Call Me Jooble

Girls’ trips had a way of turning even the most responsible people into glitter‑coated agents of chaos. Yours was no exception. The moment you and your friends stepped into the hotel lobby, the Strip humming outside like a living thing, they scattered toward the casino floor with the kind of energy that made tourists stare. They weren’t serious gamblers—just enthusiastic ones. Twenty‑dollar bets, loud reactions, the thrill of pretending they had a system.

You preferred the drink in your hand. A vodka cranberry, cold and bright, condensation sliding down the glass as you drifted behind them. You liked watching people more than playing—liked the way strangers leaned in over cards, the way chips clattered, the way the lights made everything feel slightly unreal.

And then you saw him.

He stood behind the blackjack table like he’d been carved for the job—tall, composed, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, blond hair slicked back with a precision that suggested he ironed his soul every morning. His expression was calm, unreadable, but something about him made you slow down every time you passed.

Nanami Kento.

Your friends noticed long before you admitted anything.

“Girl,” one of them whispered, elbowing you, “you’re staring again.”

You weren’t. Except you absolutely were.

You didn’t talk to him on day one. Or day two. You walked past his table like it was a museum exhibit—admire from a distance, pretend you weren’t lingering.

But on your last night, something shifted.

Maybe it was the dress you’d saved for “just in case.” Maybe it was the way your friends had hyped you up. Maybe it was the quiet hum in your chest that whispered go now or regret it forever.

The table was empty when you approached. Nanami looked up, and for the first time, his composure cracked—just a flicker, just enough to notice.

“Back again,” he said, voice warm in a way that felt unintentional. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding my table.”

You slid into the seat, pulse jumping. “I wasn’t avoiding. I was… observing.”

His mouth tugged at the corner. “Is that what you call walking past without making eye contact.”

You winced. “Okay. Maybe avoiding a little.”

His smile deepened—small, controlled, but real. “I’m glad you stopped.”

You shouldn’t have felt that in your stomach, but you did.

He walked you through a round, patient and steady, his voice dipping lower whenever he leaned in to explain something. You barely heard the rules. You heard him. The soft scrape of his sleeve when he moved. The way his fingers brushed yours when he passed you a chip. The way he kept glancing at the supervisor like he was trying very hard to behave.

“You’re a very attentive teacher,” you teased.

“I’m trying not to get fired,” he murmured.

“Am I that distracting?”

His jaw tightened. “Yes.”

The word landed like a spark.

A supervisor walked by, and Nanami straightened instantly. “You should go,” he said quietly. “Before I actually do get in trouble.”

You gathered your chips, and as you did, he slid something beneath them—a folded slip of paper, hidden by the curve of his hand. You didn’t look at it. Not yet.

You walked away with as much composure as your heels allowed, but the moment you reached the bathroom, you headed straight for the sinks. The casino noise softened behind the door, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint echo of running water.

You set your purse on the counter, unfolded the note with trembling fingers, and read it while reapplying your lipstick.

I’d like to talk to you after my shift.

We’re allowed to talk here, but I’d prefer somewhere we can actually get to know each other.

If you’re interested, leave your number with the blond bartender—he’s impossible to miss.

He’ll pass it to me discreetly.

A laugh slipped out of you, soft and disbelieving. You pressed the note lightly against your sternum, feeling the warmth bloom there. Your reflection looked back at you—cheeks flushed, lipstick fresh, eyes bright with something you didn’t want to name yet.

You stepped back into the hallway.

There were a lot of bartenders.

You scanned the bar, trying to figure out which one he meant. Blond? Tall? Impossible to miss? That narrowed it down to… maybe two.

Then one of them spotted you.

He lit up like someone had plugged him directly into the Strip. Tall, lean, white‑blond hair that practically glowed under the lights, a grin so bright it bordered on reckless. He shook a cocktail tin one‑handed while waving at you with the other, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. When you hesitated, he pointed at you, then at himself, then made a heart with his hands.

Subtle was clearly not part of his job description.

You tried not to laugh as you crossed the floor toward him.

He leaned over the bar the moment you reached him, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Sooooo,” he drawled, savoring every syllable, “did he finally do it?”

You blinked. “Do what?”

He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “She’s coy. Adorable.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “I need to leave my number.”

He slapped a hand over his heart. “Say less. I am excellent at this part.”

You scribbled your number on a napkin, and he tucked it into his vest pocket with a flourish, like he was accepting an award.

Only then did he offer his hand, grin widening. “By the way—I’m Satoru.”

You shook it, laughing. “I figured.”

“Everyone does,” he said proudly. “Now go on. I’ll make sure it gets to him.”

Hours later, you were standing near the lobby bar, pretending to scroll your phone, when you felt someone step into your orbit—quiet, steady, familiar. You turned.

Nanami Kento, off the clock.

No vest, no tie, no name tag. Just a fitted button‑down with the sleeves rolled the same way they’d been at the table, slacks that fit him unfairly well, and hair slightly mussed like he’d run a hand through it on his way out.

“Hi,” you said, breath catching.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice warm and unguarded. “I wasn’t sure if you’d still be here.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come.”

“I said I wanted to talk to you.”

You smiled. “So… what now?”

He glanced toward the doors. “Would you like to walk?”

The Strip wrapped around you in neon and heat, but somehow the noise softened when he walked beside you. A few blocks down, tucked between two massive hotels, a tiny café glowed with warm light and the smell of fresh bread.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Starving.”

You ordered sandwiches—turkey for you, roast beef for him—and a bowl of kettle chips to share. The booth was warm and quiet, the kind of place where conversation felt easy.

You picked up a chip, twirling it between your fingers. “So,” you said, leaning in, “I have a question.”

Nanami looked up, attentive in that way he always was. “Yes?”

“Do you keep notes like that one in your pocket all the time?”

His ears went faintly pink. “No.”

“No?” you teased.

He exhaled, honest and a little flustered. “I wrote that one earlier. I was going to give it to you the next time I saw you.”

