Moon Over Malevolent Shrine

and you’re following. stumbling behind him around the corner of the building, past the folding table and the water buckets and the other girls still giggling under the sun. you don’t know what to say. don’t know why your heart is thudding like this, why the heat rushing up your spine isn’t just from the weather.

he’s mad. really mad. but not loud—not explosive. it’s worse. he’s quiet. possessive. eyes flicking up and down your body like he’s checking for bruises, or secrets, or both.

he pushes you against the brick wall before you can ask anything, arms braced on either side of your shoulders, his body blocking you from view.

“you wore this out here?” his voice is low. rough.

you nod. “it’s for charity…”

he scoffs. “you’re wiping down some dude’s hood like that and i’m supposed to be fine?”

“it wasn’t like that—”

“no?” his fingers grip your waist, dragging you forward until your chest brushes his. “then tell me why i just watched three guys practically drool over you in a story someone tagged me in. mine, remember? or did you forget?”

you try to answer, but the words catch in your throat. he’s so close. closer than he’s ever been in public. his mouth skims your jaw, his hand slipping under the edge of your shorts. you gasp when his palm cups the heat between your thighs.

“you like being watched, baby?” he growls, lips brushing your ear. “like knowing everyone’s gonna see what’s mine?”

your head lolls back against the wall. the sun’s still shining, cars still rolling through, but you barely notice anymore. all you can feel is him. rough and demanding and def not sweet—not like usual. and maybe that’s the worst part. or maybe it’s the best. because you like him like this. you love him like this.

“sukuna,” you whisper, breath hitching when he pulls your bottoms aside, fingers sliding between your folds like he knows exactly how to ruin you. “someone might see—”

“let ‘em.” he doesn’t even pause. “let ‘em know you’re taken. let ‘em hear how good i fuck you.”

and then he does—right there behind the building, between the smell of soap and asphalt and wet concrete. his cock pushes into you in one long, slow thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.

your back arches off the wall, legs barely steady where they wrap around his waist, arms clinging to his shoulders like that’ll help you stay grounded. it won’t. nothing can. not when sukuna is like this—pissed off and possessive and pulsing thick inside you, like he’s trying to mark every inch from the inside out.

he’s usually sweet. teasing. smug as hell, sure—but rarely mean. rarely like this. and it shocks you how much you like it. how good it feels when his hands grip your thighs tighter, when his mouth brushes your neck but doesn’t kiss, just breathes—hard and shallow, like he can’t think straight. like you drive him fucking insane.

“you’re gonna let them look at you like that?” he pants, thrusts snapping sharp now, his fingers digging into the waistband of your bikini bottoms where they’re still pulled to the side. “wearing this tiny fuckin’ thing, laughing with those pricks—like i’m not the one who makes you sound so pretty when you cry my name.”

you shake your head, gasping. “i didn’t—wasn’t—”

“you were,” he hisses, fucking you harder now, every word punctuated by the slap of skin against skin. “you were being cute. and wet. and now all these assholes think they’ve got a shot.”

you whimper and he smirks. like he knew. like he’s been waiting for this. one of his hands lets go of your thigh just long enough to slip under your bikini top, thumb flicking over your nipple until you writhe against him, back scraping the brick.

“fuck, look at you.” his voice is low, almost reverent. “legs shaking, pussy soaked, walls clenching around my cock like you want me to fuck you stupid where anyone could walk by.”

“sukuna—”

“nah,” he cuts you off, lips brushing your cheek again, tongue curling filthy against your jaw. “you wanted attention? you got it. maybe i should fuck you right here, loud, just to show 'em what they don’t get to have.”

his cock drags against your spot again and again until you’re whining, tears blurring the corners of your vision, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on his back. and you hate how much you love it—how much you want him like this. rough.

sukuna hears the way your breath breaks, the way your thighs tremble, and it lights something behind his eyes. he pulls out just far enough to make you gasp, then grabs your hips and spins you around—your palms slamming against the warm brick as your cheek presses beside them.

“arch your back,” he growls, already bending you the way he wants, one hand sliding up the curve of your spine until you’re presenting for him, ass lifted, legs shaking. “yeah. just like that.”

you barely have time to brace before he drags the head of his cock through your slick again, the roughness of it making your knees buckle. he grips your waist tighter, thumbs digging into the softness there like he’s holding on for his own sanity.

and then—he sinks back into you in one brutal thrust.

your mouth opens in a silent cry. your forehead presses to the wall. everything inside you pulls tight around him because he feels so fucking good, so deep, so angry in the way he fucks you.

but he’s not done.

his free hand slides up, up, up—until his fingers wrap around the side of your neck, palm warm, pressure firm, tilting your head back.

“look at me.”

“i said look,” he repeats, voice low enough to vibrate through your bones.

you open your eyes. slow.

he stares down at you with that half-lidded, feral hunger—jaw clenched, chest rising hard, tattoos flexing under every thrust as he snaps his hips into you, making your ass bounce back onto him.

the sound of it—skin on skin, his breath, your broken little whimpers—echoes off the empty alley.

“fuck,” he mutters, eyes dragging over your face, your parted lips, the tears caught in your lashes. “you look so pretty like this. all fucked-out and shy.”

your fingers curl against the wall. “s-sukuna—”

his hand on your neck shifts, thumb brushing your throat, guiding your head even closer to the angle he wants, making sure you can’t look away.

“don’t look at the wall,” he snarls, thrusts getting deeper, meaner. “don’t hide your face. i want you watching me while i fuck this attitude out of you.”

you whine, legs shaking, the pressure of his hand and the heat of his body making everything inside you clench tight around him. every time he drives into you, the slick slide and the drag of his cock up into the sweetest, filthiest spot inside you shoots sparks down your spine.

every thrust grinds deeper, rougher, more intentional—like he’s searching for that exact spot inside you just to ruin it, ruin you, mark you from the inside out. your thighs tremble violently, your breath breaking in tiny gasps you can’t hold back no matter how hard you bite your lip. every time your eyes try to flutter shut, his thumb presses a little firmer against your throat, guiding your head back into place.

“keep your eyes on me,” he growls, sweat rolling down his temples, chest heaving. “don’t you fucking look away.”

your vision blurs again—tears, pleasure, desperation—but you do it. you look. you hold it. you let him see everything. the way your lips part around a choked moan, the way your cheeks flush, the way your whole body trembles on every snap of his hips.

and sukuna’s expression changes.

not softer—but hungrier. almost undone.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, voice cracking as he slams into you again, hips hitting your ass so hard it knocks a whimper out of you. “you’re squeezing me so tight—shit—you close, huh? i can feel you fucking begging for it.”

you grip the wall, nails scraping brick, toes curling in your sandals as his pace gets brutal, unrelenting. every thrust sends your body jolting forward, your breath catching each time his cock drags across that swollen spot inside you.

“sukuna—i—I can’t—” your voice breaks, trembling, needy.

his grip on your neck tightens just enough to make your pulse throb under his fingers.

“yes, you can,” he grits out, jaw locked, eyes locked on yours like he’s about to devour you whole. “you’re gonna cum for me. right here. outside. in that tiny little bikini—fuck—you’re gonna cum while looking me in the eyes.”

your legs shake harder. your stomach tightens. your vision goes hot and bright, everything pulling tight around him.

“s-sukuna—i’m—”

“do it,” he whispers, thrusts sharp and deliberate, hips hitting you with brutal precision. “fucking cum for me.”

his thumb presses into the side of your throat, guiding your gaze back to his one more time—your eyes wide and wet and undone—and that’s what sends you over.

your orgasm hits like a shockwave. your knees buckle. your mouth falls open in a soundless cry. your body snaps tight around his cock, pulsing, gripping, milking him through it.

sukuna curses under his breath—because he feels it. every clench. every ripple. every tremor.

“holy—fuck—baby—” his voice breaks entirely, rhythm faltering for the first time as your orgasm drags him under. “you’re—shit—you’re so tight—fuck—i’m gonna—”

he drives into you once—twice—hips stuttering as he slams deep and stays there, buried to the hilt, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his own orgasm tears through him.

his breath shudders harshly against your neck.

then he groans—low, guttural, absolutely ruined.

“fuck, i’m cumming—fuck—take it—take all of it—”

his hips twitch against your ass, thick pulses throbbing inside you as he spills, his whole body shaking from how hard it hits him. his hand tightens around your throat, not choking—just holding you steady, holding you close—while his other arm clamps around your waist like he needs you to stay right where you are.

you feel every pulse. every shiver. every broken breath. and you don’t dare look away.

it’s quiet for a second. just breathing. your sweat-slicked skin against the bricks. the faint sound of pop music playing from the parking lot.

then—“my bikini,” you mumble, weakly trying to pull your top back into place, still dripping with water and cum. “you ruined it.”

“good,” he mutters, hand still on your waist as he breathes against your neck. “wasn’t covering shit anyway.”

you turn just enough to glare at him, cheeks flushed and thighs sticky. “we were supposed to be washing cars. for charity. you don't care about charity, kuna?”

he pulls out slow, letting you feel every inch of him before he tucks himself away, palms smoothing over your hips like it’ll help. it doesn’t. “yeah, well,” he shrugs, still scowling as he reaches down to adjust the twisted strap of your bottoms—yanking them into place like he’s mad at the fabric. “maybe don’t let satoru from lambda chi ogle your ass like it’s his.”

you raise a brow. “you mean the guy who asked if he could donate with venmo?”

he looks at you. deadpan. “i will key his car.”

you snort.

he doesn’t.

still pissed. still petty. still definitely fighting the urge to drag you back to the wall for round two.

and then he turns, brushes off his tank top, starts stalking back toward the parking lot—barely glancing at the soapy chaos, the crowd, the sign that reads "clean cars for a cause!"

you trail behind, trying to wring your hair out and fix your top without looking completely fucked. but sukuna just tilts his head, throws a glare over his shoulder and grumbles:

He’ll soften his gaze, speak with words coated in a thick layer of honey, flash that million dollar smile of his— every demand that came from him sounded so sweet, it was sickening. 

He let out a pleased hum. “I knew you would.” 

“It’s just– I don’t,” you cut yourself off with a nervous laugh, the sense of warmth you originally felt quickly morphed into embarrassment, “I don’t have anything else to wear.” 

“No?” 

For a split second, his voice drops. Even if it’s just for a moment, it doesn't fail to leave you a bit unsettled given his history of losing his mind whenever things didn’t go his way. 

“N-no, Sir,” you shrink in your seat, “I’ll have to wait until my next payday to go shopping.”

“I see.” His lips curl back into a smile after realizing he’s going to scare you off, as that wasn’t his intention here. He looks at the door real quick, then back at you. “How about this, then— you remember that department store I had you pick up a suit from once, Damian’s?”

Your eyes widen once you realize where he’s going with this. “Oh! I don’t think that’s n—”

He plants his elbows on top of the desk, leaning forward and cutting you off with the simple, yet powerful act of clearing his throat. 

“Why don’t you give them a visit this weekend, yeah?” He pauses for a moment, as if he were daring you to interrupt him again. You don’t. He laughs. “Yeah— why don’t you give them a visit. I’ll reach out before the day ends so they know to expect you. Better yet, I’ll tell them exactly what I’m looking for and have them pull whatever pieces fit the idea I have in mind, that way you won’t have to think too much into it.” 

“But Mr. Gojo, I can’t afford that,” your voice nearly breaks telling him that. 

Satoru doesn’t even know why you bothered telling him— he already knows. If you haven’t already forgotten, he’s the one that pays you. How hard is it to get you to stop dressing like a fucking nun? He’s had it with the god damn turtlenecks.

He lets out a sigh, fighting to keep his cool demeanor despite his dwindling patience. “Which is why I’m sending you to Damian’s, they have my card ready to go on file.” 

The wheels in your head continue to turn, wondering why he’d even offer you this much. Wondering if this is even appropriate. It’s been over three months since you started working for him and not once have you heard of an allowance meant for office attire. Now he’s sending you to some high-end department store to pick out new clothes, on his dime, since your clothes don’t ‘fit your stature’. Whatever the hell that means.

“I don’t think I can accept this…” you look down at your feet and murmur, and Satoru nearly rolls his eyes. 

You can and you will. 

Satoru watches you freeze and realizes he just said that outloud, making him let out a laugh in an attempt to make himself sound less crazy. 

“Ahem— sorry, what I meant was…” he stalls, leg lightly bouncing as he thinks of what to say, then decides to make this a company thing, rather than a him thing, “if the company’s requiring it, then the company should pay for it, right?”

His words disarm you enough to nod. “...Right.” 

“Perfect,” he chirps out. “That’ll be your assignment for the weekend then.” He leans back in his seat, looking quite pleased with himself. Looking at the clock, he notices it’s a quarter to five, and takes the opportunity to kick you out of his office before the air between you grows awkward again. “Well, now that it’s settled, why don’t you wrap up for the day?” 

You glance at the clock. “Uhhh… yeah, sure! Was there anything else you needed before I clock out?” 

There was a lot that Satoru needed, like for you to stop sounding so eager when asking if he needed anything else from you. You have no idea how painfully hard that makes him. 

“No, thanks,” he responds in a strained tone. “Enjoy your weekend.”

“Thanks! You as well, Mr. Gojo.”

You give him one last smile as you rise from your seat and begin to walk back to your desk that’s just outside his office. It’s not until your hands on the doorknob, ready to turn it, when he stops you one last time. 

You brace yourself the moment you meet an unfamiliar pair of eyes, just glimmering with amusement. Satoru then proceeds to throw you off in a way that almost feels ceremonious with how he never quite gave you the chance to get back up. 

“I know it’s just a little favor, but you know how people can be sometimes. So for both of our sakes, let’s just keep this between us to avoid any confusion, yeah? It can be our little secret.”

Something in that low, velvety voice of his told you it was just the beginning of many secrets you’d be sharing, but it still managed to lure you in.

And so, you said yes— marking the very beginning of something that was just as confusing as it was thrilling. 

. . . . . . 

Being a man of his stature, Satoru has to really watch himself in public— watch what he says, who he says it to, what he does, and where he does it. Which is why he frequents places the public didn’t have knowledge of, let alone have access too. Places that allowed him to let loose. 

Though, in your honest opinion, just because someone can let loose, doesn’t mean they should. Especially someone like Satoru, who does a shit ton of coke and treats it like a fucking free for all. 

His idea of a good time is often a violent one. You wish you were kidding, there’s nothing that gets him going more than being in the middle of an all out brawl— just grinning from ear to ear while drinks and punches get thrown in every which direction as music continues to blast in the background. 

The first to call you is his driver Ijichi, who’s aware that your job consists of tasks that went way beyond the professional scope.

The next is the county jail, because you are Satoru’s emergency contact. 

An hour later, you’re patching your boss up in the middle of his penthouse at 3:00 A.M, when you should be asleep like most people are on this side of the world. 

“Sorry you got ripped out of your sleep for this,” he boyishly mutters as you dab the corner of his mouth with antiseptic. Lucky for him, the cut’s small, and should be gone by Monday morning. It’s his knuckles that are all scraped up. But then again, he doesn’t interact with many people at the office to begin with, and the ones that do get paid enough not to ask. 

“Are you actually sorry, or are you just saying that?” you murmur back. 

“Let’s just say I’m grateful that it's you that’s cleaning me up right now.”

“As opposed to who?”

“I dunno,” he chuckles, looking at you through heavy lidded eyes that you refuse to meet. “Don’t even wanna think about anybody else’s fingers on me.”

“How sweet,” you boredly say, dabbing a bit of ointment on the small cut. “Maybe you can extend that kindness to everyone else for the rest of this weekend? So I don’t have to, you know— pick you up from jail… again.”

“What if I only like being sweet to you?” he murmurs.

He doesn’t make you feel special anymore. 

For how close of a proximity you have to the man’s personal life, you already are special, and it’s something he constantly reminds you of, even during times it’s not necessary. In the midst of all the confusion it leaves you with, you’re reminded of a line that’s been completely blurred, and you’re not quite sure who’s at fault here. 

Satoru may be pervasive by nature, but you’re still here. Somehow there’s still a part of you that wants to please him despite all your irritation. 

“Well then everyone’s out of luck and I’m out of sleep.” You sigh as you close the first-aid kit.

He watches as you get up from the couch to put it back in the cabinet, eyes tracing over your body throughout the entirety of it. You may not be in the tight skirts and high heels he has you in during the day, but he found himself enjoying off-duty sweats and slippers just as much. Shamelessly, he doesn’t take his eyes off you when you start walking back towards him, but you’re used to it at this point. 

“Y’know you can spend the night here if you’re so tired, right?” he teasingly asks, but you know there’s a part of him that’s more than serious about it. 

“No thank you.” You throw your purse over your shoulder, typing away at your phone as you try to book an uber. “I’m sure your silk sheets are great, but they’re no match for mine.”

To no one's surprise, you got out of his penthouse fast. You’ve gotten pretty good at dodging him in situations that could easily end with you on your back, splayed out right underneath him. 

Believe it or not, he actually respects that— the self control and all. Especially with the way you’ve almost given in to him a couple times. It didn’t need to be said for him to know. He’s seen the needy, defeated look in your eyes during the times he’s gotten too close. It’s a look that screams ‘get away from me before I do something stupid, please’. A sweet girl you are, really. 

But what would happen if he kept going and finally closed that distance?

Sometimes, he thinks he’d be nice to you. Be all soft, put you on his lap, whisper sweet things in your ear while his hand slowly slid down your stomach. You’d begin to hold your breath the moment he went past your waist and it’d finally catch once his fingers found themselves in between your thighs, slipping right in between your folds. 

He’d kiss on your neck, pull moans from you as he drew little circles over your clit, making your legs tremble once he finally slipped inside and started curling in. 

Then there’s times he thinks he’d be rough with you. Make you start crying from how fast and hard he made you cum from just his fingers alone. Bend you over the nearest surface and tease you with the thick head of his cock, rubbing it over your slick folds until you beg him to put it in. 

He’d pull your hair back, make you look him in the eyes while he fucked you senseless, pump you full of so much cum that it’d continued to leak out of your poor pussy the very next day. 

Bonus points if you two had to work together that day. 

But for now, a man could only dream, or rather imagine, as he starts to fist his cock to the thought of you for who knows how many times now.

. . . . . .

There’s something mildly embarrassing about going to Damian’s with Satoru after being sent here all those months back to pick out new work clothes. Only because he specifically told the stylist to only pull items that were tight fitting and showed a decent amount of cleavage. 

You’re sure if that asshole hadn't done that, you would’ve walked into the department store without a second thought. As if it couldn't have gotten any worse, that same stylist is here, and she’s looking at you with the same amount of concern you’d give to someone who’s being put through the ringer from extreme work conditions. 

You technically are, given all the extra shit he has you do, like picking him up from jail at 2:00 A.M. You’re not exactly planning on leaving anytime soon, though. Don’t ask why. You’re not so sure of it yourself, either. 

Satoru was here to try on a few different suits that just came in. And you’re here because unless you’re working on anything that’s considered incredibly important, you go wherever he goes. 

Just as he was able to go off to the fitting room, the poor stylist asked a question she really shouldn’t have asked. She had good intentions when asking if you wanted to see some of the new pieces they had for Spring, and then Satoru made some comment about grabbing whatever you wanted and putting it on his card. 

And then this poor girl looks at him with all the confidence in the world and asks, “If you’d like, I can pull a few different pieces from the racks like last time— tight fitting, low cuts, and neutrals, right?” 

You didn’t have much of a reaction upon hearing that, it was already clear he had requested those things the last time you came here. 

Satoru, however, just stood there and stared at this girl as if she had just ruined his fucking life. 

It is not often he's left so appalled that it’s rendered him speechless, but there he was just staring at her with nothing but anger and betrayal in his eyes. She looked like she wanted to cry, and rightfully so. You were honestly scared for her. 

“I think that’d be great,” you cut in, trying to break the tension, only to feel Satoru’s nasty glare get directed towards you instead once he realized you were trying to save her. “We’re here for less than an hour, though, so maybe just pull some skirts since the weather's starting to warm up.” 

“Y-yeah! Of course.” 

You watched as she quickly scurried away, then turned to find your boss just now deciding to follow the tailor, still looking absolutely fucking pissed that she just outed him like that. 

Maybe you should tell her to hide once she comes back with those skirts. 

. . .

Satoru might not be one to talk right now given how his goal a few months back was to get you to start dressing just a tad bit sluttier while still looking appropriate enough for work, but he didn’t give a shit. That woman had no tact whatsoever.

Who says something like that? You’re clearly his fucking assistant, there was no need to out his preferences like that.

