheap, wanton porn.
You don’t care that the driver can probably hear you over the traffic outside; Hiromi feels entirely too good for you to give a single fuck. You start grinding in time with him, body moving sinfully on top of his, and he groans low in his throat, leaning forward and kissing your neck as you continue.
“So pretty,” He murmurs, thrusting his hips up to meet you on the way down, reaching deeper inside.
“Oh god,” You moan, digging your nails into his shoulders. “Mmh, Hiromi…”
The two of you barely notice the steady slows, accelerations, and turns of the car. You’re lost in a heady world of pleasure, taking and giving in a sinful dance of up and down, up and down.
It’s always like this, every time you fuck Hiromi. He takes control and makes you take whatever he wants to give you, but never in a demanding way. He touches you like you’re something delicate, something to preserve, and it feels so good, you wonder if when you find someone to date in the future, it could get any better than this.
Right now, in Hiromi’s lap, bouncing on his thick cock, you think to yourself that there is nowhere you’d rather be. Your eyes scan over him, taking in the flush on his face, the concentrated furrow of his brow and twist of his lips, the way his muscles strain through his tight dress shirt…fuck, Hiromi is hot.
Your company really accidentally served him to you on a platter.
His thumb finds your clit and he speeds the pace of his hips up, slamming into you at a heightened intensity.
“Oh,” You mewl, feeling the coil within you wind up tightly “Oh, god…”
“That’s it,” He breathes, eyes running over your face, down your body to where he’s entering you over and over, then back up. “Focus on it…”
“Ah,” You gasp, “M’close, Hiromi…”
“I’m right behind you,” His voice is deep and guttural, strained with impending release, “Where do you want it?”
Your body trembles with the question. “Inside, inside…”
You feel a kiss on your neck as a reply, and he pushes you down so hard, stuffing you full with the entirety of his length, that it punches your orgasm right out of you.
“Ohmygod!” It comes out strung together as your head falls back. “Hiromi!”
He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth as he cums, groaning low in his throat and pressing his forehead to the underside of your jaw as he paints your walls a translucent white. The deep, shuddering breaths of his alone are hot enough to prolong your pleasure.
You’re pressed down on him, locked tightly, both of your sexes throbbing with aftershocks.
Soft kisses litter your collarbone as he regains composure, his rigid breaths starting to even out.
“Did that movie turn you on that much?” He asks, softly joking, and you grin.
“Mmm mmm,” You shake your head, running your hand down his chest. “That was all you. I had trouble keeping my hands off of you during the movie.”
“That would have been a scene,” He murmurs, running his thumb over your cheek. “But if you had wanted me to touch you…I would have had trouble saying ‘no’.”
“Evidently,” You giggle, looking around at the interior of the limo. “Pretty sure the driver got an earful.”
You two share a short laugh before sobering up. There’s a beat of silence, an intense eye contact, and softly, you add, “It’s really late…you should just stay at my place for the night.”
It’s something you’ve never asked him to do before. There’s a line and that’s definitely crossing it, he’s just the man you go to for release, but still…you want him to agree.
His eyes consider you for a moment, a storm within his eyes as he weighs the undoubted small list of pros against the heaps of cons.
“I…I shouldn’t,” He says, and your face must immediately deflate, because he adds, “But…alright.”
It makes you happier than you were expecting, and he mirrors the smile on your face, leaning in and kissing you softly.
Sharing a bed with him wasn’t the plan, but somehow…it just feels right. The promise of his warmth beside you, of his arms around you, holding you through the night…
When your heart stutters at the thought, you realize that maybe you’re in too deep. But one look into your bodyguard’s eyes is all it takes for you to understand that you may not be alone in that line of thinking.
Consequences can wait. For now…you'll take everything he can give. The future implications are a problem for another day.
___
a/n: I know people really loved my writing, especially my One + Two series. Honestly, my inspiration lost steam and I couldn't give you half-assed crap, so I just stopped writing and waited for the inspo to come back. So many things happened. I went through multiple moves (nothing serious), had multiple side-quests, etc. I wrote this oneshot literally back when I was reading the manga around the same time I was writing and posting my other oneshots. I hadn't planned to post it waaaay out when Higuruma finally got animated, but here we are. And fuuuuuck he's so hot. I remembered I had this in the drafts and had to post it. Again, so sorry for disappearing. I'd like to continue my writing and my series. Hopefully I can. My depression has been kinda wonky (again nothing serious, I promise I'm not in danger), but my motivation ebbs and flows kinda sporadically. So thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoyed this oneshot <3.
notes: this idea kinda spiraled i think, it was supposed to be shorter and go a little differently but ah well, i still kinda liked how it turned out. take katsuki from me, i cannot be trusted with him. couldn't resist making shinsou like this either. tagging @tokkushin
It's 8 p.m. and Katsuki isn't home yet.
That's concerning because he doesn't like being out so close to his bedtime if he can help it. Today was Thursday, which means his patrol wrapped up about two hours ago, yet there's no sign of him, not even a call or text to say he's running late. Both you and your shared cat, Shotgun Blast, are not happy, the golden yellow Maine Coon letting out a displeased "mrrp" at the lack of Bakugou in your home.
"I know," you huff in solidarity as you put down your laptop and scoop her up while standing to your feet. "He don't call, he don't write, just prefers to leave his two beautiful ladies all alone." You coo at the cat, unable to resist shifting to the voice you use only for her; a mother talking to her very young baby.
SB boops your nose as if to agree before another dissatisfied sound leaves her.
"I know, right, men." You scoff as you walk over to the glass windows and peer out, looking to see if you can spot him blasting through the sky or give some other sign he's okay. SB's eyes have dilated in wonder as she stares out into the night, so you stay until she grows bored. When she wanders off, you let her be as you pick up your phone, checking to see if you missed a message or a call from him or the others; you didn't, all your texts go unanswered, your calls not returned.
{ Invisible Girl's Agency - 9:20 p.m. }
"Your phone's ringing again!" Kirishima yips like a slapped dog and Bakugou's face crumples even further as he tells him yet again to ignore it.
"I don't like this anymore, man." Denki frowns. "Just go home."
Katsuki looks startled. "Like this? I'd rather swallow engine grease." He looks down at his left leg adorned in a bulky cast before lifting his shirt to look at the bandaged stab wound on his left side.
"I dunno why you're acting as if this wasn't preventable…" Hitoshi trails off and Bakugou shoots him a tired glare.
"And who the fuck invited Yzma?" Bakugou snipes, though it lacks his usual bite. He's tired, hungry, sick of the hospital smell, his stitches fucking itch and the meds they gave him are wearing off; he wants to go home. "Didn't you just get back from undercover, go away."
Shinsou just grins, his stupidly straight teeth only pissing him off slightly. "And miss this? I'd never." He makes a show of getting comfortable in the chair, propping his sock-clad feet on the bed near Bakugou's thigh. "And sending me home is rich coming from you, considering you're clearly scared of your wife which is why you're still here."
"AM FUCKING NOT!" He fumes before realizing how loud that was and he's in a hospital. "Just don't want her to see me like this."
"Liar!" Denki disagrees from his curled-up spot on the floor, eyes not leaving the Switch in his hands. "So why can't we call her and why are you two hours late getting home?"
"You told them not to call? Pussy." The brainwash hero snickers and Katsuki gives his legs a hard shove that sends him careening over the side of the chair.
"She's probably worried sick, the cat too." Kirishima tries once again to make his best friend see reason. After the incident happened and Bakugou was brought in to Musutafu Gen., he begged in a near delirious state for them not to call you and to call Kirishima instead. They all ended up coming by after they were done with their respective work—even Shinsou who just got back to Japan—all worried for their friend, but they've yet to find out why he hasn't told you about his injuries.
"My cat has a fucking name!" Bakugou glowers as he grabs at the crutches, tucking them under his armpits as Kirishima moves to his side. "Let's go, I'm sick of being here."
"Ah yes, Lady Shotgun Blast." Shinsou hums, standing to his feet as well, seeing as the man of the hour is leaving. "Still can't believe you named her that."
"I didn't name her, wifey did." He shrugs as best as he can before gesturing to his bag. "Get my shit so we can go."
The taller man bows playfully. "Yes, my liege."
Back at home, another half hour later, you hear grumpy mutterings near the door and you're quick to drop the spoon you'd been using to eat the pudding your husband told you was for tomorrow. When the door opened before he could even get his keys out, Katsuki started a quiet prayer as he watches you take his appearance in, no words leaving your mouth as he watches your face cycle through eight different expressions.
"Ba—"
"Get the hell inside!" You cut him off. "Where are they?"
"Who?" He tries to squeeze past you but you're not having it, not yet.
"Who brought you home?" You expound, your eyes cataloguing every part of him you could see, right down to the bum leg.
"N-nobody." His eyes shift. Liar.
"You expect me to believe the rest of the goblin gang left you to hobble home by yourself?" You hiss, anger starting to mix with your worry.
"Didn't wanna bug 'em." He tries to sidestep you and you block him yet again, making him sigh. "Can I come into my fucking home?"
"Not until you tell me why you went MIA for three hours and then show up with a cast." Your phone suddenly dings, making your watch vibrate seconds later, and once you check the notification, your eyes are wide, tears immediately springing to your lash line. "YOU GOT STABBED?" Your tone rattles him even more and he stiffens.
"Who gabbed?"
Hitoshi steps out from his hiding place. "Me, it's nothing personal." He shrugs. "She housesits for me when I'm gone, sends me new coffee to try and lets Lady SB sleep over sometimes, 'm not giving up that privilege for you, my guy."
"Get inside, both of you!" You emphasize before stepping aside to let the two of them in. "Kirishima, get yo' big ass in here before I come out there and get you."
Now, any other day, you'd laugh at the gigantic man peeking out from his hiding spot to stare at you nervously, hands together like a pangolin. Not today though, so you don't even smile like usual when he kisses your head in greeting as he steps inside. The door shuts behind them, making them flinch.
"Now then," you begin, starting to arrange the cushions on the couch so your husband can sit and prop his leg up, "and this is a general question, so anyone can answer. Why was I not informed when my husband was stabbed and broke his leg?"
Kirishima mumbles something, making you turn to him. "Didn't catch that, try again."
Shotgun Blast jumps on the couch beside Katsuki. The four-year-old feline making sure to stare dead into his soul, so he knows she's pissed at him for breaking routine of watching her eat dinner then cuddling together to watch Deadliest Catch.
"He said not to." The redhead repeats louder this time and Katsuki avoids your gaze when it finds his.
"And has Katsuki told you why he chose not to call me?" You question and the man's eyes widen.
"I don't think y—"
"I think you should shut up." You cut him off again, making Hitoshi guffaw.
"I love being home."
Kirishima looks confused, rightfully so, as he shakes his head 'no'. "Wouldn't say a word."
"That's because before he left the house this morning, I told him not to do anything stupid and reckless."
"Pretty sure those are his default settings." Hitoshi quips and your gaze pins his.
"If you could tell me that he got stabbed just now, why not tell me when you were at the hospital or immediately when you find out?"
Welp, you got him there.
"I suddenly don't remember anything," Shinsou slaps his thigh as he stands up. "So, I think that's my cue to leave."
