Kenzie✩₊˚27⋆☾⋆she/her⁺₊✧

|||||||| About Me <3 |||||||

Kenzie - 27 - she/her - new writer!

Come scream into the void with me! 7-to-5 and also full time in school so my writing is sporadic, I've only been posting for less than a year, all of my works tend to be spicy, so fair warning. I will try to tag each of my warnings in my fics. Works are filled with tropes and I plan to do a lot of little oneshots. Just started my first series!

ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎ psspsspss

MASTERLIST

Hi to everyone except: minors, people I know irl, spirits communicating through keyboards.

Started 5.21.25.

Last updated 12.20.25.

Jujutsu Kaisen Universe

Blurbs

Long Fics

The Void Curse | sukuna x fem!reader

Short Fics

The 20th Precinct | detective!sukuna x detective!reader

Miscellaneous

Chapter 2 - Escape

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, Graphic destruction/violence, blood/injury, not as many civilian casualties as Star Wars, but not none. Sukuna being told no.

A/N: Yeah, I haven't written anything in like 2 months so this is like amazing for me.

The Void Curse Master List | Chapter 3 (coming soon) | Chapter 1

He meets her in Shibuya expecting the violence to come to a sweet but quick end. Instead, she dodges just long enough to talk, steering the exchange away from blood and into words. By the time he notices, the kill is gone- and he’s left with the irritation of having been pulled into an actual conversation.

Shibuya is wrong.

It isn’t only the destruction—though there’s plenty of that, too. Buildings split open like rotten fruit, streets cratered, smoke rolling over the neon like fog. It’s the pressure in the air. The way the night feels heavy, like something has placed a hand over the city’s mouth and is forcing it to suffocate.

A veil.

You can’t see veils the way you can see a wall, but you can feel it in the same way you can feel a storm before it hits: the hum under your skin, the drag in the space between one breath and the next.

You, however, are a sorcerer with a goal, hum or not.

By any means necessary, you have to breach the barrier shrouding Shibuya so civilians can get out. There are too many trapped underground right now, too many people pressed together in panic, too many screams swallowed by concrete and cursed energy.

You don’t have a team. You don’t have an organization feeding you intel or handing you a plan. You aren’t part of any society or cult.

You’re alone. Completely.

Which means you’re running on instinct, scraps of overheard information, and one undeniable truth: something is tearing the city apart and if you don’t do something, there won’t be anyone left to save.

It’s what keeps your legs moving even as your lungs burn. What keeps your mind sharp even as the ground shakes beneath your feet and the sky flashes with distant bursts of cursed energy like silent lightning.

You cut through a narrow alleyway, footsteps echoing against wet pavement. The streetlights here are dead; only the glow from far-off signage bleeds into the corridor, staining everything a dull, sickly color.

Your breath fogs.

Your hands are cold.

It’s too quiet in this alley. Not peaceful, never that. Quiet like a held breath.

Maybe it’s the years of hiding that taught you not to trust stillness. Maybe it’s the way your skin prickles a half-second before danger arrives.

Either way, something stops you.

You slow, just a fraction, and your instincts scream—

Down.

You duck behind a low wall before you even fully register it’s there, crouching with your shoulder pressed to chipped concrete. Your heart pounds against your ribs hard enough to hurt.

You hold your breath and try to steady yourself.

The alley seems empty. Dark and shadowy. The stillness tries to trick you into believing there’s nothing there.

But there is.

A man appears at the far end like he’s stepped out of the night itself.

He doesn’t drop from a rooftop or smash through a wall. He’s simply there, strolling along the walkway as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

As if Shibuya isn’t burning.

As if the air isn’t thick with death.

He’s carrying a soda and popcorn.

For a heartbeat, the sight is so absurd your brain tries to process it as a hallucination.

The way he holds the cup loosely, the way the popcorn bag crinkles in his other hand, like he really did just come from a movie that didn’t particularly impress him and now he’s out for a late-night walk.

He’s tall. Very tall. Lean in a way that’s deceptive. A blade sheathed under soft fabric. A sweater hangs on him like he’s dressing for comfort, not war.

His hair is pink.

Cute, your traitorous brain supplies, because it’s easier to latch onto something harmless than admit what your instincts are already shouting.

Every warning bell in your mind is ringing so loudly it’s almost nauseating.

Dangerous.

This man is dangerous.

But also—

You wonder, absurdly, what he looks like when he actually eats something he enjoys.

He stops a few meters from your wall.

Doesn’t look around. Doesn’t scan for movement. Doesn’t even glance in your direction.

He simply tosses his treats aside like they’ve bored him.

And then—

BOOM!

The section of wall you had been hiding behind a split second ago explodes.

The blast is hot and violent and loud enough to make your ears ring. Concrete turns to shrapnel. Rubble hammers the ground. Chunks of cement look like they’ve been sliced apart and then beaten to pieces.

Your body jerks on instinct, recoil ripping through you. A gasp tears out of your throat before you can stop it; you clamp your hand over your mouth, but the sound escapes anyway, small and terrified.

You stare at where you were and the delayed realization slams into you like a second explosion.

If you had stayed there—

Did he just-

He would’ve killed you.

A voice drifts through the dust, as casual as someone making small talk.

“You still alive?”

You cock your head up, expecting to see him peering over the wall, leaning in to confirm the kill.

But no.

Of course not.

He hasn’t moved closer. He can’t be bothered to check. He just stands there in the alley’s mouth, weight on one leg, head tilted slightly like he’s listening for a particular kind of sound.

A body hitting the ground.

A final breath.

Silence.

You force your lungs to work again, swallowing hard. Your hand lowers slowly from your mouth.

The way you see it, you have two choices.

Stay quiet and pray he loses interest before he finds you.

Or fight.

You glance down at the broken cement block by your foot. It’s small enough to fit in your palm, jagged at the edges.

Yeah.

You may be a little fucked here.

You press your forehead briefly to the remaining wall, as if you can borrow strength from it. Then you exhale, slow, and lift your voice just enough to carry.

“For now.”

There’s a pause—one beat, two—as if your answer has genuinely surprised him.

Then his tone shifts, amused.

“Careful. That sounds a little close to begging for your life.”

“It’s an observation,” you reply, and your voice comes out steadier than your pulse feels. “Did you mean to miss?”

“I don’t miss.”

You snort, because if you don’t laugh you might shake. “You do. Just didn’t mean to.”

You imagine his head tilts at your response.

“How long do you plan on hiding behind there?”

“It’s a nice wall,” you say, eyes flicking over the rubble. “Well. Was a nice wall.”

“It’s actually a pretty shitty wall,” he replies, mildly offended on principle, “considering the whole point of one is to prevent breaches like that.”

Another explosion cracks through the alley, sharp and sudden.

It hits right where you had been crouched.

You jerk back again, heart clawing at your throat.

“Still alive now?” he calls, and you can hear the grin in it.

You’ve learned your lesson. You don’t answer this time.

Silence is a weapon too.

The wall crumbles further, and then he steps through the gap he made like he owns the alley, the night, the city. Dust clings to his sweater in pale smears as he tries to brush it off. His shoes crunch over the broken concrete.

You move.

Not loud. Not panicked.

You slide into the deeper shadows, body low, using the debris as cover as you circle. Your feet know how to land without sound, years of hiding will do that to a person. Your breathing stays shallow, controlled. Your senses narrow to the man’s presence.

He doesn’t know where you are.

But he knows he didn’t succeed. The lack of a body in the rubble tells him that much.

“I hate repeating myself,” he says, voice sharper now.

You stop behind him, just out of arm’s reach, where the darkness is thick enough to swallow you if you need it. His back is broad beneath the sweater, and for a second you’re struck by the strange contrast: soft fabric, monstrous pressure.

You speak into the space behind him, letting your voice cut clean through the dust.

“You say that like this is the first time you’ve had to.”

His arm snaps back in a lazy, brutal slice aimed to bisect whatever is behind him.

You sidestep.

The air where you were shivers as cursed energy passes through it. Close enough that your skin prickles, close enough that your stomach twists.

His gaze finally drops over you, slow and evaluating, like a predator taking a careful look at prey that’s turning out to be more work than expected.

His pupils constrict, tighten, like a camera snapping into focus. The extra set of eyes that you didn’t realize he had open a fraction wider, however. But the red color…the red color darkens, less bright and more…saturated, like blood.

“You learn quickly,” he says. “Most don’t live long enough to notice patterns.”

“Guess I’m special.”

He scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He lunges, quick, a strike meant to throw you off balance.

You vanish from where he expects you to be and reappear behind him, your movement so clean it feels like the world simply forgot you existed for a fraction of a second.

His hand closes on air.

“I don’t have a problem with false modesty,” you add lightly.

He stills.

Not because he’s tired. Not because he’s lost. But because he’s thinking.

He waits a beat, long enough that you can feel him recalibrating.

Then, “Explain.”

You tilt your head. “Explain what?”

“How you keep stepping out of reach.”

“No.”

The word is simple. Bright. Blatant.

He turns his head, just enough to look at you from the corner of his eye.

“No?” he repeats, incredulous, like he’s trying out the concept for the first time.

“Yes,” you say, helpfully. “That’s right. No.”

A breath passes, and then you add, because apparently you have a death wish: “Look at you. Repeating yourself and being told no for the first time. All in one night.”

His eyes narrow. Something like genuine offense flickers there, quickly smothered beneath amusement that’s turning sharp at the edges.

“You’re an insane one then?”

A slash comes from the side.

Perfectly aimed.

Perfectly timed.

You dodge it anyway, sliding back as if the blade of cursed energy is moving through syrup.

Oh yes.

You’re faster than him.

At least, in the ways that matter.

“Why would you think that?” you ask, voice almost curious.

“Only humans who are touched in the head would dare to speak to me this way.”

“Doesn’t feel like I’m insane,” you say. “Yet here we are.”

He moves—too fast, too close, his presence suddenly filling the alley with a suffocating heat.

His hand snaps toward your throat.

And still, his fingers close around nothing.

The ground where you were cracks under the force of his cursed energy, spiderwebbing through the pavement. Bits of asphalt jump.

He exhales a short laugh, and this one isn’t amused. It’s the sound someone makes when they realize they’ve been inconvenienced.

“Annoying.”

You don’t respond right away.

Because your attention has snagged on something else, something you’ve been feeling since you entered Shibuya, but that is strongest here, in this alley, like the air itself is thickening.

You glance past him.

At the space that isn’t quite space.

At the invisible pressure that makes the veil feel wrong, heavy, like a hand over the city’s throat.

“Is this your doing?” you ask.

He follows your gaze, unimpressed, as if you’ve pointed out a slightly irritating stain on the wall.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The barrier,” you say, forcing your focus back to him. “The one strangling Shibuya.”

He looks at you again, and this time his eyes are sharp. Too sharp. Like you’ve finally asked something worth paying attention to.

“And if it were?”

“Then I’d stop pretending you’re just here to catch a movie and stretch your legs.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Bold assumption.”

“So that’s a no?”

He chuckles, low and unpleasant.

“If I’d done it,” he says, “you wouldn’t be wondering.”

“That’s not an answer.”

His smile widens. “It’s the only one you’re getting.”

You study him for a long moment, reading what you can from his expression, the way his energy sits in the air like a coiled animal.

Then you nod once, filing it away.

“So someone else put it up.”

“Mm.” He glances toward the veil again, interest flickering now like a match catching. “Someone ambitious.”

“And careless.”

His grin sharpens. “Careless people always assume they’ll have time.”

You meet his gaze steadily. “They won’t.”

He hums, and it almost sounds pleased. “No,” he agrees, softly. “They really won’t.”

Silence settles between you, thick with dust and distant destruction. Somewhere far away, something collapses with a deep groan. The city trembles like it’s trying to shake itself apart.

You take one small breath, then ask the question that’s been circling in your mind since the wall exploded beside you.

“Who are you?”

His smile pauses. Not gone, just… caught. Like the question has stalled him in a way no attack has.

“You’re joking,” he says slowly.

“No.”

For the first time, irritation bleeds through his amusement like ink through water.

“You stand in front of me,” he says, voice lowering, “you dodge my strikes… and you don’t know?”

“Should I?”

He laughs—sharp, humorless, full of disbelief. “How utterly disrespectful.”

He steps closer.

Cursed energy flares around him in a sudden wave, a warning so heavy it makes your teeth ache. The air vibrates. Your skin crawls.

“Sorcerers carved my name into history,” he says, “so they wouldn’t forget who to beg.”

You don’t move. You don’t bow. You don’t do anything that will give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.

The question hangs between you anyway, because you’re stubborn and stupid and you need to know what kind of monster you’re standing in front of.

His eyes burn.

“Ryomen Sukuna.”

You nod once, like you’ve been given a name at a party and you’re politely filing it away.

“Got it.”

Then you strike. Before he can reply.

You don’t go for his throat.

That would be obvious.

Instead, you aim low, your strike cutting toward his center of gravity, a test rather than a kill. Your cursed energy flares just enough to make the air bend, space hiccupping as you step somewhere you weren’t a fraction of a second ago.

Sukuna reacts on instinct.

Which is to say: violently.

