Salvatrix

𝑆𝑎𝑙𝑣𝑎’𝑠 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑡

𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑢𝑝 𝑎 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑒𝑎'𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑚.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 🪐　 ˚　.　　　.　˚　✦　　　.　　. 　 　　.　　　　　　 ✦　　　.　　˚　🌒　　　　. ✦ 　🌍 　　.  　 　　　˚　　　　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　˚　　　.　　. 🪐　 ˚　.　 　 ✦　　　.　　˚　　　˚　.　*　　. 　˚　　.　.　🌒 .　　.　

📚 𝔹𝕣𝕠𝕨𝕤𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖𝕤:

🌙 𝖡𝗒 𝖥𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗆: 📝 𝖡𝗒 𝖥𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍:

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

🗂️ 𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥:

📎𝗖𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲!

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

📨 ℝ𝕖𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕤:

📎𝖢𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾!

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

💌𝔸𝕤𝕜 𝔹𝕠𝕩, ℝ𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕤, & 𝕄𝕚𝕤𝕔:

— 𝖣𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 (𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾).

— 𝖨 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖿𝖿 (𝗌𝗁𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐). 𝖠 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗆 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗌𝗁.

— 𝖲𝗉𝖺𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾. 𝖨 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖪𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝒰𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝓃ℯ𝓍𝓉 𝓉𝒾𝓂ℯ!

BFFs Don’t Need Boundaries

Satoru Gojo x Fem!Reader: he wants you to shave his dick???

cw: MDNI! sexual content. satoru being a fuckboy.

___________________________________________________

There’s familiar. And then there’s Satoru. 

Your roommate, your tormentor, your best friend. All wrapped in one, beautifully hung package. 

…that you wish you could return sometimes. 

Your apartment currently reeks of his stupidly expensive body wash and the leftover takeout you two had demolished earlier. You’re sprawled on the couch in a hoodie and sleep shorts, mindlessly scrolling, when the shower shuts off with a loud creak (he’d yet again forgotten to submit the request to maintenance). 

Less than 30 seconds later, the bathroom door swings open with a flourish, releasing a cloud of steam. Satoru saunters out in nothing but a white towel slung dangerously low on his hips, water still dripping from his snowy hair onto his shoulders and chest.

His eyes land on you and there's that half-second flicker — the one you've learned to dread — before that signature smirk curls across his lips as he runs a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back.

"Perfect. Just the person I need."

"I'm busy."

"You're scrolling on TikTok."

"I'm busy scrolling on TikTok."

He ignores this completely, padding wet footprints across the hardwood like he doesn't share a security deposit with you. He drops onto the arm of the couch and you catch the smell of that stupid sandalwood body wash again, warm off his skin.

“So,” he drawls, voice still a little rough from the hot water. “Got a serious problem.”

"No."

"You don't even know what it is yet?"

"I don’t care."

Satoru’s smirk only grows, like your resistance is the best part of his evening. He leans in closer, one hand braced on the back of the couch so the towel slides even lower on his hips. You can see the sharp cut of his hipbones and the faint trail of white hair disappearing beneath white fabric.

“Mina from Zeta Nu Omega,” he says, completely ignoring your protests. “Tonight. She’s been sending me those little ‘can’t wait to see you’ texts with the heart emojis and everything.”

He pauses for dramatic effect, then tugs the towel just a fraction lower, exposing the top of that V-line you’ve tried (and failed) not to notice before.

You raise an eyebrow, your expression purposefully unamused. “I thought you two fucked last Halloween?” 

He shakes his head — droplets of water spraying onto your hoodie and bare thighs. “Nah. That one was from Kappa Sigma Rho. Total disaster. Kept calling me her ex’s name the whole time. Killed the vibe.”

Satoru laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world, completely unbothered by his own fuckboy track record.

“Tonight’s Mina is the real deal. Zeta Nu Omega. Legs for days, perfect tits, and sends nudes that could make a fuckin’ priest sin.” His smirk turns sharp, eyes gleaming. “So I need to show up perfect. And you’re gonna help me.”

You blink slowly, already suspicious. “…The fuck does that mean?”

Satoru’s grin widens like he was just waiting for you to ask. He straightens up, one hand still lazily holding the edge of the towel, and gestures vaguely downward.

“Down there,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Gotta be smooth. Can’t risk any stubble when I’m tryna get laid. My skin’s way too sensitive for me to do it myself without looking like I lost a fight with a cheese grater.”

He gives the towel another playful tug, letting it hang obscenely low now.

The words hang in the air like he just asked you to pass the remote.

You blink. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’ and reaches down to casually pat at his groin, not even pretending to be modest. “C’mon, you’ve seen it before. You’re practically a pro at this point. I trust you with my life… and apparently my dick.”

He leans in again, voice dropping into a teasing murmur. “Please? I’ll owe you one. I’ll even let you pick the aftershave.”

You stare at him, brain short-circuiting for a second. "Absolutely not."

"C'mon—"

"Satoru."

"You're being so dramatic about this—"

"I will not be shaving your balls—"

And then he dropped the towel.

"Oh my God—" You slap a hand over your eyes, phone clattering onto the cushion beside you. "Satoru. Satoru. What the— put it back ON—"

"What? It's not like it's anything new." He says this with the casual confidence of a man who has never once considered that other people might have limits. "You've seen it before."

And — okay. Fair. Unfortunately.

Because you have seen it before. You've seen it as recently as this week, actually, on multiple separate and entirely unprompted occasions, because apparently living with Satoru Gojo means signing an invisible contract that says ‘clothing is optional and also frequently forgotten’.

There was Monday, when he'd strolled from his room to the bathroom completely nude to "save water" by starting the shower early.

Tuesday, when he'd wandered into your room to hold up two pairs of boxers and ask, with complete sincerity, "black or the ones that make my ass look tight," while you stared at the ceiling.

Wednesday, the coffee incident, where you'd walked into the kitchen to find him leaning against the counter, dick swinging, waiting for the Keurig.

And this morning — this fucking morning — you'd opened your bedroom door and he was just. There. On your bed. Face down, starfished, not a stitch on him, complaining that your mattress was more comfortable than his while you tried (and failed) not to stare.

So no. This — Satoru, towel-less, hands on his hips like he's presenting himself — is not new information.

You drop your hand from your eyes and sigh, long and put-upon, the sigh of a woman who has made peace with her circumstances.

"...Where's the razor."

Satoru's whole face lights up like Christmas morning. He hops off the arm of the couch, towel forgotten, and grins down at you with pure, unfiltered victory.

“That’s my girl. Bathroom. Now. I’ll get everything ready.”

______

The bathroom still smells like his shampoo and steam, mirror fogged at the edges. Satoru's perched on the closed toilet lid like it's a throne, one ankle braced against the tub, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone about to hand a razor to the person who once threatened to end his life over not stacking the dishwasher.

"You could at least look nervous," you mutter, kneeling on the bath mat in front of him with the shaving cream in one hand and the razor in the other.

"Why would I be nervous? I trust you completely."

"You shouldn't."

"Too late now." He spreads his knees a little wider, unbothered, watching you with that infuriating half-smile like this is the most entertaining thing that's happened to him all week. "Be gentle with me."

You roll your eyes but scoot closer anyway, the position forcing you between his spread thighs. Up close like this, the sheer size of him is impossible to ignore — even soft, he’s ridiculous. You squirt a generous amount of shaving cream into your palm, warming it slightly before you start applying it carefully along the base of his cock and over his balls.

Satoru lets out a low, contented hum the second your fingers make contact.

“Fuck, your hands are warm,” he murmurs, voice already a little rougher. “Way better than mine.”

You focus on spreading the cream evenly, trying not to think too hard about what you’re doing. But of course Satoru has zero intention of letting you stay professional.

He wiggles his hips once, just to be annoying. “Lower. Yeah, there. Make sure you get the underside too. I want this thing smoother than a baby’s ass.”

You snort. “You’re so fucking weird.”

“Hey, this is quality bonding time. Most best friends don’t get this level of intimacy.”

“Most best friends would’ve kicked you out by now,” you mutter, focusing on the first careful swipe of the razor. The blade glides smoothly, leaving a clean patch of skin behind. You rinse it and go back in for another pass.

Satoru hums thoughtfully. “True. But then who would make you late-night ramen at 3 a.m.?”

“You only do that when you want something.”

“Exactly. And right now I want my dick looking like a luxury car — pristine and ready to be driven.”

You pause mid-stroke and look up at him, deadpan. “I cannot believe those words just came out of your mouth.”

He grins down at you, eyes sparkling. “You love it. Admit it. This is the highlight of your week.”

You shake your head, fighting a laugh as you continue shaving.

For a minute it stays like that — surprisingly light. Just the two of you trading dumb jokes while you work. He complains about the angle, you threaten him again, he calls you his “personal barber” in the most obnoxious voice possible.

But then your fingers brush a little more deliberately along the sensitive skin of his balls as you stretch it taut for the next pass, and everything shifts.

He has the audacity to start to harden under your touch, thick and heavy as it fills out against his stomach. 

And the asshole doesn’t even pretend to be embarrassed.

“Satoru.” You say, pausing as you glare up at him. 

He looks down at you with wide, innocent eyes that fool absolutely no one. “What? I can’t control it,” he says with a lazy shrug. “You’re literally touching my dick. I’m only human.”

“You’re a weirdo,” you mutter, but your voice comes out quieter than you want. You rinse the razor again, trying to ignore it.

Satoru chuckles softly, the sound low and warm in the steamy bathroom. “C’mon, don’t stop now. You were doing so well.” He spreads his legs a little wider, giving you full access. “Gotta finish the job. Mina deserves the full experience.”

You shoot him another glare, but you keep going — carefully dragging the razor over the last bit of stubble near the base of his cock. Every stroke makes him twitch and thicken even more until he’s fully hard, his tip flushed dark and curving up toward his stomach, a shiny bead of pre-cum already forming at the tip.

“See?” he murmurs, voice dropping. “This is why I need you. My hands aren’t as steady as yours… and they definitely don’t feel this good.”

You swallow hard, trying to focus on the task instead of the way his cock jumps every time your fingers brush against it. Every careful drag of the razor makes his thighs tense, and every time your fingers graze his skin to pull it taut, he lets out these quiet, satisfied little sounds that are way too sexual for what’s supposed to be a simple grooming task.

Satoru leans back slightly on the toilet lid, one hand resting on his thigh as he watches you with hooded eyes.

“Fuck… you’re really good at this,” he praises, voice rougher. His hand comes down to rest lightly on the top of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. “So careful. So thorough.”

He stays quiet for a few moments, just watching you work. The only sounds are the soft scrape of the razor, the occasional drip from the faucet, and his slow, steady breathing. But you can feel the weight of his stare, heavy and appreciative.

“You know,” he continues, voice low and lazy, “most girls would be freaking out right now. But not you. You’re just down there handling me like it’s no big deal.” His fingers give your hair a gentle tug, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you look up at him for a second. “Makes me wonder what else those pretty hands — and that mouth — are capable of.”

You nearly drop the razor.

He laughs softly at your reaction, but his gaze stays locked on you. “Don’t worry, I’m just fuckin’ with you. You always take such good care of me.”

You rinse the razor again, trying to ignore how good his hand feels in your hair. “Flattery isn’t getting you out of owing me for this.”

“Oh, I’ll owe you big time,” he promises, eyes dark and amused as he watches you. “Maybe I’ll even let you pick where I take you for dinner after I destroy Mina tonight.”

You let out a soft scoff, but it comes out shakier than you’d like. “You’re such a dick. Talking about fucking her while I’m literally shaving your dick for her.”

Satoru laughs, low and shameless. “What? You’re my best friend. I tell you everything.” His fingers keep lazily playing with your hair, occasionally tightening when your knuckles brush against the underside of his shaft. “Besides… it’s kinda hot, isn’t it? You getting me all ready for another girl.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because part of you hates how right he is — the twisted little thrill that comes with knowing exactly what he’s about to do with this…perfectly groomed specimen.

He keeps talking, voice growing rougher as you continue the careful strokes.

“Gotta make sure it’s perfect for her…smooth enough that when she wraps her lips around me she doesn’t feel anything but skin.” He lets out a soft groan as you work near the base again. “Fuck, just imagine it. She’s gonna think I’m some kind of god when she sees this.”

His cock twitches hard in front of your face, another fat bead of pre-cum leaking from the tip and slowly dripping down the side. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“You’re getting so quiet,” he teases, thumb stroking over your scalp. “What’s going through that pretty head, huh? You jealous? Or are you just thinking about how much better your mouth would feel right now?”

You shoot him a warning glare, but it’s weak. Satoru’s smirk only widens, clearly loving every second of this.

“I’m just saying… you’re doing all this work. Seems unfair that Mina gets to reap all the benefits.”

He finally falls quiet again as you do the final few passes, the air thick with tension and the scent of his body wash mixed with something warmer, more intimate.

“Almost done,” you mumble, more to yourself than him.

“Take your time,” he murmurs, voice damn near a growl. “I’m enjoying the view.”

When you finally finish the last careful pass, you sit back slightly on your heels and wipe the razor clean. His dick and balls are now completely smooth, pink and glistening under the bathroom light. The sight makes something low in your stomach twist with a confusing mix of annoyance and heat.

Satoru runs his own hand over the freshly shaved skin and lets out a satisfied groan, deep in his chest.

“Fuck… feels even better than I imagined.” He gives himself a slow, lazy stroke, eyes locked on you the entire time. “What do you think? Think she’ll like it?”

You stare at his smooth, throbbing cock. It looks obscene like this — flushed, veiny, and now perfectly groomed. Another thick bead of pre-cum drips down the side.

“…It looks fine,” you mutter, trying to sound unaffected.

Satoru chuckles. “Just fine? Come on, baby. Be honest.” He shifts his hips forward slightly, bringing his cock closer to your face. “You spent all this time making it perfect. At least give me your professional opinion.”

When you don’t move, he reaches down and gently grabs your wrist, guiding your hand forward until your fingers wrap around the base of his cock.

“Just feel it,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing. “Tell me if it’s actually smooth enough.”

He doesn’t force you to stroke him… but he doesn’t let go of your wrist either. He just holds your hand there, wrapped around his thick length, pulsing against your palm.

The silence stretches.

Satoru’s voice drops even lower, almost sweet. “One little test. That’s all I’m asking. Then I’ll go be a good boy and take Mina out like planned.”

His fingers stay wrapped around your wrist, warm and firm, holding your hand against him. Your pulse is hammering in your ears as you stare at his oh-so-pretty dick — the one you just spent all this time preparing for someone else.

You hesitate for half a second…and then you slowly start to stroke him.

Satoru lets out a low, filthy groan, every glide feeling dangerously slick. You pump him slowly at first, almost experimentally, watching the way his abs tense and his thighs flex.

“Fuuuck, that’s it…,” he murmurs, voice rough. His other hand stays on top of your head, fingers flexing in your hair. “Just like that. Nice and slow.”

He’s rock hard now. You stroke him properly, thumb brushing over the flushed head, spreading the leaking pre-cum down his shaft. His thighs tense, hips twitching up into your fist as he curses under his breath.

“Shit… you’re too good at this,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Should’ve had you do this a long time ago.”

You keep stroking him, finding a steady rhythm. The wet sound of your hand moving over his cock fills the small bathroom. Satoru’s breathing grows heavier, his usual cocky smirk softening into something more raw.

But then—

Ring. Ring. Ring.

His phone starts blaring from the kitchen counter. He lets out an annoyed sigh but doesn’t pull away immediately. You slow your strokes, reluctant.