"Sit the fuck back down, we're all dying together." Bakugou grouses and the Underground hero pouts but relents.
"So wait," Kirishima pipes up before turning to Bakugou. "You didn't call her because you did the thing she said not to?"
"Eureka." Katsuki deadpans, arms folded and face flat.
You have to fold your lips to keep your smile from slipping out, because if it does, he'll think he's off the hook.
"It's okay to be scared of your wife, Kats." Kirishima tells him earnestly and you do giggle when your husband starts to sputter like an old truck.
"I ain't fucking scared of her!" He yells before he turns to you, immediately softening.
"'m sorry for not saying shit, didn't wanna worry ya, didn't want ya to be mad at me for not listenin'." He apologizes and your shoulders droop, the fight leaving you slightly due to him getting the courage to make amends in front of others as well as him looking like a kicked puppy.
You move to sit beside him, thumb reaching up to trace the butterfly bandage under his right eye. "I'm always gonna worry, hot pants." You grin when his lips kiss your palm. "Just don't do that shit again, please. I need you to come back home to me at nights, instead of hearing you got ragebaited by some low rank villain."
"Who told you I got ragebaited?"
The other two stand up.
"Crisis averted." Shinsou pats Eijirou's back. "Let's go, Kiri."
"It's almost midnight, chuckleheads." Your husband admonishes, too tired to rip them a new one, more content to just melt against you. "Take the guest room."
You nod in agreement as you help your husband maneuver himself to lay in your lap. His hand grasps yours before bringing it to his head so you can run fingers through his hair. "By the way, all the heavy lifting he has to do is now your job until he's all better."
Katsuki cackles. "Suckers."
You turn to him. "Be nice to them, they carried your busted ass home.”
contains: smut; bdsm elements, sub!jabber, dom!reader, wax play, praise, riding, unprotected sex, jabber is whipped but still insane chat.
notes: i want yall to know that i saw a post this morning that went "we need more sub!jabber" and my brain went 'bet'. i love writing for him. please lemme know what y'all think!
"Stay still!" You huff indignantly at your boyfriend who just grins at you like a pleased puss.
"'m tryin', babe," Jabber, once again, wiggles in anticipation as the deep indigo colored rope loops around the crook of his left elbow. "But I'm excited and so hard, so get on with it."
You cut him a look and he's quick to shut his mouth, knowing damn well you'll shut this shit down and go to bed and leave him pent up. "Sorry," he murmurs, fighting down a shiver as the rope brushes his naked chest. Humming, you silently finish your work, testing the knots and checking with him to make sure he's okay.
When Jabber had approached you to ask for this, you were intrigued, but out of your element in that regard. You didn't reject it per se, just asked him to give you time to feel confident and comfortable enough to do this. Jabber agreed and while he was impatient and stubborn as they come, he never rushed you or constantly brought it up and for that you were grateful and overcome with even more affection for your boyfriend of two years. So, it was easy to pour yourself into the research and the practice over the course of a month and a half and Jabber definitely rewarded your efforts and commitment by blowing your back out at any available opportunity.
'Aw, you must really care about me that much. Do ya want your pussy ate?'
He's not the most romantic with his words but he makes up for it by being enthusiastic.
Now the day is finally here; he's tied up and at your mercy—his third favorite pastime—with his cock so hard it could probably cut a crystal.
"Ready?" you turn to him, holding eye contact and you watch in real time as his pupils dilate, the black swallowing the brown of his scleras like spilling tar.
He puckers his lips for a kiss and you happily lean in. "Burn me, baby!"
"Now, while this isn't a serious scene, I still expect you to lemme know if it's too much," your voice is stern as you regard him. "I mean it."
"Psshhh, a lil fire never hurt nobody, 'specially me." He says giddily as he watches you pick up the purple colored soy candle and a lighter.
Jabber feels so fucking high as he watches you tie your freshly done twists back before lighting the wick, the ember sputtering to life and then beginning a dance like it too is excited. He unconsciously scooches closer to you, your warmth against his bare skin a soothing presence as you both watch the flame flicker, the heat causing your edges to frizz and coil similarly to the hair at the nape of jabber's neck. His dick jumps when the first trail of wax races down the side of the candle like raindrops on a window.
It's time.
You tip the candle gingerly, your own arousal spiking at the sight of your boyfriend halfway to blissed out already. It sends a wave of heat to pool in your gut, intensifying when the first fat drop lands on his inner thigh.
"Fffuck!" He drawls. "Knew this'd be so good."
"Sure you don't wanna start somewhere else?" you ask again despite knowing the answer already. Your boyfriend is a pain slut, so of course he'd choose one of the most sensitive parts of his body to start on.
"'s fine, keep fuckin' going." He slurs out quietly, probably unaware he started to whisper.
"Okay, gonna do more than one drop this time," You forewarn, reaching for his neglected cock and giving him a firm squeeze as more of the soy candle spills between the apex of toned thighs.
Jabber's hips buck, already starting to grind up shamelessly in your hands as the wax drops harden and stick to his brown skin, the color of it purposefully resembling a purpling bruise. He then hisses, mouth dropping open in a groan as you start to stroke him, thumbing at the pearlescent drop of precum at his ruddy tip. Jabber's tugging at his restraints, eager to get his hands on you as his pleasure builds, a force of habit. But he knows better, knows to ask if he can touch you instead of destroying the ropes. You said it wasn't a serious scene, so he knows he can, he'd just rather play it up a bit first.
You switch to his other thigh. Letting him go, you move the candle higher, closer to where you were just wrapped around him and he stiffens for half a second before moaning long and loud when the next drops fall really close to his leaking member. His head is thrown back, exposing the column of his neck as his throat bobs; he's absolutely so beautiful.
"Do your initials on my chest." He begs breathily like the freak simp he is and you raise a brow at his expectant look. "Please, babe?"
"You asked nicely, so good for me." You praise and Jabber practically melts further into the mattress, eyes going lidded as he looks at you with something akin to reverence.
"Woo! Yes the fuck I am. Always." His head bobs happily, one of his locs escaping the hair tie and you can't resist kissing him again and two more times while fixing it. "Want me to sit on your lap while I do it?"
"I want you in my skin." He admits without an ounce of shame and your heart thuds against your ribs as your well concealed nerves slip away
"Thanks for trusting me with this." Your voice softens and his smile smooths at the edges, his cock throbbing between you at both your words and the tone of your voice.
You stifle a snicker as his cheeks heat. "What? You're hot, can't help myself," is his only explanation as you move to straddle him. "Ride me while you do it." He then decides and you agree as a reward. You strip your lower half bare and his eyes lock on to your exposed sex like a spider trapping prey.
The wick is relit as you sink down on him and he's cursing at the pressure on his newly sensitive skin, the dried wax cracking with each shift. You're sighing in contentment when you feel him buried to the hilt, snug against your sweet spot as the two of you watch the ember revive. And when the wax starts to drip again, you feel him flex inside you, pulsing along your walls as you upend the candle, letting it drip—drip—drip along his chest and not stopping until your initials are emblazoned proudly.
The burn he's feeling threatens to consume him as he feels his skin sizzle under your ministrations. He fucking loves it so much and when you start to ride him, the ache for you that never seems to go away has woken up with a vengeance now that it has company. Jabber's hips jerk up, matching your rhythm on the downstroke as the slaps of skin on skin fill the small room, the wax cracking and crumbling from the pressure of it all.
A litany of curses and chants leave his lips when you clench around him the same time you drip the liquid heat in fat blots right where his heart beats.
"Oh fuck, imma nut!" he grits out, vein bulging in his neck as his laugh borders on hysterical.
"Cum, you've earned it."
His eyes roll back, balls drawing up and legs stiffening as he obeys, shooting rope after rope of spend into your pussy as the wax drips down his navel. You both hiss when you climb off of him and he just watches, panting through the aftershocks as you set about untying the restraints.
"You good?" you check in, nervously keeping your gaze on the knot.
"Good game, coach!" he holds up his freed hand for a high-five and you reciprocate with a relieved giggle. "My ass is kinda crampin', though."
You make quick work of the ropes, the two of you pausing at intervals to admire the indents in his skin. As you both stand, he slinks closer to you, his body trying to damn near meld with yours as you pepper his face with kisses. Thick fingers rub at the dried wax crusted at his heart and you swallow down your delighted coo. He can be so sweet when he's not a fucking psycho.
"Wanna go see it?" you gesture towards the mirror, while your finger traces your initials over and over until he's pulling your hand to his mouth to press his lips to it.
"Yes and then we'll show everyone!" He exclaims before pulling you towards the communal bathrooms.
"Do you want boss man to put us in time out again, fool?"
You were a sweet, shy pharmacist who only wanted quiet shifts and clean labels—until Sukuna Itadori, a 6'5" MMA menace on meds, decided his favorite side effect was “seeing her face” and started treating refills like weekly dates. Now he flirted like it was a sport, handed you VIP tickets like prescriptions, and kept insisting you were the only “aftercare” he trusted.
cw; pharmacy au. smut. oral. pnv. MDI 18+.
The pharmacy always smelled like clean paper and lemon disinfectant—sharp, bright, a little too honest.
You lived in that honesty.
Your hair had been behaving for exactly nine minutes, pinned back in a way that made your long brown ringlets look like they were politely waiting their turn. Your badge sat straight on your chest. Your scrubs were neat. Your voice stayed soft, like you kept it in a velvet-lined box and only opened it for people who deserved gentle.
The afternoon line moved in patient little shuffles. A toddler cried at the front end of the store, and somewhere in aisle seven, someone dropped a jar of pasta sauce with the dramatic commitment of a Greek tragedy.
You didn’t even flinch. You just counted tablets, checked an interaction screen, and thought, Please let everyone be kind today.
That was when you saw him.
At first, it was just a shadow crossing the pick-up lane—too tall for the world, shoulders filling the space like the building had to breathe around him. Then the details sharpened: pale pink hair buzzed close, a face that looked carved out of irritation, tattoos climbing his arms like black vines that had decided to stay forever.
He stood there like he didn’t wait in lines. Like lines waited for him.
One of the pharmacy techs—Mika—smiled her retail smile and chirped, “Hi! Name and date of birth?” The man’s eyes moved, slow as a blade leaving its sheath, and landed on you behind the counter. Not on Mika. Not on the register. On you—like your existence was a new sound he was trying to locate.
“Ryomen,” he said, voice low and flat. “Sukuna Itadori.” Mika typed, still smiling. “And your birthday?” He recited it, bored, eyes never leaving you. That alone was unsettling—most people looked away when they gave personal information, like it was polite to pretend they weren’t handing you a piece of themselves.
Sukuna didn’t pretend anything.
Mika’s expression shifted the smallest bit when she saw the profile. New patient. New meds. The kind of prescriptions that came with notes and caution flags and the invisible weight of someone finally saying, Alright. We’re going to try something different.
She reached for the bag in will-call.
Sukuna’s hand rose, palm out, stopping her like a traffic light.
“No.” Mika blinked. “Um—sorry?” He nodded toward you with his chin, like it was obvious. “I want the pharmacist.”
A small pause fell into the air. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just… present. Like the pharmacy itself tilted its head.
Mika glanced at you, eyebrows lifting in a Can you take this? question.