The alley detonates.

Not metaphorically—actually. Cursed energy rips outward from him in a brutal pulse that shatters windows, pulverizes brick, and turns the ground beneath your feet into splintering asphalt. The force would have snapped you in half if you’d still been there.

You aren’t.

Time stutters around you, local space dragging like wet cloth as you slip sideways and out—not teleporting, not disappearing, but sliding through the moment between moments.

You reappear near the mouth of the alley, breath sharp in your lungs, boots skidding as rubble rains down.

Sukuna stands where you left him, unharmed, grinning like he’s just been handed a challenge he didn’t know he wanted.

“Oh,” he says, eyes bright now, genuinely interested. “So that’s how you want to play it.”

You don’t respond. Talking takes air. Air takes time. And time is something you’re already spending too freely.

You move again.

This time, you don’t attack. You circle, fast enough that the shadows blur, fast enough that your afterimage lingers just long enough to be misleading. You keep your cursed energy tight, precise, refusing to let it flare into anything he can grab onto easily.

He turns with you, tracking, not struggling, but not bored either.

Each step he takes is deliberate. Heavy. Like he’s anchoring himself to the world.

Interesting.

He strikes without warning, a cleaving arc of cursed energy that slices through the space where your head was going to be.

You dip, roll, come up behind him—

—and feel the air snap as his elbow slams backward with enough force to crater a car parked halfway down the street.

You weren’t there.

You shouldn’t have been able to move that fast.

For the first time, Sukuna misses not because he didn’t care—but because he misjudged you.

His grin widens.

“Again,” he says.

You oblige.

The street becomes a battlefield in seconds.

Every movement is a gamble. Every dodge costs you something—focus, breath, stamina. You feel the strain building behind your eyes, the familiar ache that warns you, you can’t keep this up forever.

Sukuna, meanwhile, looks like he’s warming up.

His strikes come faster now. Sharper. Less playful.

He isn’t trying to kill you yet, but he is trying to catch you.

You duck under a sweeping blow that shreds a streetlight in half. Sparks rain down, hissing as they hit the ground. You slide across the pavement, twist, and kick off a cracked wall to redirect yourself—

Only for his hand to slam into the concrete inches from your head.

The building groans. Part of the façade collapses.

You suck in a breath and vanish sideways again, space stretching, snapping back behind you like a rubber band.

“Running already?” Sukuna taunts, turning smoothly to face you.

You flash him a grin you don’t entirely feel. “That was load bearing.”

He laughs. This one is louder. Freer.

“Don’t tell me you care.”

“I care about efficiency,” you snap, and then you’re moving again because he lunges—really lunges this time, speed spiking hard enough to make the air scream.

This one catches you off guard.

Not fully—but enough.

You twist, trying to step out of the moment, and feel the edge of his cursed energy graze you. Pain flares hot and sharp across your side, breath punching out of you as you tumble and hit the ground hard.

You roll, scramble, force yourself up before he can capitalize—

He’s already there.

His foot slams down where your head was, cracking the street open like an egg. Debris sprays upward.

You stagger back, blood warm at your ribs.

“Ah,” Sukuna says, eyes flicking briefly to the wound. “There it is.”

You grit your teeth. “You sound relieved.”

“I was starting to wonder if you were cheating.”

“Bold words from a man trying to hit someone who isn’t standing still.”

He bares his teeth. “Careful.”

You don’t wait for him to finish the thought. You throw yourself forward, cursed energy spiking as you force a drag through the space around him—not slowing time exactly, but thickening it, making every fraction of a second resist.

Sukuna’s movement stutters.

Just a hair.

But it’s enough.

You slip past him, shoulder brushing his arm as you pass, and he hisses—a sharp sound of irritation that sends a jolt of adrenaline straight through you.

There it is.

The confirmation.

You’re not imagining it. You can affect him.

The satisfaction is brief.

Sukuna recovers almost instantly, twisting to follow you, eyes narrowed now with something far less playful burning behind them.

“Interesting,” he murmurs. “You’re not faster.”

You land on the hood of a car, crouched low, breathing hard.

“No,” you agree. “I’m not.”

“You’re just making the world wait for you.”

You freeze.

That… was uncomfortably close.

You straighten slowly, eyes locked on his. “That’s one way to put it.”

His grin returns, razor-edged. “A dangerous way.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “For you.”

That earns you a laugh, short and sharp.

“You think slowing me down will save you?”

“No,” you answer honestly. “I think it’ll buy me time.”

“And then what?”

You glance past him again, toward the invisible pressure hanging over the city. Toward the veil.

“Then I leave.”

Sukuna follows your gaze this time, really looks, and something shifts in his expression. Not concern. Not worry.

Curiosity.

“You’re not here for me,” he realizes.

“Congratulations,” you mutter. “You’re catching on.”

His smile fades. Not entirely, but enough to change the shape of it. “So, what are you doing here?”

“Trying to fix someone else’s mess.”

He snorts. “That’s a losing game.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But people are dying.”

“So?”

The word lands heavy.

You meet his eyes. “So, I’m not done yet.”

For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other while the city groans and burns around you. Sirens wail somewhere far away, distorted by the veil, by distance, by the way Shibuya itself seems to be folding in on itself.

Then Sukuna sighs.

Actually sighs.

“Well,” he says, rolling his shoulders, cursed energy surging again. bigger this time. “If you insist on wasting my time, I suppose I’ll stop holding back.”

Your stomach drops.

The air changes.

His presence swells, pressing in from all sides, a suffocating weight that makes your knees want to buckle. Cracks spiderweb through the street at his feet. Windows shatter all at once, a chorus of breaking glass.

This is no longer sparring.

This is him deciding you’re worth the effort to kill.

You force yourself to breathe. Force your cursed energy to respond despite the pressure, despite the fear crawling up your spine.

“Always nice to know when I’ve made an impression,” you say, because if you stop talking you might panic.

He lifts a hand.

The world detonates.

The blast tears through the street, ripping cars from their parking spots and flinging them like toys. You run—really run this time—pushing your technique harder, dragging the moment around you until everything feels syrup-thick and wrong.

You vault debris, skid around corners, feel heat lick at your heels as explosions chase you down the block.

He’s laughing now.

You hear it even over the destruction.

You burst into an open intersection just as something massive tears through the sky overhead—a plane, spiraling, engines screaming.

Your blood turns to ice.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me—”

Sukuna’s cursed energy lashes upward, ripping through the aircraft like paper.

You don’t think.

You react.

Your technique flares, bright and painful, as you grab hold of the moment around the falling wreckage and reverse the drift—not sending it back in time, not undoing it, but redirecting its trajectory just enough.

The plane veers.

It crashes away from the streets, skidding into a half-evacuated district with a deafening roar—but not into the packed underground access points you can feel beneath your feet.

You drop to one knee, chest heaving, vision swimming.

That took too much.

Way too much.

When you look up, Sukuna is staring at you.

Not smiling.

Not laughing.

Studying.

“Now that,” he says slowly, “was impressive.”

You wipe blood from your mouth with the back of your hand. “Glad you enjoyed the show.”

“You didn’t slow me,” he continues, ignoring you. “You altered everything else.”

Your pulse hammers. He’s piecing it together frighteningly fast.

“Local,” he muses. “Selective. You don’t control time.”

You push yourself upright, legs shaking. “Didn’t say I did.”

“You control your relationship to it.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

Sukuna’s grin creeps back, sharper than ever. “How tedious it must be,” he says softly, “to live always a half-step out of sync with the world.”

Your jaw tightens.

That’s your cue.

You don’t give him another word.

You reach deep—past the burn, past the ache, past the screaming instinct telling you you’re at your limit—and pull.

Time slams.

Not stopped. Not frozen.

Just… weighted.

The space around Sukuna thickens violently, his movement dragging like he’s wading through tar. It won’t last long—seconds, maybe less—but it’s enough.

You turn and run.

You feel him tear free behind you, cursed energy roaring in fury, but you’re already gone—cutting down side streets, vaulting barriers, slipping through the cracks in the city like you’ve done your whole life.

You don’t stop until the pressure of his presence finally fades.

Only then do you slow, ducking into the shadows, lungs burning, hands shaking.

Behind you, Shibuya continues to burn.

But you’re alive.

And for now—

You’ve escaped.

You don’t stop running when the pressure fades.

You don’t stop when your lungs feel like they’re tearing or when your legs threaten to give out beneath you. You don’t even stop when the night grows quieter, when the explosions recede into distant thunder and the air loosens just enough to breathe without pain.

You keep moving because stopping means thinking.

And thinking means replaying how close that was.

You cut through backstreets and half-collapsed storefronts, slipping through gaps too narrow for anything large to bother with. Your technique hums low and exhausted beneath your skin, no longer flaring, just there, stretched thin like a muscle held too long under tension.

By the time you finally slow, it’s because you physically can’t go any farther.

You duck into the shell of an underground parking structure, half-flooded and abandoned, the entrance caved in just enough to discourage casual exploration. The air is damp and cold. Water drips steadily from somewhere above, each sound echoing too loud in the quiet.

You press your back to a concrete pillar and slide down until you’re sitting on the ground.

Your hands shake.

That’s new.

You rest your forearms on your knees and bow your head, forcing yourself to breathe in slow, measured pulls. In. Out. In. Out. The rhythm grounds you, even as your body protests every movement.

Your side burns where his cursed energy clipped you. You press your fingers there experimentally and hiss, teeth clenched. Not fatal. Not even close.

But it’ll leave a mark.

“Worth it,” you murmur to the empty garage, because saying it out loud makes it feel true.

Eventually, the shaking eases.

Your thoughts settle, organizing themselves around the thing that dragged you here in the first place.

The veil.

Even now, you can feel it—less immediate than before, but present all the same. A pressure on the edge of your awareness, like a migraine waiting to bloom. It stretches across Shibuya in a suffocating dome, warping space, trapping people who don’t even know they’re trapped yet.

You close your eyes.

You didn’t breach it tonight.

You didn’t even get close.

And yet—

You exhale slowly, pushing yourself back to your feet. Your muscles scream in protest, but they obey. They always do.

You learned something.

The veil wasn’t his. That much you’re sure of now. Whatever monster you just crossed paths with—whatever Sukuna is—he wasn’t lying about that. The barrier felt different from his presence. Colder. More calculated. Built with intention instead of brute force.

Someone ambitious.

Someone careless.

You roll your shoulders, ignoring the ache. If you can feel the difference, you can find the seams. And if there are seams, there’s a way through.

You wipe grime and blood from your hands against your jacket and glance back toward the city.

Toward the glow.

Toward the chaos.

“Alright,” you whisper. “Round two.”

You step back into the night.

Somewhere across Shibuya, the street you fled lies in ruins.

Cratered asphalt. Shattered glass. The smoking remains of a city already bleeding.

Sukuna stands at the center of it, coat torn, cursed energy still crackling faintly around him like residual heat. The drag you forced on the world has burned away now, leaving only irritation in its wake.

He clicks his tongue.

“Tch.”

No body.

No lingering presence to tear apart.

Just the echo of you—your movement, your refusal, the way the world bent around you instead of him.

He rolls his wrist once, flexing his fingers, and snorts softly.

“So you run,” he mutters, amused despite himself. “Figures.”

He glances in the direction you vanished, eyes sharp, thoughtful rather than angry. The city groans around him, distant destruction continuing without his input, without his care.

A slow smile curves his mouth.

“Go on, then,” he says to the empty streets. “Fix your little problem.”

He turns away, already bored with the aftermath, already moving on to something louder, bloodier, simpler.

Series Masterlist | Chapter 2 (coming soon)

Pairing: detective!sukuna x detective!reader

Word Count: 6,450 (yeesh)

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, unrequited love, enemies to lovers. This chapter- graphic violence, crime investigation, mentions of death/blood/missing persons, alcohol use, smoking/substance use, strong language/profanity, noir aesthetic/dark themes, mentions human trafficking.

A/N: Okay, so my goal is to have this series finished on Friday, October 31st. At midnight, I will drop the last chapter.

Here's the thing.

You?

You're kind of a goody two-shoes.

Maybe that's why you chose the career path that you did- detective, organized crime unit. You joined because you still believed in the idea that there are good guys and there are bad guys. You believed that if you worked hard, followed the rules, and kept your conscience clean, you could make Tokyo a better place, one case, one conviction at a time.

And maybe- just maybe- that characteristic is the reason why you have such a problem with Ryomen Sukuna.

It kills you, having to work with him.

You- who joined the police force because you really, truly wanted to make a difference and fix injustices and be an ally to those who need one, and him- who probably only joined to line his own pockets with dirty money.

You used to have faith that these kinds of things were dealt with internally, fairly.

But Tokyo has a way of grinding the shine off naive hopes.

Fall and dreary weather have made a home in Tokyo this season. October has never seemed to be so wet and miserable.

Your station, the 20th Precinct, sits between two worlds: corporate skyscrapers reaching like glass teeth toward the clouds, and the back alleys where the rain never quite washes the blood off the pavement. Somewhere between those two, you learned to stop asking why bad things happen and start asking who paid for them.

And that’s where Sukuna comes in.