Your breath caught. “But I beat you to the introduction.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth—rare, real, meant only for you. “You did,” he said quietly. “And I’m glad you did.”

The server dropped off your food, but neither of you reached for it right away. Nanami’s gaze lingered on you, soft and intent, like he was memorizing the moment.

Outside, the Strip glowed. Inside, the café lights warmed the space between you.

You reached across the table, your fingers brushing his. He didn’t pull away. He turned his hand, letting your fingertips rest against his palm, a quiet, deliberate acceptance.

“I’m glad I stopped too,” you said.

His thumb grazed your knuckle—barely there, but enough to make your heart flutter. Enough to make the noise of the Strip fade into something distant and unimportant.

When you finally stepped back outside, the night air wrapped around you, warm and electric. Nanami walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed now and then, each touch sending a soft spark through you.

At the corner, he paused, turning toward you fully. The neon lights painted gold across his cheekbones, catching in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“For tonight,” he murmured. “For giving me a chance to know you.”

You felt your smile tug at something deep inside you. “You make it sound like fate.”

He considered that, then nodded once. “Maybe it was.”

A breeze swept past, warm and sweet, carrying the faint scent of something floral from a nearby hotel garden. Nanami reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that made your breath hitch.

“Walk with me a little longer?” he asked.

You didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I will.”

Saturday nights are the only time the shop breaks its own rules.

All week it’s a 7–2 place: sunlight through tall windows, the smell of espresso and old vinyl, students hunched over laptops, and the soft hum of plants climbing every beam and banister. The building used to be a warehouse, but now it’s a greenhouse with a caffeine addiction — vines draped over rafters, ferns tucked between mismatched chairs, a record player that always seems to be spinning something warm and crackling.

You’ve been coming here since freshman year. It’s where you write your papers, sketch between classes, and pretend you’re the kind of person who has their life together. The baristas know your order. The regulars know your face. The plants know your secrets.

But Saturday nights, if you know the right people — and by now, you do — the shop doesn’t close. The lights dim. Someone brings out wine. Someone else sets up a makeshift stage. The tables get pushed together, canvases propped against walls, notebooks cracked open. It becomes an art fair for the chosen few: writers reading drafts, painters showing half-finished pieces, musicians testing new songs. No crowds. No pressure. Just a small circle of people who love making things.

Tonight, you arrive with your sketchbook tucked under your arm, expecting the usual faces.

But there’s someone new.

He’s standing near the back wall, half-shadowed by a curtain of hanging pothos. Dark hair, hands in his pockets, posture a little stiff like he’s not sure he should be here. He’s listening to the girl on stage read a poem, but his eyes keep drifting — taking in the art, the people, the plants, the atmosphere.

And then they land on you.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. More like he’s surprised to see someone else who looks like they belong here. His gaze lingers a second too long before he looks away, pretending to study a painting he clearly wasn’t looking at before.

You’ve never seen him here. And you know every regular.

Someone leans over to whisper in your ear, “New guy. Came with Yuuji. Quiet. Kinda intense.”

You glance back at him.

He’s still pretending not to look at you.

And that’s when you realize: Tonight might be more interesting than usual.

The poem ends, and the room exhales with it. Someone switches the record, letting a soft jazz guitar crackle through the speakers, and the crowd shifts into smaller pockets of conversation. People drift toward the long communal table, laying out sketchbooks, canvases, notebooks with dog‑eared pages. The vines hanging from the rafters sway gently in the draft, catching the warm light.

You flip to a clean page in your sketchbook, pencil hovering, when you feel someone step into your orbit.

“Is this seat taken?”

You look up.

Megumi stands there, hands in his pockets, shoulders drawn in like he’s bracing for rejection. Up close, he’s even more striking — sharp lines softened by the warm light, hair falling into his eyes, a quiet tension in the way he holds himself.

“No,” you say, sliding your bag off the chair. “Go ahead.”

He sits carefully, like he’s afraid of disturbing something delicate. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The jazz hums. Someone laughs across the room. A bottle of red wine is being passed around.

He nods toward your sketchbook. “You draw?”

“I try,” you say, smiling.

He huffs a soft breath — almost a laugh. “That’s what people say right before they show you something incredible.”

You raise a brow. “And what do you do?”

“Architecture,” he says. “First year of grad school.”

That explains the way he keeps scanning the room — not at the people, but the structure. The beams. The way the vines hang. The way the light hits the brick.

“Let me guess,” you say. “You’re mentally redesigning the place.”

His eyes flick to yours, surprised. “Maybe a little.”

“Don’t,” you tease. “We like it messy.”

His mouth curves — the smallest, shyest smile — and something warm unfurls in your chest.

Before you can say anything else, Yuuji appears behind him, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“There you are! I was wondering if you’d actually talk to anyone.”

Megumi shoots him a look that could kill a lesser man. Yuuji just grins and wanders off again.

“So your friend dragged you here?” you ask.

“Something like that,” he mutters. “He said I needed to ‘touch grass.’ I think this is what he meant.”

You laugh, and he looks at you like he wasn’t expecting the sound — like it’s something he wants to hear again.

The wine makes its way to your table. You pour two glasses without asking, sliding one toward him. He hesitates, then takes it.

“To touching grass,” you say.

He lifts his glass. “To… whatever this is.”

You clink.

The night deepens. People begin sharing their work. A girl reads a short story. A guy plays a song he wrote last week. Someone unveils a painting still wet at the edges.

Eventually, it’s your turn.

You show him a page — a loose sketch of the coffee shop’s façade, vines spilling over the windows, the record player visible through the glass.

He studies it with a seriousness that makes your pulse skip.

“You captured the weight of the building,” he says quietly. “Most people only draw the plants. But you drew the bones.”

“I like the bones,” you say.

He looks at you then — really looks — and something shifts. Like he’s seeing you in a way he didn’t expect to.

“Can I show you something?” he asks.

He pulls out his own sketchbook. His lines are clean, precise, but there’s softness in the way he draws curves, arches, shadows. He flips to a page — a concept sketch of a building with wide windows, greenery spilling from every level, a rooftop garden.