You exhaled through your nose—quiet, controlled—and set your tray down.
“Of course,” you said, stepping forward.
Your voice was gentle, but your posture was pure professionalism. You didn’t hurry. You didn’t shrink. You simply arrived at the counter, hands folded, eyes lifting to meet his.
Up close, he was worse.
Not because he was handsome—he was, in that dangerous way people warned you about with the phrase trouble. Not because he was tall—though he was, towering enough that you had to tilt your chin to keep eye contact. Not because he was built like a door that lifted weights.
It was the look in his eyes.
Red-brown, sharp, watchful. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to be disappointed and was still hoping you might surprise him.
“Mr. Itadori?” you asked, because you were polite even when your pulse tried to sprint. “Sukuna,” he corrected.
You nodded once. “Sukuna. I’m Y/n. I’m the pharmacist on duty.” His gaze flicked to your name tag, then back up. “Y/n,” he repeated, like he was testing the shape of it in his mouth.
You slid the bag toward you, glanced at the label, and kept your tone calm. “This is your first fill with us. I’m going to review your medication with you—dosage, common side effects, and what to avoid.” He leaned in a fraction, forearms on the counter. Tattoos flexed as he moved. The scent of him reached you—clean soap and something mineral, like cold metal warmed by skin.
“Side effects,” he murmured. “Yeah. Let’s talk about those.” You kept your face neutral, but your brain whispered,
Please be normal. Please be normal.
He wasn’t.
“What’s it do to my sex drive?” he asked, casually, like he was asking if you had paper or plastic bags. Mika made a strangled sound behind you. Someone in line coughed, suddenly very interested in the greeting cards.
You stared at him.
He held your gaze with the calm confidence of a man who had never been embarrassed in his life. “And before you say ‘everyone reacts different,’” he added, voice dropping, “I’m an athlete. I need my body working. All of it.” Then he gave you a slow blink that was somehow a wink without technically being a wink. “I can go all night,” he said, like he was sharing a fun fact. “It’d be a tragedy if the meds took that away from the world.”
Your expression didn’t change.
It wasn’t that you didn’t understand the implication. You did. Unfortunately. Vividly.
It was that you refused to reward it.
You lifted the leaflet, tapped it once with a neatly trimmed nail, and said, “Sexual side effects are possible. If you experience changes, you should speak with your prescriber. Do you have any other questions that are actually relevant?” Mika choked harder. You heard a stifled laugh from somewhere down the line.
Sukuna’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, like your deadpan had struck something in him that wanted to live. “Mm,” he hummed. “I like you.” You kept reading off the counseling points like your life depended on it. “This medication should be taken once daily. Try to take it at the same time each day. It may cause drowsiness, dizziness, nausea—”
“Will it make me less… angry?” he asked, quieter now.
That one landed different. Not flirtatious. Not stupid. Just raw, slipped under the counter like a note you weren’t supposed to see.
You softened your voice without meaning to. “It can help. Especially if you give it time and take it consistently.” He looked at you like he didn’t enjoy needing anything. “Time,” he repeated, as if the word tasted bitter.
You nodded. “Time. And routine.” He stared, then reached into his pocket and placed his ID on the counter—too carefully, like he didn’t trust himself to move too fast. “Y/n,” he said again, and your name sounded like a warning and a compliment in the same breath. “Tell me the truth.” You met his eyes. “Okay.”
“If I take this,” he said, “am I going to feel like someone else?” Your throat tightened, just a little. You’d heard this question in a hundred different forms—Will I still be me? Will my thoughts still belong to me? Will I lose my fire? Will I lose my edge?
You didn’t give him a rehearsed line. You gave him the truth you could safely hold.
“It shouldn’t erase you,” you said softly. “It should give you more space to breathe inside yourself. If it ever feels wrong—if you feel numb or unlike yourself—you talk to your provider. We adjust. We don’t suffer in silence.” Something flickered behind his eyes—annoyance, relief, suspicion, maybe all of it braided together.
Then, because he was him, he tilted his head and said, “So you’re saying you’ll take care of me.” Your cheeks warmed. “I’m saying I will do my job,” you replied.
He smiled this time. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… pleased.
“You’re sweet,” he said. “It’s cute.”
“I’m professional,” you corrected. “You’re both,” he said with a smirk, you handed him the bag and the paperwork. “Do you have any allergies?”
“No.”
“Any other medications you take?”
“Sometimes protein powder,” he said. “Sometimes violence.” Mika audibly inhaled like she’d just swallowed a cough the wrong way.
You blinked once. “We’ll start with the protein powder.” He chuckled—low, brief. The sound startled you more than his words. It made him seem… human. Like there was a person in there under the anger and the edges.
He took the bag, but didn’t move away. Just stayed, leaning in like the counter was a fence and he didn’t want to leave the yard you stood in.
“So,” he said, “when do I see you again?”
“Your next refill date is on the label,” you told him evenly.
He lifted the bag, glanced at it, then looked at you again like the label was a suggestion, not a schedule. “Yeah,” he said. “But what if I have questions?”
“You can call the pharmacy.”
“I don’t like phones.”
“You can ask any pharmacist.” He stared at you. Slow. Heavy. Like he was setting down a decision. “No,” he said simply. “I’ll ask you.” You held your composure like it was stitched into your ribs. “We have multiple pharmacists.” He leaned closer, voice dropping into something that vibrated in your chest. “I need the real one.” Your stomach flipped, traitorous and soft.
You didn’t curse. You didn’t snap. You didn’t flirt.
You simply lifted your eyebrows. “Sukuna, are you refusing counseling from anyone else?” He stared back, completely serious. “Yes.”
Mika’s eyes went wide with Is that allowed?
You exhaled quietly, like you were releasing a patient prayer.
“Fine,” you said. “If you have questions, you can ask me when I’m on duty.” His mouth curved again—victory, wrapped in velvet. “Good,” he said. “Because I do have a question.” You didn’t even sigh this time. You just waited.
He tapped the bag lightly. “If this makes me calmer,” he said, “and less obsessive… will I still want things?” You watched his face for the joke, for the crude punchline, for the easy innuendo.
It didn’t come.
Instead, his eyes stayed on yours, too intent, like he meant things in a way that wasn’t just about bodies.
You swallowed. “Most people still want things,” you said carefully. “Sometimes they want them in a healthier way.” He nodded once, like that answered something he hadn’t said out loud.
Then he straightened, finally stepping back.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.” You lifted your chin. “Take it as directed.” He paused at the edge of the counter, glanced over his shoulder.
“And Y/n?”
“Yes?” His gaze slid over you—not lewd, not careless. Just aware. Like he noticed the way you held yourself, the way your softness didn’t mean weakness. “Maybe one day,” he said, voice lazy again, “you’ll let me give you my own personal medicine.”
Mika made a sound like a dying battery.
You stared at Sukuna with the same straight face you’d given him all along.
Then, very calmly, you said, “If you’re experiencing delusions, that is a side effect you should report.” For a second, he looked stunned. Then he laughed—real laughter, low and dangerous and delighted—and walked out of the pharmacy like he’d just won something.
You stood there, hands folded, heart doing a ridiculous little dance inside your ribs.
Mika leaned in, whispering, “Who was that?” You watched the automatic doors slide shut behind him, the winter light swallowing his silhouette.
You spoke softly, mostly to yourself.
“Trouble,” you said.
And as you turned back to the counter, the phone rang—one of those sharp, ordinary sounds that kept the world moving—while you tried very hard not to wonder how soon “next refill” could possibly come.
Friday nights at the pharmacy always carried a particular kind of exhaustion—one that clung to your sleeves and crawled up behind your eyes, the kind that made the fluorescent lights feel personal.
So when you heard, the next morning, that Sukuna Itadori had fought the night before, something in you tightened.
Not curiosity. Not excitement.
Just… a quiet, reluctant awareness. Like a storm report you didn’t ask for, but still read anyway because you needed to know where the wind might hit. You didn’t follow his career. You didn’t watch clips. You didn’t scroll past headlines the way other people did when they wanted to feel alive through someone else’s chaos.
You didn’t like fighting.
You liked calm. You liked clean counters. You liked the soft clink of pill bottles. You liked order, and routine, and the steady reassurance of labels that told you exactly what something was meant to do.
And yet—when you got dressed that morning, you took a few extra minutes.
You fixed your curls until they fell in obedient ringlets, glossy and thick, framing your face like they belonged there. You smoothed a little cream into the ends with careful fingers. You put on the smallest swipe of mascara, barely enough to count.
It wasn’t for him, you told yourself.
It was just… for you.
But your reflection looked back with an almost-suspicious sweetness, and you felt your cheeks warm as if your mirror had caught you hoping.
The pharmacy doors chimed sometime after nine.
You didn’t look up right away. You were checking a profile, eyes scanning for interactions, mind in its tidy little corridor of clinical focus.
Then you heard the change in the air.
The subtle pause at the counter.
The way your tech’s voice lifted—nervous, amused, trying not to sound intrigued.
And you knew.
Mika cleared her throat. “Uh—hi. Can I help you?” A familiar low voice slid over the counter like smoke. “Yeah. I’m here for the pharmacist.” Mika tried. She really did. “We can counsel you—”
“I don’t want ‘we.’” You could hear the smirk in his tone. “I want her.” You closed your eyes for half a second.
Not because you were angry—though you were definitely annoyed—but because your heart did something completely unhelpful, fluttering like a trapped thing.
You set your pen down with exaggerated calm, then stepped out from behind the workstation.
Sukuna stood there in a fitted hoodie that looked like it was fighting for its life across his shoulders. His buzzed hair was still damp, pale pink and close to his scalp, and he had that post-training heat clinging to him—clean sweat, sharp soap, something metallic and bright.
He looked… awake.
Not in the polite way people looked awake after coffee.
In the way a blade looked awake after being sharpened.
There was a faint bruise at the edge of his cheekbone that hadn’t fully yellowed yet, and a small cut near his brow like a careless punctuation mark.
His eyes found you instantly and the second they did, his mouth curved, slow and pleased.
Like he’d walked in already knowing you’d be pretty.
You hated that your pulse noticed.
You approached the counter, posture perfectly professional, voice soft enough to be kind but firm enough to be a boundary.
“What was going on?” you asked, because he always arrived like a disruption and acted like it was your fault.
Sukuna didn’t even pretend to be here for a refill.
He pulled something from his pocket and slid it across the counter toward you with two fingers.
A ticket.
Black, glossy, heavy stock—one of those tickets that didn’t look like paper so much as a promise. VIP lettering caught the overhead lights.
You stared down at it.
Then you stared up at him.
“What is this?” you asked, even though you already knew. Your stomach had answered before your mouth did.
His smirk deepened. “My fight.” You blinked once. “Tonight?”
“Tonight.” He tilted his head, watching your face like he was waiting for some reaction he could collect. “You should come.” You didn’t touch the ticket. Like it might burn you. Like accepting it would be the same as agreeing to something you hadn’t said yes to. “Sukuna,” you said gently, “this is—unprofessional.”
He leaned closer, forearms resting on the counter like he belonged there. Tattoos flexed beneath his sleeves. His voice dropped, warm and too intimate for a pharmacy at nine in the morning.