“Fucking timing.” His expression shifts to look genuinely disappointed. 

You release him. His cock bobs heavily, still hard and glistening from your hand.

“…That’s probably her,” he mutters. He pushes himself up off the toilet lid, his dick jutting out obscenely as he stands.

Before he leaves the bathroom, he pauses. You’re still kneeling on the bath mat, heart racing, hand still tingling from touching him.

He leans down, cups the side of your face with one hand, and presses a surprisingly soft kiss to your forehead.

“Thanks, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and teasing. “I owe you one. Big time.”

Then he straightens up with that cocky little smirk, gives your hair one last affectionate ruffle, and strolls out of the bathroom like he didn’t just have your hand around his cock two minutes ago.

You hear him answer the phone in the hallway, all smooth charm again. “Yeah, I’m on my way. Traffic better not suck… car sex is still on the table if you’re down?”

His bedroom door clicks shut a minute later.

And you’re left on the bathroom floor, pulse racing, hand still tingling, wondering what the hell you just let happen.

___________________________________________________

I'm lowkey so scared to ask, but first, I'd like to say how amazing your writing is, and also, I wish you would release part 10 and hopefully more parts of your h20: just add water with the jjk characters series. It's so peak. Only if you can. I hate putting any sort of pressure on people.

Thank you.

Hiiii thank you so much!! And omg, please don't be scared to ask/reach out! Honestly, I love when I get reminders to post because sometimes I do forget to LOL. Feel free to flood my notifs if you're ever looking for the next part (or anything else)!!!! 🤍

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟

𝖩𝖩𝖪 𝗑 𝖧𝟤𝖮: 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖠𝖽𝖽 𝖶𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖠𝖴 - 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗍 10!

𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆!𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

Masterlist

🌊𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 🌊

It took forty excruciating minutes, every dry piece of fabric in the closet, and a level of frantic bailing that resembled a sinking cruise ship just to get all three of you back on two legs.

The bathroom floor was a lost cause, warped and damp, but as the last of Shoko’s sea-glass green scales melted back into human skin, a heavy, breathless silence fell over the room.

Shoko didn’t say a word. She just stood up, her face completely expressionless, and marched out of the room.

“So…” Utahime whispered, sitting cross-legged against the wall, her eyes wide as she looked at you. “We’re… we’re actually…”

“Mermaids,” you finished for her, the word still tasting absurd on your tongue. “Yeah. We are.”

Ten minutes later, the three of you had regrouped in the living room. 

Shoko, now dressed in an oversized university hoodie and sweatpants, had a mug of coffee in one hand like transforming into a mythical sea creature before breakfast had merely been an inconvenience.

She took one sip. "...This is going to be a very long weekend."

Utahime was wrapped in fluffy socks despite the warm weather, clutching another towel around her shoulders as though the fabric alone could protect her from spontaneous fishhood.

"I don't trust water anymore," she announced.

You blinked. "...That's unfortunate. We're seventy percent water."

"I know!"

Shoko snorted into her coffee.

Utahime shot her a glare. "Don't laugh."

"I'm trying very hard not to."

Eventually Shoko leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. "So."

"So," you echoed.

"We know water does it."

You nodded. 

"Ten seconds."

"Approximately."

"It goes away when we're dry."

"Yeah."

"We apparently all have different tails."

You paused. "...I guess we do."

Utahime frowned. "...Yours was silver."

You nodded. 

"Mine was blue."

Another nod.

You both looked toward Shoko.

"...Green," She sighed.

“A nice, sea-glass green,” you offered, trying to sound encouraging.

Shoko stared into her coffee mug. “Fabulous. I’m a walking recycling bin.”

“It actually looked really pretty!” Utahime defended, though she immediately winced as she shifted, checking her legs under her towel just to be absolutely sure. “But that’s not the point. The point is, how are we supposed to live like this? We live in a coastal town! It rains! People spill drinks! Haibara is a walking splash hazard!”

“We adapt,” Shoko said, her pragmatic brain finally taking over the shock. She set her mug down with a definitive clink. “First things first: we need to test the boundaries. The bathtub was claustrophobic and terrible because we were fighting it. Reader, you said you went to the beach yesterday?”

You rubbed the back of your neck. “Yeah. By the rocks just off the old trail.”

“And?” Utahime pressed, leaning forward. “Was it… awful?”

“No,” you admitted softly, the memory of the deep, intoxicating glide making your chest warm. “It was actually… incredible. Once you stop fighting the current, your body just knows what to do. It feels like you’re finally where you’re supposed to be.”

Utahime and Shoko exchanged a long look. The fear in Utahime's eyes was still there, but beneath it, a spark of curiosity was blooming in Shoko’s gaze.

“We’re going to the secluded cove,” Shoko declared, standing up and grabbing her car keys from the counter. “The one past the old logging road. Grab every spare towel we own and put them in my trunk.”

“Wait, right now? What about the boys?” Utahime panicked, looking toward the hallway. “Aren’t they supposed to come over today?”

“They’re probably still asleep,” Shoko said, already heading for the front door. “We have a two-hour window. Let's move, salmon sisters.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

As the car rolled onto the hidden gravel turnout, the engine died, and the heavy, rhythmic roar of the crashing waves hit your ears.

Your skin prickled instantly as a deep, familiar hum vibrated down your spine, your pulse syncing effortlessly with the movement of the tide. 

You looked over at Utahime and Shoko—both of them had frozen, their breaths catching as their eyes locked onto the glistening water through the windshield. They felt it, too. That undeniable, magnetic pull.

“Come on,” you said, kicking off your sneakers and hopping out of the car.

You walked straight toward the shoreline, the wet sand squishing between your toes. Behind you, Utahime let out a nervous breath, her footsteps following close behind, while Shoko kept her hands shoved into her pockets, her gaze scanning the empty horizon.

The cool foam of a receding wave swirled over your ankles.

One. Two. Three.

The heat flared beneath your ribs like striking a match, a beautiful, electric current running through your veins. 

You let your knees buckle, collapsing into the shallow surf as the liquid-silver shimmer exploded across your limbs. Right beside you, two loud splashes echoed through the cove.

Utahime tumbled into the waves as a brilliant, sapphire-blue light raced down her skin, her legs shifting into a long, powerful fin that scattered rainbow patterns across the foam. 

Shoko hit the water with a low grunt, her body instantly answering the tide as her deep, iridescent sea-glass green tail cut through the surface.

For a second, the three of you just floated in the shallows, the water lapping gently against your shoulders.

Utahime was staring down at her sapphire fin in absolute awe, the initial terror completely gone, replaced by the sheer wonder of how natural the weight felt.

Shoko flexed her webbed fingers, watching the light fracture through the emerald-tinted water around her hands, a faint, rare smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“See?” you said, your voice echoing with that strange, resonant hum it always did underwater, like the ocean itself was helping you speak. “I told you.”

You flicked your silver tail, pushing yourself off the sandy bottom. The motion sent a brilliant cascade of bubbles trailing behind you as you dove beneath the surface, and without a second thought, the blue and green fins snapped through the water right on your heels.

You giggled as you spun and weaved through the shifting curtains of light beneath the surface, Utahime and Shoko trailing you in a loose, uneven formation—like a school of fish that hadn’t quite agreed on choreography yet.

Utahime shrieked with laughter the first time a current caught her sideways, spinning her clean around before she righted herself with a flick of her sapphire tail. “Okay—okay, that was actually kind of awesome—”

“Told you,” you called back, your voice carrying.

Shoko, for her part, wasn’t saying much of anything. She’d gone quiet in the way she did when she was cataloguing something, green eyes tracking the water with clinical fascination as her tail moved with ease. She trailed her fingers through a passing current, watching the way it curled and clung to her skin.

“It responds to us,” she said finally, almost to herself. “Not just—moving through it. It’s reactive. Watch.”

She flicked her wrist, and the water around her rippled outward in a small, deliberate wave, rolling toward you and Utahime with more shape than a normal current should have had.

Utahime yelped as it hit her, sending her tumbling sideways in a spray of bubbles. “Hey—!”

“Sorry,” Shoko said, sounding not sorry at all. “Science.”

You stared at the fading ripple, something cold prickling under the warmth of the moment. “Wait. Do that again.”

Shoko arched a brow, but obliged—another flick, another small pulse of water bending to her will, gentler this time.

“That’s not just current,” you said slowly. “That’s you doing that.”

Shoko blinked, looking down at her own hand. “...Huh.”

Utahime had gone still, treading water a few feet away, all traces of laughter gone from her face. “Okay, hold on. Hold on. We can control water now? Actual magic, water-bending, whatever that was?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it bending,” Shoko said, though the small furrow in her brow said otherwise. “More like... it listens. A little. When I ask it to.”

You flexed your own fingers under the surface, feeling foolish, and pushed—not physically, just a thought, a want, the way you’d push air out of your lungs to speak. 

Nothing happened. 

You tried again, chasing the same instinct that had let you understand what your tail wanted before your brain caught up that first night in the pool.

The water in front of you shivered. Barely. A faint distortion, like heat over asphalt, gone before you could be sure you hadn’t imagined it.

“Did you see that?” you breathed.

Utahime shook her head, eyes wide. “No—but I felt something. Like a—a hum. Right here.” She pressed a hand to her sternum.

“I felt it too,” Shoko murmured, scanning the water between you. “A vibration. It felt like... sound.”

“I didn't make a sound,” you said, your brow furrowing.

“You didn’t have to,” Utahime said, her voice dropping to a whisper. She looked down at the water, her sapphire tail swaying slowly to keep her afloat. “It’s like... the water itself was trying to echo whatever you were thinking. Like a tuning fork.”

You stared at your hands underwater, the silver scales on your wrists catching the midday light. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, letting the tide carry you. You didn't try to push the water this time. Instead, you thought of the sound of the ocean itself—the deep, rhythmic sigh of the waves hitting the rocks.

When you opened your mouth to speak, your voice didn't sound like your own.

It was the deep, resonant crash of a breaker against the stone, layered with the high, rushing hiss of retreating seafoam. It vibrated physically through the water, a low, pulsing shockwave that made Utahime’s floating hair whip violently around her face like she’d been caught in an updraft.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Utahime gasped, moving backward. “What was that?!”

“I... I don't know,” you stammered. But as you spoke, your voice split, perfectly mimicking Utahime’s exact, high-pitched gasp from a second ago, down to the very frequency of her panic.

Utahime froze, her jaw dropping. “Did you just... did you just steal my voice?”

“I didn’t mean to!” you said, and this time, the words came out in Shoko’s distinct, dry, low-register drawl.

Shoko let out a rare, guttural laugh. “Oh, that is incredibly unsettling. Do it again. Say ‘I’m a genius and you all are idiots.’”

“I’m a genius and you all are idiots,” you said, still perfectly mimicking Shoko’s voice. You quickly clamped a hand over your mouth, flustered, which only made your voice crack and briefly sound like Yuji’s boisterous laugh.

“Okay, that’s officially creepy,” Utahime shuddered, though she couldn't hide her grin. “Your voice is like a parrot on supernatural steroids.”

“It’s mimicry,” Shoko analyzed, swimming closer. She reached out, her fingers brushing against your arm to steady herself against a sudden swell. “Some kind of siren mechanism. The water acts as a medium for—”

Shoko cut off abruptly.

The clinical, calm expression on her face vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense look of sheer, unadulterated bewilderment. Her hand stayed clamped to your arm, her fingers twitching.

“Shoko?” you asked, your voice finally snapping back to your own tone. “What’s wrong?”

For a three-second window, Shoko’s eyes glazed over completely.

“Shoko?” You said again, waving your hand in front of her face before cupping her cheeks. 

She blinked, shaking her head. She ripped her hand away from your arm like she’d been burned, staring at her palm.

“What was that?” Utahime demanded, swimming over to grab Shoko’s shoulder. “Shoko, you look like you just saw a ghost.”

The moment Utahime touched her, Shoko’s eyes widened again as she froze momentarily.

“Get off me!” Shoko gasped, slapping Utahime’s hand away.

Utahime recoiled, hurt. “I was just checking on you?”

“No, it’s not—it’s not that,” Shoko breathed, pressing the heels of her hands to her temples. Her green tail whipped back and forth, agitated. “When I touched you, Reader... I saw something. I saw Choso driving you guys somewhere, and Yuji arguing about hotdogs. And then when you touched me, Utahime, I saw you crying over burnt cookies while Satoru laughed at you.”

Utahime’s face turned bright red. “You—you saw what?! That was years ago! How do you even know about that?!”

Shoko pressed her palms flat against her own face, like she could physically push the images back out. “I don’t know how! I just—I saw it. Like I was standing right there in the kitchen. I could smell the smoke.”

“That is deeply invasive,” Utahime huffed. “You cannot just…see things.”

“I didn’t ask for it!” Shoko snapped back, though there was no real heat in it—just the frayed edge of someone still reeling. She stared down at her own hands like they’d betrayed her twice in one morning. “It wasn’t even anything important. Burnt cookies. Hot dogs. It’s not like I saw your diary.”

“That’s not the point—”

“Wait.” You pushed forward through the water, catching Shoko’s wrist gently before she could pull away again. “Does it happen every time you touch someone?”

Shoko flinched at the contact—but this time, nothing happened. No glazed eyes, no far-off stare. Just Shoko, looking faintly relieved and deeply unsettled in equal measure.

“No,” she said slowly. “It didn’t happen just now.”

“So it’s not constant.” You released her wrist, testing the theory. “Maybe it’s a first-touch thing? Like it only shows you something the first time?”

Shoko’s brow furrowed, already turning it over in her mind. “That would track. I touched you first. Got the Choso-and-hotdogs thing. Touched Utahime for the first time. Got the cookies.” She looked up, squinting slightly. “It’s not random. It’s specific. Recent-ish, but not always. Embarrassing, or personal.”

“Fantastic,” Utahime muttered, crossing her arms over her chest, sapphire tail curling defensively beneath her. “So now I can’t even high-five you without you seeing my most humiliating childhood trauma.”

“I’ll try to control it,” Shoko said, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced she could.

The three of you floated there for a moment, catching your breath, the currents rocking gently around you. The sun had climbed higher, warm on your shoulders even through the water, and for the first time all morning it didn’t feel like you were drowning in the size of what was happening to you. It felt like you were, all three of you, just barely beginning to understand it.

“Okay,” Utahime said eventually, voice quieter. “I know we said no cursed islands. But—if this is what a random cove does, what happens if we actually go back to where it started? To the pool?”

Shoko's eyes lit instantly. "That's what I've been saying."

You gave her a look. “You’ve never said that before.” 

“I’ve been thinking it,” Shoko said primly. “Loudly. In my head. Where all my best ideas live, unappreciated.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It counts to me.”

Utahime groaned, running a hand through her floating hair. “Okay, see, this is exactly what I was afraid of. One good discovery and suddenly we’re plotting a return trip to the island that almost killed us.”

“It didn’t almost kill us,” Shoko said. “The jetskis almost killed us. The island just rearranged our DNA.”

“That is not better.”

You watched them bicker, something warm loosening in your chest despite the absurdity of it—despite everything. A week ago this would’ve been an argument about split fries or who forgot to refill the gas tank. Now it was about whether to return to a possibly-cursed cave that had turned all three of you into mythological creatures, and somehow it still sounded exactly like them.

“I think,” you said slowly, cutting through before Utahime could fire back, “we don’t decide anything today. We just… keep this in our pocket. We know the option exists. We know it’s not going anywhere.” You glanced toward Shoko. “But we don’t go without a plan. Not after last time.”