He arrived late last spring from Kyoto PD under what the department politely called “disciplinary reassignment.”

The rumor mill didn’t bother being polite.

Some said he was caught gambling with yakuza. Others swore he was running protection for someone high up. Internal Affairs sniffed around for months before the investigation was quietly shelved. No charges. No suspension. Just a line in his record that said Transferred: Per Administrative Review.

And then, just like that, they made him your partner.

Lucky you.

You’ve been partnered with Sukuna for six months now.

You remember when you first saw him leaning against the vending machine in the bullpen, one hand shoved into his slacks, the other holding a coffee can he didn’t seem interested in drinking. His hair was messier than regulation, his shirt sleeves rolled, his tie missing. Black scars crisscrossing all across the skin that was visible like a design intended to ward off others. The only thing about him that looked official was the gleaming badge clipped to his belt.

Your eyes met across the stained linoleum, and for a moment... a brief moment, you thought... he looked... well, he looked hot in the way that ruins moral character. Jesus, it's embarrassing, but you can admit he looked good.

Then, the moment, of course, was ruined. By none other than the precinct's captain, Naoya Zen'in.

“New partner,” Zen’in said, his tone dry. “Try not to kill each other.”

Sukuna’s mouth quirked like that was a challenge.

That had been six months ago. Six months of long nights, long silences, and a partnership that worked just well enough to keep you guessing. He was too good at his job. His arrests always stuck, his informants always delivered, and his instincts were uncomfortably precise. But there was something off about it all.

No cop gets that clean without getting dirty first.

You lean back in your chair now, the fluorescent hum of the precinct burning behind your eyes. It’s 10:42 p.m. Most of the unit’s cleared out except for the night shift rookies, half asleep at their desks. The rain outside has been steady since sunset, turning the windows into mirrors. You can see your own reflection in the glass; tired eyes, hair frizzed from the humidity, wrinkled collar.

Across the bullpen, Sukuna’s desk looks like the aftermath of a hurricane. Files half-open, notes scribbled across receipts, an unlit cigarette balanced behind his ear. He’s typing something on his laptop, one hand resting against his jaw.

You tell yourself you’re not watching him, but your eyes don’t listen.

“Still here?” His voice cuts through the quiet without him even looking up. Deep, low, and always with that thread of amusement, like the world is one big inside joke and only he knows the punchline.

“Paperwork,” you say flatly, flipping through a report that doesn’t need flipping.

He hums. “You sure it’s not me you’re keeping tabs on?”

Your jaw tightens. “You think I have that kind of free time?”

“I think you’re curious.” He looks up then, eyes glinting in the dim light. “That's a dangerous habit in this line of work.”

You should ignore him. You should. But the words crawl under your skin anyway.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed. Some of us get reassigned for it.”

That earns a low chuckle from him. “Careful, detective. Keep that up, and people might start thinking you don’t like me.”

You give him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Who says I do?”

“Not your eyes.”

You snap the folder closed, harder than necessary, because the truth is- he’s not wrong.

But you'll die before you admit it to him.

The case you’ve been assigned together isn’t anything special. Missing persons. Twenty-four-year-old waitress, last seen leaving a bar two nights ago. No forced entry, no struggle, no witnesses who’ll talk. The kind of case that gets buried under a stack of newer ones until someone finds a body- or doesn’t.

But something about it doesn’t sit right. The girl’s last known contact was a man who goes by “Muto,” a low-level enforcer for Geto Suguru, the same Geto who runs half of Kenjaku’s operations in Shinjuku. You know the name because you’ve spent the past six months quietly building a file on him.

You also know Sukuna’s name shows up in that file. Twice.

Once in a surveillance log. Once on a bank transfer.

You’d noticed it three weeks ago. And since then, every time Sukuna disappears mid-shift or dodges a question, that knot in your stomach tightens.

You’re not supposed to spy on your partner. It’s unethical. Possibly illegal. But the problem with clean hands is that you can’t catch anything if you’re afraid to get them dirty.

The clock ticks past eleven before Sukuna stands, shrugging on his coat.

“Where are you going?” you ask, too quickly.

He glances over his shoulder. “You asking as my partner or my parole officer?”

“Asking as your conscience,” you shoot back.

That earns another smirk. “Obviously, you've got more than enough to spare.”

He heads for the door, no explanation, no folder, no radio. You watch him disappear into the rain, and something cold twists in your chest.

Your gut whispers: follow him... Your brain whispers: don’t...

...

...

...

You grab your jacket.

The Tokyo night is alive in a way that makes you feel dead. The kind of alive that smells like gasoline, rain, and electric wires humming over wet rooftops. Sukuna’s figure moves ahead through the crowd-dark coat, purposeful stride, head bowed just enough to vanish when you blink. You follow from half a block back, hand on your badge like it could still protect you.

He cuts down an alley toward the industrial district, the sound of his shoes drowned out by the hiss of tires on wet pavement. A cat darts across a trash bin, scattering bottles. He doesn’t even flinch.

You stop at the corner, heart hammering. What are you doing? You could call Zen’in. You could radio for backup. You could pretend you never saw any of this.

But then you remember the waitress’s photo- the girl with the tired smile- and the way Sukuna’s eyes had gone blank when he saw it. Not pity. Not anger. Just… calculation.

You keep walking.

You trail him for nearly twenty minutes, the distance between you shrinking every time he pauses to light another cigarette. The first drag always looks the same- his head tilted back, smoke curling like a halo of sin.

Then, just as you’re about to lose him in the maze of alleys, he stops. Turns his head slightly, just enough for you to see the smirk that always comes right before you regret something.

“Still following me, detective?”

The words slide through the rain like a blade.

You freeze. The sound of his voice is smooth, low, and dangerous. Sukuna doesn’t turn all the way around; he just angles his body enough to let you know he’s aware. You think about bluffing, but what’s the point? He’s already caught you.

“Just making sure you don’t get lost,” you say, stepping out from the shadows. He smirks, eyes glinting in the lamplight. “Cute. Next time, bring a leash.”

He keeps walking, and for reasons you can’t explain, you follow. Neither of you says another word. The city feels too quiet now, the air thick with the smell of rain and ozone. You can hear your own footsteps echoing behind his, matching rhythm like a heartbeat you don’t control.

The next morning, he’s at his desk like nothing happened.

He’s reading a report with one hand and stirring his coffee with the other, hair still damp from a shower, shirt crisp. You can’t tell if he went home last night or just never slept.

You drop a file onto your own desk with a little too much force. “You know, some of us don’t enjoy midnight strolls through the industrial district.”

He doesn’t look up. “You really should stop following me then.”

“I should,” you admit. “But you keep making it too easy.”

Now he does look up, and the expression that meets you isn’t amusement - it’s challenge. His gaze lingers, steady, deliberate. “Careful. You keep chasing devils, one of them’s bound to notice you like the attention.”

You hate that it makes you flinch.

You also hate that he’s right.

That night, you start digging. Not just metaphorically.

You pull old internal affairs records, sealed transfers, expense reports. Sukuna’s file reads too clean. No disciplinary marks, no citations, no gaps. But when you start cross-referencing timestamps and patrol logs, things don’t add up. There are days listed where his location isn’t recorded, payments made to accounts with missing signatures, call logs that end five minutes before a raid begins.

It’s like someone scrubbed his history and did a bad job putting it back together.

You print everything, spread it across your apartment floor: receipts, photos, red strings of suspicion. In the middle of it all sits a single photo: Sukuna at a street corner, head bent toward a man you recognize from a case file. One of Geto's enforcers named Shiu Kong.

They’re shaking hands.

You stare at it until the paper blurs.

Two days later, Zen’in calls you into his office.

He doesn’t look happy. He never does, but this time there’s something tighter in his jaw, something that says you’ve been noticed.

“Close the door,” he says.

You do.

He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “You’ve been digging.”

“Sir-”

“Don’t insult me. I can see the print logs. You’ve been pulling sealed files without clearance. Sukuna’s files.” His eyes narrow. “That’s not curiosity. That’s suicide.”

You grip the back of the chair in front of you. “Something’s not right with him, Captain. The paper trail’s off, his patrol logs don’t match his reports, and I’ve seen him talking to-”

“I said drop it.”

The words hit like a gunshot.

Zen’in stands. His tie’s undone, sleeves rolled to the elbow. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead — not anger, you realize. Fear.

He lowers his voice. “You don’t understand what you’re stepping into. Sukuna’s reassignment wasn’t punishment. Someone up top wants him exactly where he is. You want to keep your badge? You’ll stop asking why.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off with a look that ends the conversation.

“Dismissed.”

You don’t remember leaving the office. You just remember the sound of rain hitting the window again and again, like the city’s trying to remind you how small you are.

You tell yourself you’ll stop. You tell yourself Zen’in’s right, that chasing this is dangerous, that it’ll get you blacklisted at best, killed at worst. You tell yourself all of that while you stand in front of Sukuna’s desk later that night, pretending to look for a file that isn’t there.

You find something else instead.

A burner phone tucked under a stack of case notes. You shouldn’t open it... You do anyway.

There are only two messages on it:

9:30. Shinjuku underpass. Package drop. Don’t be late. G.

You don’t need to be a detective to know what “G” stands for.

By the time Sukuna slides into the driver’s seat of the station's unmarked car, you’ve already decided.

You’re going to get him talking.

He glances at you as the engine starts. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Maybe I’m just sick of your face,” you mutter.

He laughs, soft and rough. “Liar.”

The rain drums against the windshield as he pulls onto the main road. The city outside glows like a reflection of everything broken: flickering neon, drowned voices, the hum of people trying to forget themselves.

After a few minutes, he says, “You think I don’t notice when you’re trying to read me?”

You stare out the window. “It's not like you're not used to it at this point.”

He grins at that. “Maybe I like who’s doing the watching.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s right again. You’ve been watching him since the day he showed up, cataloguing every smirk, every dodge, every moment he steps just outside the rules. It’s not just professional anymore, and that terrifies you.

Because when you strip away the suspicion, what’s left underneath feels a lot like fascination.

“Tell me something,” you say suddenly. “Why’d you really get transferred from Kyoto?”

The car slows slightly. He doesn’t answer right away.

When he finally does, his tone is mild. “Didn’t like the weather.”

“Try again.”

“Didn’t like my boss.”

You glare at him. “You’re bad at lying.”

“And you’re obsessed,” he replies smoothly. “You’ve been digging for months, haven’t you? Looking for the skeletons. Wondering if I’m the monster everyone whispers about.”

You swallow hard. “Am I wrong?”

He exhales through his nose, eyes still on the road. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

That earns a glance- brief, sharp, unreadable.

Then: “Maybe you’re in the wrong line of work, detective. People like us don’t get to be clean.”

You don’t talk the rest of the drive. When you finally pull up outside the precinct, he kills the engine and leans back. For a second, the only sound is the rain and the ticking of the cooling motor.

You think the exchange is done, over, but then you hear him, quietly, “You want advice? Stop looking if you're going to be shit at covering your tracks. You won't last long if you don't.”

He gets out of the car before you can answer.

You sit there for a while, pulse pounding. You don’t know whether you want to prove he’s guilty or prove he isn’t. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

That night, you can’t sleep.

You spread your files across your apartment again, the floor an evidence board of obsession. Sukuna’s voice keeps replaying in your head... People like us don’t get to be clean.

You stare at his photo, the one from Kyoto, the one with that same lazy smirk. You trace the scar down his jaw with your eyes. You hate the way you know every angle of it.

You tell yourself it’s just about the case. You tell yourself it’s not personal. You tell yourself a lot of things you don’t believe.

Three nights later, you follow him again. You’re careful this time- different route, different clothes, hood pulled low. You watch him slip into a bar in Kabukicho that doesn’t officially exist. You wait fifteen minutes, then twenty, before edging closer.

Through the rain-streaked window, you see him sitting across from a man with a slicked-back ponytail- Geto Suguru himself.

Your chest goes tight. You take a photo. Another. Another. Your hands are shaking.

You’re about to step back when Sukuna turns his head just slightly, like he can feel your lens on him. His eyes meet yours through the glass. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, doesn’t warn Geto. He just smirks.

Like he’s daring you to take another picture.

You do. And for one heartbeat, you swear you see something flicker behind that smirk- not malice. Not guilt. Something else.

Resignation.

You don’t remember walking home, only the sound of your boots slapping through puddles and the taste of rain in your mouth. You dump the camera on your counter, pull off your jacket, and stare at the ceiling.

You wanted proof. You got it. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like a victory.

Because when you close your eyes, all you can see is the way he looked at you- not like a man caught, but like a man waiting for you to figure something out.

You don't stop. Can't at this point.

You don’t tell anyone where you’re going. You don’t leave a note. You don’t text a partner or a friend. You just put on the same black hoodie, lace the same wet boots, and step into a city that thrives on people who think they can keep secrets.

Neon rain smears the pavement like finger paint. The rain hasn’t stopped in days, the kind that soaks without drama and turns the air into a living thing. You know Sukuna hates umbrellas, claims they block his peripheral, so you don’t bring one either. If you’re going to shadow the devil, you might as well dress for hell.