It fucked up his entire mood for the hour… not that it stopped him from going ahead and having all the suits he tried on sent to his house. But just as he was getting ready to let it go, he saw something else that managed to make him do a double take. 

It’s exactly what you think it is. Which is why he’s walking straight towards you and whoever the hell you’re talking to. 

You didn’t know Rei existed up until two minutes ago, and tried to do him the favor of wrapping up the small conversation he tried sparking up with you once you caught a glimpse of a certain someone walking your way. 

It didn’t work and now Satoru’s standing in front of you two, making you brace yourself for whatever sequence of words is going to come out of his mouth since he’s already in a shitty mood from the stylist snitching on him for being a pervert.

“You can leave now. Bye,” he simply says to the man, nodding towards the exit. 

There’s a moment of silence. His reaction wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be, but it still adds weight to the air around you. Rei was understandably left scrambling, not that Satoru noticed, he was too busy looking at you like he was tired of you disappointing him. 

And your eyes widened, as if you were asking him, what the fuck did I do?

“Excuse me?” Rei finally managed to ask. 

The displeased look on Satoru’s face stays as he briefly turns his attention to Rei. “You’re excused. Goodbye,” he says, casually dismissing him again.

“I’m sorry,” the man laughs from pure disbelief, “are you her boyfriend or something? Because you could’ve just said—” 

“I’m not,” Satoru cuts him off with a tone that’s still surprisingly calm. 

He wouldn’t say he’s calm— disassociated is more like it. All the words Rei throws at him just swarm around his head like a bunch of little gnats, and he steadily loses his patience since he’s already told the guy to fucking leave. Eventually, he closes his eyes and lets out a long, deep sigh. 

“You know what?” Satoru suddenly cuts him off and proceeds to make him an offer— one that makes your jaw drop. “If you want her number so fuckin’ bad, then fine. You can fight me for it.”

“Satoru?!” you immediately scold the man. 

“What the hell is your problem, man?!” Rei says at the same time as you. 

“Oh, wow.” Satoru looks at you, then points a finger at Rei. “He doesn’t even want to fight for you.” 

At that point, the man storms off, muttering some stuff under his breath about people and wondering what the fuck was wrong with them, leaving you to deal with whatever sudden mood swing your boss was having today. 

It didn’t just start within the last hour. This has been going on all day and started when he almost snapped at one of the interns for running into him this morning when turning a corner too fast. You don’t have much patience for him, though.

“Ijichi’s already waiting outside for us,” you casually inform him and turn your heel, taking a step forward to walk away.

“That’s it?” The lack of acknowledgment makes Satoru snap. “That’s all you have to say?” 

You stop and turn again, taking a good look at Satoru as you try to come up with more to say, which is hard given how you just watched him agree to let someone have your number if they fought him. 

Yet all that comes to mind are the lines that you’ve blurred with the man.

“Do you want me to walk on eggshells around you, too, just like everybody else has today?”

“...No.” It’s not much of an answer with the way he mumbled it, but at least you were able to reroute the guy. 

You softly sigh. “Alright, then… let’s go.” 

. . . . . 

The air’s been stale between you since that day. 

You have no idea what’s gotten into him, neither do you want to ask. And it’s not that you don’t care— of course you do. It should've already been made clear by now that you care about Satoru more than you should.

At first, you wonder if it’s some sort of rough patch. Then you realize that isn't normal in professional relationships, leaving you with more questions than answers because nothing about your relationship is professional. 

You run around all over the place for him, picking up his suits and sometimes even him at 3:00 A.M when he’s too drunk or high to drive home. As if that didn’t cross the line enough, he treats you like his friend. A really jealous friend, at that. He’ll do things like cockblock you if a man tries to talk to you when he’s around, sometimes even threatening to fight them. 

It’s been three weeks of silence. 

He didn’t even bother saying goodbye to you when you clocked out for the weekend yesterday. It wouldn’t have been a bad thing at all with your last boss, but something about getting just a simple hum from Satoru left you feeling stupid. 

So what did change with him? It might be better if he listed all the things that didn’t. 

He still jacked off with you in mind— that probably won’t ever change, at least not for a while. He still keeps an eye on you. 

It sounds bad, but it’s really not. 

He just has surveillance over your apartment building, not your actual apartment. He also has the security team keep an eye out whenever you walk to and from your car, before and after work. Just basic safety stuff. He might have a tracker on your car, but never looks at it. 

Unless he’s drunk, but that doesn’t count in his head.

So then what changed? 

Probably the new sense of shame that only seems to unveil itself when you’re around. He’d rather you not have a front row seat when it comes to all of his less… desirable qualities anymore. He is far from perfect— very fucking far from it. 

Was it too late for that? 

Probably. 

It still made him feel just a little bit better about himself, even though he’s been rotting away on the inside from keeping his distance.

. . . . . . 

Staying late at the office is a rare but unavoidable occurrence. 

It happens. Some work gets prioritized over others, leaving small tasks to multiply and pile up. Today is one of those days Satoru is forced to push a main project aside and tackle all the little ones. 

He considered taking on all of it by himself, but was reminded why he avoided the work in the first place just an hour into his day. It was all so boring and tedious. It would’ve driven him up the wall had he not handed off a portion of it to you. 

But even then, there were a couple moments he spent wallowing in self-pity, looking out the window with thoughts of throwing himself off the top floor of the high rise. He fucking hates this and hates how he has no one but himself to blame for all the procrastination he’s done. 

The office feels like a different world once everyone’s gone. It may feel comfortable for your boss since he has his own office, but your desk right outside of it gives you a front row seat to a corporate wasteland. Muffled chatter gets replaced with the sounds of the fluorescent lights buzzing above you. Air vents thrumming as they recirculate the cold, stale air. 

The clock says 8:48 p.m once you finally finish your last task of the day. As happy as you are to finally leave this place, you grow nervous at the thought of entering your boss’s office to let him know you’re finished and heading home. Whatever camaraderie you had with him is non-existent at this point. Everything with him just feels awkward now and you’d be lying to yourself if you said you haven’t already started looking for new positions. 

You lightly knock on the door leading to his office and don’t enter until you hear a tired hum on the other side of it. 

Aside from the lamps next to his desk and next to the sofa you see when you first walk in, every other light is off, allowing the moonlight to peek through the dim space. It’s actually quite peaceful with his view of the city’s lit up skyline. 

Satoru's eyes must hurt. He has his reading glasses on, framing the tired lines and dark circles under them. 

“I’m all done for the day,” you say, carrying a stack of papers as you walk up to him and setting them down on the oak wood desk he’s half leaning on. 

He doesn’t look at you. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, sounding just as drained as he looks. 

You stand there, waiting for him to say anything else before coming to the conclusion that maybe it was time to move on to a new company, because you are too far gone. 

Stupid.

The long day you two have had wasn’t a reason to think he’d give you more than he has lately, let alone something to get your hopes up over.

Just standing in front of him makes you feel pathetic— you shouldn’t feel like that.

You open your mouth to say goodbye for the night, since he won’t, but instead say something entirely different that leaves even you shocked. 

“I’m putting in my two weeks.” 

You haven’t even sent out any applications.

Satoru’s eyes darted up at you while staying in place. “What?” 

Despite not having the right, he did not fucking like that. The cold tone of his voice made you want to cower down and take your words back, but there was no turning back. 

You push through the nerves as you repeat yourself in a professional manner. “After some consideration, I’ve decided I want to take my career in a different direction and that would require me to step down from my position.” 

The overly corporate tone does nothing but put a glare on Satoru’s face, one that deepens as you continue to spew, what he considers, a bunch of bullshit from your mouth.

“I’d like to thank you for the opportunities the company has given me, of course. I’d be more than happy to train my replacement.”

“You’re not training anybody,” he scoffs, standing from his seat as he starts to go through literally every stage of grief. “What the fuck? No? No. You’re not fucking leaving— absolutely not. Fuck that.”

Your eyes widen in disbelief over how entitled he is. He’s been treating you like a second class citizen for weeks and now he’s not letting you leave? “That’s not your choice to make.”

“I don’t care,” he says delusionally. “You’re not fucking leaving.” 

“Yes I am.” You raise your tone. “You can’t just fucking keep me here—“

“Where are you going then, huh? Since you seem to have found a place so much better,” his immaturity inevitably shines through as he cuts you off.

“That’s none of your business!” 

“It’s not, but you owe me that much,” he begins to argue. 

Your face twists in disgust. “I don’t owe you anything. I— how can someone be this selfish?! You’ve been giving me the cold-shoulder for weeks—“

He cuts you off again. “So that’s what this is about?!”

For someone that’s been ignoring you for weeks, he’s very expressive, especially when he argues. His pupils will be blown out, he’ll look at you in disgust, talk with his hands, pace around the room, then get in your face. This time is no different. 

“You’re leaving ‘cause I won’t give you attention? I thought you didn’t fucking want that!” He throws his arms out, voice resounding through the room. 

You pause, mouthing a ‘what?’ to yourself in complete disbelief. Leaving someone angry and confused is one impressive skill— Satoru has clearly mastered it. 

“When have I ever said that?!”

“It was written all over your face!” He shouts back, almost as if it was something that hurt him. “I figured you were getting tired of me so I backed off!” 

“Seriously? That’s your definition of backing off?” You have to stop yourself from laughing at how ridiculous it sounds. “Backing off is stopping the 1:00 am calls on the weekend— not completely disregarding me.”

“I went back to being your boss—“

“Yeah, a really shitty one.”

“I was always a shitty one.” He barks out a laugh. “The only reason why you’re mad now is because you’re not getting anything out of it anymore.”

Satoru doesn’t mean that. 

Not that you’d know. 

He tends to reject anything that brings him even just the slightest bit of discomfort, all while hating rejection himself. Watching you try to quit has made it one hell of a combo for him.

If he was just someone you simply had to tolerate, then whatever you gained from it was not worth your time. But he spoke with enough conviction to render whatever response you had useless.

“How the hell do you expect me to stay after saying that?” you genuinely ask. “I’m tired of not being treated like real person and now you’re being a fucking asshole.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I—“

“No. Save it,” you say in defeat as you start to walk away.

“Where are you going?” he asks, still having the audacity to sound irritated.

“Leaving— have fun finding a new replacement. I’m not staying for another two weeks.” 

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Well if you’re not coming back would you at least finally admit you felt something between us?” 

You stop and let out a sigh. “What are you talking about?” 

“You know what I’m talking about,” he says, taking a couple steps towards you. 

“No, there wasn’t.” 

“Alright,” he huffs out a laugh. “I get that you’re mad at me and everything, but there’s no point lying about now.” 

“I’m not lying about anything.” 

“I don’t believe you,” he blandly says. “You wouldn’t have stayed as long as you did if there was never anything there. Be honest with yourself for once.” 

Just as you’re about to deny it for the third time, you hesitate. “Just forget it already.”

The sight of you walking away for the second time feels entirely different from the first time for Satoru. No more confusion or panic, all that’s left is certainty. Perhaps a little amusement, as well. “No. I don’t think I will, actually.”

It happens fast. 

You hardly process being spun back around, then you’re stunned again by a pair of lips crashing into yours. It’s messy from the start and he’s breathlessly apologizing against you with each rough kiss. 

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t mean that. Please. 

And you forgive him, because there’s really no point in lying anymore. Not when you’re kissing him back. Desperately, at that— filled with just as much need. His hands start to roam, clothes start to scatter, leaving a trail that leads in the direction he took you in. 

He always thought he’d put you on the desk. 

The couch shifts erratically, moans pour into the room with each thrust. Satoru’s pressing down on your back and deepening the arch he put you in, bottoming out over and over again.

“Good job, baby,” he drones, mesmerized at the sight of you helplessly stretched around his thick cock, covering it in a thick coat of your slick. 

It took some working up to. The moment he sat you down on the couch, he buried his head in between your thighs and tongued your clit— dragging it over that sensitive little bundle of nerves until you couldn’t see straight. Then it was his fingers. Working not one, but two of his long digits into your cunt, curling them into a little spot that had you gushing all over him. 

Now he’s fucking that same little spot to no mercy, making your toes curl as the thick head of his cock catches it. “Oh my g-god— Satoru– fuuck!”

“Mmm I know,” he grabs your hair and pulls you back up against his chest, not letting up as he gets right in your ear. “Say my name again.”

His balls slap against your clit with each thrust, leaving you a gasping mess. “S-Satoru.”

“Again.”

“Satoru!” you cry out. 

“Sounds so fuckin’ pretty coming from you,” he hums, licking a stripe up your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. “You like getting ruined on the couch like this?”

Shamelessly, you nod. “Mhm.”

“Yeah? You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?” 

“I have,” you admit. “A lot.”

“So honest tonight,” he grins, “so have I— thought about kissing you, fucking you, putting a baby in you.” A hand snakes down your belly until his fingers reach your clit, drawing little circles. “You really wouldn’t be able to get away from me then, huh?” 

“That’s fucking insane,” your attempt to complain dies out into another pathetic moan. 

“I fucking know,” he laughs, pulling your hair back even more so you can look him right in the eye while he fucks himself even deeper into you. “I think you might like that though since you’re squeezing around me like crazy.” 

And you have no idea how to respond to that, you’re so fucking close. It’s taking everything in you to hold yourself together while he just tears you apart with each snap of his hips, rubbing fast circles over your clit.

“How bad do you wanna cum again?”

It’s been three times already, each time harder than the last. Your own body betrays yourself when you answer his question. “So bad.”

He hums sympathetically, though the look in his eyes seems to be the complete opposite of that. He keeps the same dizzying pace, pushing you further and further to edge until you’re finally gushing around him, again. He watches as tears of pure pleasure start rolling down your cheeks, trembling and letting out choked moans as he continues fucking you into overstimulation. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, letting go of your hair and wrapping his arms around your waist, keeping your back flush against his chest while he starts chasing against his own release. “M’so fuckin’ close. You’re gonna take it all, right?” 

“Yeah,” you weakly nod, nails digging into his forearms, steadying yourself as best as you can. 

“Shit— good girl,” he exhales, snapping his hips against your ass even harder, thrusts growing sloppier. “Here we go.”

The groans that spill out of Satoru are just downright sinful. There’s nothing but desperation in his tone as he holds on tight and starts pumping you full of his cum, shuddering as you milk his cock for all that he has. 

You’re spent by the time you come back to your senses, with his arms being the only thing keeping you up. And yet, as you lay limp in his hold, he says something that, at the time, sounded like a threat with how entranced he seemed.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, princess.” 

—

It’d been months since the night he finally broke his silence with you. 

No, you don’t work for him anymore. You quickly found a new job just three weeks later. One with better pay and normal hours. Easier, too.

Looking back, he truly was a shitty boss. A conniving one that always took up your time. You guess you just never saw it because a part of you always liked it— better yet, liked him. 

Good thing he’s a better boyfriend than he is a boss. 

You were reluctant to start a relationship with him at first, the thought of him taking up even more space into your life lingering in the back of your mind and threatening whatever little peace you had left. But surprisingly, he went from being a conspiring little bastard to…

“I just have one request tonight.” 

You’re in the middle of doing your makeup when his sudden presence pulls your attention away from it. You look at a slightly reluctant Satoru through the vanity mirror, raising a brow and waiting to hear what exactly that request is for tonight. 

“Can you wear something that shows your tits more?” Immediately you scoff, and he’s quick to defend himself. “What?! It’s our anniversary!”

You’ve been with him for an entire year now, and he just seems to grow more and more pathetic as the time passes. He’s in nothing but boxers, begging you to show off some cleavage, for fucks sake.

“You see my tits every night,” you scold him. 

“And I want to see them some more tonight, too.”

You scoff. “Sato—“

“Please,” he cuts you off with a beg. There’s a bit of a stare off shortly after, with him looking at you like some lost puppy and you inevitably give in, like you always do. He’s hard to say no to when he gets like this.

“Fine.” 

He smiles and walks up to you, leaning down to give you a quick kiss, careful not to mess with your lip liner. “Love you.”

“I love you, too,” you softly say, before barely scolding him again. “Now go put your suit on, you’re the one that said the driver was gonna be here soon.” 

“Yeah, whatever— he can wait,” he waves a hand, lazily walking up to the sea of suits he has in your shared closet. 

“Hey, Satoru?” 

“Hm?”

“If we’re even one minute late, I’m putting on a fucking turtleneck.” 

“…Fine.”

“…yes,” you whimper.

“Then fucking arch it.”

You sniffle. “Okay.”

He breaks character and huffs out a laugh as he watches you continue to helplessly stretch and squelch around him, making a creamy mess all along his shaft. He straightens his back, big hands now firmly grabbing your hips as he picks up the pace.

“Yeahh—stay right there,” his chest rumbles as he lets out a low, drawn-out groan. The smack of his hips growing louder, driving himself right into that little spot that won’t stop screaming for his attention.

It has his attention now.

The new angle had you whining into the pillow, absolutely reeling from how good he was at this, despite his complaints. He knows how to be rough. Nearly lifting you off the bed once he starts pulling your hips back, heavy balls smacking against your sensitive clit as he makes you meet each and every rough thrust he delivers.

“F-fuckk!” you choke out, barely able to form a coherent sentence as you start babbling out a bunch of words.

“So fuckin’ spoiled.” He complains, but just barely. “C’mon brat—you’ve been working me like a fuckin’ dog, give it to me already.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t believe you. You sound like you’re in heaven right now. “Mmhh—I love you so much.” His scowl deepens. “So, so much—you’re so fucking big.“

“Tch.” He grabs a handful of your hair, then yanks you back until you’re up against his chest, lips grazing your ear while muttering in it. “I don’t want an apology. What I want is for you to cum on my fuckin’ cock already. Or should I just stop?”

“No, no don’t! Please! I’m trying, I swear,” you begin to plead with the man.

“Try harder.” Then he smiled, because he felt you squeeze around him. “Jesus Christ—you need to me talk you through it too? The chocolates supposed to make you horny, sweetheart. Not useless.”

“It’s not my fault,” you whimper, and squeeze around him again, pulling a condescending huff out of him.

“You poor thing,” he hums. “Probably spent the whole day waiting for me to come home so I could make you feel better, huh?”

His breath tickles your ear and you nearly moan. “Mhm—I thought about it all day.”

“Well aren’t you sweet,” he mutters, tone as condescending as ever. “You got what you wanted, too. I’ve been taking care of you for a while now. How many times have I cum in you now?”

“I… I don’t know—“

“Of course you fuckin’ don’t.” He cuts you off, unamused by your answer. “Want me to do it again? Fill you up, make you feel all nice and warm?”

“Please.”

“Give me what I want then. If these sheets aren’t soaked by the time I’m about to cum again, I’m pulling out and finishing on your face,” he lets go of your hair and begins to laugh. You don’t get much of a chance to react before you feel the pads of his fingers on your clit, pulling a gasp out of you once he starts rubbing little circles on top of already fucking you. “Heh—let’s see if playing with this cute little clit saves you.”

And he knows you don’t deserve it—any of it, honestly. Unfortunately, he can’t help himself, not with the reactions he gets out of you. He married you for many reasons—getting to spend the rest of his life with a squirter was one of them. The moment your breathing grows labored and you sound like you’re gonna start to cry, his lids grow heavy and he starts saying all the things he told himself he wouldn’t say today.

"Yeahhh, that’s it, baby—fuuuuck—takin’ it so good.” He is fucking gone. Voice thick, filled with nothing but lust and awe as he presses against your lower belly. “C’mon, you want it here, right? Yeah, you know what to do—don’t let some fuckin’ asshole finish on your sweet little face.”

Yes. Your husband just degraded himself. And you just egg him on without meaning to. You were already whining about how it was too much, the incoherent “want it inside,” just made it better worse.

“I will, I’ll give you so fuckin’ much if you just give me one—just one. Easy. Shit—I’ll fill you up as much as you want afterwards.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but that doesn’t matter when it’s what has you crying and trembling and finally gushing around his cock.“Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, that’s—fuuuuck yeah. Good job, sweetheart—good fuckin’ job. Fuck.”

Funny enough, he came right after you, which was a relief because that meant his job was done and he was finally able to give his dick a fucking break after hours of feeling like he was working for free, when he had already worked a regular eight hour shift prior. The biggest relief of all was seeing you lie limp in bed, after slightly worrying if you ever actually would.

He leans over you with a smug smile, already having forgotten how much you pissed him off earlier as he moved some hair away from your face. Checking to see if you’re actually asleep or not, then feeling a deep sense of peace when seeing that you are. He presses a kiss against your cheekbone, and in the most loving way hopes you stay that way because he cannot do that again. Then finally, he gets up to use the bathroom.