Shoko considered that, then gave a short, grudging nod. “Fine. Reasonable. Boring, but reasonable.”

“Thank you,” Utahime said, relief evident before she furrowed her brows. “Wait, what time is it?”

Shoko blinked. “...Why?”

“Because,” Utahime said, her voice rising in pitch, “the boys said they were coming over around noon to help with the fence, and then we were supposed to go get lunch! It was almost eleven when we left!”

Shoko looked down at her wrist, but her watch was safely tucked away in her glove box. “Well, we’ve been in the water for at least forty minutes.”

“Shit,” you breathed, already twisting toward the shore. “Alright, how far out are we?”

You squinted towards where the coastline should have been.

It wasn’t there.

Not close, anyway. Just a hazy green smudge of cliffs on the horizon, the cove you’d started in reduced to a rumor of trees and rock so far away it barely registered as land at all.

You let out a breath - which came out as a stream of bubbles. “Okay. That’s..that’s a problem.”

“Well, we can’t exactly walk,” Shoko pointed out dryly. “So we better start paddling.”

“Paddling?!” Utahime said, voice climbing an octave. “Do you know how long it takes to swim that? As a human? We would die. We would die of exhaustion before we ever saw the dock again—” 

“We’re not human right now,” Shoko cut in, turning to scan the water, already running the math in real time. “We got out here in what, twenty minutes? Without trying?”

“We weren’t trying to go fast,” you said slowly, the realization dawning even as you said it. “We were just messing around. Swimming for fun.”

Shoko’s eyes lit with that spark again. “So what happens if we actually try?”

“No,” Utahime said immediately. “No, we are not doing an experiment right now, we are doing an emergency—”

“The emergency is the experiment,” Shoko said. “Come on. On three. Just—go. Whatever your body wants to do, let it.”

“Shoko—”

“One!”

“I hate you both,” Utahime hissed, her tail already coiling beneath her.

“Two.”

You sucked in a breath, heart hammering, and let go of every instinct that told you to fight the current instead of trust it.

“Three—”

The world blurred.

Your body snapped forward like a released bowstring, the ocean tearing past you in a rush of foam and light, your tail cutting the water with a force that didn’t feel like muscle at all—it felt like momentum, like something ancient and enormous had reached down and simply decided you should be somewhere else, now.

You couldn’t even hear anything except the roar of water in your ears and your own pulse slamming in time with it. Beside you—no, in front of you—you caught a flash of two massive, colored streaks of light tearing through the water.

Utahime was screaming—a high, underwater screech of pure adrenaline—as her sapphire tail propelled her forward in a dizzying zigzag. Shoko was right behind her, her green tail moving in a rhythmic wave. She looked less like a panicked university student and more like a shark hunting its prey, her face a mix of deep concentration and absolute thrill.

You snapped your tail down, locking into the draft behind them. The three of you became a blur of silver, sapphire, and sea-glass green, carving through the deep ocean at speeds unknown. 

The sheer G-force of the water pressed against your face, pulling your hair straight back as you cut through the ocean with impossible, terrifying speed.

The coastline quickly stopped being a smudge.

It became cliffs. Then rocks. Then the pale curve of the cove’s sand, rushing up so fast you barely had time to think slow down before your body obeyed anyway, some deep instinct hauling you to a stop in the shallows in an explosion of spray that soaked the last dry inch of beach for ten feet in every direction.

You skidded onto the sand on your hands, tail still twitching with leftover momentum, chest heaving like you’d just sprinted a marathon you hadn’t felt at all.

A second later, Utahime crashed down beside you with significantly less grace, sapphire tail flopping hard against the wet sand. “I HATE THAT,” she gasped. “I hate that so so much, I actually think I’m gonna puke—”

Shoko landed a beat after, considerably more composed, though even she was breathing hard, hands braced against the sand, hair plastered flat to her skull. She looked, for the first time all morning, completely and utterly delighted.

“That,” she gasped, “was the most efficient commute of my entire life. We are never driving to campus again.”

“It was TERRIFYING,” Utahime wheezed.

“No time to celebrate!” you yelled, dragging yourself onto the dry sand as the familiar, burning heat began to flare under your ribs. “Towel! Now!”

The three of you scrambled up the beach like three stranded seals, desperately grabbing the stack of towels. You scrubbed at your arms, Shoko furiously dried her tail with two towels at once, and Utahime was practically vibrating with anxiety as she shook out her hair.

“Time,” you said, breathless, urgent. “What time is it, someone check a phone—”

Shoko lunged for her sweatpants, digging her phone out of the pocket with wet, clumsy fingers. She squinted at the screen, and her face went from delighted to horrified in under a second.

“11:52.”

“WHAT,” Utahime shrieked, “That gives us eight minutes—”

“We're not even close to the house from here,” you said, panic spiking clean through the exhaustion. “It’s a ten minute drive on a good day—”

“Then we drive like we just discovered we can swim at the speed of sound,” Shoko snapped, hauling her now-human legs into her pants frantically. “Move, move, MOVE—”

The three of you tore across the sand toward the car in a chaos of half-dried limbs, tangled towels, and inside-out shirts, praying to whatever ancient thing lived in that glowing cave that your driveway would be empty when you screeched back into it.

“My hair is still soaking wet,” Shoko complained, sliding into the driver’s seat. “If they ask, we went for an aggressive, unscheduled jog in the rain.”

“It’s sunny out?”

“Then we fell in a tide pool. Let's go!”

Within two minutes, the car doors slammed shut, and Shoko peeled out of the gravel turnout, spraying rocks behind her. The heater was blasted to maximum, the car smelling heavily of salt water and damp fleece.

You looked at Utahime in the passenger seat, whose hair was plastered to her forehead, and then at Shoko in the rearview mirror, who was aggressively steering with one hand while trying to dry her bangs with a spare towel in the other.

You couldn't help it. A bubble of laughter escaped your throat, and soon, all three of you were howling with laughter as the car sped back toward the house, completely unaware of the chaos that was about to unfold when you got home.

🌊𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 🌊

𝖢𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾

𝖩𝖩𝖪 𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆! 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 [𝖴𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖤𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖲𝗂𝖽𝖾!𝖠𝖴]

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟤𝟣: 𝖣𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝖣𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖻

𝖬𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎

You stood by your balcony windows, phone pressed to your ear, watching the city blink back at you like it hadn't just watched your night implode in real time. Somewhere behind you, Kento's voice had dropped into that clipped register he used when he wanted someone to feel small. Satoru was pacing near the bar, phone against his shoulder, not saying much of anything. Suguru had disappeared into your bedroom, and Utahime was already three sentences into a rant you could hear through the wall.

The line clicked. “Reader.” 

Your father's voice. Even now, at—you glanced at the time—1:12 in the morning, he sounded like a man reviewing a quarterly report, not one waking up to a call from his only daughter.

“Hi Daddy.” 

"I've already had two calls." No hello. No are you alright. Just data. "One from Whitmore's office. And one from a number I didn't recognize…which turned out to be someone at the Zenin family's counsel."

You closed your eyes briefly. "Wonderful. So they're already lawyering up."

"Naturally." A pause, the particular kind he used when he was deciding how much to say. "Were you photographed?"

“I assume so.” 

"In frame during the altercation, or adjacent to it?"

"Adjacent." You kept your voice even, the way you'd learned to. "I pulled Satoru back. That's it."

"Good." Something in his exhale sounded almost like relief, if you squinted. "That's the version we're keeping."

"But it's the true version."

"That's beside the point, but I'm glad it's also convenient." A beat. Papers shuffling somewhere on his end—he was awake enough to be at his desk, which meant he'd been awake before you called. "Now, for this website. Have you seen the full post?"

"I have."

"And?"

"And it's thorough," you admitted. "Too thorough. Whoever runs it wasn't guessing. They had to have been there."

"I don't like that." His voice didn't rise. It never rose. But there was a flatness underneath it now. "I don't like that someone can stand in a room with my daughter and I don't know their name."

You blinked, caught slightly off guard by the ‘my daughter’ — not ‘the family’, not ‘our interests’.

"I'm fine, Daddy."

"I know you are." Another pause, shorter this time. "You're always fine. It's rarely the comfort you think it is."

You didn't have a response for that one.

"I'll have Aldrich look into the domain registration," he continued, already moving past the moment, already back to business, like the crack had never opened. "Discreetly. If this touches the Montclair name in a way that isn't strictly true, I want it handled before it becomes a habit."

"And if it's true?"

A long pause.

"Then we'll discuss it," he said. "Go to sleep, Reader. Or don't. But stop standing by the window where every photographer on Fifth Avenue can see you brooding. It's bad for the optics and worse for your posture."

The line went dead before you could tell him you weren't brooding.

You almost smiled. Almost.

♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎

Across the room, Kento hadn't moved from his spot near the kitchen island, one hand braced against the marble, voice low and precise.

"I need the registration history, not the surface data—yes, I'm aware it's masked, that shouldn’t be a deterrent." A pause. "Then unmask it. I don't care what it costs. Send the invoice to the firm." Another pause, longer, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "No. Don't loop in my father. This one's mine."

Near the bar, Satoru had his phone tucked against his shoulder, pouring himself something amber and unbothered—except his knuckles were a little too tight around the glass.

"I don't want a statement," he was saying, tone lazy. "I want to know if this actually reaches anyone who matters, or if it's just noise that'll die by Thursday... Yeah. Yeah, I know it's live. I can read a view counter, Marcus."

He hung up without saying goodbye, tossed the phone onto the counter, and knocked back half the glass in one go.

Suguru drifted back in from the bedroom, hands tucked in his pockets. "My mom's art world contact says there's whispers of some backer with actual money behind the site," he said, voice quieter than usual. "Not just a bored student with a laptop. Someone funded the infrastructure."

"Comforting," Shoko muttered from the couch, not looking up from her own phone. She hadn't called anyone. Just texted, thumb moving fast, expression unreadable. "My guy says the same. Whoever's behind this isn't doing it for free."

Utahime stormed back in from the hallway, phone still glued to her ear. "No—Mom, I said I'm fine—no, I wasn't drinking, I was—" she pulled the phone back to glare at it before pressing it to her ear again. "Yes. I know optics matter. I invented optics." A pause. "Okay, love you, bye." She hung up and exhaled sharply. "She's already drafting a statement. For me. I didn't even do anything."

You moved away from the window, the glass of the balcony cooling behind you as you joined the circle. The atmosphere in the penthouse was thick with paranoia, everyone locked into their own digital defensive perimeter.

"They're treating it like a corporate crisis," you said, tossing your phone onto the kitchen island. "My dad's already got Aldrich tracking the domain. If this site touches our names with anything actionable, it's a legal war."

"It's already an actionable war," Kento snapped, shutting his laptop with a decisive click. "The sheer speed of the distribution means they bypassed standard campus network protocols. It's an internal breach."

Before Utahime could launch into a critique of the university's infrastructure, the sharp buzz of the front door intercom cut through the room.

Everyone froze.

Shoko didn't look up from her screen, but her thumb stopped moving. Suguru slowly took his hands out of his pockets, his gaze shifting toward the foyer.

You walked over to the wall monitor, tapping the screen to reveal the lobby camera feed down on Fifth Avenue.

Kugisaki was standing directly under the gold awning, her arms crossed over her jacket. Beside her, Maki had a firm, non-negotiable grip on the strap of Megumi’s collar, preventing him from fading back into the Manhattan dark. Mai was a few steps behind them, typing lazily on her own phone.

You pressed the small button beside the screen, your voice crackling to life through the lobby speaker. "Password."

A beat of silence on the feed. 

Kugisaki looked directly up at the camera with an unamused huff. “Reader, I am wearing eight-inch platform heels, and we had to chase Megumi out of the subway. Buzz us in.”

"That's…not a password."

“Reader-!”

You snorted, releasing the button and hitting the main door buzzer. "The kids are here," you announced, turning back to the room. 

"About damn time," Utahime said, already sliding off the barstool to check her reflection in the nearest reflective surface, which happened to be the toaster.

Satoru leaned his chin in his hand, a lazy smirk returning to his face. "Be nice, Utahime. They survived the subway at midnight. That's practically hazing."

"I took the subway once," Suguru mused from the couch, swirling his glass. "It smelled like piss and shit."

"That's just Manhattan after dark, Sugu," Shoko muttered, not looking up from her screen.

You could hear them before the doors even opened.

"—I'm just saying, if I break an ankle in these heels because your cousin sprinted through a turnstile, I will sue you personally, Maki, not your family, you—"

"You didn't have to wear them."

"I always have to wear them, that's the whole point of having them—"

The doors slid open with a soft chime, and the four of them tumbled out in a loose, uncoordinated cluster — Kugisaki first, heels clicking against your marble. Maki followed, still gripping the back of Megumi's collar with the calm, practiced ease of someone walking a dog that had tried to bolt one too many times. Megumi himself looked exhausted while Mai trailed last, thumb still moving across her phone screen, seemingly unbothered by the journey that had apparently almost ended in bloodshed.

"We're here," Kugisaki announced to the room at large. "Barely.”

"You're late," Shoko said, lifting her eyes.

"Blame the infrastructure," Maki said, letting go of Megumi's collar with a dismissive shove.

“Anyways, what’s the actual body count?” Kugisaki demanded, tossing her jacket onto the couch. “Because the comments section on that site is saying Satoru caught a federal charge and Naoya is currently being fitted for a prosthetic jaw.”

“He’s not getting a prosthetic jaw,” Satoru said breezily, lifting his glass in her direction from his perch at the bar. “Just a lesson in conversational boundaries.”

Megumi rubbed at his collar after Maki released him, and his eyes immediately locked onto Satoru. 

“Your legal representation just called my phone,” Megumi said, his voice flat. “Why do they have my number?”

“Because you’re with me, kiddo,” Satoru replied, completely unfazed by the glare. “And right now, being associated with me means your name is officially a trending topic.”

“His name was already a trending topic, dipshit.” Shoko muttered. 

Maki walked past them both, stepping into the living room and looking directly at you and Suguru. “It’s not just the fight post anymore. Look at the site. They just updated the main page.”

You picked your phone back up from the kitchen island, the cold blue light of the screen illuminating your face as the sleek navy-and-black interface loaded a fresh card.

Sitting right above the viral post was a new text block, written in that same crisp, devastating font:

SPOTTED: A hit lands, a lip bleeds, and the dynasties scramble to lock their vaults. But a broken jaw is just a distraction, elites. The real leaks start tomorrow morning when the first bell rings. We have the registrar logs. We have the donor ledgers. We know exactly who bought their way into the honors syllabus. Sleep tight, Dominae Regis. Class is officially in session.

“They’re going after the academic records,” Utahime whispered, her phone slipping an inch in her hand. “If they leak the internal university endowment files...”

“Then the entire meritocracy facade collapses before midterms,” Kento finished coldly, his fingers tapping an incessant beat against his closed laptop.

A beat of silence.

"I think," you said, setting your phone back down on the counter, "that we should not continue to discuss this matter for the remainder of the evening."

Heads whirled towards you. 

“But they could literally expose every legacy admission since 1998!” Kugisaki burst out, throwing her hands in the air. “If my name is on a list next to some trust-fund kid who failed algebra twice, my reputation is completely shot—!”

“It won't be on there, Kugisaki,” Maki said calmly, as she leaned against the back of the sofa. “But half the varsity rowing team should probably start looking at transfer applications.”