You start where you saw him last: Kabukicho’s bruised heart, a block of clubs whose lights strobe through steam like emergency signals. The bar where he met Geto doesn’t have a sign, just a door that opens for those with the right sins. You don’t try to go in. You wait across the street beneath a flickering ramen lantern and pretend to read the hand-written menu until your eyes blur. You count the minutes and the cigarettes people burn through while talking about soccer, debt, sex, nothing. You watch their mouths form confessions none of them mean.

You tell yourself you’re here for a case. You’re here for a girl who never made it home. You are not here for a man who knows you’re watching.

Sukuna comes out at 11:37, shoulders loose, like his spine never learned how to tense. He doesn’t look left or right; he moves into the road like the rain parts for him. You fall in behind with the patience of a surgeon and the nerves of a rookie. He cuts north, crossing under the Yamanote line where the concrete sweats and the air tastes like pennies. He takes a side street, then another, then what might not be a street at all, but the gap between two buildings.

You walk softer. You match your inhale to the hiss of pipes, your exhale to the plop of water slipping from a bent gutter. Your fingers skim the cold brick. You remember the burner text; Shinjuku underpass. Package drop. You remember Zen’in’s warning like a hand around your throat. You keep walking anyway.

Sukuna stops at a vending machine that’s out of order, the kind that still lights up even though it's empty inside. He taps his knuckles on the metal four times tap, tap-tap, tap then tilts his head. Somewhere behind the machine, something clicks. The machine shifts an inch forward on its rusted runners, enough to reveal a sliver of darkness, a door where there shouldn’t be one.

You swear under your breath. You have a hundred stories about secret doors, and none of them end with someone getting a commendation.

He doesn’t go in. He waits. That’s somehow worse.

He looks like a cutout: white streetlight edge, black interior. His shoulder carries immaculate indifference. In the glow, the scar that cuts down his jaw is a polished hook. He lights a cigarette and the ember stains the rain with a pinpoint of heat. Then he glances past you, over you, through you like he’s making sure the city’s in its place.

Someone arrives.

The man is tall and the alley shrinks to fit him. His hair is tied back, rain slicking it into a weapon. He wears a coat too expensive for this neighborhood and boots that don’t splash. You know him from case files and briefings that ended with coffee thrown away untouched.

Geto Suguru.

Your breath snags on a rib. Your thumb finds the camera at your hip, the muscle memory automatic. You take one photo, then another, then the last one like maybe you can keep them all by counting.

They don’t shake hands this time. They talk like old friends who know the price of a name. Geto keeps his hands in his pockets, Sukuna keeps his eyes half-lidded, and the city keeps pretending that none of this is happening. You try to read their mouths. You catch fragments: shipment, girls, two days, Kenjaku. You think you see insurance. You think you see friend. You think a lot of things when you’re two alleys away from your own common sense.

Then Geto passes him a small black parcel, no bigger than a paperback, wrapped in plastic like the rain might strip it to the bones. Sukuna doesn’t look inside. He tucks it into his coat and says something that makes Geto smile with only half his mouth, which is worse than the whole thing.

When Geto leaves, he doesn’t look back. People like him never do. The machine door slides again with a reluctant grind and swallows Sukuna whole.

You move.

You count four seconds, then you’re across the street and into the negative space he left. The vending machine smells like sugar and corrosion. You press your palm to the metal and feel the hum of cheap electricity, the complaint of age. You tap tap, tap-tap, tap ridiculous, but the city rewards the ridiculous more often than the righteous.

The gap reveals itself again, a seam, a promise. You slip through, shoulder-first, breath held so tight your ribs threaten mutiny.

Inside, it’s the kind of underbelly few know about and fewer survive. Not a tunnel so much as a maintenance artery, lit by a string of bulbs that jitter with migraine insistence. Pipes line the concrete like veins. The floor is slick in patches without puddles, which is never good. A rat regards you with the unimpressed disdain of one professional to another.

You catch the echo of footsteps and follow at a distance. The parcel flashes once when his coat swings- real, not a hallucination. At a junction, he pauses, then takes the left path with the carelessness of someone who will never be lost. You choose right for two seconds, counting breaths, then loop back and take left. Petty. Satisfying.

You meant to call Zen’in by now. You meant to have his voicemail ready for the blame.

You don’t call. Something inside you wants to see this through to the end, needs to see it for yourself.

You pass a tiled wall marked with old graffiti: an eye, a crown, a date you don’t understand. There’s a smell of lemon under the wet-industrial cleaner, the kind that eats flesh if you let it. Your shoes slosh.

Then- voices.

You freeze, sinking into shadow that isn’t there. Sukuna’s tone is a knife wrapped in velvet. The other voice is thin, desperate, a man trying to become a smaller target.

“…late,” Sukuna says, the word almost bored.

“Cops,” the other voice whispers. “Roadblock on Meiji.”

“Try again,” Sukuna murmurs. The sound of a soft impact. Not a punch; something more economical. Your stomach turns because his efficiency is its own brand of cruelty.

“I—I got it, okay? I got it,” the thin voice gasps. “Tell him I got it.”

“Tell him yourself.”

Your fingers curl around the mouth of your pocket so hard the fabric protests. You lean just enough to glimpse the edge of them: Sukuna standing easy, weight on one leg; the other man hunched, his hands hovering between pleading and protecting his ribs. He’s nobody important, a courier for someone’s sin ledger, but a life is a life and you feel the old reflex in your shoulder, the one that would put you between a blade and a stranger.

You don’t move.

The parcel changes hands a second time- only a sliver, a gesture, a rehearsal.

“Tell Geto to be punctual next time,” Sukuna says. “Kenjaku likes punctual.”

The courier nods so fast his neck clicks. He scuttles away, shoes squealing on concrete. Sukuna turns- clean, precise- and keeps walking.

You wait until the corridor empties. You count ten, then thirteen, then an unlucky fifteen. You slip after him with the caution of a thief in a museum of alarms.

You lose him.

You don’t know how, except you do: he knows these veins better than you know your own skin. You end up at a ladder that leads into the wrecked belly of an old building’s basement, paint flaked to dandruff, the echo of a boiler’s death. You climb because it’s forward and forward is what you have left.

When you pop the hatch, night rushes you. You’re behind a noodle shop whose steam smells like nostalgia and salt. A TV inside makes someone laugh at something unfunny. The back door is propped open with a bucket. A waitress glances toward the alley like she can sense the presence outside but has too many tables to care.

Sukuna stands midway down the alley, in the rain, nothing around him but distance and the hiss of water on warm concrete. He’s rolling his shoulders like he’s loosening a suit that fits too well.

He says, without turning, “If you’re going to hold your breath, do it for something worth dying for.”

Your lungs give up their hostage. “You always talk to walls?”

“Only stubborn ones.”

You step out. The alley is narrow and mean. The bricks sweat beneath posters that depict bands that already broke up. There’s no cover here. The neon from the main road tints the rain a nightclub red. Your hand brushes your cuffs. Your pulse moves up into your throat where it can be strangled easily if you let it.

“You should pick better routes if you don’t want company,” you say.

He half-smiles. “Who says I don’t?”

“Right,” you snort. “Because what I’ve learned about you screams ‘open and honest.’”

He turns then. It’s slow enough to make your body remember that he’s taller than you think, closer than you planned, and warmer than anything has a right to be in the rain. The scar is a question mark tonight, inviting and cruel.

“Tell me what you want, detective.” The word is backlit, edged in an intimacy that makes you angrier than ever before.

“I want to know who you’re working for.” Your demand is met with little consideration.

“That’s boring,” he says.

“And I want to know where the missing girl is.”

That pulls his gaze into focus so fast the alley snaps with it. There’s a cut of silence. Rain, distant laughter, a delivery truck groaning through a turn three streets away. Then: “Not here.” his arms spread wide.

You step closer. Because you’re tired and angry and wet and your ribs hurt from trying to keep your heart inside them.

“You met Geto,” you say. “You passed a parcel to one of his couriers. You have a burner in your desk with orders from him! Your logs are a joke and our captain is scared of saying your name too loud.”

He watches you take inventory like it’s foreplay. He takes one half-step forward and you can smell his smoke under the rain, the metal of his badge, the citrus of soap you keep pretending not to notice.

“Kenjaku’s payroll?” you press. “Or just his favorite stray?”

His mouth curves, pleased you chose the meaner knife. “Keep going.”

“You’re either running protection,” you say, voice low, “or you’re choosing who gets hurt. And I’m going to find out which.”

He leans down, into your air, into the space your good sense left behind. His breath warms your ear despite the cold. His voice is almost kind. “Maybe you should worry about who’s following you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you followed me through a door you weren’t invited to. Meaning you’ve been pulling threads you can’t see the ends of. Meaning you don’t know which wolf you’re starving when you feed your conscience.”

You should push him.

You should press a forearm to his throat, read him his rights, walk him into the station, and blow up your life.

You should cuff him. You should slap him.

Instead your hand twitches for a reason HR doesn’t teach a class for.

“Tell me,” you whisper, and hate the shape of it in your mouth. “Why the girl?”

The question lands like a dropped glass- sharp edges, an echo that keeps cutting. Sukuna’s eyes shutter, not in guilt. In memory.

“Because some things belong to the light,” he says. It’s too fast, too honest, and gone when your brain recognizes it.

“You expect me to believe you’re rescuing her.”

“I expect you to keep following me.”

You hate him for making that sound like asking.

The alley breathes. Somewhere above, a window slams; a voice calls in a language that you don't understand. The ramen shop door opens, the smell of broth spilling out over rain and brick, then closes again. You realize your phone has been buzzing in your pocket for a full minute. You ignore it.

Sukuna’s gaze drifts past your shoulder and his mouth changes shape. Not a smile, not quite. Something sharper.

“You should pick better smoke spots,” you tell Sukuna without looking at him.

He laughs- quiet, sinful. You hate the way it cuts the chord of fear in your chest.

Sukuna tilts his head and, finally, finally, you see the man they tried to write out of his file: not a cop, not a criminal, but something the city built to negotiate between the two. His voice is velvet stretched over wire.

“Two nights. The warehouse by the river.”

You let out a breath that tastes like adrenaline left in a glass overnight.

“Friends again?” you murmur.

“Don’t be jealous,” Sukuna says. “They’re prettier in bad lighting.”

“You going to bring me to all your dates?”

He takes a drag of the cigarette he never lit. The ember blooms anyway. Magic, or a trick he doesn’t teach. He steps into your space and the alley shrinks around you until there’s only him, you, and the suggestion of a mistake.

“You wanted answers,” he says. “There they are.”

“What- cryptic threats and a calendar invite?”

“The warehouse,” he says. “If you’re going to follow me, at least keep up.”

Your hand betrays you; it lands on the damp lapel of his coat like it belongs there. You don’t pull him close. You don’t push him away. You just test gravity, find it still working.

“You disappear in the middle of cases,” you say, softer now. “You pass envelopes to ghosts. You act like none of it stinks.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, eyes on your mouth, “I like a little danger.”

You hate that your pulse answers. You hate that the rain goes quiet in your head. You hate that the city gives you this moment as if it’s a kindness.

“Stop being so nosy, detective,” he says, teasing, a blade in silk. “Or at least get better at it.”

“One day soon, I'm going to bring you and all of your friends down."

He leans in, breath warm against your ear, the intimacy illegal in three different ways you can name and a fourth you refuse to. “You sure you’re ready for that?”

You are not. You are. You don’t know.

When you blink, he’s gone.

A curl of smoke hangs where he was like punctuation. The alley is only an alley again. The ramen shop door opens and closes. Someone upstairs laughs at a show with a laugh track. You stand there until the rain soaks through the lining of your coat.

Then you move, because you have to. You back-track to the hatch, to the tunnel, to the vending machine that slides back into place with a metal groan like a jaw locking. You walk the long way to the precinct because you don’t trust taxis when your head hurts like this.

On the way, you pass an apartment with a single red paper lantern glowing in the window. It pools soft light onto the sidewalk, the shape of a signal you don’t understand yet. You pause. You look at it long enough for your damp hair to leave a mark on your collar.

It’s one in the morning when you make it to your apartment, and the city hasn’t blinked once. You peel off your clothes and stand by the window in a shirt that belongs to no one. You lay the evening out on your kitchen table and try to make it behave like evidence.

The missing girl stares up at you from a photo tacked to a folder you can’t close. Geto smiles with half a mouth from a print you should’ve deleted. A scribbled note reads warehouse by the river // two nights. Your phone has five missed calls from a number that will be a problem tomorrow.

You should file a report. You should wake Zen’in up and make him choose between his fear and his badge. You should do a dozen things that would make you easier to sleep.

Instead, you sit. You listen to the rain. You press your thumbs into your eyes until you see constellations you don’t believe in. And you admit, just once, to the room, to no one, and only to yourself:

Series Masterlist | Chapter 1

Pairing: Detective!sukuna x detective!reader

Warnings: None, just a preview hehe

A/N: I've been watching way too much Brooklyn 99 and Criminal Minds.