The peace is only lasts four steps until it’s completely shattered again when he hears your weak voice.

“Are you ready to go again?”

he grunts. doesn’t nod. doesn’t look.

you wait by the door, clipboard loose in your hands, watching her lead him up the steps like he’s a dog she’s convinced she trained. she’s still talking—about the flowers in the yard, the porch light, something about a photo she saw online—but you’re not listening. you’re watching him.

he’s not interested in the house. that much is obvious. he’s only here because she is.

when they reach you, she beams. bright. rehearsed.

“hi! thank you soooo much for making time for us. i know it’s late in the day,” she says, already stepping past the threshold. “we’ve been looking at so many houses lately, it’s exhausting. my boyfriend’s super picky.”

her voice lilts on the last word like it’s charming. like it’s a private joke between the three of you.

he follows her in without a glance.

and then he sees you. his gaze drags. up. down. not rude. not obvious. just assessing in a slow and quiet yet heavy way. you don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until it’s already in your throat. you nod, polite. let your eyes flick away before you can read into it.

“feel free to take your time,” you say, voice steady. “i’ll walk you through each space, and if anything stands out, i’m happy to answer questions.”

“good,” he says. first word he’s spoken directly to you. low. curt. final.

she’s already pulling him toward the kitchen.

he doesn’t look away until you do.

the kitchen is first.

it’s wide and open, staged to look lived in—lemon in the bowl, neutral linens folded just so, light filtering in through the window above the farmhouse sink like a dream. she gasps like she’s walking into a wedding venue.

“oh, i love this,” she says, dragging the word out as she lets go of his arm and steps inside. “look at the backsplash! baby, doesn’t this look like that restaurant we went to in napa?”

he doesn’t answer. just glances around the room like he’s checking for exits.

you trail behind them, clipboard in hand, giving them space but not too much. it’s your job to sell it, but you already know who the buyer would be if this was real. she’s practically nesting. he hasn’t looked at a single fixture.

“the appliances are included,” you say gently, voice smooth but not overly warm. “brand new—stainless, energy efficient. quartz countertops, and there’s radiant heat flooring throughout the first level.”

she spins a little. smiles at you.

“you’re so good at this,” she says, and it’s sweet but hollow, like she’s trying to compliment you without noticing how quiet it’s gotten behind her.

you glance at him briefly. his gaze is already on you.

"what do you both do for work?" you ask, leading them toward the living space. “just to get a sense of your day-to-day, what kind of layout makes the most sense.”

“i work in fashion,” she says quickly, stepping in front of him again, eyes bright like she’s answering a magazine interview. “freelance creative direction, mostly luxury campaigns. we travel a lot, but we’re thinking of settling down here a bit more, y’know?”

you nod, smile. “it’s a great neighborhood for it. really peaceful, good privacy. lots of families moving in lately—there’s a top-rated private elementary just three minutes from here. brand new campus, playground, everything.”

“oh my god, stop,” she says, clutching his arm again, squealing just a little. “see? i told you this area was perfect. i mean… we’re not there yet, but like, eventually, right?”

he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t say anything. just slides his eyes toward you and murmurs, “we’re not planning for that.” his voice is flat. final. not up for debate.

you pretend not to notice.

you turn and gesture down the hallway, slipping back into your role like a well-worn coat, guiding them toward the bedrooms while keeping your voice even. the air shifts as soon as you step away from the open living space—narrower here, quieter, the light softer, shadows stretching longer along the walls. she drifts ahead, heels clicking, already narrating a future out loud to herself. guest room on the left. walk‑in closet potential. where she’d put mirrors. where she’d hang coats. she fills the space easily.

he doesn’t.

he lingers back just enough that when you walk, he walks beside you. not close enough to touch. close enough to feel. the heat of him, the weight of his attention, the way the hallway suddenly feels too small to hold all three of you at once.

“you live in a place like this?” he asks quietly, voice pitched low, timed perfectly so it won’t reach her ears.

you glance up at him before you can stop yourself. his gaze doesn’t flicker. doesn’t soften. it just stays on you, unreadable, like he’s measuring something he hasn’t decided to take yet.

you clear your throat. “similar,” you say. “not quite as large.”

“hm.”

it isn’t approval. it isn’t dismissal either. just a sound, thoughtful, like he’s filing the information away for later.

he smells like spice and something darker beneath it—leather, metal, money that’s been earned the hard way. as you walk, you notice the way his hand drags lazily along the wall, rings catching the light with every step, knuckles scarred like they’ve met too many people head-on.

you stop at the master.

open the door.

she’s inside before you finish the sentence, breath catching audibly as she takes in the space. tall windows, sunlight spilling in across the floors, the en suite bath half-visible through frosted glass.

“oh, we’d keep this exactly how it is,” she says, turning in a slow circle, arms lifting like she’s already claiming it. “don’t you think it’s so airy? and god, that tub—” she laughs, glancing back at him. “i can totally see us in here, can’t you?”

he doesn’t answer. not right away.

he’s looking at you instead.

not the windows. not the tub. not the way the light hits the floor. just you—standing in the doorway with one hand braced against the frame, clipboard tucked to your chest, trying very hard to remember how to breathe like this doesn’t feel personal.

“nice ceilings,” he mutters finally, eyes dragging from your face to your waist, then away again like nothing happened.

you swallow. nod once. “twelve-foot beams,” you say. “south-facing.”

he steps past you to look out the window at the end of the hall, broad shoulder brushing close enough that you feel the movement of air change. as he passes, his hand slides just enough to graze your hip again.

she doesn’t notice. she’s too busy wandering into the bathroom, fingers trailing over marble, humming softly.

“babe,” she calls over her shoulder, still smiling, “tell her what you do for work. she asked earlier.”

he pauses by the window. looks at the street below like he’s somewhere else entirely. then his eyes flick back to you, sharp and unreadable.

“used to fight,” he says. casual. almost bored. “underground.”

she laughs quickly, like she’s smoothing something over. “he means boxing,” she adds. “retired now. mostly. it’s all… in the past.”

he doesn’t correct her. doesn’t elaborate. just keeps watching you, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do with that information.

she’s still in the bathroom talking to herself, mostly. about the lighting, the vanity, the way the tub could look “really sexy” if they brought in a little rug and some candles. her voice bounces off the tile like she wants it to stick there, sweet and high and hungry for attention that isn’t coming.

you’re standing just outside the doorway, clipboard loose in your hands, nodding at the right moments, answering her questions about water pressure and heated flooring while keeping your eyes on the staging. not on him.

you know he’s behind you. you felt it before you heard him.

slow steps down the hall. the kind that don’t try to be quiet—just are. you look back before you can stop yourself, and he’s already there. leaning one shoulder against the wall like he’s been standing there this whole time, watching you talk. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t move. just tips his head a little and lets his eyes drag.

he’s too close.

not close enough to touch you. but close enough to smell.

you shift your weight. press the clipboard a little tighter to your chest. try not to let it show.

he’s still staring. when he speaks, it’s too low to carry past you. not loud enough for her to hear from inside. it’s just for you.

“you always this polite?”

you glance up at him. nod. barely.

“with clients,” you say softly.

he smiles with his mouth closed. “shame.”

you blink. feel it in your throat.

you mean to turn back. to go inside. to say something about the tile or the brass or the fact that the tub has jets. but he moves first. slow. one hand lifts and brushes against the doorframe near your head, fingers curling against the wood like he’s testing how much space there is between you. like he’s measuring it. like he already knows it’s not enough.

you hold your breath. his eyes drop. from your eyes to your lips. from your lips to your neck. from your neck to the top button of your blouse. and lower.

“you always this quiet?”

you swallow. nod again.

“depends who i’m talking to,” you murmur.

his gaze sharpens. not a lot. just enough to feel it.

he doesn’t lean in all the way. just enough for the heat to reach your cheek. just enough for the smell of him—spice and sweat and something expensive—to get under your skin. his voice is rough when it comes, dragged low like it’s something he wants you to remember.

“bet you’d show me something better if she wasn’t here.”

your heart kicks once. hard. clipboard still tight to your chest.

he doesn’t wait for an answer. doesn’t need one.

you feel the air shift when he steps back.

she calls his name before he fully turns. her voice floats out of the bathroom, bright and airy like she didn’t notice the tension stretched across the hallway like a tripwire.

“baby, come feel the pressure in the shower—it’s perfect!”

he doesn’t answer right away. just watches you for a second longer. eyes steady. unreadable.

and then he walks past you like nothing happened.

you don’t move for a while. you just listen to the sound of her laugh. the way it echoes. the way it doesn’t match the pace of your pulse.

your phone buzzes in your pocket.

you’re in the middle of pointing out the closet space in the home office—explaining how the previous owners used it for seasonal storage—when the screen lights up. a number you recognize. not one you can ignore.

“sorry,” you murmur, stepping back, polite but firm. “i just need to take this.”

“oh, totally fine,” she says quickly, all smiles. “go ahead, we’ll keep looking. i wanna see how big the guest room actually is.”

you nod, grateful. already turning toward the stairs.

you don’t look at him. you don’t have to. you can feel him. the way his gaze doesn’t move, doesn’t shift. the way he waits until your foot hits the second step before saying—“i’ll be back. left something in the car.”

you don’t turn around. don’t say anything.

you answer the phone at the bottom of the stairs, voice smooth, calm, still trying to sound like the person you were fifteen minutes ago. the person who didn’t know how it would feel to stand too close to him in a hallway. the person who wasn’t starting to sweat under her blouse.

you keep your back to the kitchen. fingers tight around the edge of the counter.

the call doesn’t last long. just scheduling. a detail about an afternoon showing tomorrow. you wrap it up fast, already hearing the front door open behind you. then close again.

you don’t turn around right away.

but you know.

you know it’s not the car he went to.

you know he didn’t forget anything.

you feel him enter the room before you see him—feel the quiet stretch and twist, the air shift. his steps are slow. and when you finally glance over your shoulder, he’s already close enough that it doesn’t matter.

you let the silence hang.

his eyes drag down your frame, unhurried. from your mouth to your hips. back up again.

he doesn’t speak until he’s right behind you.

“phone call over?”

you don’t answer right away. just nod. still half-turned, still pretending this isn’t happening the way it’s happening.

he moves closer.

the kitchen island presses against your thighs. the counter cool against your hands. he places one hand beside yours. heavy. wide. the rings on his fingers glint in the light.

“didn’t like that you left,” he murmurs.

you let out a breath. shake your head once. “you’re here with someone else.”

“and you answered the phone.”

his hand slides to your hip. your pulse kicks.

“she’s upstairs,” you whisper, half-warn, half-remind.

“you’re downstairs,” he says, voice steady. “we’re alone.”

you exhale, quiet, shaky. “this is wrong.”

his fingers dig in just a little.

“so stop me.”

you don’t. and when his other hand comes up, to touch your waist, to trace the edge of your blouse with the back of his fingers, you shiver. can’t help it. can’t stop it.

“why are you even with her?” you ask, voice barely audible. “you don’t even look at her. it's mean, you know.”

he doesn’t flinch.

“history,” he says. “her dad helped me when i had nothing. i paid him back by keeping her safe.”

you swallow. stay still.

“and now?”

“now she wants something i don’t.”

you look up at him. chest rising.

“what do you want?”

“you.”

his hand slides down the front of your thigh, slow, thumb dragging just under the hem of your blouse where it’s come untucked, fingers grazing skin like he already knows how you’ll taste.

“i want to see you again,” he murmurs, low against your jaw. “tonight.”

you swallow hard, still staring ahead, still frozen against the island like you’re braced for something worse.

“what—for another showing?” you whisper, trying to keep your voice level. trying to remember where you are, who you’re supposed to be.

his mouth brushes just behind your ear.

“call it extra,” he says. “i want something a little more private.”

you don’t get the chance to answer.

her voice cuts through the room like a bell—bright, soft, perfectly timed.

“oh my god, i love it!” she says, heels clicking across the floor as she rounds the corner back into the kitchen, totally oblivious. “the guest room is adorable and that office space? so perfect for me.”

your eyes go wide. you step back quickly, adjusting your blouse with one hand and your clipboard with the other, pretending you were just about to walk back into the hall. he’s already moved, hands tucked in his pockets, standing casually by the sink like he wasn’t just whispering filth into your neck.

she doesn’t notice. she’s already bouncing toward the center of the room, smiling like she’s just made the easiest decision of her life.

“i wanna buy it,” she beams. “what’s the process? how soon can we get started?”

you open your mouth—ready to guide her through the usual steps, your voice catching somewhere between professionalism and panic.

but he speaks first.

“tonight,” sukuna says. calm. final. like it was already decided. “we worked out a deal. i’m bringing the money later.”

you blink. you look at him.

she claps her hands together, absolutely thrilled.

“ugh, finally. you’re the best,” she says, turning to you like this has all been a team effort. “thank you so much for your help. seriously.”

you force a smile. she wraps you in a soft hug before you can dodge it. perfume and pink lip gloss and the sound of her bracelets jangling against your back.

then she pulls away and reaches for his hand.

“baby, let’s go. we’ve got stuff to pack.”

he lets her lead him toward the door like nothing happened. like he didn’t just have his hand almost under your blouse five minutes ago. like he didn’t tell you he was coming back tonight for something extra.

you stand still. don’t move. clipboard still tucked against your chest like a shield that stopped working a long time ago.

she’s already talking about what she wants to eat for dinner. what color she wants to paint the guest room. how early she can come back with swatches. you can barely hear her over the sound of your own heart in your throat.

and then—right before they step out—he looks back.

his eyes find yours over her shoulder, and he holds it. not smiling, not soft, not sweet. just… steady. enough to remind you.

you raise your hand to wave before you can stop yourself. the kind of wave you give when your whole body feels disconnected. your mouth twitches into something polite. practiced.

she waves back, bright and chipper, swinging his arm as she pulls him outside.

and then the door closes.

you don’t move for a second. don’t breathe. your fingers loosen around the clipboard until it slides from your grip and lands on the wood with a dull, plastic thud.

you reach back blindly. lean into the doorframe like you’re bracing yourself. like the floor might drop out.

then your knees give. and you sink. back against the door. hands in your lap. chest rising too fast. head tipped up toward the ceiling like it might know something you don’t.

you blink once. then again.

what the fuck did i just get into?

‿‿‿‿

you come back after dark.

not late enough to be suspicious, but late enough that the house is quiet. untouched. your shoes click against the floor too sharp. the light from the hallway barely touches the kitchen. it’s all dim outlines and shadows, warm-toned sunset bleeding through the wide windows and catching the counter edges in gold.

you pretend like you’re here to check something. to grab a folder you forgot. to make sure the staging team didn’t leave anything behind.

but your hand hesitates on the light switch.

and you don’t call out.

then you see it.

a glass on the island. already used. already sweating. the kind the staging team never leaves behind. out of place. casual. like someone’s been here a while.

you stop moving.

and that’s when you hear it—the soft sound of ice shifting. a chair pulled back. the steady, unhurried weight of his footsteps behind you like he was always meant to fill the space.

“you left the door unlocked.”

you don’t turn. don’t speak. just grip the strap of your bag a little tighter and try not to show how fast your heart is beating. he’s close. you can hear it in his voice. feel it in the air.

“i was gonna leave,” he says, and you can already hear the smile in it. low. dark. lazy. “but you came back.”

you finally glance over your shoulder.

he’s leaning against the counter like he owns it. sleeves rolled. shirt unbuttoned just enough to show ink and skin. rings still on. eyes steady. tracking every inch of you like he’s waiting to see what breaks first.

“what are you doing here,” you ask, voice soft. stupid.

he shrugs. takes a sip from the glass. his tongue brushes the rim.

“wanted to see if the place still felt good without her in it.”

you blink. your mouth opens, then closes.

he sets the glass down.

“come here.”

you don’t move.

his gaze sharpens, slow and amused. like he’s letting you pretend you still have a choice.

“i said—come here.”

your feet move before your brain catches up. you round the island slowly, heart stuck somewhere in your throat, and he doesn’t touch you right away. just watches you walk toward him like he’s letting it sink in.

he turns you by the hips. lifts you onto the counter like you weigh nothing. the stone is cold beneath your thighs, but his hands are warm. steady. dragging up under your skirt before you can even speak.

“wait—”

his mouth is already on your neck. slow. greedy. his fingers tug your panties to the side without hesitation, already sliding through your folds like he knew you’d be wet for him.

you are.

you hate it. you hate that he knows.

he kisses your thigh once. breath hot against your skin.

“you came back for this,” he says, voice low. “don’t pretend you didn’t.”

your breath stutters. mouth open, nothing coming out. his hands are already spreading you wider, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your thighs like he’s claiming them. like you. like the space between your legs belongs to him now—warm and flushed and soaking through the lace he didn’t even bother taking off.

his thumb slides along the seam of your panties. slow. lazy. pulls them aside like he’s done this before—like he knew exactly how they’d stick to you. the groan he lets out when he sees it, when he sees how wet you are already, is quiet but deep, dragged straight from his chest.

“fuck.”

your skin burns under his stare.

you try to close your legs out of instinct, but he catches you easily. presses your thighs open again with his palms and just… holds you there. mouth close enough that you feel his breath against your cunt. humid. heavy. unbearable.

“look at that,” he mutters, voice lower now. almost reverent. “fucking dripping. all this for me?”

you don’t answer.

you can’t.

his tongue slides up the center of you—the first lick messy and hot, dragging through everything that’s already leaked out of you. your whole body flinches. your hand slams down on the counter behind you for balance.

“s-sukuna—”

but he doesn’t stop.

he fucking groans into it. tongue flattening again, pressing deep before curling up to suck your clit into his mouth like it’s something he’s starving for. his hands dig into your thighs harder when you jerk, like he wants you to squirm. wants to feel how much it overwhelms you.

he’s sloppy with it.

loud.

his tongue flicks fast, sucks harder, the wet sounds obscene in the silence of the kitchen—your breath hitching, your thighs twitching, your cunt soaked. it’s all mouth and heat and the slick, desperate way he chases the taste of you, like you’re the best thing he’s ever had. he’s not being gentle. he’s being greedy. tongue fucking you through every stutter of your breath, lips slick with it, chin damp.

you feel it pooling beneath you. dripping down the curve of your ass and sticking to the stone.

you’re not thinking anymore.

your hand finds his hair. yanks. hard.

he groans when you do it.

his tongue licks deeper in response, then slides back up, fast, sharp, focused. sucking your clit with filthy precision until your legs are shaking.

“that’s it,” he growls against you. “come on. give it to me.”

you gasp. your whole body jolts.

and then you break. loud. helpless.

your orgasm hits hard. shivering, choking on your own breath as you grind against his mouth without realizing, your hand still fisted in his hair, his name coming out half-broken. your thighs threaten to close around his head and he lets them. grips your ass and keeps going, tongue dragging through everything you give him like it’s not enough.

he only pulls away when your legs start to tremble too much to hold you up.

his mouth is soaked.

he looks up at you with his lips still parted, tongue wet and chin shining. breath heavy. cock already hard and pressing against the front of his pants.

“taste better than i imagined,” he says. “but you’re not done.”

he stands without wiping his mouth.

just rises to his full height between your legs, tongue wet, chin gleaming, eyes locked on yours like he wants to see what you do with this—what you do with him, this close, this filthy, with your slick still shining on his face. his hands never leave your body. they slide up your hips, drag along your sides, and his mouth crashes into yours like he’s been holding back the whole time.

you gasp into it. instantly. can’t help it.

he kisses you deep. unrelenting. tongue greedy, lips dragging yours open until you’re moaning straight into his mouth. the taste of yourself hits you fast, warm and sweet and obscene, and he fucking loves it—you can feel it in the way his hand curls around the back of your neck, in the way his other hand grips your waist and pulls you closer, grinding his clothed cock against the edge of the counter between your legs.

it’s all teeth and tongue. your fingers claw at his shirt, his belt, the front of his pants. everything feels too tight, too hot. you don’t even realize you’re rutting against him until he growls low into your mouth and bites your bottom lip.

“turn around.”

his voice is wrecked now. rough and thick and impatient.

your body moves before your mind does.

he helps you down—grabs your hips, spins you, bends you forward against the counter like you were meant to be there. your elbows hit the stone. your breath stutters. your thighs spread on instinct, already trembling from how hard you came.

he drags your panties the rest of the way down and pockets them into his jeans.

one hand splays over your back, keeping you bent.

the other fumbles with his belt—fast, clumsy, not from nerves, but need. the clink of metal makes your whole body clench. you feel his cock free a second later, thick and hot and heavy, the head dragging through your folds like he’s taking his time just to make you squirm.