“Exactly,” you said, your voice cutting through the rising panic. “Which is exactly why we are stopping right here. Look at yourselves. You’re tweaking out over a nobody. A loser.” 

You paused, sweeping your gaze over the room, letting the silence anchor them back to reality. “And the one thing a Montclair does not do is give a coward the satisfaction of a reaction. If we scramble, we show blood in the water. We are not panicking.”

Kugisaki opened her mouth to argue.

You held up a single finger.

She closed it.

"Tomorrow," you said, "we panic. Tonight, we drink."

Satoru raised his glass, delighted. "There she is."

"I second the motion," Suguru said mildly, already reaching across the counter to lift a fresh bottle.

Utahime, ever the fastest to recalibrate, clapped her hands once. "Okay. New rule. If anyone says the words registrar, nepo net, or endowment for the rest of the night, they owe the room a shot."

“Better yet,” Shoko proposed, sitting up with a lazy grin. “If anyone says any of those words, everyone has to take a shot.”

“Registrar! Nepo Net! Endowment!” Haibara cheered instantly.

A collective groan echoed through the penthouse as Satoru immediately started lining up the glasses. 

"Wait, that's not fair, he did that on purpose—" Kugisaki started.

"There's no clause about intent," Haibara said gleefully, already reaching for the nearest glass. "Rules are rules."

"There were no rules," Utahime snapped, "thirty seconds ago!"

"And I'm the first to enact them. That's called integrity."

Satoru was pouring in one continuous motion across the glasses like it was choreography. "Everyone, arms out. This is a group punishment. We suffer as a family."

"I didn't say anything," Kento said flatly.

"You're drinking anyway," Satoru said, sliding a glass toward him regardless. "Community tax."

"That's not how taxes work."

"It's exactly how taxes work, Ken-dog, that's the whole problem with them."

Kento accepted a glass with a huff before slapping Satoru’s wiggling fingers away. Around the room, hands reached for glasses — Kugisaki still muttering about entrapment, Maki knocking hers back without ceremony, Mai sipping hers like it personally owed her an apology.

"To poor decision-making," you said, lifting your own glass.

"To Haibara's early demise," Utahime added sweetly.

"I'll allow it," Haibara said, and drank.

The room went loud again — the kind of loud that swallowed whatever tension had crept back in, burying it under music and overlapping conversations and Kugisaki now interrogating Maki about which rowing team members specifically were about to have a very bad morning. Someone put on something with more bass. Utahime abandoned the toaster reflection in favor of dragging Kento and Shoko into a debate about the Halloween gala theme like the world hadn't just threatened to leak sixty years of admissions fraud 20 minutes ago.

Megumi still hadn't moved from the end of the bar.

You caught sight of him past Satoru's shoulder — glass mostly untouched, posture drawn in on itself, watching the room the way he always did, as if he was cataloguing exits.

You picked up your drink and crossed to him, sliding onto the stool at his side without asking permission.

"You're doing the thing," you said.

He glanced at you sideways. "What thing?"

"The thing where you stand very still and hope no one notices you. And then you try to leave when no one’s looking."

His jaw ticked faintly , and he turned his glass a slow half-circle against the marble instead of answering right away.

“Is it because of what Naoya’s been saying?” You asked, your voice softening.

“It’s fine," he said finally. "What he says is true anyways."

"It's not true, and you know it." You kept your voice easy, unhurried. "But whatever he thinks he knows, about your family, about tonight — it doesn't change what's actually true."

"You don't know what's true."

"No," you agreed simply. "But I know you. And I know Naoya's a bitter, overcompensating asshole who says cruel things because it's the only leverage he's got that doesn't require actual talent."

That, finally, cracked something loose in him — not quite a smile, but close enough that his shoulders dropped half an inch.

"You sound like Satoru."

"Don't insult me."

The almost-smile won, barely, and you bumped his shoulder gently with yours, letting the silence sit comfortably between you while the party roared ten feet away like its own separate weather system.

Across the room, you didn't miss the moment Shoko's fingers found Suguru's sleeve, tugging once, wordless. He didn't even glance at anyone else before following her toward the hallway, your guest room door clicking shut behind them a second later, swallowed instantly by the noise.

Utahime, mid-argument with Kugisaki about garlands versus fog machines, turned to point at you. "Called it. Again."

You let out a soft huff that was closer to a real laugh than anything you'd managed all night. "Go on," you murmured, giving his arm a gentle nudge toward the living room. "Go save Maki and Mai from Utahime's event planning before she makes them dress up as ice sculptures."

Megumi looked toward his cousins, then back at you, offering a tiny, almost imperceptible nod before sliding off the stool.

Satoru suddenly appeared at your other side like he'd been summoned, two fresh glasses in hand, already pressing one into your palm before you'd finished the last of your first.

"You disappeared on me," he said, low. "Again."

"I was parenting Megumi."

"I heard." His eyes flicked, briefly, warmly, toward the boy. "Cute. Unsettling on you."

"I’m multifaceted."

"Yeah…ok." he hummed unconvinced, as he leaned into the counter, close enough now that his cologne settled over you. "You good?"

You considered the easy lie. The deflection. The joke that would let you both pretend.

"Ask me again in an hour," you said instead.

Something flickered across his face —gone as fast as it came, replaced by the familiar tilt of his smirk.

"Come outside with me," he said. "Balcony."

"Satoru—"

"Five minutes." His eyes held yours, steady in a way that had nothing performative left in it. "Please."

You should've said no.

You set your glass down instead.

"Five minutes," you echoed.

He didn't let go of your hand until you were both through the doors, the glass sliding shut behind you and swallowing the party down into a muffled hum.

The city sprawled out beneath you in every direction, gold and glittering. The cool night air bit at your bare shoulders, sharp after the heat of the apartment, and you shivered before you could stop yourself.

Satoru noticed immediately, because of course he did. He always noticed the small things about you, even when he pretended not to notice anything at all.

He unbuttoned his silk shirt without a word and draped it over your shoulders, ignoring your token protest before you'd even made it.

"I didn't ask for that."

"You didn't have to." He tugged the lapels closed at your collarbone, knuckles brushing your skin, lingering half a second longer than the task required. "You get this face when you're cold. Little furrow, right here." He touched two fingers to the spot between your brows, feather-light. "Dead giveaway."

"I don't have a ‘face’."

"You’ve got tons. I've catalogued all of them."

You rolled your eyes, but you didn't step back.

"You said five minutes," you reminded him. "Talk, or I'm going back inside to my actual friends."

"I'm hurt." He leaned back against the railing, putting a few feet of space between you that felt, somehow, more charged than closeness would have. His eyes swept over you slowly as if he was reading you. "Tonight was a lot."

You shrugged. “We’re used to it.” 

"And now you're standing here," he continued, quieter, "acting like none of it touched you. Like you didn't spend the whole car ride digging your nails into your hand." His eyes found yours, and there wasn't a trace of the performance left in them now — none of the smirk, none of the practiced charm he wore like a second skin in every room that wasn't this one. "I know you, Reader. You don't get to lie to me about being fine."

Your breath caught at the use of your actual name — not ‘sweetheart’, not ‘baby’, not any of the easy nicknames he threw around like currency.

"I was scared," you admitted, so quiet the wind almost took it. "Only for a second."

"Yeah." His jaw tightened, some old, familiar guilt flickering behind his eyes. "Me too."

The silence between you settled over the balcony like a physical weight, thick with everything the two of you had spent years laughing off. The wind caught the hem of his shirt around your knees, a sharp reminder of how high up you were, how precarious everything felt outside the glass.

"Ask me something else." you said, softer now. 

"Okay," he said, voice low. "Can I kiss you?"

You should've said something clever. Should've deflected, the way you always did, the way the two of you had built an entire relationship out of never quite naming the thing sitting between you.

You didn't say anything at all.

You closed the distance instead.

His hand found your jaw the second your lips met his, careful in a way that contradicted every reckless, chaotic thing anyone had ever said about Satoru Gojo — like you were something he'd been waiting all night to be gentle with. You felt him exhale against your mouth, some tension you hadn't realized he was holding finally slipping loose, and you let yourself sink into it instead of pulling away, instead of making the joke, instead of doing any of the hundred things you usually did to keep this exact moment at arm's length.

The party noise bled back in faintly from somewhere behind the glass doors — Utahime's laugh, the bass of the music, someone's shriek; but it all felt very far away, very unimportant, next to the warmth of his hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him like the city itself might try to take you from him if he didn't.

You pulled back, just a fraction — enough to catch your breath, enough to press one hand flat against his chest like you might actually put space between you — but Satoru only followed, chasing your mouth with a low sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan, refusing to let the distance stick.

"Uh-uh," he murmured against your lips, tightening his hold at your waist. "Don't do that."

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world and intended to spend every second of it proving you wouldn't want to leave anyway.

When you finally broke apart, just barely, his forehead dropped to rest against yours, breath uneven.

"Your five minutes," you murmured, "is up."

"Worth every second," he said, and kissed you again before you could argue.

𝖢𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾

𝖩𝖩𝖪 𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆! 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 [𝖴𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖤𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖲𝗂𝖽𝖾!𝖠𝖴]

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟤𝟢: 𝖢𝗍𝗋𝗅 + 𝖠𝗅𝗍 + 𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾

𝖬𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎

Knock. 

“Wake up, shithead.” 

Knock. Knock. 

“Shithead.” 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

“Yuji?! Can’t open a fuckin’ door now?!”

BOOM. 

Yuji’s bedroom door slammed open and in the dimly lit doorway stood Sukuna, already in a spectacularly bad mood.

His dark hoodie was half-zipped, revealing flashes of fresh tattoo ink across his chest. And an unlit cigarette was tucked behind his ear despite the fact that their mother had threatened his life over it at least seven hundred times.

“Jesus Christ,” Yuji groaned, burying his face deeper into his pillow as the harsh glare of the hallway light sliced across his mattress. “What time is it?”

“Late.”

“That’s not a time.”

“Late enough,” Sukuna grunted, stepping into the room and kicking a stray sneaker out of his path. He threw himself into the single, rickety wooden chair by Yuji’s desk, letting his long legs stretch out across the small rug.

Yuji rolled over, squinting through the glare, his pink hair sticking up in a chaotic nest. “Ryu, some of us actually had to wake up before noon today. My commute to Dominae is an hour on a good day.”

Sukuna scoffed, finally pulling the cigarette from behind his ear and twirling it between his fingers. “Right. An hour. It’d be at max 30 minutes if you didn’t insist on helping every old fucker in your way.” 

Yuji flipped him off. 

“Anyways. How was day one? Anyone try to buy your soul yet?” Sukuna asked, throwing an errant book at Yuji’s back. 

“Buy my soul? They aren’t demons,” Yuji said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “They’re just…stupid rich. Like, the buildings are huge and everything looks like a museum. I accidentally ran into this girl in the courtyard and dropped her phone, and I thought she was going to have her driver deport me back to Queens.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, a dangerous flicker behind his dark gaze. “What’d she say to you? Did she act funny?”

“Nothing bad!” Yuji said quickly, waving his hands. “She was actually cool. In a scary way. Her name’s Reader. Reader Montclair. I handed her phone back, and she just kind of stared at me for a second. Like she wasn't sure what to do with me. But she smiled, so I think that's good?” 

Sukuna let out a low, dry laugh. “Montclair? Jesus, Yuji. That family practically owns the dirt the city is fuckin’ built on.”

Yuji raised an eyebrow. “One family can’t own a city’s dirt, Ryu.” 

Sukuna gave him a look. “You go to a college with people who’ve got brands for heartbeats. Of course they can own a city. And more.” 

“They’re just people,” Yuji muttered, pulling his blankets back.

“Yuj, you keep your head down. Don’t get caught up trying to make friends with mannequins who’ll use your budget for their pocket change.”

Before Yuji could argue, a violent vibration rattled his nightstand.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

Yuji blinked, looking over at his phone. The screen was flashing a bright, persistent blue. 

“What the hell is that?” Sukuna muttered, watching the device buzz against the wood. 

Yuji leaned over, snagging the phone. It didn’t look like a standard text message. It looked like a twitter notification, except…Yuji didn’t have twitter. And twitter wasn’t called: NEPOTISM NET.  

“Oh… I think I just got hacked or something,” Yuji murmured, tapping the link.

"You idiot, you don’t click the fuckin’ link-" Sukuna started, reaching across the bed to smack the device out of his hand.

But it was too late. The webpage was already rendering.

Yuji’s eyes scanned the sleek navy-and-black interface that had just overridden his lock screen. “No, look. It’s routed through the student registry. Everyone at school is getting this.”

He scrolled down, his eyes widening as he read the bold header.

“What’s it say?” Sukuna asked, his voice dropping into a low, curious growl.

Yuji didn’t answer, his eyes racing across the glowing screen as he tried to process the massive blocks of text updating in real time.

Sukuna was already out of the chair, leaning over his shoulder. “Move.”

“No.”

“Move.”

“You can see from there.”

“I literally can't.”

“You have longer legs than me.”

“That isn't how eyesight works.” Sukuna muttered, pushing Yuji over and climbing into the bed with him. 

Yuji ignored him and scrolled, his eyebrows slowly climbing higher and higher. “Oh.”

“Stop saying oh.”

“It’s a post about tonight,” Yuji hummed, his thumb hovering over the glass. “There was a fight at some place called The Regent.”

Sukuna’s eyebrows lifted, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face, exposing a sharp line of teeth. “The prissy kids actually get into fights? No shit.” 

“Gojo,” Yuji read aloud, his voice dropping in disbelief. “It says he completely leveled some guy named Naoya Z on the grand staircase.”

Sukuna let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, a wicked grin splitting his face. “Naoya? A Zenin got dropped? On day one? That’s gold.”

“Ryu, look at the view count,” Yuji insisted, holding the phone closer to his face. “The comment section is moving so fast I can’t even track the names. Ten thousand views... twenty thousand... thirty-three thousand. The whole campus is up right now talking about this.”

“Hey,” Sukuna said suddenly, his voice dropping into a low, commanding register. “I told you before, and I’m telling you again. Keep your distance from those people. When a house that big starts burning, you don’t want to be anywhere near the smoke.”

Yuji didn't hear him. His thumb had kept scrolling, his eyes locked on the live comment feed.

“Let me see,” Sukuna grunted, tearing the phone straight out of Yuji’s grip.

“Hey!”

Sukuna ignored the protest, his dark eyes tearing through the feed with an unsettling level of focus. He scrolled past the blurry paparazzi-style photos of the velvet ropes and the shattered glass, his thumb coming to a sudden halt on the comment section.

A low, dangerous hum vibrated in his chest. “Look at this.”

Yuji leaned back in, his shoulder pressing against his brother's as they both stared at the cascading text.

@user_993: can someone confirm if Reader was there? @ues_updates: Spotted: RM pulling Satoru back before he caught a felony. @gossip.glen: The Montclair heiress is center of the frame as per usual 

Yuji blinked, the name instantly jumping out at him. “Reader,” he muttered softly. “She was there.”

Sukuna tossed the phone back onto the mattress like it had suddenly turned radioactive. The twisted, amused grin vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, flat severity. He slid off the bed, his tall frame blocking out the light from the hallway as he stood over Yuji.

“Yeah, she was there. Because that’s where those people belong—in the middle of a burning circus,” Sukuna said, his voice entirely stripped of its previous humor. He reached down, grabbing Yuji by the front of his t-shirt just enough to force his brother to look him dead in the eye. “Listen to me, Yuj. I’m not saying this to be a dick. That girl, that Gojo kid, the whole rotten circle? They are a different breed of dangerous. They play games where the loser goes broke or goes to prison, and they walk away without a scratch because daddy writes a check.”