“You’re a pharmacist,” he murmured. “You like… aftercare.” Your face stayed neutral on pure willpower. “Aftercare isn’t a medical term,” you replied, even though the words sounded a little too careful leaving your mouth, like you were stepping around a puddle you didn’t want to admit you’d noticed.
His eyes flickered, amused. “It is if I say it is.” You glanced down at the bruise near his cheekbone, the cut at his brow, and felt something tender tug at the inside of your ribs—something you didn’t want to name.
“Why are you giving this to me?” you asked softly.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Because I want you there,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Your throat tightened.
You kept your voice steady. “I don’t—watch fighting.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “Watch me.” You looked at him, and his gaze held yours, steady and bold and too sure.
Then he tapped the ticket lightly with one knuckle.
“And after,” he added, lazy and cocky again, “you can fix my bruises.” Your brows lifted. “I’m not a nurse.”
“You’re close enough.” His grin sharpened. “You’ve got that gentle little voice. You’ll do great.” Mika made a small, helpless noise behind you, like she was watching a rom-com she hadn’t paid for.
You exhaled, the sound barely more than air. “This is inappropriate.” Sukuna straightened, as if he’d heard you but didn’t accept the premise.
He set the ticket down with slow certainty—like a man placing a coin on a counter, already convinced the purchase was complete.
Then he leaned in one last time, eyes on yours.
“See you tonight, Y/n,” he said.
You opened your mouth to argue.
He turned and walked away before you could.
Just left the ticket there.
Like you were going to pick it up.
Like the world always did what he wanted.
The doors chimed as he exited, and the pharmacy felt too bright again, too normal, too clean for the way your heart was misbehaving.
Mika crept up beside you, eyes sparkling with wicked delight. “He is… actually insane.” You stared at the VIP ticket like it might start talking. “He shouldn’t do that,” you murmured, more to yourself than to her.
Mika’s smile widened. “He’s not exactly a ‘should’ kind of man.” You swallowed, still staring down.
All day, the ticket sat in the back of your mind like a little weight.
Between counseling patients on antibiotics and explaining prior authorizations and repeating the same gentle script you’d always used—Take with food, call us if you have questions, no, don’t double up, yes, please drink water—your thoughts kept drifting.
Not to the fight.
To him.
To the way he’d looked at you like you were something he wanted to keep in his hands.
You tried to focus. You really did.
But you caught yourself imagining his bruises.
His cut.
Your fingers—gloved, of course—dabbing antiseptic.
The absurd intimacy of tending to someone who was built for damage.
The idea made you feel warm and ridiculous.
And nervous.
Near the end of your shift, Mika leaned against the counter, casual like she wasn’t about to push you off a cliff.
“You’re going,” she said. “I’m not,” you replied automatically.
Mika hummed. “You’re going.” You frowned. “Why are you acting like you control my decisions.”
“Because I like joy,” she said. “And because you’ve been walking around all day like someone put a secret in your pocket.” You tried to look offended. It didn’t work. Mika waved her hand. “Leave early. We’ve got it handled. Go… do whatever this is.”
“This is nothing,” you said, but your voice came out too soft, too unconvincing.
Mika’s eyes narrowed. “Your mascara begs to differ.” Your cheeks warmed instantly. “I always wear mascara.”
“Mm-hm.” She smiled like she’d caught you stealing candy. “Go.” You hesitated long enough for your conscience to wrestle with your curiosity.
Then you sighed.
“Fine,” you said quietly, like you were agreeing to a chore instead of a choice that made your stomach flutter.
You went home and stood in front of your closet longer than you should have.
You told yourself you were dressing comfortably.
You told yourself you didn’t care what you looked like.
You told yourself the black long-sleeve was just clean and simple and easy, but when you pulled it on and it hugged your curves—when the mirror showed you soft and shapely and a little too pretty for your own comfort—you paused.
Not because you were trying.
Because you weren’t.
You chose jeans that fit the way they were supposed to—snug at the waist, fitted at the thighs—and when you turned sideways, you let out a small breath, surprised at your own silhouette. Your hair fell down your back in thick ringlets, framing you with that natural softness you couldn’t hide even when you wanted to.
You didn’t add jewelry. No perfume. Nothing dramatic.
Just you.
Just… slightly braver than usual.
The drive to the arena felt surreal.
Streetlights blinked on one by one like the city was exhaling into night. Traffic thickened closer to the venue, headlights pooling like water. You followed the signs, parked, and sat for a second with your hands on the steering wheel, heart tapping an anxious rhythm.
You could still turn around, you told yourself.
You could drive home.
You could return to your quiet apartment and your safe routines and pretend you’d never accepted anything from a man like him.
But your fingers had already touched the ticket.
You got out of the car.
The arena loomed bright and loud, all banners and bodies, and you felt small walking toward it—small, and out of place, like you’d wandered into someone else’s movie.
At the entrance, security scanned your ticket.
The staff member’s face changed—respectful, quick. “Right this way.” You swallowed. “Okay.” They led you through a corridor where the sound of the crowd grew heavier with every step—bass thumps of music, shouts like waves, the electric hum of anticipation.
You were guided into the private area.
It was quieter than the main seating, but it still throbbed with noise beneath it—like you could feel the energy in the floor. Plush seats, a small table, a view that made your stomach dip. People in nicer clothes sat around you, laughing, sipping drinks.
You sat stiffly, hands folded in your lap, trying not to look like you didn’t belong.
Because you didn’t.
A screen lit up with highlights, and the announcer’s voice rolled through the arena like thunder.
Your palms dampened.
You didn’t like violence. You didn’t like the idea of bodies as entertainment. You didn’t like the way the crowd sounded hungry and yet… you were here.
Because Sukuna had looked at you like you were the only soft thing in the room worth reaching for.
Lights dimmed.
The first fight began.
You flinched at the first sharp impact—two bodies colliding, the sound somehow louder than it should’ve been. You tried to focus on the rules, on the structure, on the idea that this was controlled, sanctioned.
But your shoulders stayed tense.
You found yourself watching the referees more than the fighters. Watching for safety. Watching for stopping points. Watching for the moment someone would say enough.
You took slow breaths, the way you taught anxious patients to do when they came to pick up meds they didn’t want to need.
Around you, people cheered.
You didn’t.
You simply watched—eyes wide, heart uneasy—trying to understand why anyone craved this.
And then, between fights, a movement near the VIP entrance caught your attention.
A familiar shape.
Too tall. Too broad.
Sukuna appeared at the edge of the private area like he owned the air itself.
He wasn’t in his fight gear yet—still in warmups, loose pants, a jacket zipped partway. His hair looked freshly dried again, and there was a calm to him that made him even more dangerous, like all the anger had been leashed tight for later.
His eyes swept the room.
Then landed on you.
And the smirk returned, immediate and satisfied—like a lock clicking into place.
He walked over with unhurried confidence, gaze never leaving your face. People glanced up, murmured, shifted to make space without being asked.
He stopped in front of you, towering just enough that you had to tilt your chin again. “Well,” he said, voice low, amused. “You came.” Your heart stuttered.
You tried to sound composed. “You left the ticket.”
“That was the point.” He leaned down slightly, voice dropping into something that felt like it belonged in your ear, not in public. “I wanted to see if you’d do what I asked.” You frowned, though your cheeks warmed. “That’s… manipulative.” He shrugged like it was a compliment. “And yet.” You exhaled softly. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
He studied you—your curls, your black top, the way you held yourself like you were trying to be invisible and failing.
His eyes darkened with approval. “You look good.” You blinked. “Sukuna—” He cut you off with a lazy little smile. “Don’t start. Just take it.” Your lips parted, then closed.
You forced yourself to ask the sensible thing. “Are you hurt?” His gaze flicked over your face, then softened—almost imperceptibly. “No,” he said. “Not yet.”
That answer should’ve unsettled you.
It did.
He sat down—too close, far too casual—like it was normal for him to fold himself into your space. His knee brushed yours, and the contact sent a small spark up your leg, stupid and bright.
“You look like you want to run,” he murmured.
You stared forward at the cage. “I don’t like this.” He hummed. “I know.”
You glanced at him, surprised.
He met your eyes. “You’re too soft for it.”
You didn’t like the way that sounded—like softness was a limitation.
But the way he said it… wasn’t insulting.
It sounded protective.
It made your throat tighten anyway.
Sukuna leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head like a man settling into a theater seat. “Just watch. I’ll make it quick.” You frowned. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can.” He turned his head, gaze pinned to you again. “Because you’re here.” Your heartbeat stumbled.
Then an official approached, speaking quietly to Sukuna. Sukuna listened with a bored expression that didn’t match the intensity of the room.
He stood, towering over you again.
His eyes dragged over your face—slow, possessive in a way that made you want to scold him and blush at the same time.
“Stay,” he said.
You blinked. “I wasn’t—”
“Stay,” he repeated, voice sharper now, like it mattered. Like you mattered.
You nodded once before your mind could argue.
Sukuna’s mouth curved, satisfied.
Then he walked away, disappearing into the corridor like a promise you didn’t know how to hold.
A few minutes later, his name boomed over the speakers.
The crowd erupted.
Your stomach dipped.
Lights flashed. Music surged. The atmosphere changed—thicker, wilder, like everyone suddenly leaned forward at once.
And then he was there.
Sukuna stepped out into the arena lights, and the roar around you became physical—vibrating through your bones, rattling the air in your lungs. He moved like he belonged to that sound, like it fed him. Like he wore noise the way other men wore cologne.
He looked… different.
Not softer.
Not calmer.
Just focused—cold, bright, terrifyingly controlled. His shoulders rolled once. His jaw flexed. His eyes scanned the crowd, then lifted briefly toward the VIP section.
You swore he found you instantly.
That smirk flashed again—quick as a match strike.
Your heart jumped.
Then the cage door closed.
The bell rang.
You braced yourself without meaning to.
The first exchange happened fast—feet shifting, hands snapping out, the sound of gloves and skin and impact echoing in a way that made your stomach twist.
You hated how much the crowd loved it.
But you couldn’t look away from him.
Sukuna moved like a predator.
Not frantic. Not sloppy. Every motion had intent. He slipped a punch like it was nothing, countered with something sharp and clean, forced the other man back with the effortless confidence of someone who knew exactly how much power he had.
Your hands curled in your lap.
You didn’t cheer.
You didn’t smile.
You just watched with a growing knot of worry that made your throat tight.
Because you’d seen bruises on him before and you’d realized, somewhere in the middle of counting pills and fixing curls, that you didn’t like the idea of anyone hurting him.
Not even if he chose it.
The other fighter rushed him, trying to close distance, and for a second you felt your breath catch—fear flashing through you like a cold splash.
Sukuna didn’t even look panicked.
He caught the clinch, turned it, drove the man back into the fence with brutal efficiency. Not excessive. Not theatrical. Just… decisive.
Your stomach turned.
The referee watched closely.
The crowd screamed.
Sukuna worked—short strikes, pressure, control—and when the other man tried to twist away, Sukuna dragged him down with a takedown so clean it looked like choreography.
You flinched at the sound of bodies hitting canvas.
Then Sukuna was on top, posture low, heavy, controlling. Not wild. Not cruel. Just complete.