“fuck—” you whimper, back arching.

he groans at the sound of it. he grinds the tip against your entrance but doesn’t push in. not yet. just leans over you, mouth hot at your ear, filthy as ever. “tell me you want it like this.”

“say it.”

“i want it like this,” you breathe, shaky, soft.

his hand tangles in your hair. yanks your head back just enough to make you gasp. the countertop digs into your hips, grounding you.

“eyes on me.”

you do. you meet them. his gaze is dark, lidded, mean—like he wants to burn a hole through your skull and leave nothing behind but this moment.

“good girl.”

he thrusts in. one slow, brutal push. thick and unrelenting, stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried to the base. your knees nearly give. your mouth falls open but no sound comes out. he fills you so completely you swear your eyes roll back.

he groans into your neck. rolls his hips slow.

“fuck, you’re tight.”

you make a sound then. soft. desperate. your fingers claw at the counter’s edge, searching for something to hold, something to feel, because every part of your body is already overloaded.

he pulls back just enough. slams in deeper.

you jerk forward from the force of it, a cry catching in your throat. he grabs your hips harder. spreads you wider. uses both hands to open you up, one slipping down to your thigh, the other gripping your ass and pulling it apart to sink even deeper.

“there you go,” he mutters. “take it.”

your whole body burns.

he sets a rough rhythm. each thrust louder than the last. the slap of skin. the wet slide of him fucking into you without even fully undressing. just your panties shoved aside, his pants half undone, both of you fully clothed from the waist up, like you couldn’t be bothered to wait.

you try to look back—try to see him—but he grabs your hair again and makes you.

“you like this?” he says, breathing hard now. “getting fucked like a whore on the kitchen counter?”

your answer comes in a choked moan. your body trembling. your cunt squeezing around him with every punishing stroke.

his hand slips between your legs. finds your clit. rubs it fast, rough, filthy. your head drops, fingers scrambling against the counter for something to hold, anything to keep you from falling apart.

you’re so close. aching. desperate.

and then—he stops.

you nearly sob.

“nah actually,” he says, voice too casual, too smug, like he didn’t just wreck you with two minutes of controlled chaos. “let’s check out that shower pressure, yeah?”

you don’t even have time to respond.

he pulls out and then he scoops you up—bridal style—like you weigh nothing, like he’s already carried you a hundred times before, like this is just step one.

you wrap your arms around his arms instinctively, dazed, dizzy, still dripping around nothing. your breath catches in your throat when he starts up the stairs.

he doesn’t even look winded.

just smirks. eyes locked forward.

“wanna see if the tile walls can handle it,” he mutters under his breath. “bet you’ll scream louder in there.”

you barely register the way he shoulders through the bathroom door until the lights flicker on and the walls catch the last of the dying sun through the frosted glass. warm, golden, and hazy. but all of it looks unreal through the steam already beginning to build, his body crowding yours like he’s the only thing in this whole fucking house that matters.

he kicks the door shut behind him. sets you down, but only long enough to get your clothes off. and not carefully, either.

your top is dragged over your head so fast it nearly chokes you, bra undone with one flick of his fingers before he’s tugging your skirt down—not even bothering with the zipper. panties were already long gone. he doesn’t even fully stand to remove his own shirt, just yanks it up over his head in one smooth, rough motion, revealing skin that’s broad, tanned, scarred and muscle-thick—worn and hard.

and his back—fuck.

cut deep with marks that look like they’ve seen a thousand fights. red lines. raised flesh. healed-over stories you don’t know the names of. and he wears all of it like armor.

you’re already reaching for him, already aching. but he gets there first.

slams your mouth together like he needs it—filthy, open-mouthed, no breathing, no pause. it’s teeth and tongue and bruised lips and your back hitting the foggy glass wall of the shower before the water’s even on.

he kisses like he fucks. full-bodied. consuming. like he’s trying to drink you down in one breath.

you whimper into his mouth when the water bursts to life above you—hot, pounding, loud. steam rises fast. beads drip down both your faces, hair starting to soak and stick and cling to his temples as he presses you harder into the tile.

his mouth leaves yours, trailing rough kisses down your jaw, your neck, biting once at your collarbone before he latches onto a nipple and groans, low and guttural, when you arch into it.

“fuck, you’re soft everywhere,” he growls, hand dragging from your hip to your ass, gripping hard. “gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

your fingers tangle in his wet hair. pink and messy. soft against your knuckles but wild when your nails dig in.

“do it, then,” you pant, gasping when he sinks lower. “fucking do it.”

he does.

one arm wraps under your thighs. lifts you clean off the ground like it’s nothing. water rushes between you, down his back, over your chest, your stomach, pouring in sheets off his shoulders as he slams you against the wall, knees spreading, ankles locking behind his hips.

your breath leaves you in a rush.

he thrusts in again without warning—just one long, brutal push that knocks the air from your lungs and punches a moan out of your throat, filthy and high and helpless.

you claw red all down his back.

he likes that. he grins against your skin and fucks into you harder, faster, like he’s trying to see how loud he can make you in a space like this.

wet squelches echo, louder than they should be, bouncing off tile, tangled with your breathy whines and the slap of skin against skin. you hold onto him like you’re drowning. like the only thing tethering you to this world is the slick, perfect drag of his cock and the sound of his voice rasping against your ear.

“you’ll think about this every time you walk into a kitchen,” he grunts. “every fucking time you turn on a faucet. every time you wipe off a counter.”

“fuck—sukuna—”

he presses in deeper.

“gonna fill you up again. you want that, baby?”

you nod, frantic. your nails bite into his shoulders. your head falls back against the wall, water soaking your hair, your face, your lips. you kiss him blindly, breathless and soaked, crying into his mouth as he fucks you through it.

your orgasm crashes like it’s meant to break something.

your whole body clenches down around him, slick and pulsing and loud. he curses under his breath. fucks you through every tremor, every twitch, until he’s grinding so deep you feel it in your throat.

he groans when he cums.

grits his teeth. grabs your jaw and makes you look at him while he finishes, eyes blown wide, hair dripping, water mixing with sweat as his cock throbs deep inside you and heat floods your insides.

you both just stay there for a second. breathing hard. shaking.

your back still pressed to the tile, legs around his waist, arms slung loose around his shoulders like you forgot how to hold yourself up. his forehead drops to your collarbone, breath hot against your chest. the water keeps running. loud. too loud. but neither of you move to shut it off.

his hands are still on you. one on your thigh. the other splayed across your lower back, fingers digging in like he’s still trying to keep you there. inside. full. dripping.

you don’t even know what to say. not really. you’re both bare now. not just skin, but everything underneath it. the kind of quiet that follows ruin. the kind that doesn’t know what happens next.

your voice comes out thin. breathless. like it’s been wrung through your ribs and handed to you in pieces.

“what now?”

he doesn’t answer at first. just lets the silence stretch.

you feel him slowly pull out. feel the loss of it in your spine. down to your knees.

he sets you down gently, like he’s not the reason you’re trembling. and then he finally leans back. meets your eyes.

his own are unreadable. heavy-lidded. pink hair dripping, mouth swollen, chest rising and falling too fast. there’s a scar across his ribs you hadn’t noticed before, jagged and pale against the muscle. you wonder if it ever hurt him. if anything ever has.

his hand lifts to your jaw. thumb brushes over the corner of your mouth.

he tilts your chin up.

“you’ll see me again,” he says quietly. like it’s a fact. not a promise.

you should say no. should push him away. should tell him this was a mistake and it can’t happen again.

The wind had turned strange.

It carried something stronger than before, threading through the town with a low, uneasy whisper. The air felt cooler against his skin, damp and heavy, smelling of earth, rain, and something faintly rotten beneath it all. A storm was coming. He could feel it in his bones, in the way the night held its breath.

He walked towards the church.

An elderly woman stepped out just as he reached the steps, her small frame hunched, her cane tapping against the wood. She noticed him immediately, offering a soft, welcoming smile as if nothing in this world could possibly be wrong.

“Well hello there, darling,” she said warmly. “Came to pay your respects to our Lord and Savior? Come in come in, but do hurry now, the priest will be closing the doors soon. It’s getting quite late.”

The man stared at her for a moment.

“That so?” he replied, voice smooth, unreadable. Then, quieter, almost thoughtful. “You should head home. It’s going to start pouring soon.”

“Huh?” The woman glanced up at the sky, confused by the absence of any sign of rain. No stars. No moon. Just a thick, suffocating dark pressing down on the town.

“Oh… well, you’re right, I suppose,” she murmured. “I should get going. Thank you, darling.”

She adjusted her cane and made her way back down the path, unaware of how close she had come to something that did not belong in God’s world.

The man watched her go, then he stepped inside. 

The church greeted him with decay.

It was dark, the rows of pews barely visible, their shapes swallowed by shadow. Only the faint glow of a candelabra near the altar kept the place from being consumed entirely. The air was thick with dust and dampness, the wooden planks beneath his boots soft in places, warped with rot. Mold crept along the corners of the walls like a slow confession, spreading unchecked.

Neglected. Forgotten. Or perhaps… willfully ignored.

At the altar stood the priest, a Bible clutched tightly in his hands, his figure stiff beneath the flickering light.

“May I help you?” he called, raising an eyebrow, unable to make out the figure lingering near the entrance.

The man let the silence stretch, then he spoke.

“Just wondering if you had any food to spare,” he said, stepping forward slowly. “Me and my friends… we’ve been traveling for a while now. Haven’t eaten in days.”

The priest hesitated. Not out of compassion, but out of calculation.

“Are you a resident of Sourwater?” he asked.

The man already knew where this was going. “No… just passing through.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, then,” the priest replied, voice firm. “Perhaps the general store, or the saloon if you have coin.”

“We don’t, Father…” the man answered.

“That’s not my concern. This is not a charity.” The words settled, sharp and final.

“I see,” the man murmured. He began to walk forward. Step by step, the candlelight climbed him. His boots, his coat, his hands, until it reached his face. Pale, too pale. His features were sharp, almost carved, unnatural in their precision. And his eyes… they crimson. Not shadow or trickery, crimson blood.

The priest’s breath caught in his throat. Sweat beaded along his forehead as his grip on the Bible tightened, knuckles paling. And when the man spoke again, the priest saw them.

Fangs.

“What… what are you?” he stammered, voice breaking under the weight of something ancient and wrong pressing against his chest.

The man tilted his head, almost amused. “Me?” he echoed softly. “I’m just a man, Father.”

Behind him, two other figures stepped into the light, silent, closing in.

“You’re not supposed to be here…” the priest said quickly, backing up a step. “This is the house of God.”

The man didn’t stop. “God is not here,” he replied. The words felt colder than the air. “Your god’s love is not unconditional,” he continued, voice quiet but cutting. “And he does not love you.”

“My life’s work is in His name!” the priest snapped, anger rising to mask the fear clawing at his throat.

“Is it?” the man asked. Another step. “Because I recall asking for food.” His voice lowered. “For mercy. And you turned me away.”

“I am the priest of Sourwater!” he shouted. “I have done nothing but the Lord’s work!”

“Lies?” the man murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “In your house of god?” He moved closer. “You starve the needy. You take from those who have nothing and call it devotion. You use his name like a leash.” His voice dipped, almost gentle. “No wonder he abandoned you.”

The priest’s back hit the altar. 

“But us…” the man continued, the other two now at his sides, closing the space completely, “we don’t pretend. We love you exactly as you are.”

Then they moved, fast.

Teeth sank into flesh before the priest could even scream, hands gripping him in place as his body jerked and twisted. The Bible slipped from his grasp, hitting the floor with a hollow sound that echoed far too loudly in the empty church.

Blood spilled, warm, thick, and wrong. The man drank first, then pulled back, his expression tightening slightly.

“Rotten,” he muttered under his breath. 

The others followed, less eager now, but still feeding, still tearing, still taking.

Tainted blood never satisfied. It never did.

The priest collapsed at the base of the altar, his body crumpling like something hollowed out, something already gone long before they arrived.

The man wiped his mouth slowly, glancing towards the open doors where the wind had begun to howl, louder now, carrying with it the distant creak of wood, the restless stirring of a town that did not yet know what had come for it. 

He exhaled. He was content, but not full. “Well…” he murmured, voice almost thoughtful, “the night’s still young.”

Behind him, the other two shifted, hunger still gnawing, still sharp.

In a few more hours the sun would rise… but not for Sourwater. 

Inside the small office, two men spoke in hushed voices, wary of being overheard. If what they were discussing ever left the room, it wouldn’t just stir whispers, it would send panic ripping through the town of Whiskey Falls, then beyond it, into the state of North Clementine… and eventually the entire country.

And that would be very bad for everyone.

“Are you certain of what you’re telling me, Father Clarke?” the sheriff asked, brows drawn tight with disbelief. His teeth worried at the nail of his thumb, a nervous habit he couldn’t seem to stop.

“Positive,” the priest replied, voice low, strained. “There’s nothing natural about a whole town simply… vanishing overnight. No bodies. No signs of struggle.” He paused, swallowing. “I sent two of my boys out three days ago with supplies Father Bell requested. When they came back…”

He exhaled slowly.

“They were shaken. Pale. Sweating like they’d seen the devil himself.”

The sheriff leaned forward. “And?”

“They refused to speak at first. Wouldn’t say a word to the other deacons. I had to pull them aside, calm them down.” His grip tightened slightly against the desk. “When they finally spoke… they said the town was empty. Completely empty. Not a soul left.”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

“Well…?” the sheriff pressed.

The priest hesitated. 

“The only thing left behind,” he said carefully, “was blood.”

The word seemed to settle into the room like something alive.

“Everywhere,” he continued. “Walls. Floors. Ceilings. Doors. Windows. Rooms soaked in it—as if something tore through the place and left nothing but what was inside the people.”

The sheriff went still.

“This isn’t normal,” the priest added, quieter now. “But I’ve heard stories before. A group of Native travelers that once passed through town spoke of something like this. Said if it ever came to pass…” he trailed off, jaw tightening. “If my suspicions are right, they might know what we’re dealing with.”

“And what exactly do you think that is?” the sheriff asked.

The priest didn’t answer right away.

“I’m going to Sourwater tomorrow,” he said. “I need to see it for myself before we involve anyone else.”

The sheriff straightened. “Then I’m going with you. Just in case things turn… sour.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, slowly stepping away from the door before either man could catch you listening.

Blood? An entire town gone overnight? Your stomach twisted. Better not to think too much about it. Thoughts like those had a way of growing teeth in the dark, turning into things that kept you awake long after the candles burned out.

Still, the unease lingered.

You stepped outside, boots crunching softly against the dirt as you made your way towards the town center to meet your friends.

Whiskey Falls was beautiful, it had always been enough.

There was the farmers’ market, bursting with fresh produce and the smell of baked bread. The general store stocked nearly everything anyone could need. The tailor shop where Manami worked, her hands crafting gowns so fine they looked almost too delicate to wear. The small doctor’s office where Shoko spent her days tending to patients, learning everything she could in hopes of becoming one herself.

There were smaller establishments too, each owned by someone who knew your name.

The sheriff’s office stood at the entrance of town, right across from the church. Stables lined the outskirts. A train station waited on the far end, bringing in letters and strangers alike. And at the heart of it all was the saloon.

Loud. Warm. Alive.

Your favorite place.

A place where laughter came easy, and secrets even easier.

Inside, Yuki sat at the bar, already waiting, her presence as bright as ever.

“Glad you’re finally here,” she said, grinning. You couldn’t help but smile back. Yuki had a way of doing that, lifting the mood without even trying.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” you said, lowering your voice slightly. “But wait until Utahime gets back.”

“I’m here,” Utahime announced, stepping behind the counter with a tray in hand. She set it down with a soft clatter before glancing between the two of you. “What’s going on?”

You leaned in. “Promise me you won’t repeat this.”

They both straightened slightly, your tone enough to tell them this wasn’t gossip. “I promise,” they said in unison.

You nodded.

“I overheard the sheriff and Father Clarke talking,” you began. “Something happened in Sourwater. A whole town gone overnight. No bodies, just blood everywhere.”

Nobody said anything for a second. Utahime’s fingers stilled against the counter.

“Satoru’s leaving town?” she asked, almost to herself, her hand instinctively clutching the fabric of her dress. Her feelings for him had always been complicated—something unspoken, lingering in the spaces between her words. One minute she was fine with him and the next she wanted to carve out his guts. 

“I think so,” you said. “He offered to go investigate. I just… I don’t know. What if whatever happened there—”

“Hey,” Yuki cut in gently, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t go thinking like that. Even if he leaves, we’re not helpless.”

She flexed her arm with a grin. “I can handle just about anything.” It wasn’t an empty claim. Years of ranch work had built her strength into something real, something reliable.

“And I’ve still got this,” Utahime added quietly, opening a drawer just enough to reveal the grip of a revolver. A gift from Satoru. Protection, in a world that didn’t always care for women’s safety.

You nodded.

Once, you would’ve thought it improper. Unladylike. Unholy, even.

But you had grown. You had seen enough to understand that sometimes survival mattered more than purity.

“Alright,” Utahime said after a moment, forcing a smirk. “Enough of that. Let’s talk about something better.” She leaned in slightly. “I overheard Mr. Smith earlier, turns out that hair tonic Mr. Matthews sold him?” she snorted. “Did the opposite.”

Yuki blinked. “No way.”

“Oh yes. Looks like we’ll be seeing that ridiculous hat of his a lot more often.”

Laughter broke the tension.

There had been rumors for weeks about Mr. Smith developing a small bald spot. One he tried so hard to hide beneath his perfectly combed, honey-blond hair. The kind people used to compliment. The kind he took pride in. Not so stunning anymore.

Served him right.

A month ago, he had laughed—loud and careless—at Ms. Arizona’s greying hair, calling it a sign of “giving up.”

Funny how things had a way of turning.

You glanced up at the clock, it was midday, and chores still waited back at home.

“I’ll see you both later,” you said, standing from your seat. “I’ll come back tonight after I’m done.”

Tonight was special.

The town would be celebrating Yuta—Satoru’s younger cousin—passing his qualifications to become a deputy.

A night full of music, drinks, and laughter. A night like any other.

You had spent the rest of the day tending to your duties.

Helping your father at the church, preparing his lunch, attending to anyone who walked through those front doors in whatever way you could. Offering kind words, small comforts, quiet guidance. Then, when the sun had begun its slow descent and you returned home, your work did not end.

You washed clothes until your hands smelled faintly of soap and worn fabric. You prepared dinner, the scent of it filling the house in a soft, familiar warmth. You swept every corner, pushing away dust that always seemed to return no matter how often you chased it out. And finally, you fed Gabriel and Mary.

Gabriel and Mary, your pets, your heart.

Gabriel was an American shorthair cat your father had rescued one stormy night years ago, soaked to the bone, trembling beneath the church steps as thunder cracked overhead. He had been so small then, barely more than a bundle of fur and fear. Now he moved through the house like he owned it, quiet and watchful.

Mary was different.

A beautiful beagle who had wandered into the church one afternoon while your father was in the middle of a sermon. You remembered it clearly—the way your father had been speaking about Jesus’s teachings, voice steady and full of conviction… and there she was, sitting right in the center aisle, ears perked, eyes fixed on him as if she were truly listening.

It had been funny. Sacred, in a strange way.

She never left after that.

They were both your treasure. Your babies. You didn’t know what you would do without them.

By the time everything was done, the house had settled into a quiet stillness.

So, while you waited for your father, you stepped into the bathroom, where the wooden tub rested against the wall. Filling it bucket after bucket with warm water, the soft sound of it pouring into the tub echoing gently in the small space. Steam began to rise, curling faintly in the air.

You undressed and stepped in.

The warmth wrapped around you instantly, sinking into your skin, easing the day’s exhaustion from your bones. You reached for the soap, lathering it between your hands before using the sponge to scrub away the dust and sweat clinging to you. Watching the bubbles gather across, thin and glistening.

Tonight mattered. It was important for Yuta.

He had been officially appointed by Satoru as a deputy. A title he had wanted for years, following closely in his older cousin’s footsteps. Training every day—horse riding until his legs ached, practicing how to tie and throw a lasso with precision, learning how to shoot until his aim became something near perfect.

He was a good kid, though not a kid anymore.

He had turned nineteen just three months ago. A man now, by all accounts. But to you he would always be that little boy knocking on your door, asking if you wanted to play.

You weren’t much older than him. Just recently turned twenty-four.

Back then, when time had been kinder, you would run through the fields together, wade into the river, disappear into the forest and pretend you were cowboys, living wild and free, untouched by responsibility.