Yuji didn't pull away, but his jaw set firmly. “She isn't like that, Ryu. She was nice to me.”

“She doesn't know you exist,” Sukuna snapped, letting go of his shirt with a dismissive shove. “And you better keep it that way. This 'Nepotism Net' thing? Whoever is running it just declared war on the most powerful families in the state. The fallout from this is going to stain anyone standing too close.”

He walked back to the doorway, pausing with his hand on the frame, his silhouette sharp against the dim light. “Keep your head down, kid. Don't get crushed under their marble.”

The bedroom door clicked shut, plunging Yuji back into the semi-darkness.

He looked back down at the glowing screen where the comment counter was still climbing.

Forty-two thousand.

Forty-three.

Forty-four.

Somewhere across the river, people he'd met less than twelve hours ago were tearing each other apart in front of the entire city.

His thumb hovered over the screen.

Then, before he could stop himself, he tapped the profile attached to the name:

Reader Montclair.

disclaimer: this is an absolutely self-indulgent drabble that was inspired by my tt fyp

You'd been planning this for nearly two weeks.

Maybe that was excessive for a prank. Maybe most people didn't spend fourteen days plotting the downfall of their spouse.

You weren't most people.

At least twenty-seven videos had appeared on your feed today alone, each one featuring some poor unsuspecting victim falling for the same prank. Every single time, you laughed so hard you nearly cried. By the fifteenth video, you'd stopped seeing it as a suggestion and started seeing it as a sign.

The universe wanted this to happen.

The package had arrived that morning.

The tiny bottle of fart spray now sat innocently on your dresser, looking far less dangerous than it actually was.

Down the hall, the shower was running. Kotaro had just come home from hosting a youth volleyball clinic with Kuroo, buzzing with energy and smelling entirely like the gym. Naturally, he had tried to suffocate you in sweaty, enthusiastic kisses before you shoved him toward the bathroom.

You could hear him loudly off-key singing in the shower over the sound of the rushing water.

He had absolutely no idea what was coming.

You took a deep breath, plastered a look of sheer, agonizing discomfort on your face, and pushed the bathroom door open. The room was thick with warm steam and the scent of Kotaro's body wash.

Behind the frosted shower curtain, his silhouette stopped moving. "Babe? Everything okay?"

"Ko, I'm so sorry, I just have to use the bathroom," you groaned, leaning against the sink and clutching your stomach for dramatic effect. "My stomach just hurts so bad, I'm sorry baby. I'll be quick."

"Aw, no! Did you eat something bad?" Kotaro’s voice instantly shifted into full, worried-husband mode. The curtain rustled as he poked his wet head out, his golden-owl eyes wide with genuine concern. "Do you need medicine? Do you want me to get out? I can—"

You hid the spray behind your back. "No, no, stay there! I’m just gonna use the toilet," you whimpered, practically tasting an Oscar win. 

"Okay, okay! Let me know if you need anything!" he called out, pulling the curtain back shut.

As soon as he was hidden, the look of pain vanished from your face, replaced by a wicked grin. You uncapped the tiny bottle, pointed it toward the ceiling, and aggressively pumped the nozzle four... five... six times before quickly sitting down on the toilet.

For a second, there was silence.

Then, the stench hit. It seemed to be an unholy combination of rotten eggs, hot garbage, and just...funk. 

You gagged, bringing your hand up to cover your mouth. Maybe you sprayed too much.

"Dude..." Kotaro’s voice came from behind the curtain, suddenly sounding a little choked up. "Babe? What did you eat?"

"I told you Ko, my stomach hurts," You bit your lip, trying desperately not to laugh out loud. "Maybe it was the sushi from last night?” 

"Sushi?" He repeated, his voice strained.

"Baby..." he said again, voice weaker this time. "That sushi was, like, twenty-four hours ago."

You pressed your lips together so hard they started to hurt. "Maybe it was delayed."

"Delayed?"

"Yeah."

There was a pause. "I don't think that's how fish works."

A muffled cough came from behind the curtain.

Then another.

Then the sound of him shuffling farther away from the spray.

Which, unfortunately for him, wasn't very far.

"Oh my God."

You dug your nails into your palm, trying to stifle your laughter. "Are you okay, Ko? I’m so sorry, baby—"

"No." The answer was immediate as a wet hand slapped against the tile. "No, babe, I'm actually a little concerned. What is that?"

"I told you Ko, my stomach hurts."

"I know your stomach hurts!" he cried out. "But are you digesting nuclear waste?!"

You nearly snorted.

The shower curtain rustled violently.

"Oh, wow." Another cough. "Wow."

"You're being dramatic." You said as you bit down hard on your knuckles.

"Dramatic?!" Kotaro’s voice cracked. "Baby, flush! Please, for the love of God, flush it away!"

You stared at the toilet bowl, completely empty besides the clean water. "I did flush, Ko! It’s just... lingering!"

"Open the door! Open the window! Open something!" A wet, frantic hand slapped against the shower wall as he tried to peer through the curtain. "I love you so much, but I can't breathe through my nose anymore, and if I breathe through my mouth, I can taste it! I can taste the sushi, babe!"

Unable to hold it in for another second, a loud, ugly snort escaped your throat.

And then a loud, wheezing, completely uncontrollable cackle that echoed through the bathroom.

The shower curtain was suddenly ripped back with enough force to nearly tear it off the rings. Kotaro stood there, framed by the swirling steam like a disgruntled, wet owl, coughing dramatically into his fist as he blinked through his watering eyes.

He looked at you. Then at your fully clothed legs. Then back up at you.

The sheer betrayal that washed over his face was a work of art.

"You..." he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "You aren't even pooping."

You lost it. Completely and utterly lost it. You threw your head back, howling with laughter as tears streamed down your face, holding up the tiny, innocent-looking plastic spray bottle like a trophy.

His eyes narrowed as his expression changed. The devastation vanished and seemed to be replaced by something much worse.

Determination.

Your laughter immediately slowed. "...Baby."

"No."

"Ko."

"Nope." 

He stepped out of the shower, wet and as naked as the day he was born.

You immediately scrambled backwards off the toilet. "Now hold on baby, let's talk about this."

The bathroom was suddenly very small.

"Oh, we're gonna talk."

"Ko—."

"We're gonna have a long conversation about trust."

You screamed, diving out of the way as the bathroom dissolved into absolute, chaotic laughter, the foul smell completely forgotten in favor of the frantic, slippery wrestling match now taking place on the bathmat. 

Marital bliss at its absolute finest.

𝖩𝖩𝖪 𝗑 𝖧𝟤𝖮: 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖠𝖽𝖽 𝖶𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖠𝖴 - 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝟫!

𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆!𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

Masterlist

🌊𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 🌊

Saturday started off with a scream. 

A very loud, shrill scream that could only come from the likes of Utahime. 

You almost fell as you leapt out of bed and scrambled to the bathroom - where you’d heard the noise come from. “Utahime—!” 

Shoko was hot on your heels, both of you skidding around the corner fast enough to nearly crash into the doorframe.

The bathroom looked like a crime scene.

The shower curtain and rod had completely collapsed, half the towels were soaked, bottles littered the floor, and Utahime—

Well, Utahime was sprawled on her back in the bathtub, hair plastered to her face, one arm death-gripping the side while a massive shimmering tail hung over the edge of the tub.

Bright scales flashed iridescent beneath the bathroom light.

Your breath caught.

Sapphire-blue. Finned. Absolutely real.

Relief hit you so suddenly it nearly made your knees weak.

So it wasn’t just you.

Then Utahime shrieked again.

“What the hell is this?!?!” she screamed, violently smacking the side of the tub with her tail hard enough to splash water onto the ceiling. “HELP ME—”

“Okay! Okay, calm down!” you rushed forward, dropping to your knees beside the tub. “I’m gonna help you.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Utahime cried. “I have a tail—”

Beside you, Shoko stared silently at the scene for a long moment.

Then:

“…Holy shit.”

Utahime pointed at her accusingly. “Don’t you ‘holy shit’ me—do something!”

“Stop moving!” you yelled, trying to pin her tail down before she demolished the entire room. “If you splash more water, it’s just going to take longer!”

“Stop moving?! Reader, look at my legs! Where are my legs?! Why do I have fish parts?!” Utahime was hyperventilating, her fingers clawing at the edge of the porcelain tub as her heavy, vibrant blue tail thrashed, knocking a bottle of Shoko’s body wash straight into the toilet with a splash.

You grabbed a dry towel from the rack and threw it at Shoko’s chest. “Don't just stand there! Help me dry her off!”

"I'm not touching the fish ass," Shoko deadpanned, though she knelt down anyway, gripping the towel with a look of sheer, unadulterated bewilderment.

“It’s a tail! It’s a tail!” Utahime wailed, covering her face with both hands as you and Shoko began frantically scrubbing at the wet, iridescent scales.

Her tail smacked the side of the tub again with enough force to send another wave of water sloshing over the rim.

The second it splashed across your bare ankle, heat flared beneath your skin.

Your entire body stiffened.

“Oh no.”

Shoko immediately pointed. “Oh no what?”

You lunged backward before the shimmer could spread further, nearly slipping on the soaked bath mat. “Nothing! Nothing, just—keep drying her off!”

The bathroom was a chaotic mess of flying terrycloth, heavy silver fins thrashing against porcelain, and the frantic, rhythmic squeaking of wet skin being rubbed dry. Every time Utahime flipped her tail in a panic, a fresh wave of leftover water droplets would hit the wall, restarting the internal timer.

Shoko paused for a split second, her eyes widening as she felt the texture of the shimmering blue scales. “Wait… these are actual scales. Like, biological, light-reflecting—”

“Focus, Shoko!” you hissed.

“Right. Drying the fish.”

As the towels absorbed the last major puddles on Utahime’s lower half, a sudden, intense wave of heat radiated from the tub. Utahime gasped, her eyes flying open as the deep blue shimmer began to dim. The smooth, seamless line of the tail started to ripple and split, the iridescent scales melting back into the familiar, rigid structure of human bone and muscle.

With a soft, fluid hiss, the fins retracted, and two perfectly normal, very bare legs tangled themselves at the bottom of the tub.

Utahime stared down at her toes, wiggling them experimentally, her chest heaving as she let out a shaky, traumatized breath. “They’re back. Oh my god, they’re back.”

You tossed the towel aside, sitting back on your haunches. “Okay, listen to me,” you said quickly. “You need to stay dry. That’s the important part.”

Utahime froze.

Slowly, suspiciously, she looked at you. “…Why do you know that?”

Ah. 

There it was.

The question you’d been dreading.

Shoko turned to look at you.

The room went quiet except for the dripping faucet.

Utahime’s eyes narrowed. “Reader.”

You stared very hard at the floor tiles.

Because really, how were you supposed to answer this?

Oh yeah, surprise, I turned into a mermaid three days ago and forgot to mention it.

“…Reader.”

Utahime’s expression shifted from panic to betrayal at lightning speed.

“You KNEW?!” she shrieked.

“I didn’t know this would happen to you!”

“That is NOT the important part of that sentence!”

Shoko stared between both of you, connecting dots at terrifying speed. “…Wait,” she said slowly, “That’s why you were acting weird at the tide pools…”

Your silence was apparently enough confirmation.

Utahime gasped dramatically. “You had a fish ass this whole time?!”

“Please stop calling it that!”

Shoko pointed at you. “The beach.”

Utahime pointed too. “The disappearing act!”

“I panicked, okay? I thought I was losing my mind!” you shot back, keeping your voice to a harsh whisper. 

Shoko slowly stood up, dropping her towel into the sink. She looked at Utahime, then looked at you, her face a mask of terrifying calm.

“Mako Island,” Shoko said quietly.

Both you and Utahime froze, looking up at her.

“The pool,” Shoko continued, her eyes narrowing. “That weird, glowing cave pool we all jumped into on Friday night. The full moon. The humming sound.” She pointed a finger at the two of you. “It did something to your biology.”

Utahime’s jaw dropped. “You think the MySpace island turned us into mermaids? That’s impossible!”

“Utahime, you literally just had a fin five seconds ago,” Shoko pointed out dryly. Then, her eyes shifted to her own hands, her expression suddenly turning incredibly blank. “…Wait.”

She held her breath, staring down at her completely dry, completely normal, un-shimmering hands. She flexed her fingers. She patted her legs. Nothing. No heat, no silver scales, no sudden urge to plunge into the nearest body of water.

A slow, deeply smug smirk crept onto Shoko’s face. She crossed her arms, looking down at the two of you like a queen surveying her lower subjects.

“Well,” Shoko hummed, her voice dripping with absolute satisfaction. “Sucks to be you guys. Looks like my immune system is built different.”

Utahime pointed at her. “Oh no, we are NOT suffering alone.”

You looked toward the still-dripping faucet.

Shoko followed your gaze instantly.

“…Don’t,” she warned.

Utahime lunged first.

Shoko barely had time to yelp before Utahime grabbed the detachable shower head from the tub and squeezed the handle.

“UTAHIME—”

Water blasted directly into Shoko’s chest.

All three of you froze.

Nothing happened.

But within two seconds, you both realized your fatal mistake.

In your eagerness to wet Shoko, the water had flown everywhere. A massive spray of droplets landed squarely across your own lap, and Utahime had practically bathed herself in the splashback from the wet towel.

The 10-second countdown started.

One. Two. Three.

A wave of intense heat slammed into your chest. Your legs buckled, and you tumbled onto the soaked bathmat with a loud groan as your skin burst into a blinding liquid-silver shimmer.  “Oh come ON—” 

Right next to you, Utahime let out a frustrated wail as she crashed backward into the tub for the second time that morning. “Not again!” 

Thump. Splash. There you both were. Two fully grown, sparkling, iridescent mermaids wedged into a tiny, localized disaster zone of a bathroom, tails flipping uselessly against the porcelain and the floorboards.

Shoko stood perfectly dry on a small patch of untouched linoleum, looking down at the two of you with an expression of pure, unadulterated judgment.

“Brilliant,” Shoko said, checking her nails. “Truly a mastermind tactical move from both of you. Have fun drying off again. I’m going to go get some coffee and pretend I live alone.”

She took a single step toward the door. Then, she froze.

A sudden, sharp gasp escaped her lips. The smug smirk vanished from her face so fast it looked painful. She clutched her stomach, her eyes widening into dinner plates as a massive, violent wave of heat radiated directly out of her core.

“Oh…” Shoko choked out, her voice dropping an octave. “Oh, no. Wait. Hold on.”

The liquid shimmer exploded across her arms, bright, vibrant, and tinted with a deep, sea-glass green.

Her legs fused instantly. With a dramatic, heavy thud, Shoko lost her balance entirely, crashing sideways onto the floor right between you and the bathtub. Her massive, iridescent green tail slammed against the floor with a wet, heavy slap, sending the remaining bottles of shampoo scattering across the room.

The bathroom fell into a stunned, breathless silence.

Three mermaids. One bathroom. Zero dry towels left.

Shoko stared down at herself in absolute silence.

Then:

“…Okay,” she said weakly. “Now I’m upset.”

🌊𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 🌊

𝖢𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾

𝖩𝖩𝖪 𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆! 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 [𝖴𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖤𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖲𝗂𝖽𝖾!𝖠𝖴]

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟣𝟫: 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖧𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝖱𝖾𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍…

𝖬𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎

“Wait,” Utahime said slowly, eyes lifting to meet yours. “How did they post this already? The fight just happened.” 

