bullet ballet

sukuna laughs again, low and full. “aw, shit. that was adorable.”

you shoot him a look. glare weak, eyes watery.

“you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, already brushing your back, soothing in a way that shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

“i’m fine,” you mumble, embarrassed. your voice cracks.

he grins again, mouth all smug and soft. “wanna try again?”

“…maybe.”

he watches you this time. doesn’t say anything when you steal another puff, smaller this time. still a little rough. still not good. but you don’t choke. not as bad, anyway.

“attagirl,” he says, and something in your stomach twists.

you hand it back.

“tastes weird,” you admit.

“you’ll get used to it.” he takes another hit, exhales toward the sky. then he glances over. “bet you’d like it better from my mouth.”

your heart skips.

“w-what?”

he shrugs, casual. “shotgun. ever tried?”

you shake your head.

he taps ash into an old beer can on the railing, then takes one more drag. when he looks back at you, it’s all heat.

“c’mere,” he says again, voice lower. slower. “i’ll show you.”

and you do. you hesitate, which only makes him smirk deeper. cocky. knowing. like he can feel your pulse skipping through your wrist.

“relax,” sukuna murmurs, voice thick with smoke. “just open your mouth for me.”

you shouldn’t listen. you know that. but your lips part before you can think twice.

he steps in closer. impossibly close. one arm braces against the railing beside your head, his other hand holding the joint with two lazy fingers, almost burned down now. the smoke clings to him, to the collar of his shirt, to his breath. he brings it to his lips again, inhales slow—then leans down before he exhales, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger like he’s done this a hundred times.

his mouth barely grazes yours.

and then he breathes it out.

warm smoke floods your mouth, your lungs. it’s smoother than before, still hazy, but your focus is too scrambled to register the burn. because sukuna’s lips are hovering over yours, eyes half-lidded, watching you like he’s already undressed you with his gaze.

you swallow, hard. his mouth lingers, breath mingling with yours, lips not quite touching.

“good girl,” he says, so low it’s almost a growl.

your stomach flips violently. the praise settles between your thighs like heat.

“see?” he adds, thumb dragging down the curve of your jaw. “tastes better like that, doesn’t it?”

you nod. or try to. it’s barely a motion, just enough to make him grin again.

“one more?” he offers, already moving in again, like he doesn’t need your answer.

and this time—this time when he exhales, your lips brush. soft. smoky.

he’s not kissing you. not really. but it feels like one anyway.

your knees wobble. his mouth hovers again, so fucking close.

and then he licks his lips. eyes flick down to your parted ones. waits.

“you wanna taste me again?” he asks, almost amused. “or you gonna be shy on me now, sweetheart?”

you don’t realize how warm you are until you’re back inside. maybe it’s the way the room tilts a little. not enough to scare you, just enough to feel like the floor’s moving soft beneath your socks. maybe it’s the bass still thumping through the walls. maybe it’s him, still pressed against your side.

you’re not even high, really.

just… warm. tingly. floaty. like a fizzy drink. like your mouth tastes like smoke and sugar and you’re not sure if it’s from the shotgunning or just him.

he doesn’t move away. his hand finds the small of your back when you wobble slightly. not to steady you. just to touch.

“you good?” he asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

you nod. too quickly. then blink up at him.

and then—god help you—you giggle.

his brow arches. “oh?”

you don’t even know what’s funny. the way his shirt’s positioned? the way his necklace dangles right at your eyeline? the way your body feels like it’s made of candlewax?

you can’t stop staring at his mouth.

and he knows it.

“you’re high,” he says, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

you shake your head. “no,” you whisper, though you sound more breathless than you mean to. “just a little… floaty.”

he hums. fingers brushing your side, lower now.

“floaty,” he echoes. “that what we’re calling it?”

you nod again. but slower this time. eyes still locked on his mouth like it’s the only solid thing in the room.

“you’re staring,” he murmurs.

“m’not.”

“mmhm.”

you’re still staring. especially when his tongue flicks across his lip, like he’s daring you to do something about it.

and—god. you do.

you lean in.

not a kiss. not yet. just close. your nose grazes his. your breath catches. your hand fists the front of his shirt like you need something to hold onto, and his eyes flicker, half-lidded.