But time changed things. It always did. There were no more games now. No more long afternoons without purpose.

Still, being there tonight mattered.

To show him that even if life had pulled you in different directions, you hadn’t forgotten him. That you were still there.

You stepped out of the tub, water dripping softly from your skin, and reached for the oil bottle resting on the top shelf. Keeping yourself clean was one thing. But neglecting your skin afterward felt almost careless. 

You poured a small amount into your palms, the scent of jasmine blooming instantly in the air. Soft. Sweet. Comforting. You smoothed it over your arms, your shoulders, your collarbone, watching as your skin caught the light with a faint, subtle shimmer.

There were no downsides to moisturizing the skin, none at all.

You dressed simply, a plain white blouse, soft and modest. A long, full skirt in a light pink with a delicate floral pattern that brushed gently against your legs. Long stockings beneath, paired with simple black boots.

It looked nice, casual. Nothing too captivating or that it would draw the wrong kind of attention.

When you stepped into the hallway, your father was already there, still dressed in his priest’s robes.

“Daughter…” he said, his voice softening as he approached you. His hands came up to cup your cheeks, warm and familiar, before he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You look wonderful.”

“Thank you, father,” you replied, smiling up at him.

“I know you’re going out tonight,” he continued, “to celebrate your friend’s big day. But please, be careful.”

There was something in his voice.

“I will, father.”

“I know you will,” he said, offering a small smile. “You’re a good girl.” He reached into his robes. “Here… I got you something. Wear this tonight.” He placed a silver rosary around your neck, his fingers adjusting it gently so it rested just right.

You looked down at it.

“Thank you, father… it’s lovely.”

He nodded once, satisfied. “I’m glad you like it.” His tone shifted. “But there’s something else I need to speak to you about, my child.”

Your chest tightened.

“I know you were listening earlier. Outside the office. When I was speaking with Gojo.”

Your heart sank, not really expecting for anyone to have noticed you earlier. 

“I’m disappointed,” he said. Not harsh, but firm. “But that is not why I bring it up.”

You stayed quiet, waiting. 

“I’m sure you heard what we discussed about Sourwater,” he continued. “I will be leaving tomorrow with Gojo and a few of the men to investigate. I don’t know how long we’ll be gone… hopefully less than a week. I’ve left Junpei in charge of the church in my absence.”

“Junpei?” you repeated. “Isn’t he a bit too young for that kind of responsibility, father?”

“He may be young,” your father replied, “but he is capable. More than he lets on. I’ve seen him studying late into the night, practicing the Lord’s teachings in silence. He believes no one notices…” A faint, knowing smile touched his lips. “But I do.”

You considered that.

“I’ve had a good feeling about that boy for some time now. If he continues on this path… he may very well follow in my footsteps.”

You nodded slowly. “If you believe in him, then I will too. I’ll help however I can.”

“I knew you would,” he said gently. “Thank you, daughter.” He hesitated, just for a moment. “As I said… I’ll be leaving early in the morning. I wanted you to know before I go.” 

Then, softer he said. “Now go. Enjoy your night with your friends. Don’t stay out too late… and keep yourself out of trouble, my sweet child.” He took your hands in his, pressing a kiss into your palms.

You pulled him into a tight embrace in return, holding him just a minute longer than usual before stepping away, out into the night.

The saloon was full of life.

People were drinking, singing, couples swaying to the music, and somehow—despite all the noise—the older men still managed to sit at their table and play poker as if nothing around them mattered.

 Utahime had her hands full, pouring drink after drink, barely getting a moment to breathe. Riko played the piano, her melody lively and bright as a small crowd gathered around her, clapping, singing along.

The place was loud, messy and alive.

You spotted Yuta upstairs on the second floor, standing beside Satoru and Suguru, all three with beer bottles in hand.

“Congratulations, kid,” Suguru said, raising his drink before taking a long sip.

“Yuta!” you called, offering Satoru and Suguru a small nod of acknowledgment as you approached.

“You’re here!” he said, his face lighting up.

“Of course I am,” you smiled. “I wouldn’t miss your special day. Congratulations.”

“Thanks…” he muttered, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks as he scratched the back of his head.

“So… how does it feel?” you asked. “Getting the job?”

“Exciting,” he said. “Nerve-wracking too, but mostly exciting. I can’t wait to catch some outlaws.”

You laughed softly. “Of course that’s the first thing you’d want to do.”

“It’s the best part,” he grinned. “The action. The thrill of it all.”

You noticed Satoru and Suguru exchanging a glance behind him.

A silent cue.

“Alright, Yuta, I’ll catch you later.” you said gently, already making your way back down the stairs, scanning the room for Utahime.

She was behind the bar now, finally catching a break, her eyes still alert as she watched the crowd. Ready to step in if anyone got too rowdy, or if someone needed another drink.

“Utahim—”

“What. Is. That?!” a voice cut you off. It was Manani.

“Manami, long time no see,” you said, smiling. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad to see you too, sugarplum,” she replied, her tone sweet. Then her eyes narrowed. “But what is that you’re wearing?”

You blinked, glancing down at your outfit. “My clothes… what? Is there something wrong with them?”

“They’re hideous, sugarplum,” she said bluntly. “You look like you’re about to attend one of your father’s sermons.”

Before you could protest, she opened the bag she always carried with her. “This is why you always listen to your gut.” Manami handed you a small bundle of clothes. “Now go change. Immediately.”

“Manami… I can’t wear this,” you hesitated. “What would father say?”

“Mm-hm,” she waved it off. “In case you haven’t noticed, your father isn’t here.”

“But the people… they’ll talk. If he finds out—”

“The people are too drunk to remember their own names tomorrow,” she cut in. “And it’s a celebration. It’s not a sin to have a sense of fashion.” She pushed you into an empty back room, bracing herself against the door. “I don’t want to see you until you’ve changed.”

With a defeated sigh, you slowly removed the blouse and slipped into the new clothes. A pale cream corset with vertical stripes and small front buttons a pink shawl, and heeled lace-up boots in a light neutral tone. When you turned to face the vanity mirror you froze.

You looked… different, more striking, more noticeable.

Your shoulders bare, your figure shaped in a way you weren’t used to seeing. It felt foreign, yet strangely freeing.

This was wrong... wasn't it?

You swallowed, quietly hoping Manami was right, that no one would remember. “Manami, I’m done.”

The door swung open instantly.

“Well look at you, sugarplum,” she beamed. “Gorgeous. I knew that was the one. It matches your skirt perfectly.” She handed you lace gloves, then placed her cowgirl hat on your head. “There,” she said, satisfied. “Magnificent. How do you feel?”

You hesitated. “I feel ...different.”

She smiled. “That’s good. Different is good. You can’t stay in your comfort bubble forever.”

Manami guided you back into the saloon. The moment you stepped out, a few heads turned. Eyes lingered, some curious, some indifferent, some didn’t care. Maybe she was right.

When your friends saw you, they reacted instantly.

Shoko let out a playful whistle. “Well, look at you.”

“You look different…” Yuki said, then quickly waved her hands. “But in a good way! A really good way!”

“You look good,” Utahime added, pouring whiskey into five small cups.

“She looks perfect,” Manami chimed in proudly. “Another masterpiece.” She grabbed a glass and handed one to each of you. “To us.”

“To us,” your voices echoed, blending as the glasses clinked softly together.

You drank, and the night carried on.

Yuki ended up beside Riko, drunkenly singing along to the piano, a beer bottle loosely in her grip. Manami disappeared upstairs, no doubt entertaining herself with whoever caught her interest. Utahime leaned against the bar, barely awake, while Satoru talked endlessly beside her, oblivious to her slumbering form.

Shoko stayed close to you. Her hand resting in yours as the two of you caught up. It had been a while. You rarely saw her these days, always busy at the doctor’s office.

At some point during the conversation with Shoko, you noticed a woman with short black hair and glasses leaving, accompanied by a man with spiky hair and thick eyebrows.

Then the saloon shook. 

The doors burst open. 

Three men stepped inside.

The piano faltered for only a second before continuing. Conversations quieted, eyes turning towards the entrance. People stared—just for a moment—before pretending not to.

But the noise didn’t return the same. It dropped. Lower and uneasy.

You turned abruptly, Shoko’s grip tightening around your hand.

The men lingered by the door, taking in the room—watching, measuring—before making their way towards the bar.

One of them sat besides you.

Shoko’s hold on your hand hardened, protective. Utahime straightened, Satoru’s attention snapping to them instantly.

“What can I get you, fellas?” she asked, forcing calm into her voice.

“Give us the strongest liquor you’ve got,” the man besides you said. His voice was low and sharp.

“Coming right up.” Utahime moved quickly, grabbing a bottle, pouring into three glasses before retreating back to Satoru who was still watching them. 

You tried to continue your conversation with Shoko, keeping your voice low, but then a hand touched your shoulder.

“Excuse me, miss.”

You stiffened.

“Y-yes…?” you answered, your voice quieter now.

Up close, he was worse.

Dark jeans, worn thin at the knees. Black boots fitted with spurs. A holster at his waist. The gun gleaming faintly, its leather looking like snakeskin. A black shirt, a bandolier across his chest. A coat lined with fur. A hat pulled low.

Danger. Every part of him screamed it.

“Is there somewhere we can stay the night?”

You hesitated. 

“…There’s a hotel across the saloon,” you said slowly. “Near the bank. With a bathhouse… but…”

“But?”

“You shouldn’t be here tonight,” you murmured. “We’re celebrating someone, something important.”

He chuckled softly, lifting his drink.

You caught a better look at him. Pale-tan skin. Sharp, defined features. Hair a strange pinkish-salmon shade. And his eyes, red. Watching. Measuring. Hungry.

“Why not?” he said. “Some folks outside invited us in.”

You didn’t respond to that, instead asked, “…Do you need anything else?” 

His gaze dropped to your chest, to your rosary. His tongue clicked. “Nothing else for now, sweetheart.” He turned away.

You exhaled quietly, turning back to Shoko. Utahime watched you from behind the bar, worry clear in her eyes. Satoru hadn’t looked away from the men once.

“I think I’m going home,” you whispered. “It’s late.” You glanced at the clock. It was past midnight. Later than your usual sleeping hour.

“You should,” Shoko said softly. “I’ll see you soon again.”

“Goodnight,” you said, offering a small nod to the others before stepping outside. Leaving them behind with the strangers.

You didn’t sleep well that night. Not even close.

Your mind refused to quiet, thoughts tangling and twisting into darker shapes the longer you lay there. Every time you closed your eyes, your chest tightened. As if something was waiting for you in that darkness, just beyond reach.

So you didn’t let the dark take you.

You kept a candle lit beside your bed, its flame trembling softly, casting long, shifting shadows across the walls. You watched it for what felt like hours, afraid that the moment you blew it out something would come.

Gabriel had not settled either.

The cat sat perched near the window, body stiff, tail flicking slowly, his eyes fixed on the glass. Not blinking, not moving, just watching.

Mary had been worse. She paced back and forth, back and forth. A low, uneasy whine slipping past her throat every now and then, her ears twitching at sounds you couldn’t hear.

“Mary…” you whispered, your voice barely there.

She didn’t come to you, she stayed near the door. As if she didn’t want to turn her back on something.

At some point you swore you heard it. A soft sound outside your window. A faint disturbance in the grass.

Step. Pause. Step.

Too slow to be the wind. Too deliberate to be an animal.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stayed still in bed, listening, waiting, but nothing came after, only silence.

You hadn’t slept. Not truly. Your body ached with exhaustion, your eyes heavy, dark circles settled beneath them like bruises. The candle had burned low, its wax pooled and hardened on the metal tray you placed on your nightstand.

Gabriel was no longer at the window and Mary had finally laid down near the door. But neither of them looked at ease. The day didn’t wait, never did. There was work to be done, Junpei to assist, a church to tend to, and a prayer to give, one you suddenly felt desperate to be heard.

Outside your window, the grass slowly rose from where something had been. Beyond the reach of your candlelight, something had waited in the dark, watching you all night long.

“by what? what even happened?”

“nothing,” he says, but his tone is colder now. his eyes flick back to the comment, still highlighted on his screen.

he clicks his tongue and lets out a humorless laugh. “funny how some of you think you can talk about her like that,” he says, finally addressing chat. his voice is still calm, but there’s a dangerous edge beneath it — the kind that makes the whole stream go silent for a second.

“newsflash,” he adds, leaning closer to the mic, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “she’s not some random fantasy for you to jerk off to. i don’t give a shit if you thirst over me, or call me daddy, or whatever the fuck y’all do here. but talk about her like that?” his tongue clicks against his teeth. “nah. not happening.”

the chat’s still blowing up, but sukuna’s jaw is tight, and his hands haven’t moved back to the keyboard. yuuji’s still talking in his ear, oblivious.

“bro, queue us again. come on, that death was embarrassing as fuck—”

“nah,” satoru cuts him off, voice clipped. “i’m done.”

“what—“

then the stream ended.

satoru rips his headset off and tosses it onto the desk. his reflection glares back at him from the dark monitor — jaw still clenched, pulse still thrumming.

you look up from your laptop when you hear the door click open, the soft creak of it swinging inward pulling your attention. satoru’s standing there, taller than the frame, the faint glow from your screen catching the sharp lines of his face.

“oh?” you ask, brows knitting slightly. “you’re done?”

he doesn’t answer right away — just gives a short nod and crosses the room with heavy, deliberate steps. his movements are quieter than usual, though, too controlled, too calm. he heads straight for the closet, pulling the door open and rifling through hangers like he’s done it a thousand times before.

you watch as he strips off his black shirt, the fabric sticking slightly to his skin from the heat of the room and the hours under the streaming lights. it lands in a careless heap on the floor. he pulls another one over his head, white cotton stretching over broad shoulders and inked skin.

“you ended early,” you say after a beat, careful, testing the waters. “that’s not like you.”

he exhales through his nose, still facing the closet, still not looking at you. “wasn’t feeling it anymore.”

he sits down next to you but doesn’t really look at you, just scrolls on his phone for a second, jaw tight. it’s so unlike him that you shift uncomfortably, closing the laptop.

“toru…” you murmur softly. “did something happen?”

he doesn’t answer — instead, he suddenly reaches out, grabs the back of your neck, and pulls you into a kiss. it’s rough, all teeth and heat, catching you completely off guard. you squeak against his mouth, trying to push at his chest a little but he only deepens it, tongue sliding against yours, his grip firm but not hurting.

“satoru—” you gasp when he pulls back for a second, your head falling onto the pillow behind you. you’re breathless, eyes wide, trying to process. “what’s wrong?”

he leans over you now, eyes dark and wild. “some random fuck,” he growls, voice low and raw, “thinks they could ever have you like this?”

you blink, confused, heart hammering. “what do you mean—”

he doesn’t even let you finish, his mouth crashes back onto yours, harder this time. his hands slide down to your hips as he shifts, his weight pressing you into the mattress, caging you there. his knee slides between your thighs as he positions himself over you, the heat of his body practically overwhelming.

you gasp again, your fingers curling around his shirt. “satoru…”

he just kisses you again, cutting you off, his frustration and jealousy pouring into every movement. there’s no mistaking it now — he’s in full possessive mode, the kind of mood where he’s not just touching you, he’s claiming you.

he reaches for the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing lightly against your skin, his eyes locking with yours. even through the jealousy and frustration on his face, there’s a pause — a silent question.

you swallow hard, your breath shaky, then you nod.

satoru pulls your shirt up slowly, dragging the fabric over your head and tossing it aside. a small shiver runs through you as the cool air hits your chest, your nipples hardening instantly. his eyes drop down, and for a heartbeat he just stares. there’s hunger there, sharp and possessive, but there’s also something else flickering in his gaze, something that looks a little like pride, like he’s savoring the fact that this side of you is for him alone.

he lowers himself without a word, mouth warm against your skin as he starts sucking at your breast, teeth grazing, tongue circling your nipple while his other hand kneads the other. his palm is rough, his touch firm, the contrast making you arch into him.

“satoru…” you whimper, voice breaking into a soft moan as his lips close tighter around you. “nggghhh…”

he groans low in his throat at the sound of his name on your lips, sucking harder, thumb rolling your nipple while his teeth scrape lightly, making your back arch off the bed.

your breath catches as sukuna’s mouth works over your skin, tongue flicking over your nipple before he sucks hard enough to leave a faint mark. the weight of his body between your thighs is dizzying, and almost without thinking, your hand drifts down. you slide it past his waistband and palm the hard outline of his cock through his sweats.

he jerks slightly at the contact, a low groan vibrating in his chest. the shift in his energy is immediate — his lips curl into a crooked, cocky smirk, and when he lifts his head, that familiar gleam is back in his eyes.

“what’s this?” he drawls, voice thick with teasing. “you’re like those thirsty girls on my stream.”

you roll your eyes, squeezing him a little harder through the fabric, thumb brushing slow circles over the tip. “‘m more than just a fan,” you mutter, looking straight at him.

his smirk deepens, teeth flashing. “oh, i know,” he says, voice low and rough. “trust me, i know.”

he shifts his hips subtly into your hand, cock twitching under your palm. leaning closer, his breath brushes your ear. “the difference is,” he murmurs, “they only get to watch. you… you get to touch.”

“and that goes for me too,” satoru growls, voice low and possessive, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he leans down. “that stupid fuck? could only dream of fucking you.”

you gasp, barely processing the words, when you realize — too late — that he’s already slid your underwear down, tossing it somewhere across the floor.

before you can even react, he thrusts into you in one hard motion, cock buried all the way in, stretching you completely. every inch of him presses into you, filling you perfectly.

“toru!” you moan, nails digging into his shoulders, back arching instinctively.

he doesn’t slow down. he starts moving in and out, each thrust deliberate, precise, and deep, claiming you fully. his hands wander, one gripping your hip, the other roaming over your tits, kneading, tugging, teasing — making sure nothing is left untouched.

“fuck… so good,” he groans, head dropping to the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he drives into you harder.

the intensity is overwhelming, and you both just started. gojo’s every movement radiates possessiveness and hunger, a fire that has you melting beneath him, moaning, writhing, utterly lost in the force of him.

he pulls out, and the sudden emptiness has you gasping, whining, fingers gripping the sheets as your body aches for him.

“put it back in,” you whimper, voice shaky, pleading.

his smirk is wicked, dark, and loaded with that dangerous cockiness you know too well. “on your knees,” he commands, voice low and rough.

you obey immediately, scrambling onto the bed, knees hitting the mattress, fingers pressing into the soft sheets. you almost slam your head into the headboard, but his strong hands catch you, steadying you against him.

“easy, babe,” he growls, pressing his chest against your back, one hand sliding down to grip your hip while the other brushes over your ass. “you’re fucking greedy.”

you flush, heat pooling deeper as his thumb grazes over your clit through your slickness. “y-yes… toru… need you,” you moan, voice breaking, your back arched perfectly for him. you glance back over your shoulder, waiting for the familiar stretch of him sliding inside you again.

but nothing happens.

instead, you feel his gaze burning into your skin — heavy, hot, predatory. you shift a little, wiggling your hips just to tease him, but still he doesn’t move.

“toru…” you murmur, voice soft, needy. “what are you doing...?”

you reach back with one hand, trying to grab his cock, desperate for him to fill you again, but his reflexes are faster. his hand shoots out, catching your wrists and yanking them both behind your back.

“uh-uh,” he growls, voice low and dangerous. “be fucking patient.”

before you can protest, his big hands lock your wrists together at the small of your back, pinning them easily with one hand. you’re completely at his mercy, chest pressing down against the bed, ass still in the air, exposed and dripping.

“satoru…” you whimper, your voice trembling. “please…”

he leans down, his breath hot against your ear, lips brushing your skin. “look at you,” he mutters, a dark laugh rumbling from his chest. “so desperate for my cock you’re reaching for it? me fucking you nearly every time after my stream is not enough, baby?”

his free hand slides up the back of your thigh, thumb pressing circles into your skin as he teases the slick entrance of your pussy with the tip of his cock, rubbing it up and down but never pushing inside.

“satoru…” you gasp, pushing back into him, trying to get more friction. “just fuck me please…”

he clicks his tongue, pressing your wrists tighter. “nah, baby. you don’t get to tell me what to do. you’re gonna stay like this… arms locked behind you, ass up. you’re going to wait. you hear me?”

he grinds his cock against your folds, slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him without giving you the relief of being filled. “feel that? that’s mine. you don’t get it until i say so.“

“please…” you whisper, hips moving on instinct, slick dripping down your thighs.

he chuckles darkly, dragging his cock across your clit one more time before leaning down, voice a low growl in your ear. “you’re gonna beg properly. say it.”