More phones lit up.

Notifications exploded across the room like sparks catching dry paper.

Reposts.

Screenshots.

The comment counter on the crisp white card was climbing by the hundreds every single second.

Satoru rolled his shoulders, his muscles tense beneath his tailored shirt, his gaze still locked on Naoya’s form. You kept your hand in a tight, anchoring vise around his arm, silently warning him not to give the crowd another show.

Hurried footsteps echoed from the edge of the VIP lounge corridor. You looked up to see Shoko and Haibara pushing through the frozen crowd toward the center of the wreckage.

Shoko took one look at the shattered champagne glass on the marble step, then at the blood on Naoya's jaw, and let out a sharp, dry breath.

"The security detail is already heading down from the terrace," Shoko warned in a low, urgent murmur, her phone already clutched in her hand. "We need to leave. Now."

Haibara looked between Satoru and Naoya, his usual bright energy completely eclipsed by the heavy atmosphere. "It's all over the feed. Everyone in the venue is looking at the site."

Naoya looked up slowly from his screen, his perfect hair slightly disheveled from the scuffle, and his expression rapidly morphing into one of pure, unadulterated rage. He looked at each of you individually, his eyes burning.

“If I find out that one of you lowlives had something to do with this bullshit,” Naoya hissed, his voice trembling, “I’ll end each and every one of you. My father will have your families blacklisted from Wall Street to the Hamptons before sunrise.” 

“Oh, please,” you countered smoothly, stepping slightly ahead of Satoru. “As if any of us would waste our data on you, Naoya. Look around. The whole room was watching you make an embarrassment of yourself. Anyone could have posted that.”

Naoya’s hands curled into tight fists, but before he could lunge, Vivienne had grabbed his arm, her face pale as she looked around. “Naoya, stop. We need to go.”

With one final, murderous glare, Naoya shoved past his entourage, dragging Vivienne along as they stormed toward the private exit.

The crowd parted for them in absolute, stunned silence, the blue screens of smartphones tracking their every move.

Haibara's voice cut through the immediate silence, eyebrows furrowed. “Kento’s already calling the car. Let’s take the back exit. If we’re here when the security arrives, the disciplinary committee will have a field day before our first week is over.”

You looked at Satoru, whose jaw was still set in a hard line as he stared at the spot where Naoya had been standing. Slowly, his fingers wrapped over yours, gently loosening your tight grip on his arm.

“Let’s go,” Satoru said, his voice unusually quiet, but steady. “I need a cigarette.”

♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎

You sat in between Kento and Satoru in the limo, fingers typing furiously as you updated Kugisaki. 

You: we had to leave Kugisaki 👠: yeah!! duh!!! what the hell was that??  Kugisaki 👠: who is nepo net?!?!?! why is satoru fighting?!?!?! Kugisaki 👠: actually i get it it’s naoya Kugisaki 👠: anyways where r u guys going next??? no way my first DR party gets shut down at MIDNIGHT You: idk yet. still trying to figure out the moves  You: we are going to mine for now You: u guys can come over. do NOT let megumi disappear  Kugisaki 👠: holding onto his hair rn!

“It’s trending,” Shoko spoke, breaking the tense silence of the vehicle. “Every single DR student got the message. It’s spreading to Columbia and NYU feeds, too.”

“Who gives a fuck about NYU.” Satoru muttered, his head leaning back against the leather headrest.

 Kento let out a measured sigh, adjusting his glasses. "We should care about the reach, Satoru. Your name is tied to international trade compliance. A public brawl over an 'investment mishap' combined with a digital blast that mentions your mother is not going to fly under the radar of your family's PR. By tomorrow morning, this will be on the desks of people who can probably make your life very difficult."

"Let them try," Satoru replied, his tone flat, entirely stripped of its usual playful arrogance.

Haibara broke the silence, his thumb frantically scrolling over his screen as the blue light washed out his face. “It already has thirty-three thousand views.”

The car went silent.

“Thirty-three thousand?” Utahime repeated, her voice cracking slightly.

“Since when?” Kento asked, his eyes narrowing behind his frames.

“Eight minutes ago.”

You felt your stomach twist.

Eight minutes.

The site had existed publicly for eight minutes.

“Read the comments,” Shoko said, leaning across the leather seat to nudge your knee.

“No.”

“Read them.”

“I literally don't want to.”

“Reader,” Shoko insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Read them.”

You groaned and opened the post again.

The comment section was cascading so fast the text was blurring.

@user9832: IS THIS REAL??? @user9832: WHO IS RUNNING THIS??? @gossip.glen: Not Naoya getting decked on the first day back 😭 @v.vanderlyn_fan: WAIT. WHO DOES WHAT AT THE COUNTRY CLUB??? @ues_updates: I need names. Drop the roster!!! @manhattan.clique: Anyone got a pic of what happened??? I wanna make an edit @columbia_core: The Upper East Side is FINISHED. Following this page NOW

"Oh, that's bad," Utahime whispered.

Suguru sat across from her, arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes fixed on the floor. "Kento's right about the timing, but the real issue is inside the room. Whoever runs that site was standing less than twenty feet away from us. They had a full write-up posted in under two minutes."

“The point,” Kento said dryly, “is that the infrastructure of this website is incredibly sophisticated. It bypassed DR’s campus firewalls to send a mass push notification to every student registry. This isn't just a rogue burner account thrown together on a whim because a fight broke out. Someone spent time building this.”

You slid your phone back into your clutch, the heavy silence settling back into the car as the limo glided down Fifth Avenue toward your building. The party high was completely gone, replaced by a cold, calculating adrenaline.

"Well," you murmured, looking around. "They wanted a grand opening. They got one."

♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎

nakahara chuuya x osamu dazai

༄ ── ⋆🏒⋆ ── ༄

SLAM.

The plexiglass rattled so hard the entire arena seemed to vibrate.

A burst of pain flared across Chuuya’s ribs as he crashed into the boards, skates slipping violently against the ice. 

“You’re such a fucking asshole!” He hissed, his fingers gripping his stick harshly.

Osamu just looked down at him through his helmet, a sharp, infuriating smirk cutting across his face. “Keep up next time.”

“Fuck you,” Chuuya snapped immediately, shoving himself back upright.

The referee’s whistle shrieked somewhere across the rink, sharp and useless beneath the roar erupting through the arena. Fans slammed against the glass only feet away, screaming for blood, for penalties, for something violent enough to justify the ticket prices.

Osamu skated backward with infuriating ease, dark eyes fixed on him through the cage of his helmet.

There it was again.

That look.

Like he knew exactly how far he could push before Chuuya finally lost it.

Chuuya’s jaw clenched.

Three years playing against Osamu Dazai had taught him many things. Mostly that Osamu was a smug, antagonistic bastard with a god complex and a talent for getting under his skin faster than anyone else on the ice.

And worse—

he was good.

Annoyingly, disgustingly good.

“Watch your left!” someone barked.

Too late.

The puck shot across the rink in a blur, and Osamu moved instantly.

Fast. Effortless.

Chuuya reacted a second after him, skates carving sharply against the ice as he shoved off hard enough to feel the strain in his knees.

Osamu glanced over his shoulder just in time for Chuuya’s shoulder to slam into his ribs.

The impact sent him skidding hard across the ice while Chuuya surged past after the puck.

Somewhere to Chuuya’s left, the referee blew his whistle in sharp warning, but the sound drowned beneath the roar flooding through the arena.

“Jesus Christ—”

“NAKAHARA WITH THE HIT—”

Chuuya barely heard any of it.

The puck slid loose across the ice, and instinct took over immediately.

He lunged forward, catching it cleanly against the blade of his stick before pivoting hard toward the opposing net.

The arena lights flashed violently overhead, reflecting across the ice in dizzying streaks of white and gold. Players surged around him in a blur of jerseys and sharpened movement, skates carving deep against the rink as the game exploded back into motion.

He could feel Osamu’s presence before he even saw him—a shadow closing in from his blind spot, moving with that uncanny anticipation that made Chuuya want to wrap his stick around the man's throat.

The crowd volume climbed with every second.

“Nakahara pushing center ice—”

Two defensemen converged on him like a vice, but Chuuya dropped his shoulder, executing a brutal, sharp-angle cut that left them eating his ice spray. The net was right there. Clear. Wide open.

He drew back for a slap shot, putting every ounce of his weight into the flex of the stick.

THWACK.

The puck rocketed toward the top right corner—

SNAP.

The opposing goalie’s glove flashed out, catching the puck out of the air with a deafening leather smack.

The stadium erupted into a mix of groans and cheers. Before Chuuya could even curse, a heavy shoulder leaned into him, not checking him this time, but crowding him right out of the crease.

“How unlucky,” Osamu’s voice murmured near his ear, laced with entirely too much amusement for someone who had just been leveled onto the ice thirty seconds ago. “Almost had it.”

Chuuya ripped himself away, glaring through his visor. “Go die in a ditch.”

The horn blared overhead, echoing through the rafters. 

End of the second period.

The tension didn't dissipate; it just simmered as the teams began the slow skate back to their respective tunnels. Chuuya deliberately kept his eyes locked straight ahead, his chest heaving as he swallowed down the taste of copper and adrenaline. 

He could feel the eyes of the cameras on them, the commentators undoubtedly replaying their hits on a loop for the broadcast.

He marched down the rubber-matted tunnel, the heavy thud of his skates masking the frantic racing of his pulse.

༄ ── ⋆🏒⋆ ── ༄

The final twenty seconds of the third period felt less like a hockey game and more like a war of attrition.

The scoreboard overhead flared a brutal, unforgiving red: 3 - 3

Chuuya’s lungs burned with every ragged breath, his thighs screaming as he dug his skates into the chewed-up ice. The stadium was a wall of pure, deafening noise—thousands of fans screaming, stomping, demanding a miracle before the clock ran out.

Thirty seconds.

Twenty.

Ten.

The puck ricocheted violently off the boards near center ice, bouncing loose between a cluster of players.

Chuuya didn't think; he just moved, pushing past the exhaustion, his skates carving a desperate, violent arc across the rink.

He tore forward, snatching control of the puck while the crowd surged instantly to its feet around him.

Someone shouted his name.

Another player closed in from the right.

Chuuya dropped low, swerving hard enough for ice spray to explode behind him as he slipped past the defenseman by inches.

Five seconds.

Out of the corner of his eye, a dark jersey lunged to intercept him. But Chuuya anticipated it. 

The goalie shifted forward. Too early.

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed.

Got you.

He snapped his wrist.

The puck launched clean off the blade of his stick, flying past the goalie in a black blur—

THWACK.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT.

The horn wailed, deafening and definitive, exactly a fraction of a second after the puck ripped into the back of the net, completely bypassing the goalie's glove.

For a beat, the arena seemed to hang in total suspense. Then, the home crowd exploded.

“GOAL! NAKAHARA AT THE BUZZER!”

Gloves grabbed at Chuuya instantly as his teammates crashed into him from every direction, shouting loud enough to blur together into meaningless noise.

Up in the stands, fans were throwing hats, beers, and merch over the glass, turning the entire arena into a riot of celebration.

Camera flashes exploded across the arena.

Chuuya was laughing, breathless and completely spent, letting his team shake his shoulders and pound on his chest protector.

But as the huddle shifted, his eyes instinctively tracked through the gap between his teammates' shoulders, searching the ice.

Away from the chaos, near the opposing bench, the rest of Osamu's team was skating off, heads low, shoulders slumped in defeat.

Except for one.

Osamu stood entirely still on the red line, his helmet resting under his arm, his dark hair damp with sweat. He wasn't moving toward the tunnel. He was just standing there, ignoring the absolute madness of the celebration around him.

Through the storm of falling hats and screaming fans, his dark eyes were locked directly onto Chuuya.

There was no smirk on his face now. No playful mockery. Instead, there was a heavy, simmering intensity that cut right through the noise of the stadium, making Chuuya’s chest tighten with something that had absolutely nothing to do with the hockey game.

One of Osamu’s teammates said something to him, before clapping his shoulder heavily.

But he didn’t look away.

And neither did Chuuya.

༄ ──────────── ⋆🏒⋆ ──────────── ༄

𝖩𝖩𝖪 𝗑 𝖧𝟤𝖮: 𝖩𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖠𝖽𝖽 𝖶𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖠𝖴 - 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝟪!

𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆!𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

Masterlist

🌊𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 🌊

The next morning came far too quickly.

You’d managed maybe three hours of sleep after the nightmare. The kind of shallow, restless sleep where every creak of the house felt like it might drag you back under.

By the time sunlight crept through your curtains, you already felt wrung out.

Still human, though.

You checked. Twice.

Your legs were still legs when you swung them over the side of the bed. No scales. No shimmer. No strange pulling sensation toward the ocean.

Just sore muscles and a pounding headache.

Normal problems.

You clung to that thought as you got dressed and made your way downstairs.

The house was loud again.

Utahime arguing with someone in the kitchen. Cabinets opening and closing. Shoko laughing at something.

It was so normal it almost made you dizzy.

You stepped into the kitchen just as Haibara slid a plate across the counter toward you.

“There she is!” he said brightly. “Finally awake.”

You could’ve kissed him at that exact moment. “How’d you read my mind?” 

Haibara chuckled. “You skipped lunch and dinner yesterday. Utahime said if you try that again she’s confiscating your phone.”

Utahime pointed a spatula at you from the stove. “I meant it.”

Shoko, slouched against the counter with a mug of coffee, lifted it in your direction. “Eat. You look awful.”

“Comforting,” you muttered.

Across the kitchen, Kento stood near the doorway, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, with car keys spinning slowly around one finger.

You furrowed your brows. “Where are you headed?” 

“You mean we.” Utahime corrected. “We’re—”

“Road trip!” Haibara interrupted. 

“Road trip where?” you asked.

Kento pocketed his keys. “The coast.”

Your stomach dropped. “…The coast?”

Shoko raised a brow immediately. “Problem?”

Your brain scrambled for something normal. “Uh—I mean, we’re skipping classes today?” 

Utahime made a face. “When have you ever cared about skipping class?”

“Yeah, aren’t you the same person who skipped class just to get a limited edition donut last week?”  Haibara piped in, right before receiving a balled-up paper towel to the face. 

Kento gestured toward the front door. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The breeze passing through Kento’s car was comforting. Familiar.

You sat in the back seat, looking out as the road slowly curved toward the coastline. 

Up front, Kento drove with his usual calm focus, hands steady on the wheel. Haibara occupied the passenger seat, talking enough for all of you.

“—and that’s what Shoko said—”

“I did not say that,” Shoko interrupted from beside you.

“You did!”

“You misheard me.”

“You said—”

You barely listened. Because through the windshield, far in the distance…you could see it.

The ocean. A thin blue line stretching across the horizon. 

Your skin prickled instantly.

Shoko’s voice cut through your thoughts. “You’re doing it again.”

You blinked, turning to look at her. “Doing what?”

She nodded toward your hands.

You looked down, seeing that your fingers had curled tightly into the seat.

Shoko watched you for a long moment. “…You sure you’re okay?” she asked quietly.

You forced your hands to relax. “Yeah,” you said.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The car rolled to a stop in the gravel lot with a crunch.

Kento killed the engine and for a moment no one moved.

The ocean stretched out beyond the cliffs ahead, wide and endless under the late morning sun. Waves rolled lazily toward the shore, white foam curling over dark rocks below.

Your skin prickled.