“you’re actin’ different,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something low and amused.

“noooo,” you whisper, lashes fluttering.

“no?” his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you snug against him.

“you’re just… really sexy,” you say. it slips out too fast. too soft. the moment it leaves your mouth, your eyes widen in horror.

he laughs. full-on.

you cover your face with both hands, mortified.

he pulls them down, gently.

“don’t hide,” he says, grinning now. “i like this version of you. high and horny.”

your mouth drops open. “am not—”

“baby,” he interrupts, dipping his head until your noses bump, “you’re grinding on my thigh.”

you freeze.

then blink down.

you are. barely. just a little. soft and slow, like you didn’t even notice. and now your hands fly back up to your face.

he groans, deep in his chest.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice ragged. “you’re gonna kill me.”

he presses a thigh up firmer between your legs and watches your lashes flutter.

“damn,” he murmurs, pulling your leg over his lap, “who knew my girl just needed a little smoke to show me how she really is.”

you squirm, half-embarrassed, half still riding whatever fuzzy, low-buzz high is humming in your limbs. you press your face into his shoulder, but he’s already grinning, hand dragging up the inside of your thigh like it’s second nature.

“don’t get all shy now,” he teases, voice dipped in that lazy charm. “too late for that.”

your legs tighten around him.

and he feels it.

he groans under his breath, head falling back for a second like he’s collecting himself, before his eyes drop back to you—a little heavy, a little wild.

“bathroom,” he says.

you blink. “what?”

“bathroom,” he repeats, already shifting you off his lap, steadying you when you stumble slightly. “unless you wanna grind my thigh in front of the whole fuckin’ party.”

your eyes widen, heat climbing up your cheeks. but your hand still finds his, fingers lacing without thinking.

the walk is a blur. music thudding behind you, hallway lights too bright. you barely notice people talking. laughing. someone calls his name but he doesn’t answer, just tugs you down the hall, his hand firm on your waist like he owns it.

you hadn’t even realized how bad it’d gotten until he locked the bathroom door behind you.

until the echo of the party vanished, muffled through tile walls and music-thick floors, leaving you both in this tiny, hazy space that smelled like weed and faded cologne and something sweeter—him. you were dizzy. not just high, not just warm from the smoke still coating the back of your throat, but dizzy from the way he’d been looking at you all night. since the shotgun. since the way your lips had brushed and you’d looked up at him with glassy eyes, pupils blown wide.

you don’t remember who kissed first, only that your back hit the counter and his hands were already everywhere. under your skirt, gripping your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing and sitting you on the edge of the sink.

“can’t believe you,” he muttered, pulling your panties down to your knees. “you’re fuckin’ soaked. this from one hit?”

you whimpered—barely nodded. it wasn’t just one. it was him. the heat of his palm against your neck. the heavy drag of his voice every time he called you baby in front of the other guys. the way he looked at you like he wanted to ruin you, just so he could build you back up again.

his rings were cold when they brushed your folds, but the burn of his mouth made you jolt. he knelt between your legs like he had something to prove, mouthing at your pussy like it was the only thing in the world worth praying to.

and fuck, you wanted to cry—his tongue was slow, thick, greedy, curling inside you while his thumb circled your clit just the way you liked. you could feel yourself dripping down the curve of his wrist, making a mess all over his hand, but he didn’t care. didn’t pause. just kept groaning into your cunt like he was starving and you were the only meal he’d ever wanted.

you tugged his hair. moaned his name. rocked your hips against his face and choked out a high, half-sobbing plea when your thighs started to shake.

“’kuna—fuck, wait, i’m—”

he didn’t wait. he never waited when it came to your pleasure. you came on his tongue like it was the only thing that made sense anymore, thighs clamped around his head, one hand slipping behind you to keep from sliding off the sink. your vision blurred. your lungs trembled. your legs twitched as he kissed back up your body, his cock already out, already hard—heavy against your inner thigh as he licked his lips like he could still taste you.