“please, toru… please, fuck me…”

“that’s better,” he mutters, and with one sharp, hard thrust, he finally pushes into you all the way, your breath breaking into a loud cry as he fills you, stretching you deep while your hands remain pinned behind your back.

“fuck, that’s it,” he snarls, hips snapping forward again. “stay right there. take it. let me fuck you how i want.”

each thrust is rough, possessive, making your body jolt with every snap of his hips as you moan and squirm beneath him.

“fuck… what if i fucked you while i’m streaming, huh?” he growls, voice low and vicious against your ear. “bet you’d like that, yeah? let that stupid fuck see exactly what they’ll never have.”

you can only moan in response, your voice breaking into soft, desperate sounds with every snap of his hips. your hands are still pinned behind your back, his grip iron-tight as he keeps you where he wants you, his cock driving into you over and over, deeper each time.

“yeah, that’s it,” satoru growls, his voice rough and low, words brushing hot against your ear. “let me fucking hear you, baby.”

your back arches instinctively, your body trembling, slick dripping down your thighs as he pounds into you harder, his pace relentless. his free hand slides up your side to your chest, grabbing a fistful of your breast and squeezing until you gasp.

“so fucking tight around me. you think anyone else could handle you like this?” his thumb circles your clit once, sharp and rough, making you cry out louder.

“toru—ahh—!” you moan, the sound breaking into a whimper as your walls start to flutter around him.

he chuckles low, his thrusts becoming heavier, faster, his cock stretching you with every snap of his hips. “fuck, you’re clenching—about to cum all over my cock?”

your body trembles violently as the coil in your stomach tightens, his dirty words tipping you over the edge. you gasp out his name as you cum, walls spasming around him, slick coating him as you shudder beneath him.

“yeah, that’s it,” he grits out, fucking you through your release, each thrust still deep and rough. “cum for me. squeeze me just like that.”

he groans, low and guttural, his hips snapping forward a few more times before he buries himself to the hilt, cumming inside you with a hard, deep thrust.

“fuuuuuck…” he snarls through gritted teeth, holding you there as he pulses inside you, his hot breath hitting the back of your neck.

his grip loosens on your wrists, his palm sliding over your stomach, pulling you back against his chest as his cock still twitches inside you. “all mine, none for that asshole.”

choso, eyes rimmed red and glossy, glances up quickly at the familiar voice. his pupils grow wide at the sight of sukuna, shaking with rage. and already fallen off the edge…actively losing it.

kaori’s eyes widen in shock, her gaze drops to her hand then to her step-son. she swallows thickly. her short black bob lays flat on her head, a black skirt hugs her waist, as the rest flows, reaching her boney ankles. her formal attire stands out in the sea of casually under dressed teenagers and young adults. and none of it can hide the slight wrinkles around her neck, or the unnerving sensation that shoots through sukuna when she meets his gaze.

“choso said you weren’t here—“

she doesn’t get the chance to finish her sentence when sukuna’s suddenly slamming the frail woman into the wall. choso’s eyes widen as sukuna’s frame towers over her with little effort. he ignores how his hand shakes, gripping the collar of her blouse, squeezing. every muscle in his body shifts, tightening his hold on her.

“I asked you a fucking question!” he shouts in her face. unbothered by the sudden looks of people backstage, including ino, who ran into the crowd to call for sukuna when the woman came in.

a few moments earlier….

ino’s standing beside mechamaru, the two watching over choso as he adjusts his guitar for the fourth time that night.

“dude it sounded fine before, now you’re just messing with it,” mechamaru exhales in exasperation.

choso’s brows pinch, “no, this chord is loose.”

“because you keep playing with it.”

“just give me a sec!” choso snaps.

the two boys glance at one another, looking down at their distraught friend. it’s obvious choso’s been on edge since they arrived. but the guy won’t give them a straight answer. instead he keeps fidgeting and messing with his guitar like there’s a fly constantly buzzing in his ear. to make matters worse, ino and mechamaru noticed sukuna coming in with a couple of his friends. last they heard, choso still hasn’t cleared the air with him. is that why he’s on edge?

“got it,” choso finally exhales.

unfortunately, the good news is immediately cut short when choso notices his bandmates looking like they’ve just been shot.

standing behind him is the uncanny woman that looks like a spitting image of their best friend. choso’s heart drops to his ass, and the blood drains from his face in seconds.

“choso.”

the unnerving sound of his name coming from this woman’s lips has a chill running down his spine. his sweat turns cold as he looks up from his seat on the ground, quickly moving to stand up. choso stands at nearly the same height as the tall skinny woma, maybe an inch or so taller.

“mom, how’d you—“

SLAP!

the sound rings so sharp it cuts through the muffled bass bleeding from the stage outside. choso freezes. completely still. his head jerked with the impact, black hair falling into his face as the sting blooms hot across his cheek. for a second, he doesn’t even process what happened. his body locks up as his brain tries to catch up. his eyes are wide and unfocused as he stares somewhere past her shoulder.

ino and mechamaru go dead silent. the two boys stand there like statues, shock written all over their faces as kaori lowers her hand with terrifying calmness. there’s no guilt at all, just that same unreadable expression.

“you lied to me,” she says coldly. the authority in her voice settles instantly, suffocating the space around them.

choso slowly lifts a hand to his cheek, fingertips brushing over the burning skin, still unable to wrap his mind around the fact that she actually hit him. it’s been years— his throat feels tight.

“choso,” she says again, sharper this time. “i’m speaking to you.”

his eyes flick up properly now, confusion and disbelief behind his eyes as he finally looks at her. then instinctively, his gaze darts toward ino and mechamaru.

his jaw clenches.

“can we talk after?” he mutters quickly, voice rougher than normal. “i’m about to go up—”

“no. we’re talking now.”

her fingers wrap around his wrist immediately. it tightens, making choso stiffen as she pulls him toward the farther corner backstage, away from the noise and people passing through, heels clicking.

the second they’re out of earshot, mechamaru’s neck nearly snaps as he whirls toward ino. “why is she here?!” he whisper-shouts.

ino throws his arms up, drumsticks still clutched in one hand. “i don’t know! that was a hard fucking slap too—”

both boys suddenly glance back toward the corner kaori dragged choso to, he’s sitting on a stool as she stands in front of him. and the reality settles ugly in their stomachs. maybe this is exactly why sukuna didn’t want choso around her alone. and neither of them have to voice that realization.

“should we—”

“i don’t want him killing us though—”

“he’ll kill us for sure, but if we call him he probably won’t!” ino cuts in frantically, already moving. “c’mon!”

the two practically trip over themselves rushing out backstage. the second they hit the main crowd, the noise slams into them full force. music shaking the grass, colored lights flashing violently overhead from the strobes attached to the makeshift stage, and bodies shove shoulder-to-shoulder near the elevated stage as another band screams through their set on stage. the battle of the bands was the first huge event kicking off summer break, and the turnout at the rented park is insane and only getting bigger as more people flood in.

finding sukuna in this mess feels impossible.

“i honestly don’t know which way he went!” mechamaru yells over the music, shoving past a group near the bar trucks.

“split up!” ino shouts back immediately. “call me if you find him!”

they separate without another word, because somewhere in this packed park is a six-foot-four soccer captain with face tattoos, a terrifying temper, and enough presence to make grown men shut up when he walks into a room, and right now they need him.

eventually, ino spots a familiar head of pink hair through the sea of people. well….two heads.

an almost identical, much smaller version of the man he’s looking for sits perched on sukuna’s shoulders, glow sticks hanging around yuuji’s neck as the eleven-year-old screams along to the music like he’s completely lost his mind. sukuna isn’t much better, one tattooed arm is hooked around yuuji’s leg while he shouts something toward the stage, feral under the flashing lights.

ino nearly cries in relief, “sukuna!”

he starts shoving through people immediately, bumping shoulders and muttering rushed apologies until he finally reaches the college student. his hand grabs the back of sukuna’s plain black tee.

sukuna whips around instantly, ready to shove whoever grabbed him, then stops. “ino—”

“there’s a small problem!” the drummer’s panting, sweat dripping down his temple from sprinting around the park venue. sukuna’s expression shifts immediately. brows pinching sharply as his stomach drops before ino even finishes speaking. he can see it all over the kid’s face.

“choso’s mom is here.”

everything happens at once. yuuji yelps as sukuna grabs him off his shoulders without warning, shoving the younger boy toward gojo’s side. the white-haired man barely catches him properly before sukuna’s already gripping ino hard by the arm.

“where?”

“backstage—she took him—”

“watch him,” sukuna snaps toward gojo and geto, voice suddenly low cutting through the music.

gojo’s grin vanishes instantly. geto’s brows pinch instantly, that tone isn’t new to them. “for sure,” gojo says immediately.

ino doesn’t hesitate. he spins around and starts forcing his way back through the crowd, sukuna right behind him. except “behind” isn’t even the right word, his shoulder slams into strangers hard enough to make them stumble, dark eyes fixed ahead as the noise around him dulls. his pulse pounds violently in his ears with every step, ino’s words looping over and over in his head.

choso’s mom is here. his jaw clenches so hard it hurts. and somewhere deep in his chest— something ugly starts waking up.

present….

“I asked you a fucking question!”

kaori raises a hand to her step-son’s forearm. lips parting as her eyes dart over his hardened expression, his eyes flashing red, every muscle on his body protruding as sweat beads down his forehead.

“are you deaf?—“ he snaps after she takes too long to respond. his head snaps to choso still sitting on the stool. “she hit you?”

choso stands, head dropping and hand covering his face. his heart pounds against his chest.

“choso—“

choso’s clenches his jaw, blood boiling.

“choso—“

“forget about it!” choso snaps.

sukuna suddenly lets go of kaori, taking the single step to uncover choso’s face. his other hand cups his chin, tilting his face up, and it all hits him at once. the tears building behind his brother’s brown eyes, looking away from the older as he bites down on his teeth, and the bright red hand print on his right cheek.

kaori smooths out the front of her wrinkled blouse, eyes cold as ice.

“choso lied to me,” she says flatly, but not to sukuna, she never talks to him, it’s always at him. “he told me the money was for cram school because he was falling behind in his classes and needed it for his finals.” her lip curls faintly as she gestures toward the backstage area and the unruly screaming crowd beyond the curtains. “then i find out it was for this.”

choso tries pulling away from sukuna’s grip, but sukuna’s frozen, completely still as he stares at the red handprint burning against his little brother’s cheek. the heat builds u see his skin, sweat collecting behind his neck.

“spending time with you has rubbed off on him, something I did not want to know.”

that finally makes sukuna’s eyes snap upward, sharp and furious as his gaze cuts to choso instead of her. “how would she know to give you that money?” he asks quietly, that tone is worse than yelling.

choso visibly shrinks, shoulders tightening as he avoids eye contact. “she asked to meet with me,” he mutters, uncomfortable. “and asked if i needed anything.”

sukuna’s jaw flexes hard enough to hurt. “so when I asked you, it was before that?” choso looks away. and that’s all he needs. sukuna’s head whips toward kaori so fast it nearly startles ino beside them. “I’m getting a fucking restraining order on your fucking ass.”

kaori scoffs immediately. “we both know that’s not an option.” she crosses her arms now, anger bleeding through her composed expression. “i’m more concerned about my son going around asking people for money over some ridiculous band competition while struggling in school—”

“choso isn’t struggling with shit!” sukuna barks. “he’s a fucking genius. that’s how he scammed your psycho ass in the first place.”

people nearby are definitely staring now. a few phones are raised before mechamaru immediately starts hissing at people to stop recording while ino frantically waves others back. choso looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole.

“are you seriously praising him for lying?” kaori demands.

“to you? fuck yeah.” sukuna steps closer. towering. violent rage practically radiating off him. “actually, i’m disappointed he didn’t ask for more money.”

“ryo—” choso starts weakly, oozing with embarrassment.

“that’s what you get for going behind my back,” sukuna cuts over him, eyes locked onto kaori. “throw all the money you want at him. choso isn’t going anywhere near you.”

“choso,” kaori says again softly, completely ignoring sukuna, that sets him off. choso’s face twists, confusion and guilt and stress all mixing together as he looks between them. “you know i’m just disappointed in your actions,” kaori tells him, voice suddenly gentler in a terrifying way that makes sukuna see red. “you can tell me if you’re having trouble asking your grandfather for things.”

the faux sweetness hits choso like another slap. sukuna sees the hesitation and confusion immediately. choso’s chest tightens, and suddenly sukuna’s moving again.

“stop fucking talking to him like that,” he snarls, voice low and shaking with fury. “jus’ ‘cause he answered your texts doesn’t mean you can suddenly care about him.”

“ry—” choso tries, voice tight.

sukuna doesn’t even hear him.

“you’re outta your fucking mind if you think giving him money is gonna win him over.” sukuna spits at kaori.

“i was helping my son,” kaori fires back immediately.

“your son?” sukuna laughs harshly. “now he’s your son?”

“ryo,” choso says again, louder this time, but sukuna’s blood is roaring too loudly in his ears to listen.

“i didn’t forget the way you fucking treated them,” sukuna steps closer. “some mother leaving bruises on her fucking kid, making him all jumpy. not after the shit you did with me—“

“i said stop!”

the shout cuts through backstage so sharply that even the people shouting over the music nearby go quiet for half a second. sukuna freezes. choso’s chest heaves. his face is bright red now from humiliation and anger. his eyes are glossy with held back tears that only seem to piss him off more.

“I don’t give a shit!” he snaps, voice cracking despite how hard he’s trying to keep it steady.

kaori’s expression shifts quick. “choso—”

“no—” he jerks away before she can touch him again, stumbling closer to sukuna, instinctively. “don’t— don’t touch me.” his breathing is uneven. ino and mechamaru exchange nervous looks from a few feet away. “I don’t fucking care about anything other than playing tonight—that’s it!” choso gestures wildly.

sukuna’s jaw clenches.

“i can handle my own shit,” choso continues, breathing shakily now, attention now on his older brother. “ya don’t have to make a big deal outta something when I didn’t ask for it!”

sukuna’s eyes darken immediately. “the hell you mean by that?”

“i mean i’m not yuuji!” choso explodes. “you don’t have to hover over me every second like i’m two!” a thick ugly silence follows, even choso goes quiet after saying it, but he doesn’t take it back. instead he glances briefly at his older brother, than at his mother, his jaw tightens. “i’ll pay you back the money by the end of summer,” choso snaps, eyes burning now. “so you can be disappointed at me, somewhere else.”

the words hit hard, then choso walks away, angry. truly angry.

sukuna watches his younger brother shove past the backstage clutter, shoulders stiff and fists clenched at his sides and for a split second, the resemblance is almost nauseating. not in appearance — sukuna’s always known choso looked too much like her — but in their temperament. the rage settling ugly beneath his skin until it explodes. sukuna never really noticed how much of himself choso inherited. but kaori notices it immediately, especially when her expression flickers.

choso reaches ino and mechamaru, both immediately crowding him with questions.

“dude are you okay?”

“what the hell was that?”

“did she seriously—”

“i’m fine,” choso cuts sharply. the three fall quiet, choso’s fingers tighten around the neck of his guitar before he looks toward the stage entrance where the current band is finishing up.

“we’re up next,” he says, jaw locked. “and we’re gonna fucking win this.”

ino blinks, then quickly grins. “HELL YEAH,” he shouts, shaking choso’s shoulders.

mechamaru nods quickly beside him, still nervous, but determined all the same. and just like that, the three disappear further backstage toward the stage call area, leaving sukuna alone with kaori.

sukuna’s sharp eyes cut through her, there was no holding back now that choso was gone. his hand snaps back onto her blouse, fingers curling in the fabric until it bunches tight and strains under his grip. he yanks her forward, lifting her just enough that her heels barely touch the ground.

“i’m going to fucking kill you,” he spits. his voice is low, and shaking with controlled rage. it was worse than shouting. “I’ll rip your arm straight out of your body if you—” his grip tightens again, the words weren’t enough to contain what he meant. “—ever lay a finger on him.”

kaori’s breath catches. she’s on her tippy toes now, frozen, sweat gathering at her temple, and for the first time, something in her cracks. this wasn’t another intimidation tactic or performance. it was a real threat from sukuna.

he leans in closer, voice dropping even further, every word precise, already imagining how it would happen. “i won’t even give you a chance to breathe,” his eyes are deep crimson blood, “if you touch them again… i’ll rip you in half before you even know what’s happening.”

and with that, sukuna lets go of kaori, and she stumbles back a step, catching herself with a sharp inhale.

“keep threatening me,” kaori spits, chin lifting even as her voice wavers at the edges. “I don’t take childish boys seriously—“

something in sukuna snaps again. “i’m gonna fucking kill you, you cunt—”

he steps forward, already closing the distance with terrifying quickiness— and then an arm locks around his chest and yanks him backward.

“what the fuck?!” sukuna twists immediately, muscles tensing as he fights the grip, but it holds him steady, pulling him off his line like he weighs nothing. he doesn’t even need to see the face at first, he just knows from the strength alone.

toji.

sukuna digs his heels in, shoulders straining as he tries to wrench free. “get off me,” he snaps, still fighting forward, still locked on kaori like she’s the only thing in the room. but toji doesn’t budge. he just drags him back another step, grounding him with pure force, cutting through the athletes strength with some struggle.

“get a fucking grip!” toji snaps in his ear. he uses every muscle in his body to knock sukuna off his weight again and drag him further away.

sukuna digs his fingers into toji’s forearms, but it’s too late when he’s pushed back to the exit, joining the crowd cheering the current band.

“fuck!” sukuna shouts, receiving a hard shove from toji until he’s completely knocked back. the rage had boiled way over, that toji standing in front of him, just as pissed, then he’s gripping sukuna’s collar, bringing him to his face, fist raised.

“are you fucking seventeen again!” he shouts, the music and chaos around them made everything much calmer than what was actually happening. “I’ll knock your teeth out if you don’t calm down!”

sukuna still struggles—

PUNCH

the hit directly lands on sukuna’s eye, sending him back, but toji keeps him up. fist curling tighter. “you wanna fuck everything for your brothers? do you!”

“you fucking bitch,” sukuna spits on toji, just to receive another punch directly in his solar plexes, almost knocking the wind straight out of him.

his breath catches, a few people nearby step away in surprise. the ocean crashes in the distance. toji still grips his shoulder. sukuna is hunched over, catching his breath, back rising and falling like a beast ready to attack. but instead, sukuna aggressively shrugs toji’s hand away.

“I’m going to fucking kill her,” he repeats under his breath.

toji rubs his face, chest heaving with his own rage.

“woah! what happened!” yuuji shouts over the music, eyes wide as sukuna finds them in the crowd again, toji not far behind.

gojo, geto, megumi, and now nanami, all glance up, all stunned at the bruise slowly forming around sukuna’s eye. sukuna looks furious still, not explosive like before, but still pissed. the anger settling deep. his chest still rises hard under each breath, jaw locked tight enough to crack teeth.

toji walks a few steps behind him, equally pissed, rubbing at his own face.

“jesus christ,” gojo says first, brows lifting. “did you get jumped?”

“shut the fuck up,” sukuna mutters instantly.

his voice comes rougher than usual, and he wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand standing back beside his brother.

yuuji stares up at him wide-eyed. “did someone hit you?!”

sukuna finally looks at him then. his expression doesn’t soften much, but something in his eyes shifts slightly at the sight of his little brother hovering there, worried out of his mind.

“i’m fine,” sukuna says shortly.

yuuji clearly doesn’t buy it. “your eye’s all swollen.”

“and?” sukuna shoots back, dismissive, though the edge in his tone dulls just a little. “still standing.”

toji scoffs behind him. “barely.”

sukuna cuts him a glare sharp enough to kill. for a second, it looks like sukuna might start yelling again, but then he just exhales hard through his nose and leans his head back instead. the ocean crashes somewhere behind them. music shaking the ground beneath their feet.

geto studies the tension between the two men carefully. “what the hell happened?”

“nothing,” sukuna says immediately. yuuji still lingers beside him, nervous energy practically radiating off him, and sukuna notices immediately.“quit staring at me,” he mutters, finally shoving lightly at yuuji’s shoulder. “i said i’m fine.”

yuuji doesn’t even get the chance to respond before sukuna suddenly grabs him by the waist and lifts him back onto his shoulders like nothing happened. except everyone notices the slight wince that flashes across sukuna’s face. his hand brushes his stomach for half a second, fingers pressing there instinctively before he adjusts yuuji’s legs over his shoulders again.

toji notices immediately. his jaw tightens.