It was horrible and mesmerizing all at once.
Your fingers pressed into your palm until you felt your own pulse.
The other fighter struggled. Sukuna adjusted. The referee hovered.
And then—so fast you almost didn’t understand it—Sukuna shifted, locked something in, and the other man tapped.
Tapped.
It was over.
The bell rang again.
The crowd exploded like fireworks.
You sat frozen, heartbeat pounding, relief washing through you so hard it made you dizzy.
Sukuna rose, chest heaving, sweat gleaming under the lights. He looked to the referee, then to his corner, then—like he couldn’t help himself—his gaze cut up toward the VIP section again.
This time, he didn’t just glance.
He stared.
And you felt it—felt the way his attention wrapped around you, heavy and sure, like a hand at your waist.
Then he smirked.
Like he’d done it for you.
Your cheeks warmed, even as your stomach still churned.
The officials swarmed him. His team surrounded him. Someone lifted his arm. Cameras flashed.
You sat there, a soft thing in a loud world, trying to steady your breathing, trying to convince yourself you hadn’t just watched a man win a fight and felt… something embarrassingly close to pride.
Around you, people stood and toasted and laughed.
Mika texted you a single message:
HE WINNING???
You stared at your phone, then at the cage, then back again.
You typed:
Yes. He’s okay.
You paused, then added:
I think.
Your phone buzzed with her reply almost instantly.
GO FIX HIS BRUISES, ROMANTIC DOCTOR LADY.
You didn’t reply.
Because your heart was still trying to climb out of your chest.
A few minutes later, movement stirred in the VIP corridor again.
Sukuna appeared, freshly towelled off but still damp, still warm with adrenaline. He had a new bruise blooming along his ribs, and his knuckles looked red and sore. There was a faint split at his lip that made something in you ache.
He looked wired.
Alive in a way you didn’t understand.
His eyes found you immediately.
And when he walked over, the crowd noise seemed to dull around the edges, like your world narrowed to the space he took up.
He stopped in front of you, smirk sharp, voice low.
“See?” he said. “Quick.” You stared at the bruise, then at his lip, then up into his eyes. “You’re bleeding,” you murmured.
His grin turned wicked. “You sound worried.” You straightened your shoulders, trying to reclaim professionalism like a shield. “It’s… my job to care about injuries.” He leaned closer, eyes bright. “That’s not your job.” Your breath hitched, very small.
He tapped his lip with a knuckle, as if inviting your gaze. “You gonna fix it?” You swallowed. “Do you have a medic—”
“I do,” he cut in smoothly. “But I wanted you.” Your face heated. You tried to keep your voice calm. “Sukuna, you can’t keep saying things like that.” He smiled like you’d told him a joke. “Why not?”
“Because…” You hesitated, honesty snagging in your throat. “Because it’s not appropriate.” His gaze softened for a split second, then sharpened again with that cocky edge he wore like jewelry. “You still came,” he murmured.
Your lips parted. Closed.
You hated how true that was.
He bent slightly, lowering his mouth closer to your ear, voice dropping into something that made your skin prickle.
“Come over,” he said. “After this.” You blinked, startled. “What?”
“My place.” His eyes held yours, steady and daring. “We’ll have drinks.” You didn’t curse, but you felt like your brain did. “I—” You swallowed. “That’s… that’s not—” Sukuna straightened, smirk returning like a familiar sin. “Relax. I’m not saying we’re getting married.” Your cheeks flamed.
He looked pleased by that too.
“I’m saying,” he continued, voice lazy, “you came all the way here, watched me do my job, and you’ve been staring at my bruises like you want to press kisses on them.” You nearly inhaled wrong. “I have not,” you whispered.
His smile widened, pure menace. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m not,” you lied softly.
He leaned down again, just enough that his voice felt like it brushed your skin. “Come over.” You stared at him—this towering, tattooed man with a split lip and a smug grin, looking at you like you were the prize he’d already claimed.
And you should’ve said no.
You should’ve stood up, thanked him for the ticket, and left.
Instead, your heart beat quietly, insistently, like it had its own agenda.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of your seat.
And Sukuna watched you—patient in the most dangerous way—like he had all the time in the world to wait for your answer.
You heard yourself say it before your brain could intervene. "Okay." The word came out soft, barely more than a breath, like you were afraid if you said it any louder, you'd scare yourself into taking it back.
Sukuna's eyes flashed—something dark and pleased and victorious all at once. "Yeah?" he murmured, leaning closer, like he wanted to make sure he'd heard you right.
You nodded, throat tight. "Just… for a little while." His smile curved slow and dangerous. "Sure," he said, in a tone that suggested he didn't believe the 'little while' part for a second. "Just for a bit." He straightened, offering you his hand.
You stared at it—bruised knuckles, tattoos wrapping around his wrist like they were holding something wild in place—and then you took it.
His palm was warm, rough with calluses, and when his fingers closed around yours, you felt the strength in them. Not crushing. Just… present. Like he could hold on as long as he wanted and you wouldn't be able to pull away.
He helped you stand, and suddenly you were too close to him, the heat of his body radiating through the small space between you. He smelled like sweat and clean skin and something faintly metallic, and it made your head swim.
"You drove here?" he asked.
You nodded. "Yeah."
"Follow me, then." He released your hand slowly, fingers trailing against yours as he let go. "I'm not far." You swallowed and nodded again, not trusting your voice. The walk back through the arena felt surreal—like you were moving through a dream where everything was too bright and too loud and your body didn't quite belong to you. Sukuna walked ahead, glancing back every few steps like he was making sure you hadn't bolted.
You hadn't.
But you thought about it.
Your car was parked in the lot, and when you unlocked it with shaking hands, Sukuna leaned against the driver's side door of a sleek black car a few spaces down—something expensive and low to the ground that looked like it had opinions about speed limits.
"You good?" he called over.
You looked at him across the parking lot, standing there like he owned the asphalt, and your stomach flipped. "Yeah," you called back, voice steadier than you felt.
He smirked. "Don't get lost." Then he slid into his car, and the engine purred to life—a low, rumbling sound that you felt in your chest. You got into your own car, gripping the steering wheel like it might anchor you to reality, and watched as he pulled out of the lot.
You followed.
The drive wasn't long, but every minute of it felt like your nerves were being pulled tighter and tighter, wound around a spool that was running out of thread. You kept your eyes on his taillights, your mind racing with a thousand thoughts that all contradicted each other.
This is a bad idea.
This is exciting.
You should turn around.
You don't want to turn around.
He's your patient.
He's not your patient right now.
Your hands tightened on the wheel.
The city lights blurred past, and then you were pulling into an underground garage—concrete and steel and the echo of your engine cutting off as you parked beside him. Sukuna was already out of his car, waiting, hands in his pockets like he had all the patience in the world now that you were here.
You got out slowly, clutching your purse like it might protect you from your own decisions.
He tilted his head toward the elevator. "Come on." You followed him across the garage, your footsteps too loud in the quiet space, and when he pressed the button for the elevator, you stood beside him in silence.
The doors opened with a soft chime.
You stepped inside.
He followed, and the space immediately felt smaller—too warm, too close. He pressed a button near the top of the panel, and the elevator began to rise.
You watched the numbers climb.
15… 20… 25…
Your heart climbed with them.
When the doors finally opened, you stepped out into a hallway that was all clean lines and soft lighting, and Sukuna led you to a door at the end.
He unlocked it with a keycard, pushed it open, and stepped aside.
"After you," he said, voice low and amused, like he knew exactly how nervous you were.
You stepped inside and stopped.
The penthouse was… enormous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, showcasing the city sprawled out below like a carpet of lights. The space was open—sleek, modern, expensive in a way that didn't need to announce itself. Dark hardwood floors, minimalist furniture in shades of black and gray, a kitchen with marble countertops that gleamed under recessed lighting.
It was beautiful.
And it felt… empty.
Not physically—there was furniture, art on the walls, a massive sectional sofa that looked like it had never been sat on—but emotionally. Like no one really lived here. Like it was a space designed to impress, not to comfort.
Your apartment was small and cozy, full of throw blankets and plants and mismatched mugs. It smelled like vanilla candles and old books. It felt like home.
This felt like a showroom.
"You like it?" Sukuna's voice came from behind you, and you turned to find him watching you with that same unreadable expression. "It's… big," you said softly, because you didn't know how to say It's beautiful but it doesn't feel like you without sounding presumptuous.
He smirked. "That's what she said." You blinked at him, and despite everything—despite your nerves and the surreal nature of being here—you felt a laugh bubble up in your throat.
You tried to suppress it.
Failed.
It came out as a soft, helpless giggle, and Sukuna's smirk widened into something that looked almost like a real smile. "There she is," he murmured, stepping closer. "I was wondering if you were gonna stay scared all night."
"I'm not scared," you said, even though your pulse was racing. "Liar." He moved past you into the kitchen, and you watched as he opened the fridge—a massive stainless steel thing that probably cost more than your car. "What do you want to drink?" You hesitated. "Um… water?" He glanced at you over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Water."
"Yes."
"You sure? I've got—" He rattled off a list of things you barely registered, your brain too busy trying to keep up with the fact that you were in Sukuna's penthouse, alone, at night, after watching him fight. "Water's fine," you said, voice a little firmer. He shrugged, pulling out a bottle of water and a bright blue Gatorade for himself. He poured your water into a glass—actual glass, not plastic—and handed it to you.
Your fingers brushed his as you took it, and the contact sent a little spark up your arm.
"Thanks," you murmured.
He twisted the cap off his Gatorade and took a long drink, his throat working as he swallowed, and you found yourself staring at the line of his neck, the way his tattoos disappeared under the collar of his shirt.
You looked away quickly, taking a sip of your own water.
"Sit," he said, nodding toward the sectional.
You moved toward it, perching on the edge of one of the cushions like you might need to run at any moment. The leather was soft and cool under your thighs, and you set your glass down on the coffee table—a slab of dark wood that looked like it had been carved from a single tree.
Sukuna dropped onto the couch beside you—not across from you, not at a polite distance, but right beside you, close enough that his thigh almost touched yours.
You felt the heat of him immediately.
"So," he said, leaning back and draping one arm along the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing your shoulder. "You gonna tell me what you thought?"
"About what?" you asked, even though you knew.
His smile was slow and wicked. "The fight." You looked down at your hands, folded in your lap. "It was… intense."
"Intense," he repeated, like he was tasting the word. "That's it?" You glanced at him. "I don't like violence."
"I know." His gaze was steady, unrepentant. "But you watched anyway." Your cheeks warmed. "You asked me to."
"And you came." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Why?" You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I don't know."
"Liar," he said again, softer this time, and his fingers brushed against your shoulder—just a whisper of contact, but it made your breath hitch.
"I'm not—"
"You are." He shifted closer, and now his thigh was pressed against yours, solid and warm. "You know exactly why you came." Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. "Sukuna—"
"Say it," he murmured, and his hand moved from your shoulder to your hair, fingers threading through your curls with a gentleness that didn't match the intensity in his eyes. "Say why you came." You stared at him, at the bruise on his cheekbone and the split in his lip and the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
"Because you asked me to," you whispered, his smile was slow and satisfied. "Good girl." The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you hated how much you liked the sound of them in his voice. His hand slid from your hair to your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. "You're so fucking sweet," he murmured, almost to himself. "It's gonna ruin me."