“you want me inside?” he asked, and you nodded fast, too fast, whispering something that barely made sense but sounded like yes and please and need it now.

he fucked you slow at first, one hand gripping your waist to keep you steady, the other sliding up the back of your neck to cradle your head. he kissed you while he did it, tongue hot and slick, swallowing every noise you made, like he didn’t want anyone outside that door to hear how good he made you feel.

but he got mean when you clenched. when you whispered his name like a prayer. his hand dropped to your throat, thumb resting against your jaw, and his hips snapped harder, faster—fucking up into you like he owned you. like you were his, and he was going to fuck that fact into your soul.

“look at you,” he rasped, fucking you so deep your body jolted back against the mirror, “high off one little hit. letting me fuck you dumb in the frat bathroom. you like this, baby?”

you nodded, gasped, whimpered—his cock hitting that soft spot inside you over and over until tears leaked out the corners of your eyes.

“yeah,” he growled, fucking you harder, sloppier, voice breaking with it. “you’re my good fuckin’ girl, huh? my sweet little thing who gets high and begs for dick. gonna let me cum in this pussy, sweetheart?”

you couldn’t answer. not really. not with how hard you were trembling, how your nails dug into his shoulders and your mouth parted in a silent moan. he took it as a yes anyway, slamming in once more and spilling inside you with a guttural sound you’d never forget. you were still panting when he kissed you again, slower this time. messier. his cum leaking out of you, still pulsing around the base of his cock.

he pulled back, sweat-damp and grinning, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers.

your lips are kiss-swollen. your lashes heavy. your thighs still trembling.

his thumb traces the corner of your mouth.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice ragged. “you’re unreal.”

you blink up at him, a little dazed. still floaty. still warm.

“can we go again?” you whisper.

his brow arches. “...like round two?”

you nod slowly, lips tugging into a half-smile.

“of which one?” he asks, grin tugging at his mouth. “smoking or sex?”

you pause, pretend to think about it, then shrug.

“both?” you offer, sweet as sugar.

he groans.

He thought you didn’t know.

But you saw him.

You always saw him.

The first time, it was only a shadow: a towering figure half-hidden behind the black skeleton of a pine tree, watching you as you hung freshly washed sheets beneath a washed-out winter sky. Another time, you caught the briefest flash of his eyes, pale and aching with something that wasn’t quite hunger and wasn’t quite hatred, as he melted back into the dark.

The creature.

Adam Frankenstein.

The villagers whispered about a monster in the woods, a patchwork horror that should have never drawn breath, but you knew better. Monsters didn’t leave bread on your windowsill on nights you forgot to eat. Monsters didn’t stack kindling by your step after snowstorms, or set down a freshly killed hare just close enough that your old dog could sniff it out in the morning. Monsters didn’t linger at the edge of your light like a shield, taking every blow the world had meant for you.

So you started leaving things for him, too.

A still-warm loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and left on a flat stone near the forest’s edge. A thick, clumsily sewn shirt you’d stitched by candlelight, big enough to fit the breadth of his shoulders as best you could guess. A pair of gloves with uneven fingers. Each offering would be gone by morning, and in their place there’d be… nothing. No note. No mark. Just a silence that somehow felt shy.

Spring came slowly, softening the snow into streams and coaxing green from the hard earth. One bright morning, you took your dog and followed the familiar path beneath the budding branches, letting the cool air kiss your cheeks. You could feel him behind you—no longer a rumour, but a steady presence in the spaces between birdsong and the crunch of twigs underfoot.

He was careful with his distance.

Careful with you.

You felt him before you saw him.

The air behind you changed—thicker somehow, as if the very forest were holding its breath.

Your dog’s ears flicked, tail giving the smallest wag, but he did not bark. He sat at your heel, as though he, too, had long grown used to the giant shadow that haunted the trees.

You stood in the clearing, sunlight painting your skirts in pale gold, fingers resting lightly upon your dog’s head.

“I know you are there,” you said, voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “You have been there for a very long time, have you not?”

Silence.

The birds went quiet. A breeze stirred the budding branches overhead, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something else—old smoke, metal, and the faintest trace of soap, as though someone had tried, clumsily, to scrub himself clean.

You swallowed your nervousness and smiled, though he could not see it. Not yet.

“Tell me, Adam,” you continued, your tone turning wry, “how much longer until you understand that I have always known about you… and that you do not frighten me in the least?”