Haibara was the first one out of the car.

“Finally!” he said, stretching his arms above his head. “I thought Kento was going to drive forever.”

Shoko leaned forward between the seats, peering out the windshield. “Oh, tide pools.”

Utahime climbed out of the other side of the car, shielding her eyes as she looked toward the cliffs.

“Watch your footing,” she warned automatically. “Those rocks get slippery.”

You sat there for half a second longer than everyone else. 

Your chest tightened as you opened the door and stepped out.

The sound hit you immediately. Waves.

A low, steady rhythm rolling against the shore below.

Your body reacted before your brain could stop it. Something deep in your spine seemed to recognize the sound. Your muscles felt lighter, like gravity had loosened its grip on you.

You clenched your fists.

“Reader?”

You looked up.

Kento stood beside the car, watching you.

“You coming?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

The group followed the narrow path down the cliffside toward the rocky beach. Gravel crunched underfoot while gulls cried overhead.

Haibara was already halfway down the trail, excitement radiating off him.

“Look at that one!” he called back. “That pool’s huge!”

Sure enough, the rocks below were dotted with shallow basins of seawater left behind by the receding tide. Small fish darted through the clear water while anemones clung to the stones like living flowers.

Shoko crouched beside one almost immediately.

“Oh hell yeah,” she said, poking gently at a cluster of shells. “Nature aquarium.”

Utahime folded her arms, raising her voice. “Don’t touch anything that looks like it might poison you.”

Haibara ignored her entirely, already crouched beside a tide pool poking suspiciously at something purple.

Kento remained near the path, surveying the rocks like he was already calculating how many twisted ankles he was about to deal with.

You stopped a few steps from the nearest tide pool.

The water shimmered in the sunlight. Your skin hummed as you took a slow step forward.

The closer you got, the stronger the feeling became.

Your heartbeat synced strangely with the rhythm of the waves.

In. Out. In. Out.

Something inside you ached to slip into the water.

“Reader?”

Shoko’s voice snapped your attention sideways.

She was still crouched beside a tide pool, but now she was watching you instead of the shells.

“You’re standing there like a zombie,” she said.

You forced your shoulders to relax. “Just looking.”

She hummed suspiciously but turned back to the tide pool.

You exhaled slowly.

One careful step closer.

Your shoe nudged a damp patch of rock.

Cold seawater splashed lightly against the edge.

The drop landed on your ankle.

Your entire body jolted.

Heat flared beneath your skin instantly. You sucked in a sharp breath.

The shimmer started—

“Hey!”

Haibara suddenly ran past you, nearly skidding across the rocks. “Guys look at this crab!”

You jerked back instinctively, heart racing. The heat faded just as quickly as it had started.

Your ankle tingled faintly where the seawater had touched it.

You looked down.

No scales. No shimmer. Nothing to worry about. Yet.

🌊𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆡 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 🌊

𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝟧: 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖬𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖠𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋

Masterlist

══════════════════════════════════════════

📍The Quad, Next Day — A Little Too Sunny for a Murder Scene

The sun had the audacity to shine.

And the quad was buzzing.

Not with students. Not with cheer tryouts. Not even with those guys who always started freestyle raps near the statue of the university’s founder. (May he rest in problematic peace.)

No. Today the quad was crawling with reporters.

Cameras. Boom mics. Blinding flashes. One lady from Channel 5 even brought a dog for 'emotional' coverage. 

“Reporting live from Hollow Creek University, where a student was found brutally murdered in the woods behind the football house just hours after a raging party that featured at least six kegstands, several noise complaints, and a man dressed as Guy Fieri being tazed by campus police.”

You sat on the edge of the fountain with the rest of the group—bleary-eyed, hungover, and somewhere between denial and dry heaving. Jean had your legs across his lap, as he handed you a water bottle. 

“Can someone remind me what we’re mourning again?” Connie asked, chewing his hoodie string.

“Historia,” Mikasa replied dryly, taking a long sip of Niccolo’s coffee. “Idiot.”

“Ohhh. Right.” Connie paused. “Wait, she’s dead dead?”

“Yup,” Sasha nodded solemnly, holding a half-eaten croissant like it was a candle. “Stabbed. In the woods. Like...really stabbed.”

“Okay but like…” Armin squinted. “Do we know she was stabbed? Like medically?”

“Armin,” Annie deadpanned. “She was found holding her own intestines.”

“Oh my god.” You gagged into Jean’s shoulder. “WHY would you say it like that?”

“I’m mourning.”

“You’re not even crying.”

“I’m mourning internally.”

A heavy pause.

Then:

“I just can’t believe she’s gone…” Sasha sniffled. “She stole my curling iron.”

“She was wearing my skirt,” Mikasa muttered. “I want it back.”

Jean sighed. “You guys are monsters.”

A camera flash went off somewhere to your left.

You flinched. “What the hell?”

“Reporters,” Jean muttered, leaning against you. “They’ve been crawling all over since 7AM. Something about a ‘Ghostface’?”

“Yeah,” Armin said, flipping through his notebook and looking weirdly excited. “It’s what they’re calling the killer now. You know, since a student said they saw someone in a creepy mask near the woods last night.”

Annie looked up from where she was polishing her boots. “That was me.”

Everyone turned.

“You saw someone??” Sasha yelped, dropping her croissant.

“Yeah.” Annie shrugged. “Figured it was a frat pledge thing.”

“You didn’t think to chase them?” Jean asked, baffled.

“I was busy throwing up behind a tree, Jean.”

“Oh. Fair.”

Silence again. 

“I’m gonna miss her cute little hair flips,” Niccolo spoke up quietly.

“Thank you, Niccolo,” you said with a weak smile. “Finally someone taking this seriously.”

“She made me pizza rolls last week,” he continued. “Said I had nice wrists.”

You deadpanned. 

Another pause.

“She did compliment our wrists a lot,” Armin agreed.

“Okay but does anyone remember what happened to her?” Eren asked, running a hand through his already-disheveled hair. “Like… where she even went?”

“Last I saw her,” Connie said slowly, “she was…doing that thing she does.”

“What thing?”

“You know. Wandering off by herself while drunk.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely on-brand,” Mikasa said with a grimace.

“God.” Jean flopped dramatically onto his back across the stone edge of the fountain. “This is so messed up. We’re college students. We’re supposed to be worried about, like…hangovers and finals and if that one class counts as a humanities credit—not murder!”

“I thought the ‘Ghostface’ guy was fake,” Sasha muttered, pulling a tiny pink flask from her hoodie. “Like a myth. Urban legend kinda thing.”

“Well he’s got a body count now,” Annie said, eyes narrowed behind her mascara smudges. “So someone better start believing.”

“Are we SURE it’s not just someone doing promo for Armin’s horror zine again?” Connie asked.

“Stop blaming me for things that actually happen!” Armin snapped. “One time! That happened one time!”

Jean suddenly sat up. “Okay but…has anyone checked on Reiner?”

Everyone turned. Everyone winced.

“Oh yeah,” Sasha said softly. “He’s probably not doing great.”

───── 🩸 ─────

📍Cut To: The Football Field

Reiner was sprawled across the 40-yard line in his practice uniform, helmet on backwards, clutching a Gatorade like a baby bottle. He groaned as Coach shouted something about “getting your shoulder pads out of your ass and into the game.”

He’d heard the news that morning.

He drank half a handle of Fireball in grief.

He tried to run drills. He’d then run into the goalpost and concussed himself. 

───── 🩸 ─────

📍Back at the Quad

“Ymir’s not even on campus today,” Mikasa said with a sigh. “She’s at home watching that one video of Historia doing cartwheels over and over again.”

“Didn’t they date?” Eren asked.

“Secretly,” Sasha said. 

“Yeah,” Connie agreed. “They definitely made out at that mixer that one time.”

You looked up as the reporter with the golden retriever started getting dangerously close with her camera.

“Do we…have to give a statement or something?” you whispered.

Jean immediately stood up. “Don’t worry. I got this.”

“Jean, no—”

Too late.

He approached the camera. Dead serious. Hands clasped like a politician.

“To the Hollow Creek student body…to those grieving…to those hurting…” he said solemnly, eyes misty. “All we can do now…is heal.”

“Aww,” the reporter said, visibly touched.

“And party in her honor,” he added. “Kegstand tonight. 9pm. Bring your own mixers.”

The reporter looked horrified.

Jean winked and sat back down.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “We’re all gonna die.”

“Technically,” Armin mused, “we’re all already dying. Slowly.”

Annie smacked the back of his head.

“I mean…Historia was the first,” Sasha whispered, looking around. “But what if she’s not the last?”

No one answered.

Somewhere, just outside the view of the cameras…

A figure in a black robe stood on the roof of the humanities building.

Watching.

Waiting.

And when you blinked—

Gone.

𝖢𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾

𝖩𝖩𝖪 𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆! 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 [𝖴𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖤𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖲𝗂𝖽𝖾!𝖠𝖴]

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟣𝟪: 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝖻𝗅𝖾

𝖬𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎

For the next forty-five minutes, the party blurred into exactly what a Regent night was supposed to be: loud, sweaty, and completely detached from reality.

You danced with everyone, lost Satoru to a crowd of adoring freshmen only for him to break away five minutes later just to steal a sip of your drink, and watched Suguru gracefully dodge three different daughters of real estate moguls, all before grabbing Shoko by the waist and pulling her flush against him, spinning her into the center of the floor with a rare, unchecked laugh that was completely lost to the thumping bass.

But the Upper East Side never stayed peaceful for long.

This time, it all went wrong near the grand staircase leading to the VIP terrace.

You were heading back from the restroom with Utahime when you noticed the sudden dip in the noise level near the velvet ropes.

Naoya was standing three steps up, looking down with a lazy, venomous smirk. Satoru stood at the base, his hands casually shoved into his pockets, but his shoulders were perfectly square. "Oh, please. We all know why you keep the boy around, Satoru.”

He leaned lazily against the railing. “Is it charity? Or is it just a reminder of the time his father completely liquidated your family's offshore holdings?”

He continued. “I suppose when your mother is too busy scratching the bottom of a baggie at the Westchester Country Club to notice, you have to find entertainment somewhere."

Utahime stopped dead in her tracks beside you, her grip tightening on your arm.

Satoru tilted his head. "You're entering dangerous territory, Naoya. I'd turn around and go back to Vivienne before you say something you can't afford to pay for."

“Or maybe,” Naoya drawled, slowly stepping down one stair, “you’re just keeping the stray around until you figure out how to make him pay for his father’s sins.”

Naoya never finished the next sentence.

Satoru didn't even take his hands out of his pockets. He simply moved forward—one sudden, impossibly fast step that closed the distance between them in a fraction of a second.

With a sharp, brutal motion, Satoru brought his shoulder forward, shoving Naoya straight backward into the ornate iron railing. The champagne flute slipped from Naoya’s fingers, shattering instantly against the marble step in a spray of glass and crystal.

Naoya stumbled, his breath leaving him in a sharp grunt as his back hit the metal. But he recovered fast, grabbing a fistful of Satoru’s shirt and slamming him backward into the banister with enough force to rattle it.

“Oh, there he is,” Naoya sneered, composure cracking at the edges now. “There’s the spoiled pretty boy everyone warned me about—”

Satoru’s fist connected with his jaw before he finished.

Naoya stumbled sideways into the railing, then laughed—a sharp, disbelieving sound—as blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“You fucking psycho—”

Gasps erupted all around. 

You rushed down the stairs - Utahime in tow. “Get the fuck away from him, you asshole,” you sneered at Naoya, immediately grabbing Satoru’s arm to pull him back.

Naoya glowered at you, his eyes wild as he lunged again.

Before he could close the distance, Suguru appeared from the edge of the velvet ropes, easily grabbing Naoya by the lapels of his tailored blazer and hauling him upright.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink, Naoya,” Suguru said, his voice entirely conversational over the music, though his grip was tight enough to tear the stitching of the jacket. “Let’s get you outside before you make an absolute fool of yourself.”

Naoya slapped Suguru’s hands away, his face turning an angry, flushed red beneath his perfect hair. “Touch me again, Geto, and I’ll have my father pull every single line of credit your family has left in Europe.”

“Try it,” Suguru murmured, his eyes narrowing into two dark, lethal slits.

Then—

Chirp.

The sound barely registered beneath the music.

Another chirp followed almost immediately after.

Then three more.

The sound multiplied instantly, rippling outward from the grand staircase, moving like a wave across the main floor and up toward the VIP terrace.

People started reaching for their phones.

Brows furrowed.

Whispers spread.

“What the hell is—”

“Wait, who posted that?”

“No fucking way.”

People stopped watching the standoff. Heads dropped in unison. The blue glow of smartphone screens illuminated dozens of shocked, eager faces.

“What now?” Utahime muttered, her grip loosening on your arm as she pulled out her own phone.

Satoru’s breathing was still uneven beside you, the sleeve of his shirt wrinkled where Naoya had grabbed him moments earlier. Across from him, Naoya wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, already looking ready to lunge again.

But even he paused as the murmuring grew louder.

Someone near the velvet ropes barked out a sharp laugh.

“Oh my God.”

Another voice: “Who the fuck is nepo.net?”

You frowned, your hand instinctively dropping from Satoru’s arm to reach into your clutch as your phone vibrates violently against your palm.

A push notification from ‘nepo.net’ was flashing in bold letters across the display.

You tapped it. The page loaded instantly, revealing a sleek navy-and-black interface crowned by an ornate gold plaque stamped with crisp serif lettering:

NEPOTISM NET.

Beneath it, in sharp italic script, sat three simple words:

Anonymous. Unfiltered. Untouchable.

Your stomach dropped.

The rest of the site looked almost offensively polished—clean white feed cards, sleek silver icons, deep navy navigation tabs. Like someone had taken every social media platform on the market and rebuilt it specifically for Manhattan’s elite.

And sitting at the very top of the freshly updated feed—

SPOTTED: The first day of classes wrapped, but the real education is happening at Regent tonight. The Zenin heir learning the hard way that a legacy name doesn't protect a fragile ego. Word is, Naoya Z. decided to dig up some very expensive, very dusty skeletons regarding the Gojo family’s international 'mishaps' and a certain country club habit. Too bad the King of the UES doesn't take constructive criticism well.  Careful, boys. Digging up the past usually just ensures you get buried in it.  Watch your backs, elites. We're watching everything.

A heavy murmur rose from the crowd.

You slowly lowered your phone, your gaze sweeping across the room. Across the stairs, Naoya was staring down at his own screen, his jaw tight. Even Vivienne was staring at her phone from the top of the terrace, her mouth slightly open in horror.

Beside you, Satoru hadn't even looked at his phone. He was tracking the sudden wave of whispers with a clenched jaw.

“Well,” Satoru murmured, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet space. “It seems someone here has a very loud mouth.”

♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎

𝖲𝖯𝖮𝖳𝖳𝖤𝖣: 𝖠 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖬𝖺𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝗇’𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝖢𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾… 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀.

𝖷𝖮𝖷𝖮 💋

𝖢𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾

𝖩𝖩𝖪 𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆! 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 [𝖴𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝖤𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖲𝗂𝖽𝖾!𝖠𝖴]

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟣𝟩: 𝖵𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖲𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖵𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖦𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌

𝖬𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ • ♣︎ • ♥︎ • ♦︎ • ♠︎ Kento stepped out first, adjusting his cufflinks.

Satoru followed immediately, stretching his arms out into the night air. “Finally. Civilization.”

Utahime huffed as she stepped out after him. “It’s a nightclub, not a diplomatic summit.”