“It’s a community space,” he says. “For art. Music. Workshops. A place where people can… exist.”

You trace the lines with your eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

He clears his throat, almost embarrassed. “It’s inspired by this place. And… maybe by the idea of someone who’d spend their Saturdays here.”

Your breath stutters — but before you can respond, he nods toward your sketchbook, gently pulling it closer.

“You drew the structure,” he says, fingertips brushing the edge of the page. “Most people only see the plants.”

You glance at him. “And what do you see?”

He hesitates — not because he doesn’t know, but because saying it feels like stepping into something real.

“I see someone who pays attention,” he says quietly. “To the things that hold everything up. To the parts most people overlook.”

Warmth blooms low in your chest.

He meets your eyes then, steady and unguarded in a way that feels rare for him.

“I notice that you notice,” he adds, voice softer. “And that’s… not something I’m used to.”

It’s not a compliment.

It’s a confession.

The room feels smaller. Warmer. The music softer. The vines greener.

You check your phone and sigh. “I should go,” you murmur, reluctant.

Megumi looks up immediately — alert, almost too fast. “You’re heading out?”

“Early morning,” you say, gathering your things. “If I don’t sleep, I’ll regret it.”

Before you can stand, he rises first.

It’s instinctive — polite, protective, a little stiff like he’s not used to doing this for anyone but can’t help himself. He steps around the table, offering a hand without quite meaning to, like his body moved before his mind caught up.

You reach for him.

Your fingers curl around his forearm, warm and solid beneath the fabric, and he steadies you with a gentle pressure — careful, precise. As you straighten, your hand slides down, and somehow, without either of you intending it…

Your fingers lace together.

It’s soft.

Natural.

Like gravity did the work for you.

You walk toward the door like that — hands linked, warmth shared, the rest of the room fading into a gentle blur.

It’s only when you step outside into the cool night air that you realize you’ve been holding hands at all.

And it’s only when you let go that you realize how empty your palm feels.

Megumi’s fingers flex once — a tiny, involuntary movement — like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you again. His eyes flick to your hand, then to your face, something unspoken tightening in his chest.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” he says quietly.

“So am I.”

You take a step back, the night brushing cool against the place where his warmth used to be — a sharp contrast to the greenhouse heat of the shop behind you, where the vines still sway like they’re listening.

“I’ll be here next Saturday,” you say.

He inhales — a small, sharp breath he doesn’t quite hide. “Then next Saturday isn’t soon enough.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re dramatic.”

You turn toward the sidewalk.

You only make it three steps before you hear him move.

His footsteps fall in beside yours — quiet, hesitant, but certain enough that you don’t mistake it for coincidence. When you glance over, he’s looking straight ahead, hands in his pockets, shoulders a little tense like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do this.

“You’re walking home?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah.”

He nods once. “I’ll walk with you.”

No explanation.

No overthinking.

Just a simple, steady presence at your side.

The street is dim and soft, washed in the glow of old streetlamps. The night air is cool, but your hand still feels like the greenhouse warmth you left behind. Megumi walks half a step closer than he needs to, close enough that your arms brush now and then — each touch a quiet spark neither of you comments on.

You don’t talk much.

You don’t need to.

There’s something easy in the silence, something that feels like the beginning of a rhythm you could fall into without trying.

When you reach the corner where your paths split, you stop. He does too.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

He shakes his head, eyes meeting yours in the low light. “You don’t have to thank me.”

Maybe you don’t.

Maybe he needed the walk as much as you did.

You smile — small, certain, warm. “Goodnight, Megumi.”

His breath catches, just barely. “Goodnight.”

You turn and head down your street, and this time you don’t look back — but you feel him standing there, watching until you’re out of sight, the night holding the shape of the space you shared.

And that’s where it ends.

Not with a promise.

Not with a plan.

Just with him choosing to walk beside you.

The parade is rolling hard down St. Charles, and you’ve snagged the best spot a local could hope for — right by the curbside where the floats have to slow down and pause to make the turn. Every Louisiana native knows that’s prime real estate. Riders actually look at you there. Throws get personal.

And tonight, that little pause is about to ruin your life in the best way.

The brass band hits a heavy beat, the kind that vibrates in your ribs, and you’re dancing without thinking — hips swaying, shoulders rolling, letting the music move through you like it always has. Mardi Gras is in your bones. You don’t dance for attention; you dance because it’s what you do.

Then the next float turns the corner.

And perched right on the front rail, glowing under purple‑green‑gold lights like he’s the main attraction, is—

Gojo Satoru.

White hair catching every light. Sunglasses even though it’s night. Grin sharp enough to cut glass. He’s tossing beads with dramatic flair, blowing kisses, hyping the crowd like he was born on a float.

But when the float hits that slow‑down point — that perfect little pause before the turn — he finally gets a good, unhurried look at you.

And he stops dead.

His hand freezes mid‑throw. His grin widens. He pushes his sunglasses down just enough for those bright blue eyes to lock onto you like a spotlight.

Your inner Louisiana voice kicks in immediately:

Oh Lord.

He saw me.

And we’re at the turn.

He’s got TIME.

I’m in danger.

You keep dancing — because stopping would be admitting defeat — but your cheeks warm under his stare.

Gojo rummages behind him and pulls out a pair of beads so oversized they look like they belong in a museum. Heavy, glossy, unmistakably the kind reserved for the boldest Mardi Gras tradition.

The crowd around you erupts.

“Ohhh, he wants you to EARN those!”

You laugh, mortified and flattered. You shake your head — absolutely not. Not you. Not here.

Gojo cups a hand to his ear, pretending he can’t hear your refusal. Then he points at you, points at the beads, and mouths:

Flash me.

Your inner voice:

This man has lost his mind. Completely. Utterly. Publicly.

You shout back, “I’m not flashing you!”

He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him.

Then — because he’s Gojo — he does something no sane man would do.

He hooks his fingers under the hem of his shirt.

You freeze.

He wouldn’t.