Something shifted among the trees to your left. A heavy footstep, then another, crunching over last year’s leaves. Your dog gave a low, pleased whine.

Slowly, as though dragged forward by some unseen chain, he stepped out from the shadows.

He was larger than you had imagined, even after months of stolen glances. Broad shoulders strained the seams of the very shirt you had sewn by candlelight. The fabric sat oddly upon him, as if he were still unsure he had the right to wear something made with care.

His face—oh, his face.

You had prepared yourself for horror.

Instead, you found sadness.

Features too sharply cut, as though chiseled in haste and anger. Eyes a pale, unnatural blue, ringed by the kind of weariness usually reserved for much older men. There were scars, yes, and those patchwork seams that betrayed the unnatural hand that had pieced him together, but beneath them all… he was simply a man who did not know how to occupy his own skin.

He stopped several paces away, hands held slightly out from his sides, as though to show he carried no weapon.

“You… you ought to run,” he said at last, his voice rough and low, the words strangely precise yet hesitant, like a man learning to speak again after a long illness. “The villagers would tell you to flee.”

“The villagers,” you replied, “have never once stacked firewood by my door after a storm.”

His jaw tightened. He glanced away, as though ashamed.

“That was nothing,” he muttered. “A mere… task. I happened to be near.”

“And the hare left upon my step in January? Was that another mere task?”

He shifted his weight, great hands curling into fists. “You were thin,” he said grudgingly. “There were no tracks near your home. I deduced you did not hunt.”

“And the wolves?” you pressed gently. “The ones that never cross the boundary of my field, though their howls wake me in the night?”

His throat worked. For a moment, the creature looked almost… irritated. “They are foolish animals,” he said. “They do not understand when they trespass upon what is mine to guard.”

Your heart stuttered at that word.

“Yours to guard,” you echoed softly.

At last his gaze met yours. There was a terrible vulnerability in it, like a child braced for mockery.

“You ought not look at me so,” he said, voice rougher now. “You ought to scream. Or at the very least, avert your eyes.”

“I shall do neither,” you answered. “You have been my unseen champion all winter, sir. I should think it discourteous to shriek at you now.”

He frowned, as though the very notion of courtesy applied to him was offensive.

“I am no ‘sir’,” he said. “The man who stitched me together did not deem me fit for such a title.”

“Then what shall I call you?” you asked, ignoring the chill that raced down your spine at his choice of words. “The villagers speak of a monster. A demon. A fiend. I do not care for any of those.”

A shadow of something like humour passed over his face. “He called me Adam,” he said quietly. “As though I were the first of my kind.”

You nodded once. “Very well, Adam.”

Your dog, emboldened by your calm, trotted forward and sniffed at his boots. Adam stared down at him as though the small creature were some strange, new invention.

“He does not fear me,” Adam murmured, almost to himself.

“Animals are often better judges of character than men,” you replied. “He knows you have watched over us.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. “I watched to ensure no harm came to you,” he corrected. “Whether you knew of it or not is of little consequence.”

“On the contrary.” You took a small step closer. His eyes widened, as though you had moved a mile instead of a foot. “It is of great consequence. You believed yourself unseen, did you not?”

He hesitated, then gave a small, reluctant nod.

“Then you must also have believed that the bread, and the shirt, and the gloves appeared by some miracle of the woods.” You tilted your head. “Or did you imagine the forest itself had begun to sew?”

Colour—faint but unmistakable—rose along the visible seam of his throat. He looked past you, toward the stone where you always left your gifts.

“I thought…” He paused, visibly searching for words. “I wondered if perhaps you had set them out for the poor. For some wandering soul more deserving than I.”

Your chest ached. “And yet you took them.”

“Yes.” His gaze dropped to his hands, as though the gloves were still upon them. “I told myself I had stolen them. That you would never know. That is the sort of thing a monster does, is it not? Take what is not his?”

“If I leave something upon the edge of the wood with no name attached,” you said gently, “is it truly theft for the one I hoped would claim it… to do so?”

His eyes snapped back to yours, startled. “You… hoped…?”

“For whom else do you suppose I stitched sleeves of that length?” you asked, lips quirking. “There is no man in the village with shoulders so broad as yours, Adam.”