Here's the thing. You. You're kind of a goody two-shoes. Maybe that's why you chose the career path that you did- you know, being a detective in an organized crime unit and all. And maybe- just maybe- that characteristic is the reason why you have such a problem with Ryomen Sukuna.

Ryomen Sukuna was transferred from Kyoto PD a year ago under “disciplinary reassignment” after a suspicious internal affairs investigation ended that never reached a verdict. He's known for playing dirty- gambling, taking bribes, and cutting corners- but his arrest record speaks for itself. He's the kind of cop the department tolerates because he gets things done.

It kills you. You- who joined the police force because you really, truly wanted to make a difference and fix injustices and be an ally to those who need one.

And then there's him.

You’ve been partnered with Sukuna for six months. He’s sharp, too sharp. He skips paperwork, disappears for hours, and has contacts who shouldn’t exist. You’ve seen him pass envelopes in alleys and exchange quiet nods with known mafia affiliates for christ's sake.

You’re convinced he’s on Kenjaku’s payroll, maybe even running protection for Geto, the mob’s second-in-command. Unable to let your hunch go, you’ve started gathering evidence on him, even though your gut isn’t sure if you’re right. Sometimes, the way he looks at certain cases, especially ones involving missing women, makes you wonder what side he’s really on.

Tonight, rain slicks the alley a couple of streets away from the precinct, puddles rippling under the dim yellow glow of a streetlamp. You’d followed Sukuna here on instinct. No radio, no backup, just the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears.

He’s leaning against the wall when you spot him, cigarette ember flaring red in the dark. His shirt collar’s undone, sleeves rolled up, and the smirk he tosses over his shoulder says he knew you were following the whole time.

“You meeting your... friends again, or is this just your new smoke break spot?”

He exhales slowly, the smoke curling lazily toward you.

“Funny. You say ‘friends’ like I don’t spend all day sitting next to you.”

You cross your arms, trying not to look at the way the light catches the blackened scar that cuts down his jaw.

"You disappear in the middle of a case, you hand off envelopes to guys who vanish, and you act like none of it stinks.” You make a face like you can actually smell the bull shit that's about to come out as an excuse from his overly pretty mouth.

"Maybe I like a little danger.”

He takes a step closer, close enough that you can smell the smoke and the rain on him. Your heartbeat stumbles.

"You should stop being so nosy, detective.”

His voice drops low, teasing. You should cuff him- maybe you should slap him- but your hand twitches for reasons that have nothing to do with procedure.

"One day, I’m going to find out what you’re hiding.”

He leans in, his breath warm against your ear.

"You sure you’re ready for that?"

Summary: You think - scratch that - you know Ryomen Sukuna is a corrupt cop. Maybe it's his inconsistent reports or his bad-mouthing of internal affairs, but you've always had a gut feeling that something about him just doesn't add up. You've been itching to expose him for what he really is- dangerous, criminal. Too bad he's also disgustingly hot...

Pairings: detective!sukuna x detective!reader

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, unrequited love, enemies to lovers, graphic violence, crime investigation, mentions of death/blood/missing persons, alcohol use, smoking/substance use, strong language/profanity, noir aesthetic/dark themes, mentions human trafficking, more TBA

Mini Series Outline

Preview

Chapter 1 - The Devil You Work With

Chapter 2 - Smoke & Mirrors

Chapter 3 - The Captain's Shadow

Chapter 4 - The Devil Unmasked

Chapter 5 - Operation Red Lantern

Chapter 1 - Awakening

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, Graphic destruction/violence, child endangerment, parental death, blood/injury, psychological distress, loss/grief, family bonds.

A/N: Wow, I cannot believe that the first chapter is already here! I've been working so hard to get this series started since it's been living in my head for over a year now. Reader has to go through a lot to get to where she needs to be, so buckle up guys, childhood trauma is imminent.

The Void Curse Master List | Chapter 2 (coming soon)

The first story you ever remember is not one of heroes or curses, but of a woman no one alive had ever seen. There were always amazingly impossible feats, and enchanting characters and it was your very favorite fairy tale.

Your father used to tell it to you at night, never the same version, when the lantern burned low and the house creaked with the weight of sleep and peace. They say she could see tomorrow as easily as you see today, he would murmur, voice heavy with wonder. She once caught a river in her hands and made it flow backward for a day, so that the fields would drink twice. To some she was a guide. To others, an omen. They whispered she even outlived kings. Even as a child, you noticed the pause that followed, the sigh that slipped out as if the tale carried more sorrow than pride.  But every gift takes something in return. The longer she looked ahead, the less she seemed to belong to the present. That was the price of her sight.”

Others called it a myth, a crooked bedtime story that had grown wild in the retelling. To you, it was just a thread of comfort before bed.

Your life was small and good. Your apartment was a narrow shoebox over a grocer’s stall, the kind where the hallway light buzzed and the kettle sang louder than the neighbors. Mornings smelled like rice and tea. Your mother hummed songs from the old country while she packed your lunch into a chipped blue tin; your father tapped knuckles on the doorframe as he left, a soft drum. You didn’t have much—two fans for summer, one heater for winter, and a table with a wobble you learned to eat around at mealtime—but back then it felt like enough.

At night, when the lantern burned low and the wind made the window rattle, your father told the crooked story. He spoke it gently, as if it might break in his mouth. You curled into the warm hollow of your mother’s side and watched the shadows climb the ceiling. In that small room, wrapped in steam and laughter and the comfort of hands that knew your name, legends felt like lullabies and the world outside felt very, very far away.

Your family was not rich, not powerful. You were just another name on a long list of people struggling to get by. To the outside world, you were invisible. But inside your home, there was a difference no one else could see.

You and your father shared the same unspoken burden: the ability to see cursed spirits. Not use them, not fight them, only see. Your mother carried no such sight, though she knew from the way your father’s eyes sometimes lingered on an empty corner of the street, or the way your small hand would tighten in hers when the air turned sour and heavy. She never asked for details. Perhaps she was afraid of the answers.

To neighbors, your family was nothing special. But to you, it felt like carrying a secret world inside your very skin—an invisible thread, tying you to your father and setting you apart from everyone else.

For all the warped legends and quiet burdens, your life still brimmed with simple joys. You ran barefoot through narrow hallways, your laughter echoing against peeling plaster. You counted coins with your mother at the end of market day, turning the small clinks of copper into games. On cold nights, you huddled together under a single heavy quilt, your father’s arm draped across you both like a shield.

You did not think of cursed spirits then. You thought of soup simmering on the stove, of the warm press of your mother’s hand to your cheek, of your father’s voice humming songs you didn’t know the words to. The world was small and warm, and that was enough.

Happiness never felt fragile to you—not until the day it shattered.

It began with a sound you didn’t recognize—like a door slamming inside the sky. Glass hummed in the windowpanes. Your mother’s spoon stopped mid-stir; your father’s head tilted in the way that meant he was listening to something you did not yet recognize. Then the hallway light flickered, once, twice, and failed. The clock above your stove, which had sat there for years, steady and thrumming, beat an off rhythm.

The air turned sour and heavy. You knew that feeling. Your father’s knuckles went white around the table edge. “Under the table,” he urged, and the tone of his voice made you move before your mind had entirely caught up.

You scrambled beneath the table with your mother, suddenly clammy hands reaching for her, while your father pressed a palm to the floorboards, as if the building itself might tell him what was coming.

The world split open. A curse, vast and slick with teeth where teeth didn’t belong, slammed into the hall outside. Its body bent the light in ways that made your stomach lurch. Just as quickly, a man followed—robes stained, hair wild, his hands scrawled with marks that glowed like fire. His face was human, but the look in his eyes was utterly not.

The curse screamed. The man answered, his technique ripping chunks of air into shards. Both were monsters. Both were beautiful. Both so powerful in their destruction of your home.

Their clash struck your building as if it were nothing more than a toy left in the way of a storm. Stone cracked. The floor leapt. Your father put his body between you and the hall, though all he could do was try and shield your view.

The curse lashed, the sorcerer countered, and each strike was worse than the one before. You could not tell which one was winning. You could only tell that you were losing.

The next strike from the sorcerer was cataclysmic. An explosion—a bite taken from the world. Plaster burst into dust as it spat down on you. The floor lurched. Cups leapt from their hooks and shattered like rain. You grabbed for your mother’s sleeve and found only fabric and air.

Then, the building came down.

Darkness first. Falling, falling, falling-! Then weight. Then, the slow realization that you could breathe only because a fallen beam had made a crooked little roof above you. Dazed, your mouth tasted of chalk and iron. Somewhere close by, water hissed—maybe a pipe ruptured, maybe rain finding new paths through broken stone.

“Mom!” you coughed. No answer.

“Dad!”

A rustle. A low, strangled breath. “Here,” your father managed, close enough that you could reach if the rubble would only move. You dug until your nails split and bled, until you found his hand wedged between two slabs. Warm. Trembling. Alive.

His grasped yours, weak, yet still warm. “Go,” he said.

“I can pull you out—”

“You must go. Run!”

You held tighter. “I won’t—”

“Listen to me.” His voice sharpened, the way it did when something was not a question but a fact. “You have to find help. I’ll be right behind you.”

A sound cut through the dark then, a scream you will always know as your mother’s, and your father looked back, desperately. And the world… slipped.

The dust didn’t fall the same way twice. Your father’s lips moved before the words arrived. The scream came from the wrong direction, then from everywhere, then from nowhere at all. Your hand was on your father’s fingers; then it wasn’t; then it was again. The air shuddered like a plucked wire. You were cracked open and bled backward and forward in the same breath.

You blinked—and you were back to the first cough, the taste of chalk, your father’s fixed “go,” your mother’s scream. You did everything the same. The outcome did not change.

It happened again. And again. Each climb scraped the skin from your knees anew; each scream split fresh through your head; each “go” cut a new groove into your bones. Pain stacked like coins. Exhaustion layered like dust. The loop did not rewind your body clean—it kept the tally.

On the last try you remember, your father’s hand slipped from yours in an instant that lasted forever.

You cried as you forced yourself up through a mouth of broken bricks, out into the wet cough of daylight and smoke. Always looking back, searching and listening for something you knew, you knew had been lost.

Your street was a ruin—glass glittering like frost, storefronts peeled open like tin. The battle still raged somewhere past the corner, each impact a drumbeat in your teeth. Your hand instinctively clenched into a fist as something warm and dark dripped down your side into the start of a red river on your skin. A wailing scream of the cursed creature rang above you, too close. You staggered, slipped, and crawled into a narrow alley behind a dumpster, where the rain couldn’t quite reach and the wind was a knife that couldn’t quite cut, as you hid, scared and alone.

You told yourself you only needed a breath. Just one. Just until the footsteps and the roaring passed.

Time thinned. Raindrops hung like beads on an invisible string, then crawled backward into the cloud as if the sky were taking them back. Your pulse knocked out of rhythm, then found a new one that didn’t belong to you. You tried to cry, and your breath arrived late. The world felt like a room with two doors open at once.

You pressed your cheek to cold stone and listened to your heart throw itself against your ribs.

Darkness forced you under, but you woke to rain tapping your face, then dripping upward, then falling down again. You slept and woke, slept and woke, each time thinner, smaller. Hunger turned into a buzzing that turned into nothing at all. You counted to a hundred and forgot what came after. You tried to stand and found the ground had learned your shape and would not let you go.

On the third night—though you only know it was the third by what came after—you heard a growl in the dark. A curse, close enough to taste.

A voice answered, calm as a blade laid flat. “No.”

Silence, except for your breath, and even that was uncertain. Footsteps approached, steady and unhurried, the way people walk in places they know. Warm hands slid under your shoulders, as careful as your mother’s when she lifted you from sleep. You tried to hold on, but your fingers wouldn’t listen. You tried to open your eyes, but the lids were stone.

“Fate has been cruel to you, child,” the voice said, very low, as if to himself.

Arms gathered you up. The world tilted. The rain found your face once more—fell, rose, fell—then vanished.

You woke to the smell of soup and wood.

The ceiling above you was smoke-stained and familiar in a way nothing else in the world felt. You were lying on a hard pallet spread across a kitchen floor, blankets you didn’t recognize tucked too neatly around you to have been your doing. Every shelf you could see was crowded: jars of dried mushrooms and curled seaweed, clay bowls, bundles of herbs hanging upside down like sleeping bats. A kettle breathed on the stove; a low fire clicked and settled.

You sat up too fast. The room bucked. Pain flared in your ribs and along the knees you had skinned in a dozen separate tries. You breathed through it until the room agreed to hold still again.

“Slowly,” a voice said.

You turned. A man stood in the doorway, framed by beaded curtains that whispered when he moved. There a man stood, but… you’re certain you have never seen him before in your life. He was not young and not old, not human and not curse, or perhaps both in the wrong proportions. His hair was bound back with a strip of cloth; his hands were rough in the way of someone who works with heat and knives and does not complain about either. His eyes—when they settled on you—were measuring but not unkind. Steady.

“W-Where am I?” you asked. Your voice sounded like it belonged to someone who lived at the bottom of a well. God, you were thirsty.

“In my kitchen,” he said. “I found you in an alley, half dead.”