“choso is up,” sukuna says instead, voice flat, already looking back toward the stage through the crowd.

yuuji steadies himself, hands gripping the top of sukuna’s head as he tries to lean down to see his brothers bruised eye. “are you sure you’re okay?”

“you ask too many questions,” sukuna mutters. but he keeps one hand locked around yuuji’s calf anyway, secure and steady despite the bruise forming around his eye and the ache spreading through his ribs.

gojo watches the whole thing with raised brows. “wow. tough guy for real.”

“say another word and i’ll knock your teeth out.”

“there he is,” geto sighs. nanami shakes his head slightly, though the corner of his mouth twitches for barely a second. behind them, toji exhales through his nose, still irritated, but at least sukuna has settled for the time being.

everyone’s attention shifts fully to the stage as choso’s band gets called up. megumi sits on toji’s shoulders, arms loosely resting over his dad’s head as the whole group drifts closer to the center front where the crowd thickens. lights flare across the stage, as the anticipation of the next band rolls through the audience. yuuji immediately lights up the second he spots choso stepping into place.

“CHOSOOOO!!!” he screams at the top of his lungs, bouncing on sukuna’s shoulders. sukuna tightens his grip instinctively, keeping him steady. the motion pulls at his bruised ribs again, but he doesn’t show it beyond a slight tightening of his jaw.

“THAT’S MY BROTHER!”

sukuna exhales through his nose, eyes fixed on the stage. choso stands under the lights now, adjusting his position at the mic, shoulders rolling back shaking off everything that happened earlier. the crowd noise builds around him, voices overlapping, everyone cheering.

gojo cups his hands around his mouth. “YOU GUYS GOT THIS!!”

on stage, choso finally looks up, and for a split second, his eyes find the group in the crowd.

yuuji waves wildly like his life depends on it. “you got this choooo!!!!”

sukuna doesn’t wave, but he holds eye contact with choso for a moment longer than anyone else, steady and sharp. the bruise on his face not visible under the shifting lights.

choso inhales sharply, shaking off the rest of his anxiety. sweat building from the nerves and heat. and then they start.

the first hit of ino’s drums sends the entire crowd shouting with excitement…

sukuna’s chest tightens. the uneasiness weighs on his shoulders as a dark pit quietly stirs awake inside him. though his focus remains ahead, eyes locked on his brother performing their first set, there’s that lingering anger that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

not since he was seventeen, standing by the intersection, red and blue lights flashing across his face, and his dad’s car jammed slightly beneath the truck, completely crushed.

“shit—that’s your dad’s car?” kashimo repeats, as if saying it again will snap sukuna back.

but he’s already moving. his feet stumble off the sidewalk before his mind catches up, shoving straight into the street. his skull is split open by the sirens screaming loudly. ambulances and police cars clogging the street. the headlights blur his vision, only seeing the wreck straight ahead.

“SUKUNA—!” kashimo pushes after him, nearly slipping as he forces his way through the growing crowd. officers notice immediately when the two teenagers duck beneath the tape.

“hey! kid—!” an officer grabs for sukuna’s arm.

sukuna violently shoves him off. “THAT’S MY DAD —!”

his voice sounds unfamiliar to him as it tears straight out of his throat, making the officer stumble back just enough for sukuna to break free and start running the second he sees paramedics dragging someone out from the passenger side.

his stomach drops.

the familiar body is pulled out, and all he sees is his father covered in deep red blood.

blood coats his face, runs down his neck, soaks through the front of his shirt. glass sticks to his skin. bruises already spread dark beneath the flashing lights while firefighters shout over each other around the wreck. controlling the truck from starting a fire. sukuna drops beside his dad so fast it scrapes the skin clean off his knees.

“shit—shit, shit, shit—” his hands shake violently as he looks at all the blood.

one of the paramedics tries pulling him back. “kid, you need to move—”

“dad?” sukuna grabs onto jin’s arm anyway, panic rising so violently inside him it feels like he’ll throw up. “dad, what the fuck—? WHAT THE FUCK?!”

his voice cracks at the end, eyes wide as jin tries to respond but only wheezing comes out. blood covers one of his eyes as he struggles to open them properly. every breath sounds wet and broken.

“r-ry—” his fingers twitch upward weakly, trying to reach him.

and suddenly sukuna can’t fucking breathe, the anger explodes through his chest making him dizzy. “YOU SHOULD’VE STAYED WITH ME!” sukuna shouts, tears burning hot behind his eyes. “WHY DID YOU GO AFTER HER?!”

jin barely seems aware of the wreck around him, or the paramedics putting a mask on him, or the blood soaking through his clothes. instead, his entire focus stays on his eldest son kneeling beside him with bloodshot eyes, and an anger he can’t seem to ease.

“ryo…” he wheezes painfully. “men…” his hand finally reaches sukuna’s hand, smearing blood across his skin.

behind them, paramedics pull another person from the opposite side of the car, alive and walking. kaori stumbles against the police cruiser, hysterical, mascara running down her face. her eyes are bloodshot and unfocused.

“ma’am,” an officer says sharply, catching her arm before she falls again. “have you been drinking tonight?”

another officer immediately steps in beside him after smelling it. kaori starts crying harder, words slurring together into panicked nonsense.

sukuna looks up. then something inside him twists… his father is laying in front of him and she’s standing.

“you fucking bitch,” sukuna spits, shoving himself to his feet so fast his knees nearly give out beneath him. jin’s bloodied hand slips from his sleeve, still reaching after him weakly.

“ryomen…”

but sukuna already storms forward. an officer immediately moves between him and kaori. “hey—hey! back up!”

“get the fuck out of my way!” sukuna barks, trying to shove past him again, completely losing it.

kaori sits against the side of the ambulance now while a paramedic presses gauze against the cut on her forehead. another wraps a blanket around her shoulders despite the smell of alcohol practically soaking the air around her. she looks up just in time to see sukuna lunging toward her and for the first time that night, genuine fear crosses her face.

“you did this!” sukuna screams.

two officers grab him before he reaches her. sukuna fights violently in their grip, rage tearing through him he can barely see anything besides red.

“HE WENT AFTER YOU!” he shouts. “HE FUCKING WENT AFTER YOU!”

“kid, calm down—”

“DON’T TELL ME TO CALM THE FUCK DOWN!”

behind him, paramedics suddenly start shouting near jin’s stretcher. one of them yells for another medic, and starts pushing sukuna’s father faster toward the ambulance.

what followed turned into a blur that sukuna’s mind never fully managed to piece together afterward. his body moved before his mind did. one second officers held him back, paramedics shouting around him, and the next he climbed into the ambulance beside his father while someone yelled that he couldn’t ride along unless he stayed seated.

sukuna didn’t even remember agreeing, he just remembered the inside of the ambulance feeling freezing cold, remembered the medic cutting jin’s shirt open, and remembered the blood. so much blood.

sukuna sat there with blood covering both hands, staring while they worked on his father right in front of him. jin barely stayed conscious the entire ride. every now and then his eyes opened halfway, searching weakly until they landed on sukuna again. like he needed to make sure he was still there. and every single time, sukuna felt something twist apart inside his chest.

then the hospital lights replaced the sirens. people moved around him constantly, nurses, doctors, officers asking questions—but sukuna stayed hunched over in the waiting room chair with his elbows on his knees and his father’s blood smeared across his hands. he stared at the floor so long he lost track of everything.

the automatic doors eventually opened again. heavy footsteps quickly coming towards him. toji. and then his gramps following close behind him.

“ryomen,” toji says immediately, breath uneven like he rushed there as fast as possible. “what happened?”

sukuna doesn’t answer. he just sits there, shoulders tense, brows pinched tight while his fingers curl harder against his palms. staring at the blood in the creases of his hands. then he mutters. quietly. low. “she killed him.”

toji’s expression shifts instantly. “what?”

“she killed him,” sukuna repeats, harsher this time, the words scraping out of his throat. “she killed him.”

sukuna barely notices the two men hovering around him. he keeps staring at the blood on his hands instead. his scraped knees. his football uniform still on.

sukuna genuinely can’t tell how many hours or minutes pass. the hospital waiting room grows quieter as the night drags on. his grandfather quietly rests his head back, while toji paces near the windows like he might punch straight through the glass. and then finally, the doors open again, a doctor walks out. everyone freezes immediately. and sukuna doesn’t need to hear the words, before the doctor even speaks.

he’s dead.

and it’s her fault.

the hard yank on his hair snaps sukuna straight back into the present. music crashes through the field while people scream their heads off around them. yuuji sitting on top of sukuna’s shoulders has one hand gripping sukuna’s phone while the other fully tugs on his brothers hair to keep balance.

“GRAMPS DO YOU SEE HIM?!” yuuji screams into the phone loud enough to blow out the speaker.

gramps voice crackles back immediately. “you keep shaking the damn phone!” the camera angle violently jerks around. all yuuji can see is the top half of the old man’s forehead shoved way too close to the screen. “stay still!”

“OHHHHHHHHH!!!!” yuuji completely loses his mind the second choso steps up to the mic again.

the entire field erupts with him.

ino’s drums shake through the speakers while the guitars kick in harder, the stage lights flashing over choso and his band as they absolutely light up the crowd. even nanami cups his hands around his mouth to yell, whatever dignity he usually carries cracking under the sheer energy of the performance. gojo screams something incomprehensible beside him. geto laughs while shoving him. megumi claps from toji’s shoulders with far more enthusiasm than he’d ever show on a regular day.

and somehow yuuji’s excitement finally drags sukuna with it. the tension in his chest loosens for the first time all night as yuuji bursts into louder cheering.

the two brothers start yelling toward the stage together, voices getting swallowed by the music and chaos around them while choso stands under the lights. and sukuna’s resolve hits him that very moment too.

he’s not letting these two out of his sight.

the celebrations, surprisingly, continued through the night until all the performers were done.

sukuna and the boys watched in the audience as all the bands crowded onto the stage and the promoters stood in the middle with a list and began announcing the six bands that will be proceeding to the semi-finals in two weeks.

“DEATH PAINTINGS DEATH PAINTINGS DEATH PAINTING!” yuuji starts the cheers, sitting back on sukuna’s shoulders. the rest quickly join, and as the four bands are announced, the chanting grows louder. the crowd joining, a universal want for choso’s band, death paintings, to be one of the semi-finalists.

“and the final band to make it into the semi finals is….” the host waits for the anticipation to simmer, but it’s not realized with how unbelievably loud the chanting has gotten for different bands, but the loudest being for— “DEATH PAINTINGS!!”

—

the culmination of celebration among the group extends to choso. him and his two friends are on cloud nine after the announcement, riding the adrenaline. somehow, choso manages to push everything else aside that almost swallowed the entire night.

people keep stopping him before he can even take three steps, congratulating the band, asking questions, slapping him on the back. toji leaves before everyone else, megumi staying behind with the group as security pushes the crowd out of the venue field and toward the beach nearby. bonfires burn in the distance and music continues from portable speakers.

everyone was distracted, except sukuna. his decision settled during the performance and by the time they return home, well after midnight, the house felt exhausted. choso’s friends immediately crash his room. megumi sleeping in yuuji’s room without complaint. doors shut, voices fading until silence settles over the house.

sukuna sits alone at the kitchen table. the only light comes from his laptop screen.

the black envelope sits beside it. opened.

a thick paper rests beneath his hand as he reads the letter again for what must be the hundredth time. an invitation. the one he’s waited to receive again for the past five years.

a la liga club. three weeks training with one of the best clubs in the world. three weeks that could change his entire future. the letter might as well weigh a hundred pounds. for weeks, sukuna pushed away replying, even when everyone brought it up. he had more pressing things at the front of his mind….

his eyes drift toward the hallway where his brothers sleep. a few months ago the answer would’ve been simple. obvious, even…but since kaori, everything’s changed.

his jaw tightens as his fingers move across the keyboard.

Dear Recruitment Team,

Thank you for extending the invitation. I am honored by the opportunity and would like to formally accept.

But before finalizing travel arrangements, I would like to discuss one logistical matter. I am the primary caretaker of my two younger brothers and am responsible for their supervision and wellbeing during the summer. As a result, I will not be able to travel without them and would like to ask whether accommodations can be made for my brothers to accompany me during the three-week training period. Their presence would not interfere with my participation in training or any club obligations.

his eyes narrow, reading over the email. he isn’t asking, he already knows what he’s doing. if the club says yes, yuuji and choso are coming. end of discussion. if they don’t…then. his fingers flex, veins straining.

both outcomes will result in consequences. the first is choso, but after today, he doesn’t care if choso throws a fit, or if he gets called controlling or insane. he isn’t leaving them behind after tonight and remembering exactly how fast everything can disappear.

his fingers resume moving.

I understand this is an unusual request, but I wanted to address it before confirming. If necessary, I would be happy to discuss the situation further and provide any information you may need.

Thank you again for this opportunity. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Ryomen Sukuna Itadori

sukuna leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. for a moment, the silent churning deep in his chest twists… the lingering feeling that’s been pushed returning. a familiar one that’s ruled his life for years. bad things happen whether you’re ready or not. people leave whether you hold onto them or not. life keeps moving whether you’re scared of it or not. and if that’s true—

his gaze drops back to the laptop. the cursor hovers over the send button. the house remains completely silent. inside their rooms, his brothers sleep peacefully, completely unaware that their summer plans are about to change.

SEND

the email vanishes.

for several seconds he simply stares at the screen. then he reaches over, grabs the black envelope, and crushes it in his fist. three weeks in spain. suck it up.

—

the following two weeks went by with a breeze. aside from two separate incidents in two completely different places. one unraveled in the itadori household a few days after the battle of the bands tournament, and the second was in a certain hospital staircase that same day.

your jaw tenses. shoko quietly stands beside you, your hands tucked behind your backs. a resident stands across from you while an attending stands front and center. the staircase feels too small and you already know this isn’t about a patient, glancing at shoko beside you.

the attending, your father, removes his glasses, folding them in his hand. “you know why we’re having this conversation?”

you shift your weight, shoko glances at you. heat crawls up from the back of your neck. you finally respond with a small shrug. the resident cringes, your father doesn’t. “you asked shoko to ask a resident physician to prescribe medication to you.”

you swallow thickly biting your cheek. shoko opens her mouth, but your dad holds a hand up.

“I’ll give you a chance. I’m asking her to answer first.” you can feel his eyes on you, waiting for you to meet his gaze. which you do.

“i asked a question,” you clear your throat. “I was asking shoko to ask for me.”

“you put them in an inappropriate position,” he cuts, silencing you in seconds.

your chest tightens, heat spreading to your face now. the embarrassment sits heavy on your chest now. you see shoko try to raise her hand beside you again.

“can I—“ the attending finally turns his head to shoko. “we were just talking.” she clears her throat, “we both didn’t know what the policy was on—“

“the policy is your supervisors can’t prescribe you medication,” he snaps.

shoko nods, glancing at the resident, who’s supervising this summer’s undergrad students, including her and you. “yeah, I was told.”

you scratch your wrist awkwardly, “I didn’t mean to put anyone in an…inappropriate position.” you wet your lip, pushing the coil crawling up your throat. “it won’t happen again.”

he processes your apology. his eyes flick to the resident and shoko, dismissing them. shoko glances at you as she follows the resident out, the staircase door shutting behind her. the silence grows louder with just the two of you. you inhale sharply, your head falling back, hands covering your face.

“dad—“

“do you need a new prescription?”

“no,” you cut, hands shielding you from his gaze.

“then why did you ask? have you spoken to your doctor about this?”

“I’m not—“ you stop, taking a deep breath. “I don’t need another prescription. and I told you already I’ve been talking to my doctor. I was just asking a question— I was just stressed.”

“why? you’ve done all this before,” he cuts, brows furrowed, and arms crossed in confusion.

“I’m stressed about other stuff,” you exhale, hands falling, face still burning from the humiliation earlier.

“what other stuff?” he pushes. genuinely confused about what you could be worrying about. “you don’t have classes or exams. you know everything. if you have any questions you can ask me—“

“yeah, I’m worried about other stuff, like generally,” you huff, rubbing your face. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“you’re not taking any medication now?” he changes the subject back, brushing off your concerns to push his own out, “jennie told me you weren’t when she visited.”

your teeth clench, rubbing your eye, “yeah, I don’t need it anymore. I haven’t had them since finals.”

his eyes narrow, you can see the concern pinching his brows. “I don’t have a problem if you still need to take them. you know that—“

“yeah, but I don’t need them,” your stomach curls tighter, especially when he glances over you like…like you’re causing him more stress. it’s confusing, you know tjat. saying you don’t need any more medication, but then asking a resident a question about whether they can give you some for stress. it doesn’t make sense, and at this point you’re getting frustrated with yourself. “it’s not a big deal. next time I just won’t ask anyone anything,” you mutter.

“we’re having a conversation, so don’t do that,” he shakes his head in disappointment. the pit in your stomach growing at the sight. “I want to understand why you asked.”

you stomach churns, “it’s fine.”

the silence stretches between you, then you finally decide to leave.

“you should go home,” he steps to block the door.

you barely blink, the comment rolling off your back as you hum. “great.”

your father exhales through his nose. “i’m serious.”

“i know.”

“you don’t sound like you know.”

your jaw tightens, ignoring the passive aggressive tone. “can i go now?” you ask.

he stares at you for another second before stepping aside. the staircase door swings open and you leave. your shoes slap against the floor as you move through the hallway. nurses pass, residents pass, families pass, and it all irritates you. you don’t even realize how fast you’re walking until another set of footsteps catches up beside you.

“hey.” you don’t look over. shoko keeps a quick pace beside you anyway. “hey.”

“what?” you stop.

the word comes out harsher than intended. shoko is unfazed, “i’m sorry.”

you glance at her. the two of you standing by the lockerroom. “for what?”

“for telling the resident.”

“yeah well you didn’t tell on me.”

“still.”

you put the code in before entering the locker room, shoko follows. “still what? i asked a question and apparently that’s illegal.”

“that’s not what i mean,” shoko sits on the bench as you take your backpack out.

you sigh, “i know what you meant.” you start changing. “it’s just annoying that I was scolded like that and I didn’t even wanna do this stupid ass program in the first place. no offense,” you start rambling. “but seriously, how many times does this make it—like the fifth freaking time I get yelled at in front of these residents and I haven’t even done anything that crazy. asking a question?! god forbid!” you throw your hands up in sarcastic defense. you scoff at the situation rolling your eyes.

“this whole thing is just a humiliation ritual of being a fucking doormat, and having every single person around me be the biggest ops ever—not you,” you put your shirt on, pulling your jeans up right after. “let’s bet how much shit I’m gonna get if I just mention to jennie how annoyed I am,” you roll your eyes, knowing exactly what she’ll say. “if yOU doN’t LiKe it sO mUCh jusT qUiT,” you mimic her voice.

shoko, who has been quietly listening, stifles her own laugh. “why do you let her get under your skin?”

you deadpan. “she is the only person that can ragebait me until i wanna tear my hair out,” you’re basically clawing at your skin. “can’t even complain about anything anymore,” you mutter more to yourself. “whatever.”

shoko gives you a sympathetic look.

“call me when you finish, I’ll come pick you up,” you conclude, waiting for shoko’s hum before leaving.

and just a few miles away, another incident was unfolding in the itadori garage.

“what?” choso’s voice cuts through the room. “you’re lying.”

“you don’t want a free vacation?”

“it’s not a free anything! i’m not going to spain! the tournament—”

“yeah, the finals are the day before our flight, still lying—”

“i’m not lying! when we win we’re gonna be meeting with producers and stuff—”

“and stuff,” sukuna laughs. “you can zoom in.”

“that’s not the same thing!”

“sounds the same.”

“it literally isn’t!”

the garage erupts. the old fan rattles uselessly in the corner, guitar cables snake across the floor and choso stands in the middle, face red with frustration while sukuna lounges against the workbench like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all week.

“i’m not missing opportunities because you’re going to spain!” choso shouts.

sukuna shrugs, “good thing i’m not asking.”

“you can’t do that!”

“watch me.”

“ryomen!”

“choso!”

the younger teen looks seconds away from committing a felony, his jaw tightens, anger bubbling dangerously, “you’re possessively controlling.”

“shocker,” sukuna replies lowly, checking his phone after it buzzes.

“you can’t just drag people across the world!”

“sure i can.”

“i’m sixteen!”

“exactly.”

choso makes a strangled noise just as the garage door suddenly slides open.

“hey, i brought—” ino freezes, a pizza box hangs from one hand. his eyes dart between the brothers. “…oh.”