He stared at you as though you had struck him. Not in pain—more in stunned disbelief.

“You… knew,” he breathed. “You knew I was there. All this time.”

“Yes.”

“And you were not afraid.”

You considered this. “I was wary,” you said honestly. “At first. One does not wake to strange footprints and dead wolves without a certain degree of alarm. But then I saw you. Hiding like a boy behind those poor trees, trying very hard not to be seen. And I thought—”

You broke off, biting your lip.

He took a half-step forward despite himself. “You thought what?”

“I thought,” you said slowly, “that no true monster skulks in the shadows to keep a woman’s cottage safe through a winter as harsh as this last one. No true monster leaves food instead of taking it. No true monster looks at another living soul the way you looked at my dog last month—do not pretend you were not there, I saw you through the curtain—like you were afraid to even breathe in his direction for fear you might somehow break him.”

He said nothing. His breath misted faintly in the cool spring air, harsh and uneven.

“You should not look so kindly upon me,” he managed at last. “It is… improper.”

“Improper,” you repeated, amusement bubbling up despite the solemnity of his tone. “We are alone in the forest, Adam. There is no vicar here to scold us.”

“It is not the vicar I fear,” he muttered. “It is myself.”

Your smile faded.

“Why?” you asked.

He looked down at his hands again, turning them palm up as though they were strange objects he’d found rather than parts of his own body.

“These hands have done terrible things,” he said quietly. “I have torn wolves apart, as you have seen. I have broken men who sought to harm me. I have throttled hatred at its source and found only more hatred beneath it. I was created in violence and I fear I shall end in it as well.” His eyes lifted to yours, desperate. “I cannot trust myself near that which is gentle.”

Your throat tightened. “You have been near me all winter.”

“At a distance,” he insisted. “A barrier of trees. Of shadow. Of night. It is different now.”

“Is it?” You closed the gap between you by another small step. He sucked in a breath, shoulders going rigid. You could feel the heat radiating from him now, unnatural in its intensity, like standing too close to a forge. “I feel no danger from you, Adam.”

“You should.”

“But I do not.” You lifted your hand, giving him every opportunity to retreat. “May I?”

He stared at your outstretched fingers as though they were some holy relic. “I… do not know.”

“We shall discover it together,” you said softly.

After a moment that stretched thin as spun sugar, he extended his own hand, large and scarred and trembling just enough for you to see. You laid your palm against his.

Warm. Solid. Very real.

He flinched, not from pain, but from the shock of contact.

“See?” you murmured. “You have not broken me.”

“Not yet,” he said hoarsely.

You squeezed his fingers. “Nor shall you, if I have any say in the matter.”

For a heartbeat, the forest was nothing but the two of you and the soft panting of your dog at your side. A bird dared a tentative trill somewhere above, as though deciding the danger had passed.

“You treat me as though I were… a man,” Adam said quietly, almost accusingly.

“You are,” you replied simply.

His brows drew together. “I am a collection of parts stolen from graves. I am a blasphemy against God and nature both.”

“You are standing in the sunlight speaking to me with more courtesy than half the men in town,” you countered. “If that is blasphemy, then perhaps we have misjudged Heaven.”

A startled, rough sound escaped him—half laugh, half exhale. As though he had forgotten how ordinary mirth should feel in his chest.

“You should not say such things,” he chided, but there was no true censure in it. “You are too bold.”

“You have been listening to me mutter to myself all winter,” you reminded him. “You ought to know by now that my tongue is not easily tamed.”

“I know many things about you,” he admitted, voice going soft. “I know you speak kindly to your dog even when he chews your shoes. I know you hum that same song each morning when you light the stove. I know you eat too little when you are anxious. I know you cry when you believe no one can hear.”

Your breath caught. “You ought not watch a lady in such moments,” you said, flustered.

“I know,” he said, guilt flickering through his gaze. “And yet I could not look away. Your sorrow… it frightened me more than wolves ever could. I wished to tear apart whatever had caused it, but there was nothing there. Only you, and your hands shaking, and your tears falling into the dough you were kneading.”

You blinked rapidly, your throat thick. “You saw that.”

“Yes.”