You didn't know what to say to that.
So you didn't say anything.
You just sat there, frozen, as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly.
You should have.
You should have said stop and this is a bad idea and I need to go home.
But you didn't.
You just looked at him, your lips parted, your breath coming too fast.
And Sukuna smiled like he'd won something— his thumb traced your lower lip, and your breath caught.
"You're not gonna tell me to stop, are you?" he murmured.
You shook your head, just barely.
"Fuck," he breathed, and then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was nothing like you'd imagined—not that you'd been imagining it, except you had, you absolutely had—it was rough and hungry and tasted faintly of blood from his split lip. His hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you in place as he kissed you like he'd been thinking about it for days.
You made a soft sound against his mouth, and he groaned in response, his other hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer.
You went.
Your hands found his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt, the heat of his skin, and you kissed him back with a desperation that should have embarrassed you but didn't. He pulled you into his lap with an ease that made your head spin, and suddenly you were straddling him, your thighs on either side of his, your hands braced on his shoulders.
"Fuck, look at you," he muttered, pulling back just enough to take you in—your flushed cheeks, your swollen lips, the way your chest was rising and falling with quick breaths. "You're so fucking pretty." You opened your mouth to respond, but he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your shirt.
You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his hips shifting beneath you in a way that made you acutely aware of how hard he was. "Sukuna," you breathed, and his name in your voice seemed to do something to him.
He groaned, low and rough, and his hands moved to your hips, grinding you down against him. The friction made you whimper, and he did it again, harder this time, his mouth moving to your neck. "You have no idea," he muttered against your skin, teeth grazing your throat, "how long I've been thinking about this."
Your head fell back, giving him access, and his mouth was hot and demanding, sucking marks into your skin that you'd have to cover tomorrow.
Tomorrow felt very far away.
His hands slid under your shirt, palms rough and warm against your bare skin, and you arched into his touch.
"Bedroom," he growled against your neck. "Now." You nodded, breathless, and he stood with you still wrapped around him, your legs locking around his waist as he carried you across the penthouse.
You should have felt self-conscious—about your weight, about how desperate you must look—but Sukuna held you like you weighed nothing, his hands firm on your ass, his mouth still working against your neck. He kicked open a door and carried you inside, and you had a brief impression of a massive bed and more floor-to-ceiling windows before he was laying you down on the mattress. You looked up at him, breathless and flushed, and he stood over you for a moment, just looking.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he muttered, and then he was on you again, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that made you feel safe and trapped all at once.
His hands were everywhere—pulling off your shirt, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, sliding your jeans down your legs until you were bare beneath him except for your panties. He sat back on his heels, looking at you spread out on his bed, and his expression was something between reverent and predatory.
"Fuck," he breathed.
You resisted the urge to cover yourself, your hands fisting in the sheets instead.
He pulled his own shirt over his head, and you got your first real look at him—all hard muscle and ink, tattoos covering his chest and arms in intricate patterns that you wanted to trace with your fingers.
You reached up, tentative, and he caught your hand, bringing it to his chest.
"Touch me," he said, voice rough.
So you did.
Your fingers traced the lines of his tattoos, the hard planes of his muscles, and he watched you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.
When your hand drifted lower, brushing the waistband of his pants, he caught your wrist.
"Not yet," he said. "You first." And then he was kissing his way down your body—your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. His mouth closed over one nipple, and you arched off the bed with a gasp.
He hummed in approval, his hand sliding down your stomach to the waistband of your panties. "Can I?" he asked, and the fact that he asked—that he paused to make sure—made something in your chest tighten. "Yes," you breathed.
He hooked his fingers in the fabric and pulled them down, tossing them aside, and then you were completely bare before him. He settled between your thighs, his shoulders forcing your legs wider, and you felt exposed and vulnerable and so turned on you could barely think.
"So fucking pretty," he muttered, and then his mouth was on you.
You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, and he groaned against you, the vibration making your hips buck. He ate you out like he was starving, his tongue and fingers working in tandem, and you were already so wound up that it didn't take long before you were trembling on the edge.
"Sukuna," you gasped, "I'm—"
"Come," he growled against you. "Come on my tongue." And you did, your orgasm crashing over you in waves that made your vision white out, your thighs clamping around his head as you shook apart.
He worked you through it, only pulling back when you whimpered from oversensitivity.
When you finally came back to yourself, he was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Good?" he asked, voice smug.
You couldn't even form words. You just nodded, breathless and boneless.
He chuckled, low and dark, and then he was stripping off the rest of his clothes.
When he was finally naked, you couldn't help but stare.
He was… big. Everywhere.
Your eyes widened slightly, and he noticed, his smirk widening. "Don't worry," he said, crawling back over you. "I'll make it fit."
You were on your hands and knees on his bed, your back arched, your face pressed into the expensive sheets that smelled like him—clean and sharp and male. Sukuna was behind you, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other wrapped around your front, his fingers working your clit in tight, relentless circles.
And he was fucking you.
Hard.
Deep.
Fast enough that you couldn't catch your breath, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but take it and moan and feel. "Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned in your ear, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck. "So fucking perfect." You whimpered, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he thrust harder, the sound of skin against skin obscenely loud in the quiet room. "You like that?" he muttered, his fingers pressing harder against your clit. "You like me fucking you like this?"
"Yes," you gasped, the word barely coherent. "Yes, oh, yes—" He groaned, low and rough, and his hips snapped forward again, burying himself so deep you saw stars. Your second orgasm was building already, coiling tight in your belly, and you could feel yourself getting wetter, could hear it in the slick sounds of him moving inside you.
"That's it," he growled. "Fuck, you're dripping for me. You gonna come again? Gonna come on my cock?" You nodded frantically, beyond words, and his fingers moved faster, his thrusts harder, and you were right there, right on the edge— And then he laughed.
Not a cruel laugh. Not mocking.
Just… amused.
"Fuck," he said, his rhythm faltering for just a second. "I forgot to take my meds." Your brain, fogged with pleasure, took a moment to process that, and then you felt him shift, his body leaning away from yours slightly, and you heard the sound of a pill bottle opening. You turned your head, dazed and disbelieving, and watched as Sukuna—still inside you, still hard, still moving in slow, lazy thrusts—popped open his prescription bottle with one hand.
He shook two pills into his palm, tossed them into his mouth, and then reached for the water bottle on his nightstand.
He took a drink, swallowed, and set the bottle back down.
All while still fucking you.
"Sukuna," you groaned, half scandalized, half delirious. "Are you serious right now?" He leaned back down, his chest pressing against your back again, his mouth right against your ear. "What?" he murmured, his voice full of dark amusement. "You told me to take them at the same time every day." You made a sound that was half laugh, half moan, because this was obscene and inappropriate and somehow the hottest thing that had ever happened to you.
"You're insane," you gasped. “Yeah," he agreed, and then he thrust hard, making you cry out. "But you like it." You couldn't argue with that.
His hand returned to your clit, and his pace picked up again, faster now, harder, and you were so close you could taste it. "Did I do a good job?" he growled in your ear, his voice rough and possessive. "Taking my meds like a good boy?" You whimpered, nodding frantically. "Say it," he demanded, his fingers pressing harder. "Tell me I did a good job."
"You did," you gasped. “God, Sukuna, you did so good—" He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back, and his thrusts became almost punishing, chasing his own release now. "Gonna fill you up," he muttered. "Gonna make you come one more time and then fill this pretty pussy up. You want that?"
"Yes," you sobbed, because you were so close, so fucking close— "Then come," he growled. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it." And you did.
Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your whole body seizing, your walls clamping down around him so hard he cursed. "Fuck, fuck, yes—" He thrust twice more, hard and deep, and then he was coming too, groaning your name into your neck as he spilled inside you.
You collapsed forward onto the bed, and he followed you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress, both of you breathing hard.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Then Sukuna shifted, pulling out slowly, and you whimpered at the loss.
He rolled onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest still heaving.
You turned your head to look at him, your body still trembling with aftershocks. "You really just took your meds in the middle of sex," you said, your voice hoarse.
He lowered his arm and looked at you, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Yeah," he said. "I did." You stared at him for a moment.
And then you started laughing.
You couldn't help it—it was absurd and ridiculous and so perfectly him that you couldn't do anything but laugh, your body shaking with it.
Sukuna watched you, his grin softening into something that looked almost fond.
"You're fucking cute," he muttered.
You were still laughing, breathless and spent and completely wrecked, when he pulled you against his chest, and for the first time since you'd met him, Sukuna looked like a peaceful menace, a menace you had to refill his prescription in 2 weeks.
But maybe the only medication he needed was just his pharmacist.
this was a brain rot idea I had like a long time ago, you're welcome😩
one: birthday blowjob and bad backshots | chapter index
you left him before. can you leave him again with a baby on the way?
synopsis: divorcing a stubborn dickhead like Ryomen Sukuna was probably the most difficult thing you ever had to do. but what were you supposed to do when your husband had practically become a stranger considering most days he spent more time at work than he did at home? and when he was home, half the time he'd rather sleep on the couch than in your bed? you didn't hate him. but you didn't love him anymore either. maybe you would have moved on. but when one last night together ends up with more than just a memory after you get two little lines on a pregnancy test, you discover you might not be able to get rid of him after all.
pairing: ex-husband!sukuna x pregnant!reader (also featuring best friend!geto)
content: mdni, smut and angst, some domestic fluff, divorced-to-remarried, complicated relationships, messy feelings, accidental pregnancy, unprotected piv sex, creampie, pining, so much regret, misunderstandings, breaking up and making up, gruff and grumpy sukuna who misses his wife, soft geto trying to steal her from him, reader feeling neglected
a/n: lovely art by @winterrbluess !! part of my community event <3
"Wrong hole."
That was really what you got for fucking your ex-husband two months after the divorce.
His dick prodding at your asshole, his mouth warm on your neck as he groaned a slurred sorry into your skin. How many times, exactly, had you heard that before?
It was all the same with Sukuna.
He wasn't exactly the sort of man who could change.
And yet, you were still on all fours for him, on the plush mattress in his new apartment, letting him re-angle himself against your unfortunately still-slick pussy before shoving it in all the way.
It burned.
Blurred the lines of the past and the present, threatened to break you when he split you open with his messy thrust, fat tip smushed and grinding against your womb as he dragged his tongue across a sensitive spot he'd been sucking on earlier.
This was really a new low.
You couldn't recall the last time the two of you had even fucked. Was it his birthday?
Back when he came stumbling home from another late shift, grumbling and bitching about an idiotic investor that he refused to suck up to? You vaguely recalled sucking him off on the couch instead, his thick thighs spread apart as his girth kept bumping into the roof of your mouth, nodding along as he complained. He crashed right after he came down your throat, falling asleep with his head tilted back, tie not even completely taken off and his zipper still down.
You had just tossed a blanket on him before brushing your teeth and going to sleep back in the bed. The fancy dinner you cooked him already put up in containers in the fridge. His birthday cake untouched, candles left unlit.
Yeah, you guessed that had probably been it.
If it counted.