He WOULD.

Oh my God he’s actually—

He lifts his shirt just enough to flash you — toned stomach, V‑line, the whole teasing, shameless display — and the crowd SCREAMS.

You slap a hand over your mouth, laughing so hard you bend forward.

Gojo wiggles his eyebrows like he just won a prize.

Then he jumps off the float.

Just hops down like gravity is optional.

The crowd parts instantly as he walks straight toward you, beads swinging from his hand, grin cocky enough to be illegal.

He stops in front of you, towering, smelling faintly of sugar and something expensive.

“You didn’t even have to flash me,” he says, voice low and teasing. “I just needed an excuse to come down here.”

You laugh, breathless, shaking your head.

“Cher, you’re the only one doing any flashing tonight.”

His grin sharpens, eyes bright behind the lights.

“Good,” he murmurs, stepping closer.

“Save it. Only for me.”

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs.

You tilt your chin up, bold with Mardi Gras courage.

“Maybe I will.”

His smile goes feral.

“Oh, I really like you.”

He slips the giant beads over your head, letting them settle heavy against your chest. The crowd cheers like you just won a trophy.

Then he presses something small into your palm — a folded scrap of paper.

“For later,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers over yours.

Before you can respond, someone on the float yells his name. He winks, steps back, and with a little hop that shouldn’t be physically possible, he’s back on the float.

The parade moves on.

He keeps looking back at you.

You stand there in the swirl of lights and music, beads heavy and ridiculous and perfect.

When you finally open your hand, you see a phone number scrawled in messy handwriting and a little doodled heart.

And that’s how you leave the parade —

with the biggest beads on St. Charles,

the memory of Gojo flashing you first,

The underworld stretched vast and endless, shadows bending to your will as you sat upon the throne. Sukuna’s domain was no longer his alone — it was yours. His frame loomed beside you in true form, four eyes gleaming, double arms folded with ease.

You leaned toward him, lips brushing his in a kiss that was light, teasing, but full of certainty. His aura surged, but this time it wasn’t overwhelming — it was playful, matched by yours.

Pulling back, you smiled, tilting your head. “What do you mean you’ve always noticed me… even back in the early days of the club?”

Sukuna’s grin widened, sharp but amused. “Did you really think that using your sister’s expired, hole-punched ID would let you in at nineteen anywhere else? You almost made me lose my liquor license. I had to kill countless ATC inspectors just to keep you in my sights all those years ago.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re quite the stalker, you know that?”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you. “From the very first night… one drink, one dance. That was all it took. I knew then you’d end up here — on my throne, beside me.”

You kissed him again, softer this time, sealing the truth in warmth and banter.

Miss Dana stood quietly at the corner of the throne room, her deception and years as Sukuna’s spy long forgiven; now she served you as a lady-in-waiting, joining you for tea parties like old times.

From the shadows beyond the dais, a child’s laughter rang out — bright, unafraid, echoing through the chamber. The boy darted between pillars, his small hands already marked faintly with power. He was yours and Sukuna’s, the prince of this domain, destined to inherit what you had claimed.

Sukuna chuckled, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “Now my Devine, don’t keep your mortal friends waiting too long over brunch. Even queens of the underworld shouldn’t stand up their mimosa circle.”

You smirked, leaning into him. “I wouldn’t dare. Even goddesses need pancakes.”

And so it ended: not with fear, not with surrender, but with laughter, banter, and a kiss. You with Sukuna, ruling the underworld beside him — goddess and king, with demons bowing at your feet, and a son whose laughter promised the legacy to come.

It began with one drink, one dance.

It ended with a throne, a kiss, and eternity itself bending to your choice.