“And you still think yourself a monster,” you whispered.

He hesitated. “Do you not?”

You stepped closer until there was barely a breath between you, your hand still cradled in his. You had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes fully.

“If I say no,” you asked, “will you believe me?”

“I… do not know.” His voice cracked on the words.

“Then I shall tell you as many times as necessary until you do.” Your lips curved into a small, earnest smile. “You are not a monster to me, Adam. You are the reason I have slept safely these many months. You are the reason my dog still runs through these woods without fear. You are the reason I am standing here today, whole and unharmed.”

He swallowed hard. “Any man might have done as much.”

“But no man did.” You lifted your free hand to his chest, pressing your palm lightly over where his heart would be—if it beat. “You did.”

His breath hitched. For a moment, he seemed to forget how limbs functioned, standing utterly still as though one wrong move might shatter the moment into fragments.

“You should not touch me so,” he said weakly.

“And yet,” you murmured, “you do not step away.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenched. “Because I am selfish. Because I have spent a season watching you from afar and I am not yet strong enough to deny myself this one brief… kindness.”

“Adam,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

He obeyed. Slowly, hesitantly, but he obeyed.

“There is nothing ‘brief’ about what I intend,” you told him. “You have guarded my cottage as though it were a kingdom. Will you not allow me, at the very least, to guard your heart in return?”

His lips parted, but no sound came. You could see the war waging behind his eyes—fear and longing and disbelief all tangled together.

“You… would keep company with me?” he managed at last. “Knowing what I am?”

“Knowing who you are,” you corrected. “A man named Adam who walks the tree line at night so that I may sleep. A man who refuses to let wolves cross my field. A man who looks at my foolish old dog as though he were some creature made of glass.” Your fingers curled briefly against his chest. “If that is monstrosity, I shall gladly consort with monsters.”

Another laugh—clearer this time—escaped him. It transformed his face, smoothing some of the harsh lines, revealing the man beneath the scars.

“You are very stubborn,” he said.

“So I have been told.”

“And you would not… flee, if I came nearer? If I…” He faltered, gaze flickering to your joined hands. “If I visited your cottage when the sun has set?”

“I should be most put out if you did not,” you said lightly. “I have an extra chair by the hearth and no one to fill it. My dog prefers company. As, I suspect, do I.”

He stared at you as though trying to determine whether this were some cruel trick of the mind. At last, cautiously, he lifted his other hand to hover near your cheek, stopping inches away.

“May I?” he asked, echoing your earlier words.

You leaned into the space between, closing the distance yourself. His fingers brushed your skin—calloused, uncertain, trembling. He cupped your cheek as though cradling something far more fragile than you felt.

“You are warm,” he whispered, wonder in his tone.

“And you are real,” you replied.

His thumb swept once, reverently, along your cheekbone. “If I frighten you,” he said softly, “you must tell me at once. I will go, and I shall not trouble you again, though it break what passes for my heart.”

“I do not believe you capable of breaking my heart,” you said. “Guarding it, perhaps. As you have guarded everything else.”

His eyes shone, sudden moisture gathering there. He blinked it away quickly, as though ashamed.

“I do not understand why you would offer such mercy to me,” he murmured.

“Perhaps,” you said gently, “it is not mercy. Perhaps it is simply… affection.”

The word seemed to strike him with more force than any blow.

“Affection,” he repeated, voice barely audible. “For me.”

“For you,” you affirmed. “For Adam, who walks the forest so that I might live another day to bake too much bread and scold my dog and sew shirts far too large.” Your smile softened. “Stay with me, and I shall show you there is more for you than shadows and solitude.”

He drew in a long, shaky breath. When he exhaled, something in his posture eased—the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. As though a burden he had carried alone for far too long had shifted, just slightly, into your waiting hands.

“Very well,” he said at last, voice low but resolute. “I shall try.”

Your heart lifted, light as the first spring breeze.

“Good,” you replied. “Then you shall walk me home, Adam. And after that, if you wish, you may sit by my fire and tell me all the things you have seen from the edge of the wood.”

He glanced once toward the deeper forest, then back to you—the woman who had left bread and stitched shirts and dared to speak kindly to the creature everyone else feared.

“As you wish,” he said quietly.