You filed for separation not that long later. Moved all your stuff out into your own apartment without a word, neatly split up all the accounts and left the papers on the counter for him to find with a card for your lawyer that he could contact with any questions.
No kids to argue over. No pets. Nothing but a house that had stopped feeling like home forever ago.
His number was blocked. His photos were erased.
All the albums were left behind, from the first year where you were both still stupid teenagers who thought the future was so far away to the ones of the wedding you now wished had never happened. All the sentimental stuff you'd been saving stuck in his custody, stacked in boxes to collect stale air.
You wanted a fresh start.
Not to get fucked by him in the fancy penthouse you guessed was his brand new bachelor pad.
He tried to leave you the house in the divorce, offered you a frankly ridiculous amount of alimony when it didn't work, making bids like it would get you to talk to him, letters he had delivered through his lawyer to yours that you never read.
But you were sick of being tied to him.
Not that anyone would believe it when you were being stretched past the brim by him now, the filthy fucking smacks of his balls against your skin and the thumps of the headboard hitting the wall drowning out the sorrow you were still stewing in.
The sex was starving and sloppy, all that big tough talk and bravado from the Sukuna you used to know replaced with drunk, sappy bullshit you didn't believe.
"I fuckin' love you, baby," he groaned, grinding his molars before he bit down on the nape of your neck, holding you there while you went stiff at the words. Pointedly aware it would probably be the last time you'd hear them. Making another promise to yourself that you wouldn't be in this position again. "I missed you so goddamn much."
The silence was palpable.
Painfully present underneath the rough sound of his hips slamming into your ass, biting your bottom lip to stop yourself from saying anything back.
It would be a lie to say you loved him back.
You didn't remember the day you stopped.
Your affection died a slow death. Pieces of your heart chipped away with each missed date, each day that passed where your messages were missed, every damn time he forgot to kiss you before he went to work. Distance just sort of did that.
And Sukuna was simply a hard man to put up with even when he wasn't around. You weren't exactly easy either, but you knew when to call it at least, when to stop clinging to something that obviously wasn't working.
"Why the fuck did you leave me?" He grunted, rutting in faster, as if this was the time to talk about the dissolution of your relationship. You guessed maybe he was thinking about it too. Replaying the good and the bad trying to find a way to deal with how things were.
"Don't act like you don't know," you hissed back, biting your lip hard as you felt his teeth skimming back over your throat, his greedy hands gripping your hip harder as he tried to remind you what every ridge of his cock felt like.
"I just fuckin' came home, and you were gone."
You wished you could believe he was half as gutted as he sounded.
He probably just missed having his laundry done and food ready for him even if it was cold by the time he ate it. You wouldn't be surprised if it had taken him a week or two to even piece together that you weren't there.
"Surprised you noticed," you sarcastically mumbled, and he let out a low ha that ate at you more than it should. Clawed its way under your skin as you ignored the hurt in it.
"God, you're so fuckin'-" He started, groaning as he tried to shift his fingers down to your clit, rubbing it with no real rhythm. You flinched at his touch, sucking on the inside of your cheek.
"What?" You dared him to finish.
"Frustrating," he spat.
His fingers twitched over the sensitive bud, your knees digging deeper into the mattress and threatening to buckle as he buried himself even deeper into your pussy, the one that used to belong to him before everything ended up so screwed.
He finished in his own way, warm ropes of cum filling you up no matter how frustrating he thought you were. Still playing with your clit, massaging it in harder, faster, and you just let out a fake moan, content to play along to fulfill what he wanted once more.
For old times' sake.
You didn't really blame him. Not totally.
A lifetime ago, you'd taken each other's virginity in the backseat of his car, listening to him grunt and grumble while he clumsily tried to make his dick fit inside you. Neither of you had any other partners. Slept around to see what you liked, what you wanted. Just did what you could to make what you already had work.
And now you both knew that it wasn't that easy.
So what if he didn't make you cum?
Sukuna pulled out, his cum still leaking out, his tip smearing what dripped against your ass as you tried to hide your disappointment.
"Was there someone else?" He asked, his thumb running over the thick stuff. "Some asshole try to steal you from-"
"No," you crudely cut him off, your thighs aching and muscles tensing as his weight shifted off the bed.
"I don't fucking understand," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as you rolled off the other side.
You felt out-of-place. Not totally understanding yourself either as you shuffled on your feet. He was already starting towards the open door of the attached bathroom.
Maybe finally starting to see this stalemate for what it was.
"I was gonna clean you up," he gruffly muttered, and you weakly shrugged your shoulders, brushing past him to turn on his shower.
You didn't answer him when you stepped inside it.
Just let the warm water wash away his cum, scrubbing your skin like you could remove any sign of him being there.
He got in behind you, his hands trying to sneak back onto your waist, to drift across your stomach and use the bar of soap as an excuse to touch you more, but he still seemed to miss the obvious.
You couldn't go back.
Even if you allowed yourself to sleep next to him in a new bed, curled up on the blanket as far from him as you could get, ignoring his whispered attempts at reconciliation in your ear as he tried to tuck you back against your chest, dozing off to the sound of him asking for a reason you were sick of spelling out.
This was the most attention you'd get from him.
He was too selfish to see that you couldn't let your world revolve around him again. Too conceited to accept that you didn't view your relationship the same way anymore. Didn't need him how he needed you.
And when the morning came, it was you who was sneaking out of his bed, throwing on your clothes and glancing back over your shoulder at him.
You hated how nostalgic you felt watching him snoozing, the sun on his tanned skin, tattoos starting to fade with time as he slept with his forearm half covering his face. Just the shape of his mouth, the tip of his nose peeking out beneath it. His wedding band glinting gold, still marking him as yours when you were trying to snip every tie.
Your own ring was sitting in the bottom of your jewelry box, hidden underneath old necklaces and bracelets, somewhere you didn't have to see it.
Shutting the door softly behind you when you left, purse slung over your shoulder as you scrambled to return back to your own apartment.
He tried to text you. Almost every day, actually, all sent from random numbers like he finally fucking figured out for sure that you blocked him. Funny, wasn't it, that he probably realized that faster than you moving out of your old place?
But leaving him in the past was harder when you missed two periods in a row and had to face the two fucking lines on the four different pregnancy tests you'd taken.
You took the fucking plan B just for it to fail at the worst possible time.
It wasn't like you were stupid enough to think a baby would have ever saved your marriage. But you sincerely doubted it would resurrect something already dead.
Pregnant.
Like, a real fucking fetus growing inside you, one that was half a man you had sworn you wouldn't see again.
What the fuck were you supposed to do?
You poked the croissant in front of you, glaring at the chocolate drizzle like it was responsible for the fact you wouldn't be able to stomach it without getting sick rather than Sukuna's.
Calling in reinforcements in the form of your friends who were already sick of hearing about your ex-husband, sitting in the corner of a coffee shop while you mourned the overpriced, over-caffeinated beverage you were craving.
"What's your problem?" Shoko snorted, rubbing the exhausted rings from her eyes before she brought her coffee to her lips.
"I'm pregnant," you bitterly mumbled, just for her to almost spit it out. Might as well finish ripping off the bandage. "And it's Sukuna's."
Shoko's brown eyes darkened, hand reaching out for the pack of cigarettes on the table before she hesitated and pinched the bridge of her nose instead.
"How far along?" She frowned, pressing for another detail you were embarrassed to confess to. You shrugged your shoulders, like you hadn't done the mental math a hundred times by now. Two months since that night you made the grave mistake of sleeping with him? Give or take a week? "Have you told him?"
"Of course not," you huffed.
Sukuna was insufferable even when he didn't have a reason to be.
If he knew-
"Tell who what?" A warm voice chimed in, a hand grazing over your forearm before Suguru claimed the seat next to yours.
Shoko snorted, and he shot her a half-annoyed glare, dragging his chair closer as the feet of it scraped on the linoleum.
You glanced up at him, already peeling the skin off your cracked lips as you tried to work out how to tell your best friend that the man he told you was bad fucking news far before you ever married him had knocked you up.
But Shoko beat you to it.
"Guess who got her pregnant?"
reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated <3
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yuji x reader | sorcerers | eventual smut | aged up and 18+ | mdni | a reunion meant for love instead awakens an ancient power and pulls Yuji and her into a future neither can walk away from.
part 1
Yuji felt it in his hands first.
Warm. Unsteady. A tremor he couldn’t stop no matter how tightly he curled his fingers together. He told himself it was fine. Being nervous didn’t mean weak. Not when he’d survived worse than this. Not when he’d been broken open by a world that kept collapsing and learned how to keep moving anyway.
Still, none of that mattered when he looked at you.
He had changed since the last time you’d seen him. He knew that. He could feel it in the way his body held itself now, in the quiet vigilance that never really shut off. The world had weathered him, carved him down and rebuilt him rougher. But there had always been a soft place left untouched.
It had always been you.
When he finally saw you again, delight hit him so suddenly it almost hurt. It took longer than it should have to make his feet move, his thoughts scrambling over each other as he watched you from a distance. And then you looked up. Your eyes found him. Recognition lit your face without hesitation.
Relief surged through him, sharp and private. His heart fluttered like it had forgotten how to beat steadily. No one else noticed. No one else needed to.
For a long time, Yuji had believed something simple and impossible at the same time: that no matter where the world scattered you both, he would find you again. It wasn’t something he’d ever said out loud. Just a quiet vow, pressed into the back of his mind, waiting.
Soon, he thought. Soon, I’ll make good on it.
He wanted to take things slow. He really did. But the memory of your paths splitting, of time and distance pulling you out of reach, still sat like a bruise under his ribs. He couldn’t risk another turn like that. Not now. Not when you stood in front of him, changed and brighter and somehow more beautiful than memory had allowed.
Another man would have to pry you from his rigor mortis–set body.
This chance would not slip through his hands again.
He reached for you gently, guiding you by the hand away from the noise, the laughter, the easy familiarity of your friends. Out of earshot. Somewhere quieter. If he stumbled over his words, if he said something wrong, it would be yours alone to hear. Yours alone to forgive. You could laugh about it later. Or not. As long as you stayed.
Questions crowded his mind. Why hadn’t you reached out when you came back to Japan? Were you seeing someone? Had you thought of him at all?
They dissolved as quickly as they came.
He still had the locket you’d given him. Tucked safely away. Proof that something real had existed, still existed, no matter how much time had tried to bury it. That was enough.
“I want to see you tonight,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess them. “We could get dinner. Maybe a movie. Or we could go ice-skating. It’s cold enough to freeze our asses off even harder on the ice.”
He laughed, letting it cover the nervous edge in his voice. His gaze never left your face. Your eyes told a long story, one he was willing to listen to for as long as it took. He just hoped whatever he saw there wouldn’t push you away.
Then he heard it.
The smile in your voice reached him before the words did.
“Yuji,” you said, “I’d love to. We can catch up over dinner.”
Relief crashed into him, heavy and overwhelming. His chest felt too small to contain it. There wasn’t a word for what he felt, not in any language he knew. He’d have to invent one later.
“Great,” he said, trying and failing to sound normal. “Is your number still the same? I’ll call you when I’m ready to pick you up.”
You shook your head. “No, I changed it. Long story. Let me see your phone. I’ll put it in.”