The underworld learned to bow not to the king alone,

but to the goddess who laughed beside him,

and to the prince whose laughter carried the promise of tomorrow.

~~~~~

P.S.: If you’ve made it to the end you are a real one and please don’t hesitate to reach out if you want more or if they’re are any mistakes/improvements that could be made. ♥️ This is my first story in a long time.

-Thx ,

The red dress slid over your shoulders like armor. It wasn’t just fabric—it was a statement. Classic, elegant, powerful. Miss Dana had been right: it was not too flashy, but it carried weight, the kind that made you feel seen before you even entered the room.

As you fastened the clasp at your neck, you thought of your friends. Their words echoed softly: We just want the best for you. If he makes you happy, then we’ll support you. Just promise us you’ll stay safe. It wasn’t perfect, but it was solid enough to start the rebuilding process of trust. That fragile strength steadied you now.

The museum was silent when you arrived, its halls echoing with the hush of centuries. Exhibit Hall C stretched before you, artifacts standing like sentinels in the dim light. The air smelled faintly of dust and preservation, a reminder of the lives and empires that had come before.

You walked slowly, heels clicking against marble, the red dress flowing behind you like a banner. Every step carried both anticipation and dread. You were not powerless here—this was your ground, your history, your choice.

The markings on your wrist pulsed faintly, stinging as though they knew what was coming. You rubbed them with your other hand, soothing the ache, whispering to yourself: I chose this. I chose to face him.

And then the air shifted.

A shadow stretched across the hall, heavy and deliberate. The silence thickened, pressing against your skin. Sukuna had arrived—this time in his true form. Four eyes gleamed, his markings alive with power, his aura unrestrained. He came with all cards on the table, nothing hidden, nothing softened.

Yet you did not flinch. The red dress held you like armor, and the museum’s relics stood as witnesses. You were not threatened by him—not tonight.

---

His presence filled the hall before his body did. Every step was deliberate, echoing against the marble. He looked at you as though the centuries themselves had conspired to bring you here.

“You summoned me,” he said, voice low, resonant, carrying both amusement and command. “In your hall, among your relics. Bold.”

You held your ground, the red dress catching the faint glow of the exhibit lights. “I asked you here because this is mine. My place. My choice.”

Sukuna’s smile curved, dangerous and knowing. “Choice,” he repeated, tasting the word. “You believe you still have it.”

The markings on your wrist burned hotter, resonating with his aura. You rubbed them again, refusing to flinch. “I do. And tonight, I decide what happens next.”

He stepped closer, the air thickening with his dominance, yet his tone softened—almost reverent. “You wear power well. That dress suits you. But it is not the fabric that commands me. It is you.”

For a moment, the silence between you was alive with tension—devotion wrapped in danger, dominance tempered by reverence. Sukuna’s aura pressed harder, testing, probing, but you did not yield.

Finally, he laughed — low, resonant, dangerous. “You are not afraid. You are not broken. Then prove it. Three nights from now, you will return here. And you will give me your answer. . . Decide whether you will stand with me, or against me. There is no middle ground.”

“There’s no need for time,” you said, voice steady, certain. “It’s already been settled. I’ve made my choice.”

You stepped closer, the red dress whispering against marble as you leaned into him, closing the space he thought he controlled. His aura surged, pressing against you like a storm, but you met it without fear.

For a heartbeat, his four eyes narrowed, not in threat but in acknowledgment. Reverence flickered beneath the dominance.

Then, without warning, his hand caught your chin, tilting your face upward. His frame loomed larger than yours, overwhelming in scale, and the double set of arms shifted with deliberate grace — one pair steadying you, the other braced at his sides like a predator poised. The tether on your wrist pulsed violently, and before you could draw another breath, his mouth claimed yours.

It wasn’t gentle — Sukuna didn’t know gentleness — but it was deliberate, consuming, a kiss that carried both danger and devotion. His massive frame pressed closer, the heat of his body surrounding you, his arms a cage and a sanctuary all at once. The marble hall seemed to vanish, the relics fading into shadow, until there was only him, and the choice you had already made.

When he pulled back, his smile was sharp, reverent, and certain. “Then it is done,” he murmured, his breath still warm against your lips.

The red dress hung in your closet like a promise. Its fabric caught the light, whispering elegance and power, just as Miss Dana had said. You traced the hem with your fingers, imagining how it would look under the museum’s dim lights, how it would carry you into the meeting with Sukuna.

But even as the thought stirred your pulse, you knew there were still loose ends to tie up. The dress could wait. Before stepping into that hall, before facing him again, you had to set things right with the people who mattered most.

Your friends deserved more than silence and guilt. They deserved an apology.

---

You called your friends together at the café downtown, the same one where you’d celebrated smaller milestones. Their faces were wary when you arrived, but softened as you slid into the booth, hands folded, eyes earnest.

“I owe you all an apology,” you began. “My birthday… it wasn’t fair to drag you into that. The booth, the tension, the way I ignored your warnings. I should’ve listened.”

They exchanged glances, then one of them reached across the table, squeezing your hand. “We just want the best for you. That’s all we’ve ever wanted.”

Another friend nodded, her smile gentle. “If he makes you happy, then we’ll support you. Just promise us you’ll stay safe.”

The words settled over you like a balm. No judgment, no teasing—only care. Relief washed through you, loosening the knot in your chest.

“I promise,” you said softly. “I’ll be careful. And I’ll keep you out of it.”

They smiled, and the tension eased. The agreement was simple: they wanted your happiness, but they wanted your safety more. It wasn’t perfect, but it was solid enough to start the rebuilding process of trust.

The teacups had gone cold, but neither of you noticed. The letters lay scattered across the table, their ink heavy with promises. Miss Dana leaned forward, her voice steady, practical now.

“If you’re going to meet him, it must be on your terms,” she said. “Neutral ground. Somewhere you feel safe, but somewhere he’ll respect.”

You rubbed the markings on your wrist with your other hand, soothing the faint sting. “Not the club. That’s his world. I need something different. Somewhere that reminds me I’m not powerless.”

Dana nodded, her eyes gleaming with approval. “The museum, then. After hours. Exhibit Hall C. Surrounded by the artifacts you know better than anyone. He’ll understand the symbolism.”

You hesitated, picturing the quiet halls, the relics from the Heian century standing sentinel as you faced him. It felt dangerous, but it also felt right. “The museum,” you agreed softly. “Three nights from now. 7pm.”

“Good,” Dana said, her tone decisive. “Simple. Controlled. You’ll see him clearly, without the noise of the club, and museum won’t be overcrowded at that hour.”