Memories trying to tie themselves together failed you. “Who-“ you pause. Tried again, “Who are you?”

He considered that as if it were a harder question than you intended. “People call me Shoyu.”

He set a bowl on the low table beside your pallet. Steam fogged your face; your stomach answered with an embarrassingly loud twist. He nudged the bowl closer without looking at you like you were an animal to be fed. “Eat. Then you can think about what questions you actually need answers to.”

You tried the first spoonful. Salt, bone, umami, a sweetness hiding behind the heat. It went down like an apology you didn’t know you needed.

“When did you find me?” you asked.

“Three nights ago.”

“Three—” Your mouth forgot how to close.

“You were very stubborn about leaving,” he said, not unkindly. “But even alleyways get tiresome eventually.”

“You, I mean- why did you help me?” Such a simple question, and you’re not entirely sure why you asked it, but it felt important.

He tilted his head, as if he were listening to a distant kettle. “Because you were there.”

You frowned. “That’s not a reason, sir.”

“It is the only one that matters.”

He set a folded cloth by your hand—a compress that smelled faintly of herbs and the sea. “You should keep that on your ribs,” he said. “If you plan to breathe.”

You asked again, “Who are you?” because it felt like the only question large enough to hold everything else.

Shoyu glanced at the door, at the beaded strings, at the fire that did not seem to need tending. “Who are you?” he returned. “Where is your family?”

You opened your mouth and found there was no sentence waiting. “I… don’t know,” you said at last, which was the truest thing you had ever spoken. “I don’t know.”

“Then rest,” he said softly. “We will look for them when you are stronger.” He doesn’t move from his spot next to you, sitting steadily by your side as you lay down and let the overwhelming exhaustion claim you once again.

“Tell me,” He said after you wake again, “what happened before you crawled into that alley?”

You told him about the sound like a door slamming inside the sky. About the hallway light dying. About your father’s hand. About the scream. You tried to speak and your tongue tripped, because language prefers straight lines. Still, you tried.

“The dust was weird,” you said. “My dad would talk, but he-“ a choke, “his voice was funny. I kept climbing but my knees—” You pulled the blanket back and showed him the layered scrapes, the bruises so common to children, yet in this instance, so unusual to you. “It kept happening but I couldn’t… fix it.”

Shoyu’s breath caught—not surprise, exactly, but recognition, like someone hearing the name of a road they’ve walked before. “Of all the gifts,” he murmured again. “Time never gives without taking something back.”

“Take what?” you asked.

He met your eyes. “I’m sure you know.”

“What-what happened?” Your misty eyes, filled with confusion looked up to him.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It was not a dream. It was not mercy. And it is not a thing to use lightly.” His gaze flicked, just once, to the threshold, the beads whispering. “Eat. Rest. Then you can try to understand it.”

That night the wind shouldered at the door. Beads clicked. You felt the old sour weight press against the walls as you tried to rest—a curse prowling close, testing. Every hair along your arms rose. You looked to Shoyu, expecting a blade, a seal, a posture you had seen in fighters who meant to make death.

He didn’t move. He ladled broth into bowls and set chopsticks side by side, so their ends aligned.

The presence hovered at the sill like a stray cat deciding whether a hand held out means kindness or a trap. Then it… hesitated. Slid away. The air lightened, not clean but less heavy.

“Why didn’t it come in?” you whispered.

Shoyu’s mouth tilted—not a smile, exactly. “Even the king himself would hesitate before crossing certain thresholds. A door is a promise,” he said. “It makes equals out of things on either side. Cross it, and you accept the terms.”

“The king?”

“Names are heavy things,” he said. “Best not to pick one up until you can carry it.”

“Am I- Is it safe here?” you asked.

“Safe is a word with an expiration date,” he said. “But you are safer than you were.”

You stayed. Shoyu didn’t bring up your leaving and you were far too young to know where else to go. Your mother and father were the only family you knew, and there were moments when it felt like the world had forgotten you.

Days found a rhythm as you recovered physically: boiling bones down to gold, sweeping ash from under the stove, sleeping when sleep was brave enough to come near you.

Your ribs ached less. The scabs across your knees went from angry to ordinary. But the hand you couldn’t hold—that did not heal.

Sometimes you woke to the sound of your mother’s spoon tapping the pot, and the sound was only the wind. Sometimes you reached for a doorframe to feel your father’s knuckles drum their secret rhythm, and your fingers met air.

Why you? The question had no handle. It fell through you and kept falling.

Shoyu did not answer the question you did not ask. He showed you how to skim the scum from broth without losing the simmer, how to set a bowl so that steam softened a stubborn cough, how to listen to a kettle’s breath to know when it would call. His hands were rough, but careful. His voice carried authority without malice.

On the seventh evening, when the light through the kitchen window turned the dust golden, he rinsed his hands and said, “Tell me, child… if the world itself began to split apart, what would you cling to?”

Shoyu had a habit of asking you questions that made no sense, you’d noticed.

You looked at your hands. You looked at the beads in the doorway. You looked at the space in your memory where your father’s palm had been. “I don’t know.”

“Good,” he said. “Honest answers are the only ones that grow.”

Later, when the floor had cooled and the fire had settled to embers, Shoyu sat across from you with two bowls between you.

“I mean you no harm child,” he said, as if reciting a recipe whose measurements mattered. “You are safe here with me.”

You believed him the way you believe a wall won’t move if you lean on it. Not because he explained, but because he didn’t.

He didn’t ask you to swear anything. He didn’t tell you what debt you owed for your life. He only taught you how to keep the broth from boiling over, and he listened when your voice fell apart trying to describe a scream you had heard a dozen different ways.

You only knew the smell of soup and wood, and the relief of a roof that didn’t fall.

On the eighth morning, Shoyu laid a map on the table—a cheap print, the kind sold at corner stalls. District lines in faded ink, a red pencil tucked beside it.

“Let’s make a plan for you.” He stated.

You stared at the blank spaces more than the roads. Your father’s hand, your mother’s spoon, the place where your house had been—none of that fit on paper. “A plan?”

He looked at you patiently, “Yes, a plan.”

“For what?”

“For whatever you want.”

“I- Mr. Shuyo, I don’t think- what do you mean?”

All he did was stare at you, as if you weren’t getting something he just clearly explained.

“I don’t have a plan for anything.” And why would you? You were only a child, but sadly, you had been stripped of something precious, something that, once lost, was lost forever.

“Good,” he said. “Most wrong turns start with certainty.”

He pushed the pencil toward you. “Mark what you still have.”

You went to mark the street your apartment had been on, but something stopped you. It wasn’t there anymore, not really. Instead, you drew a small dot where the alley had been. Then you put the pencil down. “That’s all.” Your voice small.

“Not quite.” Shoyu took the pencil and marked another dot. His shop? A distance aways from your parent’s home, in an area of the city you knew your father and mother did not go. The slums. Your eyes became glued to that small second dot.

You tried to sort it into something you understood. Shoyu. Shopkeeper. Sorcerer. Something else. “Why do the curses not come in? They always used to- at our apartment, they go where they want.”

“Why do you hesitate to enter my door?” he said, not unkindly.

“Are you human?”

“Are you?”

You made a frustrated sound that would have embarrassed you yesterday. He set a bowl in front of you as if that were the answer. “Eat. Questions are easier on a full stomach.”

“You keep answering with instructions.”

“Instructions are answers with fewer lies.”

Later, when the beads clicked and you flinched, he didn’t scold you for it. He pointed to the threshold. “What do you think a door is for?”

“Keeping things out,” you said.

“Also for letting them in,” he said. “The trick is knowing when to do which.” He smiled.

That evening, you sat with him while he prepped greens. He cut precisely, as if each leaf had a proper fate. Outside, something heavy scraped along the street and then went quiet.

“People say your ancestor was a prophet,” he said, as if discussing the weather.

He slid the greens into water. “Stories grow crooked in the retelling. Sometimes they grow teeth.”

“My ancestor?”

“A woman,” he said. “Who lived longer and greater than most.”

You frowned. “That’s not a real story.”

“It’s the only one that matters, for now.”

He poured broth, set your chopsticks parallel. “Time never gives without taking something back,” he added, almost casually.

“What did it take from her?”

He didn’t look up. “Ask me when you’re old enough to know what you’re giving.”

You thought of the alley—the rain that fell and rose, the way your body kept the tally when your life did not. You thought of the door and the word king, heavy as a stone.

“Am I in danger?” you asked.

“You could be a danger to yourself, if you’re careless,” he said. “To others, if you’re cruel.”

When the shop had settled and night sat close to the windows, you stood at the counter drying bowls. Your hands were steady until they weren’t. A slick bowl slid from your fingers, hit the floor, and shattered—sharp, bright, final.

The sound cracked something open inside you. Not a door—more like a seam. What a shame, you thought. In such a short amount of time, you had come to think of it as your bowl. You didn’t mean to try. You only meant to wish.

The air tightened. The steam from the kettle hung too long, then rewound, the curl of it unspooling back into the spout. Your breath arrived late. The falling bowl rose from shards to whole in a single heartbeat that hurt like being turned inside out.

And then it didn’t. The bowl hit again, but now you couldn’t escape. It broke. Pieces skittered under the counter.

You doubled over, palms on your knees, as a thin line of blood crept from your nose. Your ribs screamed as if you’d run a mile.

Shoyu was already there with a cloth. He didn’t touch you; he set the cloth on the counter where your shaking hand could reach it.

“Better to practice with smaller things,” he said, voice even. “And to accept that some things prefer to break.”

You pressed the cloth to your nose. The room steadied by degrees. Outside, rain started—ordinary, obedient to gravity.

“Tell me,” Shoyu said, rising, “if the world itself began to split apart, what would you cling to?”

You looked at the broken bowl, at the steady line of the threshold, at his hands—rough, careful. “I don’t know,” you said again, but your voice was clearer this time. Less empty.

“Good,” he murmured. “Then you are still choosing.”

He swept the last shard into his hand and straightened. “Sleep,” he said, turning down the lamps. “Tomorrow,” he said, dimming the lamps. “We begin choosing.”

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, mile high club, breeding kink, standing doggy, p in v, fingering, cumming inside, husband!choso, newlyweds.

Honeymoon!Choso who lets you sleep on his chest long into the morning of your flight to your weeklong destination honeymoon. You’re both skin to skin and he’s in that sweet spot between half asleep and half awake that just feels like heaven. And when he feels you start waking up he’s definitely running his hands all over your back and neck, holding you closer because what’s five minutes? And

Honeymoon!Choso who insists on putting his hand on your lower back as you walk through the airport together and, no, you don’t have to carry anything, cause he’s got it, baby. And when you point to your flight on the screen with a raised hand, turning to smile at him, all he can see is the ring he put there yesterday, and he can’t stop the megawatt smile he returns. And

Honeymoon!Choso who gets fidgety when the flight goes into its sixth hour so instead of watching another Human Earthworm movie, he turns to you. Trails his fingers over your arm, pulls your hands into his lap to play with your fingertips, plays with your hair as he tucks it back behind your ears, asking what are you doing? even though he can clearly see you’re reading on your Kindle. And you can hear his tone and you know he’s about to suggest something ridiculous and hot and it’s on your bucket list, right? And you are wearing a dress so it’s the simplest thing for you to meet him in the bathroom. And

Honeymoon!Choso who you already knew had no shame when it comes to fucking you anywhere, anytime but damn, he’s hitting a new high here as he pulls you into the cramped stall quickly and presses you against the nearest flat surface, not really caring if the flight attendants notice. He’s got his front pressed to your back and his hands are already pulling your dress up. His fingers trace the top seam of your underwear around your waist, before dipping in the front to cup you, fingertips pulling back and up slightly to hook just the barest bit into your wet heat as his cock settles on your lower back. And

Honeymoon!Choso who still needs to get you off first, no matter the situation because he wants you wet, ready, and you need to be ready for him so he doesn’t hurt you and he would never, ever hurt you. And he’s whispering into your ear sweetly even as his fingers are pumping into your pussy, trying to find the right angle and when he does he’s so proud of you, you always cum so easily for him, his little wifey. And

Honeymoon!Choso who still asks is it okay? I want- can we please fuck? It’ll be so good, so good as if it wasn’t obvious your good sense has deserted you and you’d rather the plane crash than stop what you’re doing cause it is so good and then it doesn’t matter anymore cause his dick is already teasing at your entrance and you’re the one guiding him in with your hand reaching behind your back and

Honeymoon!Choso who has enough sense to cover your mouth when you start to get too loud because yes, he wants to hear you but also no, he doesn’t want anyone else to hear the sounds his wife makes in bed or in bathrooms a mile up in the air for that matter. And then, he’s the one biting down on your shoulder, and it’s that which tips you over the edge as you cum around him, your back bent in a wicked arch, elbows locking in front of you as your hands claw into the plastic siding of the plane’s bathroom. And

Honeymoon!Choso who can never last after you cum but now it’s twice as hard because now that you’re legally his, the only thing left is for him to put a baby in you and that’s what honeymoons are for or didn’t you know?

Pairing: gojo x fem!reader, sorcerers, coworkers, best friends!