You slipped out last, smoothing your dress as the car doors closed behind you. You could feel the music bleeding through the walls already. A low, pulsing thrum like the building had a heartbeat.

Inside: Money. Noise. Trouble.

Perfect.

The bass was heavy enough to feel in your ribs, music spilling across marble floors and gold-lit ceilings.

Suguru was already waiting near the bar, chatting with the bartender. Shoko was beside him, leaning back against the counter with a drink in her hand. Haibara was nowhere to be found, although that wasn’t too shocking.  

Shoko met your gaze first, raising her drink at you. “Late.”

You smiled. “Missed you too.” 

Satoru slid in between her and Suguru, immediately claiming space. “Missed me most, I assume.”

“No one said that,” Shoko replied without looking at him.

“Energy says otherwise.”

Drinks appeared without anyone fully ordering them—Suguru’s doing, probably. 

You took yours, scanning the room as the music shifted again, something louder, more reckless.

That’s when you saw her.

Vivienne Vanderlyn.

She stood near the center of it all—champagne glass in hand, laughter engineered for maximum radius. Her eyes flicked up at the same time yours did.

Immediate recognition.

You lifted your glass slightly.

She did the same.

Shoko followed your gaze a second later and snorted. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” you replied.

You crossed the space without thinking, Shoko falling into step beside you like it was instinct.

“Vivienne,” Shoko greeted flatly.

“Shoko,” she said warmly, before turning to you with a purr. “Reader! ”

“Vivienne!” You replied, with the perfect amount of bubbly, synthetic warmth that you only ever used for people with too many milliliters of lip filler. 

You leaned in for air kisses brushing against both cheeks, the faint scent of her obscenely expensive perfume invading your space.

“You look absolutely radiant,” Vivienne purred, her eyes doing a lightning-fast, highly critical sweep of your outfit, your hair, and—crucially—stopping for a fraction of a second at your collarbone.

Her smile didn't falter, but her posture sharpened. “Though, darling, you look a little unraveled. Rough first day?

Translation: I see your hickey, and I’m implying you look messy.

“Oh, you know how it is,” you replied smoothly, your smile fixed perfectly in place as you took a slow sip of your drink. “Just adjusting to the humidity. But look at you! This party is… massive. Truly. I didn't know Regent even rented out the lower-tier ballrooms anymore. It’s so… cozy.”

Shoko coughed slightly into her fist to disguise a laugh.

Vivienne’s manicured fingers tightened around the stem of her champagne flute, the glass practically groaning under the pressure.

“Well, I wanted something a bit more intimate for the first night back,” she said, her voice dropping into a sweet, dangerous register. “Not everyone can handle a crowd. Speaking of crowds… I saw Suguru at the bar earlier. He looked awfully lonely.”

Her eyes flicked pointedly to Shoko, a wicked little glint appearing behind her mascara. “I’m so happy to finally see you two arriving together. It’s finally time he claimed you.”

The air between the three of you went instantly cold, despite the thumping bass of the music around you.

Shoko didn't miss a beat. She lazily swirled the ice in her glass, looking at Vivienne with complete, devastating apathy. “Suguru only likes certain people in his space, Vivienne. You’d know that if he ever returned your texts.”

Oof. Vivienne’s perfect porcelain expression cracked for an infinitesimal second before she forced a bright, sharp laugh that sounded like shattering crystal.

“Oh, Shoko. Always so fiercely protective. It’s adorable, really.”

She turned back to you, her hand reaching out to pat your arm with a patronizing little squeeze.

“Anyway, I’m just so glad you made it. The night wouldn't be complete without our favorite local flavor. Just try not to break anything tonight, okay? Daddy had to put down a massive deposit.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, Viv. We know Daddy watches his money very closely," you smiled back, your eyes completely dead. “Have a wonderful night.”

“You too, sweetie!”

The moment you both turned your backs and stepped away into the crowd, the smiles vanished instantly.

Shoko let out a long, exhausted breath. “I need a stronger drink. If I have to look at her teeth for one more second, I’m going to lose my mind.”

“She’s getting sloppy,” you muttered, checking your phone screen to make sure your concealer was still holding up against Vivienne's visual autopsy. “I saw right through her shit.”

You shoved your phone back into your clutch, the bass of the room vibrating right through the soles of your heels.

The crowd was a blur of silk, velvet, and flashing strobe lights—everyone trying a little too hard to look like they were having the time of their lives.

The music swelled—heavier now, vibrating through the floorboards.

Someone bumped into you. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone was already halfway to drunk.

You rejoined your safety circle, Utahime’s hand finding yours in a comforting squeeze. 

“Survivors,” Suguru greeted smoothly. His eyes flicked to Shoko first, a subtle, knowing tilt to his mouth. “Did Vivienne give you her blessing?”

“She gave us a headache,” Shoko muttered, reaching over to swap her empty glass for a fresh one from the bartender.

Utahime rolled her eyes. “Vivienne’s been trying to orchestrate the entire social hierarchy since we were kids. Look at the dance floor—half of these people don’t even look like they belong at Regent.”

“They belong enough to pay the tuition,” Kento noted dryly, taking a measured sip of his drink.

For the next hour, the party dissolved into a classic high-society blur. 

The music shifted, growing heavier, louder, and more reckless as the night tore on. You danced with Utahime, laughed as Haibara made a brief, sweaty appearance to recount an absurd story about a finance heir falling into a decorative fountain.

Satoru had disappeared somewhere into the chaos immediately, which meant trouble was already in progress.

Suguru and Shoko had drifted somewhere in the middle, close enough to be seen, far enough to deny anything.

At some point, the night shifted again.

You found Kugisaki, Maki, and Mai near the bar.

Kugisaki was leaning against the counter, inspecting her nails with a critical eye, while Maki stood with a posture so sharp it could cut glass. Beside her, Mai was whispering something into her glass, a wicked smirk playing on her lips.

Kugisaki’s eyes flicked up first, spotting you. Her expression instantly transformed from bored detachment to a wide grin.

You smiled back, leaning against the bar. “I think you guys are still about six months away from being allowed to order your own drinks without supervision.”

Maki glanced at you. “We’ve had alcohol before.”

“And yet, you’re still standing here like you’re waiting for permission,” you countered smoothly, sliding onto the stool next to Kugisaki.

She rolled her eyes, dropping her hand. “Please. As if any bartender in Manhattan is going to ask for ID when you’re wearing three carats on your wrist.”

Mai swirled her drink, her eyes darting over your shoulder to scan the crowd. “Besides, supervision is incredibly boring. Though, speaking of... where's your shadow?”

“Satoru disappeared approximately four minutes after we walked in,” Shoko said, leaning against the counter beside you and catching the bartender’s eye. “Probably looking for a mirror.”

“Or a line,” you added. “Regardless, what’s the verdict on tonight? Is it as tragic as I think it is?”

Kugisaki leaned in, lowering her voice just enough to sound conspiratorial over the thumping bass. “Worse. We’ve been here for twenty minutes and I’ve already counted five separate girls wearing last season’s Chanel. If this is what the elite circle looks like, the bar is on the floor.”

“It’s Vivienne’s party,” Shoko pointed out. “The bar is always structurally compromised when she’s involved.”

Satoru slid in beside her like he’d been listening the entire time. “So true.”

Kugisaki let out a huff. “Oh no. Him.”

Satoru beamed. “Oh yes. Me.”

Kugisaki laughed despite herself. “He’s worse in person.”

“You betcha,” Satoru winked.

She flipped him off immediately.

He looked pleased.

Then—

“Megumi!”

The name cut through the noise just enough to register.

Kugisaki turned instantly. “Fushiguro?”

Megumi Fushiguro emerged from the crowd dressed almost offensively simple compared to everyone else in the room.

Black on black. Clean lines. Sleeves pushed carelessly to his forearms. No obvious designer logos screaming for attention.

His dark hair looked slightly disheveled, like he’d run a hand through it one too many times on the ride over. Sharp cheekbones. Colder eyes.

“There you are,” Satoru said. “Took you long enough.”

Megumi glanced at him. “I said I’d come.”

“And yet,” Satoru replied, “you look like you’re attending a execution, not a party.” 

Kugisaki blinked once. Twice.

“You,” she said slowly, pointing at Megumi, “are in my class.”

Megumi looked at her. “I know.”

“You never talk.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

A beat.

You snorted. “I like him.”

Mai pointed between you and Megumi. “You all know him?”

Satoru answered immediately. “I collected him.”

Megumi sighed. “That’s not what happened.”

“That’s exactly what happened,” Satoru said, offended. “I found him, I claimed him, he’s mine. I’m a philanthropist.”

“You’re a stalker with a line of credit,” Megumi corrected flatly, not even looking at him as he shifted his weight.

His eyes flicked to you, then to Shoko, offering a brief, polite nod that was entirely too formal for a room currently playing high-tempo club music.

“Oh, don't be like that, Megumi!” Satoru draped a heavy arm over Megumi’s shoulders, completely ignoring the way the younger boy stiffened.

“Look around! These are your people now. The crème de la crème. The elite. Try to look a little less like you’re waiting for a dental appointment.”

Kugisaki crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing as she evaluated Megumi all over again. “So you’re telling me the quiet guy who sits in the back of the lecture hall is actually connected to the loudest playboy on the strip? Figures.”

“I’m right here,” Megumi muttered, trying and failing to shrug Satoru’s arm off his shoulders. 

Before Satoru could launch into another theatrical defense of his mentorship, a sudden shift rippled through the crowd behind you.

The heavy thumping of the bass didn't stop, but the laughter and chatter in your immediate vicinity seemed to dim, replaced by a tense, heavy murmur. The crowd parted slightly near the secondary entrance, people clearing a path without even realizing they were doing it.

Maki straightened up, her posture going from casually sharp to absolute stone. “Great. The trash arrived.”

You turned your head slightly, following her gaze across the room. 

Walking through the crowd with an entourage of sycophants was Naoya Zenin. 

Dark suit. Perfect posture. Blond hair pushed carelessly back from his face in a way that probably took forty minutes and a stylist to achieve.

Two girls trailed behind him, laughing a little too hard at something he clearly hadn’t said.

His eyes scanned the ballroom, completely dismissive of everything and everyone, until they landed directly on your corner of the bar.

Specifically, on Maki. Then on Megumi. And finally, on you.

“Ugh,” Kugisaki whispered, her lively demeanor vanishing instantly as she watched him approach. “Speak of the devil, and he appears in bespoke tailoring.”

Mai’s grip tightened on her glass, her smirk flattening into something much colder. “He really can't help himself, can he?”

Naoya closed the distance, his entourage lingering a few paces back like well-trained hounds. He didn't look at Satoru, and he completely ignored everyone else. His focus was entirely on the younger heirs.

“Well,” he drawled as he approached, slipping one hand into his pocket. “I see the kids' table is fully occupied tonight. I thought Regent was invitation-only.”

One of the girls behind Naoya let out an awkward laugh before immediately going quiet when he didn’t react.

Satoru immediately grinned. “It is. That’s why you’re confusing everyone.”

Utahime covered her mouth with her drink to hide a laugh.

Around you, the party continued like nothing was happening — glasses clinking, laughter echoing, bodies moving beneath gold lights — but your corner of the club had gone razor-sharp.

Naoya ignored Satoru with the ease of long practice. His attention settled back onto Megumi instead, sharp and assessing. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Megumi didn’t move. “Okay.”

Naoya’s eyebrow twitched slightly, like Megumi’s complete lack of interest had inconvenienced him. “Oh, look at that, it speaks.”

“Careful,” Satoru said lightly, swirling the ice in his glass. “He bites.”

“I’m aware,” Naoya replied coolly. “The family resemblance is hard to miss.”

There it was.

The hit landed exactly where intended.

Megumi’s expression didn’t visibly change, but something in his posture tightened almost imperceptibly.

Maki’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Say what you actually mean, Naoya.”

“You always assume I’m insulting you,” Naoya sighed dramatically. “It’s very narcissistic.”

“NAOYA!” A saccharinely sweet voice cut through the tension.

Vivienne appeared beside him almost instantly, one manicured hand sliding around his arm like she belonged there.

“There you are,” she sighed dramatically, leaning into his side. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Naoya glanced down at her briefly. “Have you?”

The smile on Vivienne’s face flickered for half a second too long before snapping right back into place.

“Yes,” she laughed lightly, smoothing her hand over the sleeve of his jacket. “You’d said you’d get here like an hour ago.” 

“Oh,” Naoya said, his voice entirely devoid of the warmth she was projecting. “I was just catching up with the family.”

Vivienne finally acknowledged the rest of the group, her gaze sweeping over you all with polished calculation.

“Well,” she said brightly. “This explains the hostile energy.”

Satoru let out a sharp, delighted laugh from behind his glass. “Careful, Vivienne, he’s in a mood tonight. Must be the humidity.”

Vivienne ignored him, eyes landing on Megumi now. “Ah, Megumi! You actually came.”

Megumi gave a small nod. “Hi.”

“You look handsome tonight,” she continued smoothly, before turning back toward Naoya with a softer smile clearly meant to be seen by everyone around them.

“Anyways, baby, we really should head to the VIP table. The Prescotts just arrived, and you promised you’d introduce me.”

Naoya took a slow sip of his drink. “In a minute, Viv.” 

You watched the interaction with an amused expression. “You should go with her, Naoya,” you murmured smoothly. “Don't keep your public waiting. It’s bad manners.”

Naoya’s eyes snapped back to you, the casual arrogance in his expression darkening into something venomous.

He stepped forward, dragging a reluctant Vivienne along with him, his voice dropping below the thumping bass of the music.

“Try not to embarrass yourselves tonight.”

And then he was gone.

Well. Mostly.

You watched their retreating backs, Vivienne’s heels clicking a frantic double-time just to keep up with Naoya’s long, uncaring strides.

Kugisaki broke the tense silence with a loud, theatrical gagging noise the second Naoya was out of earshot. 

“'Baby, we really should head to the VIP table,'” she mocked, her voice a perfect imitation of Vivienne’s condescending drawl. “God, she is practically begging him to walk all over her. It’s embarrassing to watch.”

“She thinks a Zenin ring is worth the bruises to her ego,” Mai said, her voice dripping with casual disdain as she turned back to her drink. “It’s a bad investment, but I guess Vivienne was never good at math.”

Satoru set his glass down on the marble counter with a heavy clink, the lazy, dangerous smirk returning to his face. “Oh, come on, give her some credit. It takes real talent to be that delusional.” 

You looked over at Megumi, who hadn't moved an inch since Naoya left. “You okay?”

Megumi didn't look up from his hands, which were loosely curled around the edge of the bar. “I’m fine. He’s always like that.”

“He’s always worse when I’m around,” Satoru chimed in cheerfully, slinging an arm over Megumi’s shoulder and successfully making the younger boy look like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“It’s a defense mechanism. He knows deep down that if we ever actually went card-for-card, his trust fund wouldn't even cover my sales tax.”

“Get off me,” Megumi muttered, shoving Satoru’s arm away, though there was no real heat behind it.

You leaned your back against the bar, crossing your arms as you watched the strobe lights cut through the smoke above the dance floor.

The entirety of your pregame was fully hitting now, a warm, heavy weight behind your eyes that made the thumping bass feel less like noise and more like a physical pulse.

“We need to move,” you announced. “If I stay in this corner, I’m going to start looking for a reason to break something, and I already told Vivienne I wouldn't.”

“Please break something,” Utahime cheered, her eyes lighting up. “Preferably Naoya’s nose.”