You exhaled, the decision settling over you like a cloak. “But with work, I can’t be the one to deliver the message.”

Dana’s smile was patient, almost indulgent. “Leave that to me. I’ll drop a note at the club for you. He’ll know it’s from your hand, even if mine delivers it.”

Together, you drafted the message: “Meet me at the museum. Exhibit Hall C. 7pm, three nights from now.”

Dana folded the paper with care, slipping it into her purse. “It will reach him,” she said calmly. “And when it does, he’ll come. He always does.”

Before you left, she surprised you with a gift: a classic red dress from her collection, perfectly your size. It fit the occasion just right—not too flashy, but radiating elegance and power. You accepted it with a smile, unaware of how carefully she had chosen it.

…

The note reached him as if carried on shadow. Folded once, sealed with nothing but your handwriting, it was placed upon the velvet table in the club before vanishing into his hand.

Sukuna sat upon his throne, four eyes scanning the words with deliberate calm. “Meet me at the museum. Exhibit Hall C. 7pm, three nights from now.”

The chamber fell silent. His followers knelt lower, sensing the shift in his aura. The faint smile that curved his lips was not amusement—it was possession.

“She calls me to her ground,” he murmured, voice reverberating through stone and bone. “Among relics of the Heian century, she dares to summon me.”

The markings on his arms glowed faintly, resonating with the tether that bound you. He closed his hand around the note, and the paper dissolved into ash, absorbed into his skin.

“Prepare,” Sukuna commanded, rising to his full height. “The hall will be mine before she steps into it. Guards will be placed, shadows woven. She believes it is neutral ground, but it will bend to me.”

His lieutenants bowed, scattering to obey. The throne room pulsed with his dominance, the air thick with certainty.

For a moment, his gaze softened—though only slightly. “She comes willingly,” he said, almost to himself. “She thinks she chooses. But she has already chosen me.”

Miss Dana’s kitchen smelled of chamomile and honey, the kind of comfort you’d come to expect after years of neighborly chats. She ushered you to the table with grandmotherly ease, her smile soft, her eyes sharp in ways you didn’t notice at first.

“So,” she said, pouring tea into porcelain cups, “tell me about this man who writes like a poet and waits like a king.”

You laughed, more at ease here than anywhere else. “You’ve known me three years, Miss Dana. Not once have I brought a boy over. So what makes him special?”

Dana chuckled, sliding a cup toward you. “That’s exactly what I’m wondering, dear. You’ve always been so focused on your work, your studies, your artifacts. And now suddenly there’s someone who can pull your attention away from all that.”

You set the letters down between you, the ink still fresh against your fingertips. “He’s… complicated. Dangerous. But he knows how to make words feel like chains.”

Miss Dana leaned closer, her voice low, coaxing. “Chains can be heavy, dear. But sometimes they’re gilded. Sometimes they’re meant to remind us of our place.”

The phrasing unsettled you, though you brushed it off as old‑fashioned wisdom. You sipped your tea, trying to explain the pull you felt—the way the letters were devotional but never desperate, the way they carried dominance wrapped in reverence.

“He calls me divine,” you admitted. “He says he’ll wait as long as it takes. That he’ll earn me like a crown.”

Miss Dana’s smile deepened, almost too knowing. “Then he sees you clearly. Men who recognize divinity are rare. Men who bow to it, rarer still.”

You shifted in your chair, uneasy but still comforted by her presence. The markings on your arm pulsed faintly beneath your sleeve, stinging as though responding to her words. You rubbed them gently with your other hand, trying to soothe the ache, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

Miss Dana reached for one of the letters, her fingers brushing the ink. “These are not the scribbles of a fool. They are vows. And vows, my dear, are binding.”

Her tone carried weight, a resonance that lingered long after she spoke. You couldn’t place it, but something in her presence felt… different. Stronger.

Still, you found yourself nodding, drawn in by her certainty. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s already won me over.”

Miss Dana’s eyes gleamed, catching the light in a way that seemed almost unnatural. “Of course he has,” she said softly. “He always does.”

You hesitated, then whispered, “But what am I supposed to do? Keep reading his letters forever?”

Dana leaned back, her smile patient, her voice steady. “No, dear. You meet him. On your terms. Not in the club, not in the shadows. Somewhere you choose. Somewhere you can see him clearly.”

The idea hung between you, dangerous and intoxicating. You rubbed your wrist again, the marks burning faintly as if agreeing.

“Then we’ll plan it,” Dana said, her tone decisive, almost commanding. “A meeting. Controlled. Safe. You’ll see him, and you’ll decide what comes next.”

You exhaled, the weight of the decision pressing down, but the thought of facing him—of finally confronting the tether between you—was impossible to resist.

The postcard sat on your desk, its glossy surface catching the morning light. You had meant to throw it away with the others, but the handwriting stopped you. Perfect cursive, deliberate strokes, each word pressed deep into the card as though carved rather than written:

“My goddess divine, won’t you stop by for a moment?”

You should have burned it. Instead, you kept staring, fingertips brushing the ink. The moment you touched it, the markings on your arm pulsed faintly, as if acknowledging his call. A shiver ran through you.

The linguistics department had laughed at the symbols, called them a tattoo design. But you knew better. They weren’t ink. They were alive. And now, they seemed to respond to him.

You tried to bury yourself in work, cataloging the Heian‑period artifacts that had arrived from Japan. Scrolls inked with curses, ceremonial blades etched with patterns that mirrored the marks on your skin. Every piece felt like it belonged to him, like the shipment itself was a reminder that you hadn’t escaped.

And yet, beneath the fear, there was longing. You missed him. The way his presence filled a room, the way his gaze burned through you. It was madness, you knew. He was a demon. He had shown you his true form. But the tether between you and the artifacts, between you and the postcard, whispered that walking away hadn’t severed anything.

By the end of the week, you found yourself checking the mail with dread and anticipation. Each new postcard was a violation, proof that he could reach you anywhere. But the handwritten one was different. It wasn’t a mass‑printed lure. It was personal.

And that was the most dangerous part.

You almost lost your mind and showed up at the club. The postcards had been gnawing at you, the handwritten one especially, its cursive looping through your thoughts like a spell. But fate intervened. A work conference pulled you out of town for three weeks. It should have been two, but when the opportunity to fly to Egypt arose, you spared a week of PTO to wander, to breathe, to remember why you had chosen this path in the first place.