A/N: i kind of live for this version of satoru

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, sex pollen, so automatically dubious consent, best friends to lovers, male masturbation, breaking and entering (does it count if it's a spare key?), needy!satoru, panty kink if you squint, quickie by my standards, satoru crying, missionary, cumming inside, love confessions.

It happens after a long day at Jujutsu High.

You're both sitting side by side on the steps outside the faculty building, spring in the air, watching the sun bleed into the horizon. Gojo's chewing on a green tea mochi, blindfold pulled slightly above one eye, while you quietly nurse a bottle of water.

You're letting out a long sigh when he digs into his pocket suddenly, fishing around until he pulls out a tiny silver key on a silly little cartoon panda keychain. He holds it out between two long fingers, wiggling it in front of you.

“Here. Don’t say I never give you anything."

You blink. “What’s this for?”

“My place, Sweets," he says, too casually. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, just stares at the candy in his mouth like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “You know. In case of emergencies. Like if I’m kidnapped. Or if you miss me too much.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm as you take it. “Why would I ever need this?”

“Because you love me,” he shoots back instantly, flashing that wide grin. But there’s something softer in his eyes when he finally glances at you, something he masks quickly by leaning back on his elbows, tilting his head toward the sky.

“Nice. Does this come with a lifetime supply of sweets, too, or just the key?”

“Please. Being around me is already a lifetime supply of sweet.”

You snort, not prettily, “Oh, please. More like a lifetime supply of cavities.”

Gojo puts his hands over his chest, feigning hurt. "Ouch."

You twirl the keyring between your fingers, laughing despite yourself. “Fine. But if I find your place trashed with takeout containers, I’m not cleaning up.”

“Fair. But if you eat all my sweets, we’re over.”

It’s lighthearted, silly. But when you slip the key into your pocket, it feels heavier than it should. And the smile he hides behind his lollipop is brighter than he wants you to notice.

The path into the village was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that made every rustle of leaves sound like a warning. You scanned the tree line, cursed energy pricking faintly at your senses.

Beside you, Gojo shoved his hands into his pockets, humming like you were out for a Sunday stroll instead of hunting a grade-one curse.

“You’d think if Hanami wanted to stir up trouble, they’d pick somewhere less boring,” he said, tilting his head back to stare at the sky. “I mean, come on. At least rampage in Tokyo, give me something pretty to look at.”

You shot him a look. “You mean skyscrapers? Or yourself in the reflection of the skyscrapers?”

He grinned. “Both. Efficiency.”

You rolled your eyes but kept your guard up, scanning the narrow dirt road ahead. “If you spent half as much energy on the mission as you do on hearing yourself talk, we’d be done by now.”

“Rude. I’ll have you know, my commentary boosts morale.” He stepped ahead, turning to face you as he walked backward, blindfold catching the dying light. “Admit it. You’d be miserable without me.”

You tightened your grip on your weapon. “I’d be focused without you.”

“Focused. Miserable. Same thing.”

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched. He caught it instantly, smirking like he’d just won the entire mission single-handedly. Typical Satoru.

Still, as the air shifted heavier, laced with something earthy and sharp you knew the joke was over. Hanami was close.

Gojo’s grin didn’t falter, but you saw the subtle way his shoulders squared, the easy swagger melting into sharp readiness. For all his running mouth, when it came to battle, he was nothing but precision.

“Showtime,” he murmured.

The air turned heavy, thick with the hum of cursed energy. The trees around the village road seemed to lean inward, branches became curling fingers.

Gojo stopped walking backward and tipped his head slightly, blindfold shifting as if he were looking right through the darkening woods. “Well, well,” he drawled, voice light but pitched low with anticipation. “Looks like our floral friend finally decided to say hi.”

Before you could reply, the ground trembled. Roots tore through the dirt, twisting upward like snakes, forcing you to leap back. Bark split with a sound like cracking bone, and from the shadows, Hanami emerged, flowers blooming grotesquely across its shoulders, vines pulsing with cursed energy.

You tightened your grip on your weapon, heart hammering. Gojo only grinned wider. “You know, I was just saying how boring this mission was. Thanks for the save.”

Hanami didn’t answer, not in words. Instead, it hurled a spear of sharpened wood toward you. You braced, but Gojo was already there, Infinity shimmering, the spear disintegrating before it could touch you.

“Careful,” he said, smirk curling at the edges. “You break easy.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but Hanami’s next attack swallowed your words. Vines lashed forward, roots splitting the earth beneath your feet. You ducked and sliced through one, cursed energy flaring bright, while Gojo snapped his fingers, unleashing a ripple of raw power that sent branches splintering in every direction.

For a moment, it felt like the two of you had the upper hand, that is until Hanami’s body pulsed, flowers on its shoulders bursting open. A thick cloud of golden pollen exploded into the air, glittering in the dying light.

Normally, anything airborne would have harmlessly curved around Gojo, sheared off by the endless distance of Infinity. But this- this wasn’t ordinary pollen. The cloud burned with cursed energy, thick and alive, seeping through the barrier as though it were smoke curling under a locked door.

“Cover your mouth!” you shouted, yanking your sleeve over your nose.

The trace that brushed against your skin stung, but you forced it out with cursed energy. Gojo wasn’t so lucky. Standing right in the blast, he inhaled sharply as the haze curled around him, coughing once before he straightened too quickly.

“Pfft. Please,” he said, brushing at his uniform as if it were dust. “Gonna take more than a little plant perfume to mess with me.”

But his laugh snagged in his throat. His hand lingered a second too long at the edge of his blindfold, and beneath his smirk you caught a flicker of strain.

Hanami was gone. The village was quiet again. And for the first time, you had the uneasy sense that Gojo was lying.

You lowered your sleeve slowly, eyes darting over the ruined road. “They got away.”

“Eh, they’ll show up again,” Gojo said, too fast. He waved one hand like it didn’t matter, the other tugging at his blindfold as though it suddenly felt too tight. “Persistent little weed, aren’t they?”

Something was wrong. His voice was light, but his shoulders were rigid, and the air around him thrummed unevenly. You opened your mouth to press, but before you could, his hand clamped around your arm.

“Let’s go.”

The world folded in a blink, and suddenly you were standing in the courtyard of Jujutsu High.

You staggered, disoriented. “What the- Gojo, the car- You usually drag missions out just to annoy me. What happened to ‘post-battle ramen’ or bragging about how easy that was?”

Gojo’s mouth twitched, but the grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hanami got away. I need to talk to Shoko.”

You frowned, stepping closer. “Then I’ll come with you. Were you hurt?-”

But before you could finish, he was already moving, long strides eating up the space between you.

"Gojo! Hey, where are you going?!"

For once, he didn’t turn back with a joke, didn’t throw you a wink over his shoulder.

He just disappeared into the main hall, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

You stood frozen in the courtyard, the echo of his absence louder than any words. Gojo Satoru didn’t brush people off. Not you. Not like that.

And the pit in your stomach told you something was very, very wrong.

Two days passed.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing. Gojo may skip teaching his classes sometimes, but it was always deliberate- always for show. He’d vanish for half a day, then pop up in your classroom window mid-lecture just to make your students laugh. Or he’d send you some ridiculous meme at three in the morning, proof that he was alive and smug as ever.

But this time? Nothing.

No texts. No calls. No sudden appearances in the hallways. Jujutsu High felt strangely hollow without his constant, obnoxious energy filling every space.

By the second morning, you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Yaga was short with you, waving off your questions about Gojo with a brusque, “He’s fine. Focus on your students.” But you noticed the way his eyes softened just a fraction, like he knew more than he was saying.

Shoko was worse. She wasn’t avoiding you. If anything, she was too polite, too careful. When you pressed her in the infirmary, demanding, “Is he hurt? Did Hanami do something?-” she just looked at you for a long moment before sighing around her cigarette.

“He’ll be fine,” she said. Quiet. Certain. Then, almost like an afterthought: “Give him space, okay?”

Space.

The word rattled in your chest as you left her office, no more reassured than when you went in.

Gojo was gone. Yaga and Shoko were acting like conspirators. And you were left with nothing but an ache in your chest and a gnawing worry that only grew sharper each time you walked past his empty classroom.

By the end of the second day, you couldn’t take it anymore. If Gojo wasn’t coming back to you, then you’d go to him.

Cake box in hand, you headed for his apartment

You stopped at a bakery on the way, picking up his favorite-strawberry shortcake, because if anything could coax him out of hiding, it was sugar. Cake box in hand, you made the familiar walk up to his apartment, heart drumming harder with each step.

The hallway was quiet as you knocked once, then again, the sound echoing against the sterile walls.

“Gojo? It’s me. I brought cake. You better open up, or I’m eating the whole thing myself.”

Silence.

You tried again, harder this time, but there was no shuffle of feet, no obnoxious voice shouting back. You sighed, leaning your forehead briefly against the door. Two days without a word, and now this.

Your fingers brushed against your pocket, where something small and metallic pressed against the fabric. The spare key. You remembered the day he’d given it to you. Flippant grin, dumb joke, eyes a little too soft behind his shades. “Emergency use only. Like if I run out of mochi. Or if you miss me too much.”

You hesitated, thumb rubbing over the cool metal. This wasn’t what he meant. But this wasn’t nothing, either.

“This counts as an emergency, idiot,” you muttered under your breath.

The lock clicked easily. The door creaked open.

Inside, the apartment was dark, unnaturally so. No blinds pulled, no clutter of candy wrappers or empty takeout containers, no faint hum of his terrible taste in pop music. Just silence.

You set the cake carefully on the kitchen counter, telling yourself you’d leave it there and go. But then-

A sound. Faint. Low. A muffled groan.

You froze, blood rushing hot in your ears. “Gojo?”

No answer. Just that sound again, strained and broken, seeping through the crack of his bedroom door.

Your chest tightened. He was hurt. He had to be. That was the only explanation.

You moved toward the door, every step heavier than the last, hand hovering over the handle as the sound came again- louder this time, raw enough to raise goosebumps across your skin.

Whatever was happening to him, he sounded seriously ill. Without any further thought besides bullying your friend into going back to see Shoko, you grasped the handle more firmly.

Your hand trembled as you pushed the bedroom door open.

The first thing that hit you was the heat- thick, stifling, rolling out of the room like a wave. Then your eyes caught up.

Gojo.

Naked.

Flat on his bed, body gleaming with sweat, head tipped back against the pillow. His fist moved, stroking his cock in a desperate rhythm, knuckles white, chest heaving like he couldn’t catch enough air.

You froze.

“Oh my god!” you yelled, slapping a hand over your eyes.

At the exact same time, Gojo’s head jerked to face you, a strangled moan ripping out of him-“Oh my god!”-for a completely different reason.

“Y-You’re- You’re- oh my god!” you stammered again, peeking between your fingers before snapping them shut tighter, as Gojo jerks his hands off of his dick long enough to grasp a throw pillow and drag it unceremoniously in front of his groin.

You slapped your hand tighter over your eyes, words tumbling out in a panicked rush.

“I’m so sorry! Oh my god- I didn’t- I thought you were hurt, and then- I didn’t know-” Your voice cracked, heat burning through your cheeks. “You were just… enjoying your time off! God, I shouldn’t have-I’ll just go, I’ll-”

You spun half a step toward the door.

“Wait!”

The word cracked out of him, desperate. Another broken sound followed, part-groan, part-plea. “Wait, don’t- please don’t-”

Your hand froze on the doorknob. The tremor in his voice rooted you in place. Slowly, you turned back, still covering your face, daring a tiny peek between your fingers.

Gojo was a wreck. Sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead, chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon, bright blue eyes blown wide and unfocused.

“Gojo…”

“I’m-” He broke off, throat working, words catching like thorns. His free hand clawed at the sheets. “I’m not- It’s not like that.” His voice cracked into a moan, trembling. “It’s the pollen- Hanami- It got inside me. I can’t- can’t stop. Thought I could ride it out but… it’s killing me.”

Your stomach dropped.

He dragged in a ragged breath, every muscle shivering with the effort to hold himself together. “For days… only thought of you. Only wanted you.” His laugh came out choked, raw. “Figured I’d die before I said it out loud, but- please. Please. Don’t leave me. I need-”

His voice broke, the words dissolving into another groan as his hips started moving against the fabric of the cushion, grinding a bit as if it was out of his control. Fingers fisted helplessly in the sheets, he choked out the last in a hoarse whisper:

“Please. I only want you.”

Your chest heaved, words tangled on your tongue. “Gojo, I- this is crazy. You’re… you’re saying-”

“That I want you?” His voice was hoarse, desperate, but steady. “I’ve only wanted you. Days. Months. I just never thought-” He broke off with a ragged laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “You’re too good for me. That’s the truth.”

Something in you cracked at the honesty bleeding through.

You’d spent so long hiding it- your crush, your stolen glances, the warmth that always curled in your chest when he was near. You’d told yourself he’d never look at you that way. That you were just his friend. His coworker.

And now here he was, trembling and undone, begging you to stay.

Your hand slipped from the doorknob, legs carrying you forward before you even realized it. “You idiot,” you whispered, half-laughing, half-crying.