When your fingers brushed his, barely there, it felt like a shock straight through his nervous system. A ghost touch, fleeting and devastating. For a split second, he wondered if anyone could see how far gone he was.
But he didn’t fumble. Somehow, he didn’t fumble.
He got your number right.
He handed the phone back, breath still uneven. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“At seven,” you said.
So final. So certain.
You smiled.
“Perfect,” he replied. “I can’t wait.”
You held his gaze. Bit your lip, just slightly.
Yuji felt something settle in his chest. A decision already made.
Yeah, he thought. I’ve got you this time.
—
By the time seven o’clock crept up on him, Yuji had already checked the time four times and changed his jacket twice.
Too much. Too little. He settled on something simple. Clean lines. Familiar. He wanted you to recognize him, not meet a stranger wearing his clothes.
When he pulled up outside your place, the city looked hushed in that way it only ever did in winter. Streetlights glowed soft and amber, the cold turning every breath into something visible, something honest. He cut the engine and waited, hands resting on the steering wheel, pulse ticking loud in his ears.
Don’t rush her, he told himself. Don’t scare her off.
Then the door opened.
For a moment, he forgot how to move.
You stepped out into the cold like you belonged to it. Wrapped up, hair catching the light, cheeks nipped at by the air. Real. Not a memory smoothing itself out with time, not a dream he’d rehearsed too many nights in a row. You were here. Walking toward him.
Yuji got out of the car without thinking, meeting you halfway. He smiled before he could stop himself, wide and unguarded, the kind that came from someplace deep and unarmored.
“You look…” He stopped, huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. You look really good.”
Understatement of the year. He knew it. You knew it. The way your mouth curved told him so.
Dinner was easy in a way that almost scared him.
You slid into conversation like no time had passed at all, trading stories over warm food and clinking glasses, your laughter filling the small spaces between sentences. Yuji listened more than he spoke, memorizing the cadence of your voice again, the way your expressions shifted when you talked about something you loved.
Every now and then, his knee brushed yours under the table. Accidental. Then less so. Each time, it sent a quiet jolt through him, grounding and electric all at once.
But beneath it all, under the warmth and the nostalgia, something else stirred.
He felt it when the restaurant door opened and cold air rushed in. A prickle at the back of his neck. The instinct that never really shut off anymore. His eyes flicked up automatically, scanning reflections in the window, the corners of the room.
Nothing obvious.
Still, the feeling lingered.
You noticed, of course. You always had.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
Yuji blinked, refocusing on you. On the way your brows pinched just a little with concern. He smiled again, gentler this time.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry. Habit.”
You didn’t press. Just nodded, reaching for your glass. He watched your fingers curl around it and felt that same quiet certainty settle in his chest again.
After dinner, you walked.
The city felt closer at night, sounds muffled by the cold, footsteps echoing faintly against pavement. You walked shoulder to shoulder, close enough that your coats brushed. Yuji kept pace carefully, matching you without thinking, like he’d been doing it his whole life.
At the crosswalk, you stopped. He stopped with you. When the light changed, he reached out, hesitant for half a heartbeat, then took your hand.
You didn’t pull away.
Your fingers fit like they remembered him.
Yuji exhaled slowly, breath fogging the air. He told himself to savor it. Just this. The warmth of you, the simple miracle of walking forward together.
But somewhere, deep and quiet, something watched.
He didn’t let it touch his face. Not tonight.
Tonight was yours.
And as you leaned closer to him, laughing at something he said, Yuji made himself another promise. Not whispered. Not fragile.
Whatever tried to reach for you next would have to go through him first.
And nothing survived that.
—
You felt it before you understood it.
At first, it was nothing more than a pressure change, like the air had thickened around your shoulders. Winter did strange things to sound, to space. You told yourself that was all it was. The city settling. Your nerves waking up after a long, good night.
Yuji’s hand was warm in yours. Solid. Familiar in a way that tugged at something old and sweet in your chest. He was mid-sentence, smiling at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, when the feeling sharpened.
Not fear.
Attention.
You slowed without meaning to. Yuji slowed too, instantly, like your bodies were tuned to the same frequency.
“You feel that?” you asked quietly.
He didn’t answer right away.
His grip tightened. Not painful. Protective. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles, a grounding touch that said stay with me.
“…Yeah,” he said. His voice had changed. Softer. Flatter. Focused. “I was hoping it was just me.”
The street was empty ahead of you. Too empty. The lights buzzed faintly, halos trembling in the cold. Somewhere nearby, metal creaked. A sign swinging without wind.
Your chest felt tight, like a held breath.
“What is it?” you asked.
Yuji didn’t look at you. His eyes tracked the shadows between buildings, the reflections in dark windows. His jaw set in a way you hadn’t seen tonight. In a way that belonged to someone who had learned how to survive.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he said gently.
You stopped walking.
“Yuji.”
He did look at you then.
For a split second, you saw it. Not panic. Resolve. Something fierce and deliberate settling into place behind his eyes.
“I promise,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
It showed itself the way cowards always did.
Not with teeth or noise or spectacle. Just a wrongness. A ripple in the air that didn’t match the night. Yuji felt it slide closer, testing, curious. Like it had caught the scent of something rare.
Of you.
His blood went cold and hot at the same time.
He shifted subtly, stepping half a pace in front of you without breaking the line of your joined hands. His body already knew what to do, even as his heart protested.
Not tonight.
Not her.
The curse lingered at the edge of perception, coiled and patient. Stronger than the small ones. Smart enough to wait. Yuji could almost feel its gaze scraping over him, dismissive.
A mistake.
He breathed out slowly through his nose, grounding himself. If he let his energy flare too fast, you’d feel it. You’d know. And he wasn’t ready for you to see that part of him yet. Not like this.
So he chose precision.
A quiet flex of intent. A narrowing of focus. The world seemed to pull inward, the street dimming at the edges like a lens closing.
Go, he thought.
Before I make you.
The curse hesitated.
Then it made the wrong move.
The streetlight above you shattered.
Glass rained down in a sudden, violent shimmer, hitting the pavement with sharp, echoing cracks. You gasped, instinctively stumbling back.
Yuji moved.
One second he was beside you, the next he was everywhere. An arm around your shoulders, turning you, shielding you, his body a barrier without hesitation. Something slammed into the space where you’d been standing, invisible but heavy, distorting the air like heat over asphalt.
“Yuji—!” you started.
“Don’t look,” he said, low and immediate.
Too late.
You felt it. The pressure. The wrongness snapping into clarity, like a migraine behind the eyes. Your breath hitched as something ancient and buried stirred in response, recognizing the threat before your mind could catch up.
Yuji felt it too.
His eyes widened just a fraction.
…So that’s what you are.
The curse recoiled as if burned.
Yuji didn’t waste the opening.
He stepped forward, power unfurling with terrifying efficiency. The night seemed to bend around him, shadows dragged sharp and obedient. His strike was fast, decisive, and final, the air cracking with the force of it.
Silence followed.
The kind that rang.
Yuji stood there for a moment longer than necessary, shoulders rising and falling once. Then he turned back to you, all the sharpness draining out of him at once.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Your heart was hammering. Your hands shook. But you were whole.
“No,” you said. Then, quieter, “Yuji… what was that?”
He searched your face, clearly weighing something. Truth against timing. Honesty against fear.
Finally, he reached out, cupping your cheek with a hand that was still warm, still steady.
“I was hoping,” he admitted softly, “I’d get more time before I had to explain.”
Your pulse thrummed against his palm. Beneath the fear, beneath the shock, something else burned bright and unmistakable.
Recognition.
Whatever had just awakened inside you leaned toward him like it always had.
“Looks like,” you said, voice barely steady, “we have a lot to catch up on.”
Yuji let out a breath that was half a laugh, half surrender.
“…Yeah,” he said. “Guess dinner was just the beginning.”
You didn’t go home after that.
Neither of you said it outright. Yuji just asked, quietly, if you wanted to walk somewhere warmer. Somewhere private. You nodded, still buzzing, still too aware of how close he stood to you now, like distance itself had become negotiable.
His place was modest. Clean. Lived-in. The kind of space that held silence carefully. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, glancing at you like he was checking you were still real.
“You want tea?” he asked. “Or… something stronger.”
“Tea’s fine.”
You sat while he moved around the kitchen, familiar and distant at the same time. The quiet stretched, but it didn’t strain. It felt like an old song picking up where it left off.
Your gaze wandered. Shelves. A window cracked just enough to let the cold whisper in. Then you saw it.
The locket.
It hung from a hook near the door, dulled by time but unmistakable. Your breath caught.
“You still have it,” you said.
Yuji froze.
For a moment, he didn’t turn around. When he did, his expression was careful, almost bare.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
You stood without thinking, crossing the room. Your fingers brushed the metal, memory sparking like static.
You were younger then. Softer. Sitting on a train platform with him, knees drawn up, pressing it into his palm like it was something fragile and holy.
So you don’t forget me, you’d said.
Like that could ever happen, he’d replied, laughing, earnest in a way that had terrified you.
“I thought you might’ve thrown it away,” you admitted.
He shook his head immediately. “Never.”
The word landed heavier than it should have.
He stepped closer. Not touching. Just near enough that you could feel him. Heat and gravity.
“You left without saying goodbye,” he said quietly. No accusation. Just truth. “I waited. For a long time.”
Your chest tightened. “I didn’t think I could stay. And if I heard your voice again, I don’t think I would’ve gone.”
Yuji swallowed. His jaw worked once.
“Yeah,” he said. “That sounds like you.”
Silence settled between you, thick with all the things you hadn’t survived yet.
The tea went untouched.
You sat on opposite ends of the couch at first. That didn’t last.
Yuji told you pieces. Not everything. Enough. Training that never seemed to end. Loss that piled up until it stopped feeling sharp and started feeling inevitable. The way he’d learned to live with a constant sense of threat, like the world was always half a second from biting.
You told him about leaving. About the dreams you couldn’t explain. The way mirrors sometimes felt wrong. The way anger came too easily when someone crossed a line.
“You ever feel like,” you said slowly, “there’s something inside you that doesn’t belong to the life you’re living?”
Yuji looked at you for a long moment.
“…Yeah,” he said. “Every day.”
The air shifted again. Subtler this time. Intimate. The space between your knees disappeared without either of you acknowledging it. His hand brushed your thigh. Didn’t move away.
“You should be scared,” he said softly. “Of what you felt tonight.”
You tilted your head. “Are you?”
His mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. “Of you? No.”
That was the moment.
The one where the past stopped being a memory and became a weight pressing forward. His hand slid to your waist, hesitant for only a heartbeat before settling there like it belonged.
“You don’t get to disappear again,” he murmured. Not a threat. A need. “I won’t do that twice.”
Your pulse throbbed under your skin. Something dark and coiled stirred in response, pleased by the possessiveness, by the certainty in his voice.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said.
The lie tasted sweet.
He kissed you like he’d been waiting years. Slow at first. Reverent. Then deeper, hunger threading through it, the restraint cracking under the pressure of everything unsaid. His hands were firm now, grounding you, like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.
The room seemed to dim around you, shadows stretching, responding to something neither of you fully named.
@nvgumo tell me what you think if you decide to read this <3 ily