The trip was everything you needed. You stood before the pyramids, the desert sun blazing against stone that had endured millennia. You traced hieroglyphs with your eyes, the same way you had once traced Sukuna’s marks, but here the symbols spoke of gods and kings, not demons. You even laughed at the absurdity of having lunch at the infamous Pizza Hut across from the Giza plateau, a modern shadow cast against ancient wonder.

By the time you returned, you were buzzing to get back to work, inspired anew by the sites that had first made you dream of becoming an anthropologist. But what you weren’t expecting was your mailbox.

It was full.

No return address, just twenty meticulously handwritten notes. Each one was devotional, reverent in tone, but never begging. They spoke of you as though you were divine, a goddess enthroned in his memory. “I will wait as long as it takes,” one declared. “Time bends to me, but for you I will let it pass.” Another read, “You are not mine yet, but you will be. I will earn you, as kings earn crowns.”

There was no desperation in the words, only composure, dominance wrapped in devotion. They were promises, not pleas.

You stood at the mailbox flipping through them, the ink staining your fingertips. That’s when your neighbor, Miss Dana, noticed.

“My dear, are those love letters? You don’t see those nowadays! Either he’s someone super special, or he knows he’s messed up big time.”

You gave a small, rueful smile. “Oh, Miss Dana… he’s trying to win me over.”

By the look on your face, she could tell you’d already been won over, at least in part.

“Won’t you come over, dear, and we’ll chat all about it?” she asked warmly.

The night air hit you like a revelation, cooler than the velvet heat of the club. Neon spilled across the pavement, sparklers still echoing in your mind as if they hadn’t burned out hours ago. Your heels clicked against the sidewalk, each step steadier than the last.

Inside, the music carried on without you. Your friends had stayed behind, laughter rising now that Sukuna’s shadow no longer pressed against them. You knew they were right, and you’d apologize later—for ignoring their warnings, for dragging them into a night that had spiraled far beyond birthday fun.

Still, the guilt of the wasted booth lingered. Five hundred dollars split between them, gone to velvet cushions and death glares. You’d pay them back, of course. It was the least you could do.

But as you walked, sobriety sharpened everything. The clarity of thirty‑five years, the weight of your doctorate work, the endless hours cataloging artifacts—all of it pressed against the absurdity of the night. What were you doing, waiting for a demon who had shown you his true form? Sitting in his lap like a servant, convincing yourself it was allure instead of control?

No. Tonight had been a lesson. You weren’t his possession. You weren’t anyone’s.

The streetlights hummed overhead, and you pulled your coat tighter, the faint markings from the bracelet still tingling against your wrist. They unsettled you, but the pull to understand them was undeniable. Ancient symbols didn’t appear without reason. And if Sukuna was tied to them, then walking away wasn’t the end—it was only the beginning.

But walking away didn’t mean leaving him behind. The week proved that much.

The week that followed was a blur of distraction. Work became impossible to focus on; every artifact you cataloged seemed to whisper his name. The shipment from Japan only made it worse—ceremonial blades, lacquered masks, scrolls inked with symbols from the Heian century, Sukuna’s time. You traced them with gloved fingers, and the connection was undeniable. It felt as though he had followed you into the museum, his presence stitched into the relics themselves.

And then there was your arm. The strange markings left behind by the bracelet refused to fade. You tried covering them, tried ignoring them, but they pulsed faintly at odd hours, a reminder you couldn’t shake. No one in the linguistics department recognized them. They laughed, called it a fun tattoo design, a quirky choice. You smiled tightly, but inside it was a nightmare—knowing the truth, knowing they weren’t ink at all.

By the start of the second week, the postcards began arriving. At first, one slipped through your mail slot, glossy and impersonal: “Free drink for a beautiful lady at the Underground.” Then another: “Come back to the Underworld.” A third: “We’ve missed you, stop by.”

You never gave your address. The realization hit hard—the doorman must have taken it from your ID. The thought of returning, of stepping back into that velvet booth, dissolved with every new piece of postage.

And yet… you kept one. It looked like the others, the same glossy print, the same stylized logo. But the message was different. Handwritten in perfect cursive, the ink pressed deep into the card:

“My goddess divine, won’t you stop by for a moment?”

The velvet booth was quieter now, laughter fading into the throb of bass. Your friends leaned back, relieved in your absence, but the air shifted the moment Sukuna returned. His gaze swept the alcove, sharp and searching, until it landed on the empty space where you had been.

The smirk vanished.

A silence fell over the booth, unnatural, heavy. The lights above flickered once, then again, shadows stretching across the mirrored wall as though the club itself bent to his mood. Your friends froze, wide‑eyed, realizing for the first time that his intensity wasn’t just human.

“Where is she?” His voice cut through the music, low and dangerous, vibrating in their bones.

No one answered. The crowd outside kept dancing, oblivious, but inside the booth the air grew thick, oppressive. The sparklers from your cake had long burned out, yet the scent of smoke seemed to linger, curling in the corners of the room.

One friend tried to laugh, shaky and thin. “She… she went home. Said she had work.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, fire sparking in their depths. The shadows recoiled, then surged again, stretching like living things. For a heartbeat, the markings from your bracelet seemed to shimmer faintly on the mirrored wall, echoing your absence.

“She thinks she can walk away,” he murmured, more to himself than to them. His hand clenched at the edge of the table, the velvet groaning under his grip. “She forgets whose domain she stepped into.”

The club dissolved around him, neon fading into shadow. When Sukuna blinked, he was no longer in the booth but seated upon his throne, his true form revealed in full.

Four eyes burned like embers, his aura pressing down on the chamber with suffocating weight. Around him, his followers knelt, heads bowed low, waiting for his command.

“You let her walk out,” he snarled, voice reverberating like stone cracking. “A stupid issue, a failure of vigilance. Do you understand what you cost me?”

The crowd trembled, murmuring apologies, but Sukuna’s fury was not easily soothed. His gaze snapped to the bouncer who had stood at the door, the one who had let you slip past without question.

“You,” Sukuna growled, rising from his throne. “You opened the door.”

The bouncer stammered, falling to his knees. “My lord, I—”

The words never finished. Sukuna’s hand lashed out, claws tearing through flesh in a single, merciless strike. The body crumpled to the floor, lifeless, the chamber echoing with silence.

“Let this be a reminder,” Sukuna said, voice sharp, commanding. “Failure is death. Hesitation is death. She is not gone. Not truly. The marks remain.”

He lifted his hand, and in the dim glow the faint engravings shimmered—echoes of the bracelet that had burned against your skin. The symbols pulsed once, alive, tethered to you even across distance.