His body visibly exhaled, his wide eyes catching the glow of the streetlight through the blinds. The sound he made was wrecked relief, like he’d been holding his breath for years and finally let it go.

“Sweets, please…” He reached out for you, his hands dropping the covers to touch any part of you he could get.

The mattress dipped under your weight as you slid beside him, your fingers brushing his fever-hot skin, as his own threaded through your hair to the base of your neck. He shuddered at the touch, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting around another desperate moan.

“Please,” he whispered, forehead pressing against yours, voice breaking apart. “Stay. Don’t leave me like this. I only want you.”

Your answer was a shaky breath and the way you leaned in, lips brushing his, finally- finally- giving in to everything you’d both been holding back.

His kiss swallowed you whole, desperate and unsteady; he was a man starved past reason. You clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into damp skin, and he groaned into your mouth as if even that touch wasn’t enough.

“Gojo-” you gasped between kisses, half a protest, half a plea.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, breath ragged, eyes glassy under the crooked blindfold. His voice cracked, raw and wrecked. “Satoru.”

"What?"

"You need to call me Satoru."

Your heart stuttered. It felt too intimate, too raw-but you couldn’t deny him. Not now. “…Satoru.”

The sound broke him. His head tipped back, a hoarse groan tearing out of him, shuddering all the way through his chest. When he looked at you again, his grin was gone. "Come here. Come here."

His hands move down from your neck to your waist as he pulls you further onto the bed. He maneuvers you underneath him, and he's yanking the skirt you wore to work today up until it's bunched around your hips.

"I know it's too fast- I know- I just can't wait-"

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning. “Satoru,” you gasp, as he pressed his flushed cock between the panties covering your pussy and his warm, flat hand. He immediately starts to rock in a tempting rhythm.

He kissed you like the name was fuel, hands trembling as he dragged you closer, closer, as though he could fuse you into him if he just held tight enough. His body trembled with the strain of keeping himself together long enough to get inside you, every breath shuddering against your lips.

The slide is vicious. His tip bumps into your clit each time he pushes forward. His groans amplify in pleasure as each thrust brings with it a squirt of precum that only serves to make the slide better for you both. Your own wetness joins his.

Your hands reach up to his untamed hair, pulling him down to connect his mouth back to yours. He deepens the kiss as he slips his tongue across your mouth, silently begging to be let in. When you open yours to receive him, he kicks up his hips in an erotic back and forth that leaves you gasping and wanting for more.

His moan is loud and full as one of his thrusts leads him between the line of your panties and the white hot heat forming between your thighs.

"That! I need more of that, baby. God, yes-"

And both of his hands are now spanning your waist, his palms covering your tummy, thumbs pressing both sides of his cock down as the bulge he creates with his tip leaks all over, running through the material, leaving it see-through enough you can just make out the shape of him.

"Can I- Let me put it inside you, yeah? Just- now- I need it now, please, please, please-"

"Yes, I want that, too. Yes, inside me-"

And then- when he finally pressed fully into you, filling the silence with a broken cry of "fuck, fuck, fuck" your own voice cracked without warning, the syllables tumbling out before you could stop them as his engorged cock broke you in all at once.

“’Toru-”

The nickname slipped raw from your lips, strangled with awe and heat. His entire body jolted, forehead dropping against yours.

“Oh god… say it again.”

“’Toru,” you whimpered, clinging to him as if the name itself might anchor you both.

He kissed your temple, your jaw, your lips again, murmuring it back like a prayer, lost in the sound of you, undone by the way you made his name something holy.

"Next time- Next time we're taking our time. But, I- sweets, I need to cum so bad, I'm not gonna last-"

And then his pelvis is smacking into yours- bam, bam, bam- and your moans seem to be forced out of you as his hips reach all the way back and then forward again, and again, and- fuck- again.

His pace grew rougher, faster, every movement trembling on the edge of collapse. The bed creaked under the force of him, and still he begged for more- your voice, your touch, anything that proved you were his.

Your own breath came in shallow bursts, the tension curling low in your belly pulling tighter, higher. He pinned you down, thrusting wildly, deeply.

Your cries tangled with his groans, filling the room, the rhythm between you tightening until every movement felt like it might snap the world in two. Heat pooled low, spreading and climbing with each desperate grind of his hips, each whispered plea against your skin, until you start to feel a familiar shudder run through your body, your cunt involuntarily clenching around his shaft.

A hot tear drops down from his face above you, onto your cheek, "God, so fucking hot, knew it would be so good, say I can cum inside you, say it baby, please, please-"

He moaned, a sound so raw it vibrated through your chest. His pace faltered, then grew even rougher, chasing the edge with single-minded need.

The pressure coiled tighter, unbearable, until the smallest brush of his tip against you as he bottoms out tips you over. A sharp, helpless cry ripped from your throat, your body arching into him as everything broke apart in waves of heat.

Your voice trembled on his nickname, spilling from your lips without thought—“’Toru—”

The sound of it destroyed him. His body tensed, a hoarse groan dragged from deep in his chest as he spilled over the edge with you, shuddering, clinging to you like a man who’d finally found home.

The world dissolved into nothing but ragged breaths and the frantic pound of his heart against yours.

Satoru collapsed against you, trembling, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. For a long moment, the only sound was the thrum of your heartbeats, tangled together, heavy with sweat and relief.

He buried his face against your neck, a shaky laugh rumbling low in his chest. “Sweets… if that’s dying, then I don’t mind going out like this.”

You let out a breathless laugh, pressing your cheek to his damp hair. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Mm,” he hummed, voice thick, words muffled against your skin. “Unbelievably in love with you, maybe.” The words slipped out too easily, almost like he didn’t realize he’d said them until they were hanging between you.

Your stomach flipped. You pulled back just enough to look at him, his blindfold slipped to his jaw, pale lashes clumped with sweat, blue eyes glassy and soft in a way you’d never seen before. Vulnerable. Real.

“’Toru…” you whispered, and the way his breath caught made your chest ache.

He gave you a crooked smile, weak but genuine. “Say it again. Please.”

“’Toru.”

He closed his eyes, forehead resting against yours, another laugh slipping out, small and disbelieving. “God, you kill me. Days of torture, and this-” His fingers threaded shakily through your hair, tugging you closer. “This is the only thing that kept me sane.”

You pressed a kiss to his jaw, your voice gentler than you meant for it to be. “You should’ve told me.”

His arm tightened around your waist, as if you might vanish if he didn’t hold on. “I was scared you’d say no,” he admitted, voice barely a whisper. “Scared I’d ruin everything.”

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing his damp skin. “You idiot. You ruined me a long time ago.”

Based on this comment from @hoesluvshoko, a respected and self-proclaimed maneater.

Original post is here.

A/N: I feel like it's important that you know all I could hear was ☾⋆⁺₊🎧✧this ☾⋆⁺₊🎧✧ in my head while writing.

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, ABO dynamics, touch-starved nanami, dubious consent because it's ABO, scenting/scent marking, breakthrough heat/rut, girl on top, knot/knotting, weaponizing proximity, masturbating, suspended congress.

Alpha!Nanami is... confusing.

You met him on your first day on the job. You were being shown around by a very kind HR lady, Rose? Ricky? No, Rika. You're pretty sure her name is Rika. When you round a cubicle's corner and- oofph- excuse me- strong hands are gripping your shoulders as you look up...and up... and up into a pair of purple eyes rapidly dilating until the black nearly swallows the gorgeous color. Breathe. Where is your breath? Breathe-just a taste, a hint of...something. In a moment, you are physically righted and then moved to the side, set out of his path. Sorry, excuse me. It only takes a handful of seconds, but the sense of his fingers still holding you fades long after his back does as he continues down the walkway.

That's when you knew.

You had found something special.

But, at work, he just feels so out of reach.

Alpha!Nanami's words are always clipped, his tone strictly professional, and yet, every time you smile at him in the hallway, there’s a flicker in his eyes, something feverish that he quickly masks. He leans in, almost unconsciously, like he can’t help himself. All you want in that moment is for him to just reach a hand out, something- anything, and now you’ve caught the faintest traces of his scent too, even beneath blockers: earthy, grounding, with something rich that reminds you of old, brown wood cabinets. Wasted, because all he wants is for you to file a client's quarterly financial report. His scent still clings to you whenever you brush past his desk, no matter how carefully he pretends not to notice. And god, now you're daydreaming about him just placing his hand on your lower back for the rest of the day.

And your heart breaks a little bit, because how does he not recognize who you are- what you should be to him? Or if he does, why does he seem like he's fighting it?

Alpha!Nanami avoids holding your gaze for too long. His voice hardens if you're too close. You tell yourself you're imagining it, but then- why do his hands tighten on the edge of his desk like he's holding on for dear life? Why does it feel like the air between you hums whenever you adjust your clothes or click your pen? He's attuned to you in a way no one else is. Is this it?

This can't all be it. Something inside you refuses to take all these little crumbs in place of the real thing; it's almost offensive, the notion of it. You want him. All of him. All of him, even the secret version of him he tucks away, deep inside. You'd be so so good- and the longer he waits, the more unsettled you become.

He feels it, you're sure, he just refuses to act.

Alpha!Nanami starts to sweat as you lean over his desk; you can tell. uh oh, alpha. He's slammed his jaw into a hard line, and the crick in his neck makes a delighted appearance. You're leaning over just a little more than necessary, and if he happens to catch a glimpse of the white lace bra you chose to wear just for him this morning? Even better.

You're standing a little too close in the elevator- oops, sorry, didn't see you there, brushing past his arm in narrow hallways- wait, Nanami, before you go-. You pretend it’s all innocent, but you can see how tightly he grips his pen, his jaw flexing.

You make a point to smile at him whenever he asks for something-it's pretty, he said once- bright, soft, impossible to ignore. You know he notices, because his requests get shorter, gruffer.

You bring him small things- a coffee because you looked tired, a new pen- because his ran out. Sweet little excuses to make him associate you with care and attention.

You start dressing just a little differently on days you know you’ll see him most- nothing overtly scandalous, just suggestive enough. A pencil skirt that hugs a little tighter, a blouse with one too many undone buttons, soft sweaters that slip off your shoulder if you lean too far.

Every smile, every brush of your fingers, every outfit carefully chosen- it’s like throwing sparks at a stone. He doesn’t bend, doesn’t break, doesn’t even crack. He white knuckles his self-control so hard, you start to doubt you'll ever truly catch him.

It starts to eat at you. Maybe you imagined those fleeting moments. Maybe you’re not his type. Maybe you’re just a silly omega, desperate for a man who doesn’t want you.

The despair comes quietly at first, with lingering too long in the bathroom after fixing your hair, staring blankly at your reflection, and wondering why you even bother. But then you remember the touch of his hands on you, the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren't watching, let me show you, Alpha, I can show you- and you're lost again to him.

You wake every morning with your skin burning and your pulse refusing to settle; the edges of your vision blur as the sharp waves of heat claw up your spine. This is torture, or at least feels like it.

Little did you know, your rebellion only fuels his torment. Every failed attempt burrows deeper under his skin, feeding the ache he swears he can master. He goes home, fists clenched, body aching, knot throbbing in his hand, thinking of you. His strokes get wilder and more needy with each night. And yet, the next morning, he shows up with the same stiff posture and clipped tone.

And then the elevator.

You're surprised to see him. He takes the stairs down now, and you haven't come up with a good enough excuse to walk down with him yet.

You hadn’t expected him to stiffen so completely just from standing beside you, his shoulders drawn tight, his fists clenched. His usually even breathing turns shallow and ragged, every inhale dragging your scent deeper into his chest like he’s drowning in it.

You gasped when the scent slipped- his scent, sharp and heady beneath layers of suppression. You couldn’t hide your blush, couldn’t hide the way heat curled low in your belly. And when he finally turned, eyes sliding to you, the weight of his gaze made your knees weak.

The tight knot of his tie must have felt unbearable, because he rips it loose, undoing the buttons at his throat as though heat is crawling under his skin.

Everything after that is a blur. You remember the sleek black lines of wood as he drags you through the office's lobby. You remember the entryway of his building and that he held the door open for you as he tugged you through it. You remember his mouth on yours, rough and desperate as your body seemed to snap into focus, now igniting as his tongue comes to lick along the line of your closed lips, demanding to be let in. And when you granted him entry, you remember how he captured your gasp in his mouth, refusing to let you come up for air.

His strength when he lifted you, pressed you against the door. The raw heat of him slotting against your body like he’d been starved for touch for years. You remember your own voice, breathless and pleading- yes, Nanami, hurry please.

The rest burns in your memory like fire. The moment he entered you, sliding home with the first tight roll of his hips up into yours. Take it-fuck, can you fit it all? And the driving pace that followed as he takes you both down to the ground- do you know how long? holding myself back from touching what's mine.

His body under yours, his hands guiding your hips, the drag of his cock stretching you open. So fucking good, so. fucking. good. The way he looked at you, wide-eyed and almost broken as you came around his length, as though he couldn’t believe what he was feeling, what he was finally allowed to touch.

When his knot locked you together, I-I can't stop. can't stop, gotta take it, you have to. have to, sealing the two of you as one, you knew.