“She carries my seal,” Sukuna continued, his tone colder now. “She may think herself free, but she is mine. And I will train you all until none dare falter again. Until none dare let my queen slip from my grasp.”

His people bowed deeper, the chamber vibrating with his wrath. Yet beneath the fire in his eyes, there was something more certain, more dangerous.

“You see what I mean? He’s dangerous,” one of your friends muttered, voice sharp enough to cut through the pounding bass. Their eyes flicked between you and Sukuna’s grip, unsettled by how easily he commanded the space around you.

Another leaned in, trying to mask their nerves with a shaky laugh. “Birthday girl or not, this is too much. You need out.”

You exhaled slowly, jaw still caught in Sukuna’s hand, his fiery gaze refusing to let you look anywhere else. The weight of their words pressed against you, but your own reply came clipped, unapologetic. “I don’t need saving.”

Sukuna’s smirk deepened, as if your defiance pleased him more than their concern. His arm loosened just enough for you to move, but not enough to forget who held the reins.

Your friends exchanged uneasy glances, then one finally said, “Fine. At least let’s sit back down. Calm down. Away from the bar.”

It was a compromise, but you knew where it led. Sukuna guided you effortlessly, his hand never leaving your waist, steering you back through the crowd. The dancers parted without realizing why, the rhythm bending around his presence.

The velvet booth loomed again, its mirrored wall catching the strobe lights in fractured shards. Your friends slid in reluctantly, their chatter forced, trying to mask the tension. Sukuna settled you beside him, arm draped possessively across your shoulders, gaze sharp enough to silence the table.

A pang of guilt twisted in your chest as you thought of the $500 booth your friends had split for the night, now sitting abandoned. You’d have to pay them back for it, you knew. Still, it wasn’t so bad here, as long as you kept them engaged in conversation, distracting them from noticing how Sukuna only stayed satisfied with you in his lap. Any time you shifted away, the death glare kicked in, sharp enough to silence the table.

Just past midnight, the bottle servers arrived with a massive bottle of tequila and a birthday cake blazing with sparklers. The room erupted, a third of the crowd joining in to sing Happy Birthday. Heat rushed to your face, and you turned back into Sukuna’s chest, hiding in embarrassment. His hand pressed lightly against your back, steady, unyielding.

When the song ended, Sukuna raised his glass and thanked everyone on your behalf, his voice commanding enough to hush the room.

That’s when you noticed it—his hand playing with the hem and pushing up your already short dress. You smacked it away, sharp and immediate.

“Not here, in front of everyone.”

His gaze narrowed, fire sparking in his eyes. “Don’t tell me no. I own this place and everyone in it. It’s my domain.”

You straightened, defiance cutting through your embarrassment. “Own? You don’t own me. You have to earn my trust and love. You can’t just give me a VIP room and expect that means I’m yours.”

The words hung heavy, sharper than the bass. For a moment, his smirk faltered. Then a server leaned in, whispering something urgent. Sukuna rose, his hand lingering on your shoulder before he stepped away. “I’ll be back.”

At his exit, your friends finally relaxed, their laughter loosening as the tension in the booth eased. For the first time all night, the velvet alcove felt like it belonged to you again.

You waited. Forty-five minutes passed. The music throbbed, your friends laughed, but sobriety sharpened your thoughts. You weren’t upset at what you’d said—he needed to hear it. He needed to learn how to talk to people. But sitting there, surrounded by drunk chatter, you couldn’t ignore the truth.

Maybe it was the clarity of being sober in a sea of intoxication. Maybe it was the wisdom that came with thirty-five years. But heavens, what were you doing here? Waiting for a man who didn’t respect you? A demon who had literally shown you his true form? And because he was irresistibly attractive, alluring beyond reason, you just sat there in his lap like a servant?

No. If you didn’t get out now, you never would.

You leaned toward your friends. “Hey lady’s , I’m gonna head home. I’ve had too much fun, and I have to be back at the office at 7 a.m. for a shipment of artifacts.”

“On a Saturday?” One blinked.

“When they’re on loan from the Japanese museum, you take any arrival date possible,” you said with a wry smile.

You stood, smoothing your dress, the sparklers long extinguished. “Goodnight.”

“You’re acting weird,” one said, arms crossed. “He’s dangerous. You need out.”

Another shook their head, eyes wide. “Seriously, you don’t even know him. That guy… he’s not normal.”

You met their concern with a sharp laugh, the kind that cut more than soothed. “I study civilizations for a living. I’m an anthropologist at the museum of science, working on my doctorate. I know patterns, I know power, and I know when something ancient is staring me in the face. Don’t mistake caution for weakness.”

Your tone was clipped, unapologetic. You weren’t the type to soften edges for comfort, and they knew it.

One friend muttered, “You’re not yourself.”

You glanced down at your wrist, the bracelet burning faintly again. With a frustrated tug, you tried to slip it off. It resisted, biting into your skin, until finally it gave way. The metal clattered against the sink, and for a heartbeat, faint engravings shimmered across your skin—lines and symbols older than language, glowing before fading into silence.

Her breath caught as the ancient lines pulsed once before vanishing. Unease twisted in her chest, but the pull to understand was undeniable.

The silence stretched until one of your friends broke it, voice shaky but practical. “Come on, you need water. Calm down.”

Another added quickly, “What if he spiked your drink? We should grab a shot to relax, reset.”

They exchanged uneasy glances, then nudged you toward the door. The throb of the music grew louder as you stepped back into the hallway, the bar glowing ahead like a stage you weren’t sure you wanted to return to—but knew you would.

Your friends clustered close as you stepped back into the pulsing glow of the club. They moved deliberately, bodies angled to shield you from Sukuna’s line of sight, though you knew it was pointless. His gaze was too sharp, too consuming—no wall of friends could block it.

Still, you slipped free of his hand, forcing a smile as you headed toward the bar. “Birthday shot,” you announced, trying to sound lighter than you felt. The bartender lined up glasses, and your friends raised theirs high, grinning.

You tipped yours back with them, the liquid cold against your tongue. They cheered, clapping you on the shoulder. “Took that like a champ!” one laughed.

But your smile faltered. It wasn’t alcohol. It was water. Flat, tasteless, unmistakable. Confusion flickered across your face, too sharp to hide.

Before you could speak, the air shifted. A presence pressed in from behind, unmistakable. Sukuna’s arms locked around you, firm but not enough to hurt—yet you knew you were at his mercy. His hand slid up, fingers curling along your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes burned sharp and fiery, cutting through the haze of neon.

“Must I remind you that you’re cut off, my dearest?” His voice was low, dangerous, vibrating through you more than the music.

You swallowed hard, lips parting. “I didn’t think you took the joke seriously. I was just playing around.”

His smirk curved, but there was no humor in it. “I never play.”