“tell him he’s insane!” choso shouts, voice cracking and pointing at the tattooed brother lounged in the corner on his phone.

“tell him i’m right,” sukuna says at the same time with less effort as his younger brother.

ino slowly starts backing out. “nope.”

choso’s jaw clenches, “ino.”

ino shakes his head more, “no.”

“ino,” choso’s words strain.

“naaahhhh man.” the teen points at both of them, pizza box fumbling. “last time i got involved in your family drama i got interrogated by psycho satan.” he means sukuna.

“that’s dramatic,” sukuna snorts.

“you threatened me,” ino huffs.

“that’s different,” sukuna casually scratches his large tatted bicep, with an added shrug.

ino frowns, “how is that different?!”

suluna shrugs, while the younger teen throws his hands in the air, choso’s black hair is messy and pushed out of his face from how much he’s run his hands through it. “he accepted the offer!”

“what offer?” ino asks.

“the spain one,” choso frowns, and sukuna eyes dart up, not realizing how many people knew about this offer. ino blinks, lips parting and eyes lighting up.

“…spain spain?”

“yes, spain spain,” choso snaps.

“like beaches?”

“yes.”

“europe?”

“yes!”

“yoooooo,” ino is smiling wide now, stepping further into the garage. “that’s so cool!”

“dude—“ choso snaps.

ino cringes, but the smile doesn’t go away, “sorry, but like DAAAAANG, remember a couple years ago, we talked about it—duuude,” ino’s attention shifts to sukuna, smiling wide. “congrats!!”

“what—stop glazing him!” choso interrupts, and ino holds back his tongue, conflicted.

“cool but like yeah, no, that’s actually insane, why does choso needa go with you? not cool,” ino falls in line.

choso relaxes just a bit, “thank you.”

“but also…” ino hesitates, and choso’s eyes narrows immediately.

“don’t.”

ino puts the pizza on the table, shrugging, “i’m just saying—”

“ino.”

“i mean…spain is kinda sick,” he plays devils advocate. and sukuna barks out a laugh.

“ino!” choso looks ready to throw his guitar right at his best friend. “you never help, shit friend.”

“he’ll get over it,” sukuna says to ino, who feels slightly guilty, opening the box to take out a slice while it’s hot.

“i won’t!” choso shouts, putting his guitar down.

sukuna ignores him, “he will.”

“i won’t!”

“you always do.” the words come out too casual, and for half a second, the garage falls quiet. choso’s jaw tightens, and sukuna’s grin fades slightly, watching his younger brother’s expression shift, the anger burning hotter. the same anger claws at sukuna’s own chest remebering why he has to force choso to come with him.

“I’m staying with gramps,” choso’s voice is lower. his own brain trying to wrap around the sudden information. he hadn’t even known that his brother accepted the offer when he wouldn’t even talk to anyone about it. and to find out he accepted it and was told it’s okay for him to bring his brothers without even asking him?!

“gramps is going to the lake with his war buds like he does every summers so yeah, you’re not staying here alone.” sukuna tsks, standing up. he glares at choso across the garage, waiting for choso to test him. the tension suddenly hits ino full force. the bickering had turned into something charged in a matter of seconds. his chewing slows, awkwardly.

“I’ll stay with ino,” choso pushes, eyes darting between sukuna’s.

“this lying shit?” sukuna scoffs pointing at ino without glancing at him.

ino chokes, coughing, “me?!!”

sukuna frowns, eyes narrowing sharply, “I fucking asked you if he saw that bitch of mom and you said no. that constitutes as lying.”

ino lowers his head.

“I told him not to say anything,” choso defends, “he’s my friend.”

“exactly why you’re not staying with him because he’ll lie and I won’t know if you see that woman again or not.” sukuna takes a step towards his brother.

“i took money from her,” choso tilts his head, clearly not afraid of the older as his eyes narrow. “I’m gonna give her that money back.”

“I don’t give a shit if you don’t or if you take more money from her. she owes you and yuuji a shit ton of money anyways,” sukuna stops in front of choso. an unknown look crossing the man’s face, and choso hesitates for a moment. “I have a problem that she laid her hands on you.”

choso’s jaw clenches, stepping away. “I stole money from her.”

“so you think you deserve to get hit?” sukuna snaps. choso rolls his eyes, grabbing a slice of pizza, forcing himself to act casual. “she’s a toxic psycho.”

“whatever, man,” choso mutters, dismissing the conversation about his mother. an uncomfortable twist settling deep in his stomach making him slightly nauseous. “I don’t wanna talk about her with you.”

“why because I don’t sugarcoat how horrible she is?” sukuna scoffs. choso’s defensive attitude quietly triggers the older. choso rolls his eyes again, gaze locked at the pizza, but sukuna catches it and ino sinks further in the corner. “stupid ass teen,” sukuna grabs his keys from his pocket, walking towards the door, opening the garage. “fucking proving my damn point by acting stupid as fuck.”

sukuna scoffs, pissing himself off as the memories of this woman flood his mind. jaw tensing as he looks at choso turning away from him. “mothers don’t beat their kids, and she was more of dad’s fucking mental patient than a mom to you”

“how the fuck would you know!” choso finally snaps. “your mom left and my mom isn’t yours, I have my own memories!”

“the ones when you were two?” sukuna scoffs, walking towards the parked pick-up truck. “I doubt you remember shit before you were twelve,” sukuna says the comment without realizing the flame he lit.

“I remember you going to jail too and losing your first club offer,” choso spits. “great example compared to her. definitely my role model!”

sukuna stops dead in his tracks, jaw tightening, he glances over his shoulder and choso doesn’t back down. “you’re more like her than me or yuuji are, so it’s pretty hypocritical that I’m being forced to go to spain with another psycho.”

mechamaru had just parked his car and is exiting when he hears the yelling from his friend’s open driveway. ino has attempted to blend in with the couch, empty plate in his lap while choso’s chest heaves. the strings in his heart strain ignoring the unfamiliar look on his brothers face. especially when sukuna fiddles with his keys with one hand, the jangling fills the tense air, before sukuna licks his teeth.

“at least I’ve never hit you guys.”

the response is deeply honest that choso pauses, unable to respond. sukuna swings his keys between his fingers, rubbing the back of his neck and walking down the driveway. he passes mechamaru silently, unlocking his truck.

the teens are left in defending silence minutes after sukuna’s already driven away. ino and mechamaru exchange looks, especially when choso disappears into the house to wash his face.

at some point the houses thin out and the ocean appears. the clouds hang low and heavy overhead, turning the late afternoon gray. rain threatening to fall any minute. sukuna parks in an empty lot overlooking the beach and kills the engine. his hands are locked around the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.

you’re more like her than me or yuuji are.

his jaw aches. choso hadn’t even sounded afraid when he said it, he was angry enough to mean it. sukuna drags both hands over his face, wishing he can claw at everything. “fuck.”

the word disappears, waves crashing against the shore, ahead as his phone vibrates inside. and miles away, parked beside an empty field, you do the same.

the hospital sits somewhere behind you, and your home is in the opposite direction, and neither destination sounds appealing. the engine is off. the windows are cracked. summer wind drifts through the car as you stare at absolutely nothing. your father’s voice rings around your skull making you rest your head against the window. you don’t want to go home or go back or do anything.

eventually your phone lights up.

after another few minutes of staring at the ocean, his hand finally reaches for his phone. notifications flood the screen, group chats, soccer shit, gojo being annoying, something from toji, and his thumb scrolls through the usual unopened messages until he sees a certain contact.

his thumb stops. three days ago.

crybaby: where’s the video of your brother’s band?

his gaze lingers. for some reason, that message irritates him less than everything else. he opens the chat and for a moment he considers not responding, his thumb mindlessly scrolls through your earlier conversation, until the photo you sent him fills his screen.

dumbass: they made it to the semifinals

a beat passes..

dumbass: i forgot to send the video

your phone vibrates against the passenger seat making you glance down and see his name, and despite the day you’ve had, despite everything, your chest loosens just a little.

crybaby: woww

crybaby: a whole 3 days later

crybaby: i was starting to think u hated me

sukuna snorts. his head tips back against the seat. outside, thunder rumbles somewhere over the water.

dumbass: good guesser

you roll your eyes, holding back a smile.

crybaby: haha u’re soo funny

sukuna scrolls through his camera roll. easily finding the video gojo had taken and sending it to you. you heart the message, and a few minutes later the texts flood in.

crybaby: WHAAAA

crybaby: WTHHHH UR BROTHER IS SO GOOD

dumbass: u def thought they were gonna be ass

crybaby: ngl…I wasn’t expecting much

dumbass: rude

crybaby: ONLY BC I’ve gone to a few in the past and RARELY r they ever good

crybaby: NO OFFENSE

dumbass: I’m offended

you don’t realize the smile on your face as you watch another video sukuna sends. relaxing back in your seat, jaw agape.

crybaby: no like actually wth — ur brother’s voice is making me tear up

crybaby: it’s so angelic esp for a hard rock band

sukuna snorts.

dumbass: crybaby

crybaby: did I say CRY? I said TEAR UP smh smhh

a few beats pass, not long enough for you to fully exit your messages, but long enough to watch the little typing bubble appear then disappear, and then your face fills your screen.

….incoming FaceTime from dumbass….

your lips part, cheeks warming as you easily click accept, the call connecting. sukuna’s face fills your screen, the camera angle is terrible, but somehow he still looks unfairly attractive.

the lighting inside the truck is dim from the storm clouds outside, shadows cutting across the sharp lines of his face. his pink hair looks soft, a few strands hang loose across his forehead. his tattoos disappear beneath the collar of his black shirt, the dark markings curling up the side of his neck. his forearm rests against the driver’s side window, broad shoulders, strong jaw—you hate how hot he looks.

on the other side of the call, sukuna feels much the same.

he expected your voice, but there’s something about seeing your face. your hair is slightly messy from your long day. you’re leaning sideways against the drivers seat, cheek pressed against the headrest of your car seat. golden evening light spills through the window in front of you, softening everything. you look tired, but pretty…really pretty. something in his chest loosens.

your eyes blink slowly, then narrow, “what happened to your face?”

sukuna’s brow furrows, “what?”

you lean closer to the camera, “your eye.”

his hand immediately comes up, glancing at the mirror in front of him. forgetting about the faint bruise caused by toji a few days ago, and barely noticeable to anyone except apparently you.

his fingers brush beneath it. “nothing.”

you stare and sukuna stares looks back at his phone, “that’s not nothing.”

“it’s nothing.”

“yeah definitely,” you sarcastically quip.

“it’s literally nothing.” your expression flattens. his matches yours instantly. neither of you budge. the silence stretches then—

“did you get punched?”

the offended look that flashes across his face almost makes you laugh. “the fuck kind of question is that?” he snaps.

you shrug fast, “it’s a valid question.”

“no it isn’t.”

“it is, since that’s what people who get punched in the face look like,” you say, like you’re some expert.

“speaking from experience?” he tosses, irritation scratching at your questions.

“yeah,” you lie, and he probably knows that, but still he leans back in his seat again. “it definitely looks like you got a bruise.”

“yeah, because i play a contact sport,” he huffs. you squint suspiciously as he rolls his eyes so hard it physically pains him. “gojo elbowed me in the middle of a game.”

“see?” you point triumphantly. “that wasn’t hard.”

sukuna tsks, “you’re annoying.”

“i was curious,” you shrug.

“it’s a bruise.”

“on your face.”

“you sound like yuuji.” the corner of his mouth twitches, barely there, but enough for the tightness in both of your chests to ease just a little. your lips part, still looking at the bruise.

“does it hurt?” your voice is softer, allowing something warm to settle in sukuna’s chest.

a smirk tugs on the players lips. “yeah. you gonna come make me feel better?” the teasing has your thighs clenching. his voice is low, deep, watching your eyes dart off screen. “where are you right now?”

you shift in your seat, flipping the camera to do a 360 of your surroundings. sukuna notices your bag in the passenger seat, “you get off work?”

“yup left early,” you flip the camera back, your phone on your lap as you fix your necklace in the mirror.

“you ditched?”

you laugh, “no,” you pick your phone back up, “I was kicked out.”

sukuna whistles. “bad girl. what’d you do?”

you shrug, leaning back in your seat, “I punched a patient.”

sukuna’s eyes blow wide, “you’re lying.”

you snort, “obviously,” you smile, pretty lips glossy as you wet them. “just had a chat with my dad and he told me to go home.”

“are you home?”

you shake your head, tilting just a bit as you watch sukuna through the phone. the silence fills both your environments. “doesn’t look like you’re home.”

“got work soon,” he answers, eyeing the curve of your jaw as you look out the window as if you weren’t parked in a deserted lot. still he can’t help the churning in his stomach as you fiddle with your earrings, lips parting again.

“so you gotta go soon?”

sukuna can’t fully read your emotions through a shitty phone screen, but he can catch the slight sweetness in your tone. and that was enough to pull a subtle smirk from him. he’s fully resting his back against his seat, arm propped on the open window holding his phone, while the other rests on his lap.

“I have some time,” he tilts his head, eyes narrowing a tad when you hum. “you have something in mind?”

you wet your lip, eyes twinkling as you nod your head. “yeah, i wanted to ask you a question.” he smirks, letting you continue. “how fast did you cum when i sent you that picture on saturday?” sukuna’s smile falters. “because you sent me a pic like three minutes later.”

you really love to push his buttons. the scowl is written all over his face. “i was already on edge, so i was doing it for awhile before you even sent it.”

your smile grows, if possible, a devilish twinkle in your eyes. “so i really helped you cum, ryo, hmm?” you wet your lip, and the action, coupled up with your sultry tone, has sukuna’s pants growing tight, “you made a big mess. cumming all over yourself like that,” you tsk, teasingly. “do you always make a big mess when you play by yourself?”

sukuna’s jaw tightens, his crotch swelling from your teasing. the bulge pushing up against his jeans, just as his palm digs against the evidence. unable to hide the fact that you’re turning him on.

“don’t be embarrassed, ry,” you coo with faux sweetness. “big boys make messes too.”

a loud, strangled scoff, escapes the man’s mouth. cheeks hot, as you continue degrading him. “suddenly y’er all confident because I can’t pin you down from here?”

you shrug, little smirk still playing on those pretty lips of yours. fuck, he misses having those lips on him. kissing you deeply, swallowing your whines and strangled moans. “am I not allowed to make you feel better?”

“fucking teasing me,” he grunts, jaw tightening as he palms his bulge.

heat pools between your legs, face warm as you see his shifting. “did I make you hard?” the excitement was obvious in your tone.

“don’t act surprised,” he mutters, flipping the camera to see the big bulge he’s gripping over his jeans. sukuna see’s the dizzy like look you have, lips parting.

“take it out.”

he smirks. you’re a little perv. and not so surprisingly, you see the uncoordinated moving as he unbuckles his belt, the phone dropping then getting raised again to see the way he pushes the waistband of his black Calvin’s, dragging it down. his dark pubes not as well groomed as it usually is, and that has you biting back a whimper.

fuck fuck, you miss pressing your face there, licking the coarse hairs, kissing his base.

and finally his hand wraps around the chubby length, freeing his semi-hard cock in his car. thunder cracks in the distant, rain starting to pour.

“gonna keep telling me what to do, or do you want closeups?” he teases, stroking his base lazily, biting his lip.

you shift in your seat.

“spit on it—“

you already see his spit fly and hit his flushed cock, immediately making your cheeks sting.

“c’mon, gotta keep talkin’ to me like my personal slut,” he hasn’t done anything since spitting on his cock, waiting for you to continue your directions. if you’re gonna act all dominant, then he’ll give you all the control…at least when you’re separated by a phone screen.

“stroke your cock…slow,” you command, wetting your lip as you watch him, and he listens. a wave of quiet confidence floods your head at his submission. “rub your slit with your thumb…yeah…” your lips part watching him stroke his cock. “faster.”

his breath is heavy behind the phone, grip tightening when he reaches the base, before twisting his hand back up, thumb collecting his pre and spreading it to the rest of his cock.

“do you usually jerk off like this?” your lewd curiosity always makes him smirk.

“I’m taking your direction.”

“jerk off like you usually do then…I wanna see,” you interrupt.

he snorts, loosening his jaw, before his pace picks up, tugging on his impressive size, collecting more pre and doing his best to self lubricate. his grunts are slightly louder, sending heat to your pussy, you can already feel your drenched panties.

“let go.”

a strangled noise comes out of him as his hand lets go making his cock bob between his legs, his thighs flex, jaw tightening as more pre cum leaks out in humiliation. “fuck.” he runs his hand on his abs, lifting his shirt higher, watching his own cock throb and twitch mid-air. the weight angling his cock down.

“ow!”

he doesn’t fully realize what you’re doing, until you yelp. his brows pinch, eyes narrowing because your phone is no longer on your face, but on the ceiling of your car.

“what’re you doing?” his words fall on deaf ears, when you’re suddenly lifting the camera back up, and revealing the state you’re in. you’re completely naked from the waist down, shirt pushed above those beautiful tits, and your lips all wet from how much your biting them. “fuck, baby.”

you smile, pushing the drivers seat further back to give yourself space, cheeks hot as you spread your legs. “lemme see your face, ryomen.”

he easily flips the camera back. you blush seeing the pink dusting his cheeks. “you like risky stuff,” he points.

“I’m alone.”

“still public.”

your lips part, rubbing your nipple, slowly teasing yourself. his eyes darken, gaze darting between your face and those beautiful perky nipples he wishes he could suck this very second. fuck, when you’d run your nails through his hair when he’d bite your perky buds and you’d moan so sweetly.

“you’re not even twisting them hard enough,” he tsks, watching you play with yourself…incorrectly. “how often do you touch yourself.”

“not as often as you touch me.”

sukuna chokes. you’re way too fast for him, and it catches him off guard every once in a awhile. he quickly recovers, “show me how wet you are.”

you listen, managing to face the passenger seat and have the phone propped on your bag.

“aw, you’re dripping,” he coos, biting his lip, as you run your fingers through the mess, spreading your pretty folds for him. “dirty girl,” he groans, hand sneaking down to his twitching hard cock—

“don’t touch yourself,” you cut possessively. “it’s my turn.”

“I didn’t even cum,” he tsks, but still eases back, thick legs spreading wider as he watches you shrug. “fine, lemme see how many fingers you can put in that little pussy.”

“one.”

“I said: let me see,” his voice drops an octave and that has you clenching and blushing all over. “lick your finger.”

you lean close to the camera, making a show of caressing your plump bottom lip, then easing your middle finger in. your suck the digit, eyes heavy as they look directly at sukuna. he silently watches, jaw loosening as he tries his best to keep his hand away, especially when you pull your middle finger out, flipping him off.

“cute,” he smirks, screenshotting. “put it in.” he tilts his head, humming as you sit back just a little. he eyes the way you open your legs, running your finger down your body, before circling your clit. your lips part and sukuna notices the way your back arches just a bit, finally pushing in, “theere we go.”

you hum along, jaw agape as you curl your finger in slowly pumping your finger. it’s not the same though. you hate having to do this shit yourself, it would kill the mood if sukuna wasn’t praising you on the other line.

“fuck, your pussy looks so pretty,” he groans, “so hot.”

you bite back a moan, lashes fluttering as you move your finger back to your clit. unaware of the disappointment until you hear a loud tsk.

“why’d you take your finger out?” sukuna barks.

you frown, still rubbing your clit, “It doesn’t feel as good.”

“bullshit,” he huffs, “put two fingers in.” your cheeks flush hot, collecting your arousal on your finger and teasing your hole again. “fuck your pussy like I told ya too.”

you wet your lips with attitude he can clearly read, especially when you add a sarcastic, “yes, sir.”

pre oozes from the brute’s twitching cock.

still, his eyes narrow with lust as he watches you dip your pretty little fingers in that tight hole. it’s always the initial stretch that has your lips parting. “keep moving your fingers. curl ‘em,” he husks, voice much lower and sexier, unbelievably turned on. “dirty girl fingerin’ herself in her car.”

you whine, back pressed against the door, as you angle your hips up, back arching as you continue fingering yourself, especially when you curl them and finally feel that spot. “got it?”

your glossy lips part, nodding, “y-yeah haah—ry-touch y’rself to me.“

fuck.

he doesn’t waste a second grabbing his cock and working himself up to the pace you’ve set. his own jaw clenches, watching your legs tremble as you pump your pretty fingers in and out, watching the way your fingers glisten every time you pull out, pretty nipples all hard and exposed, and lips glossy.

his thigh trembles, jaw tensing as he squeezes his base, holding himself back as you pull your fingers out to stimulate your neglected clit.

“good girl,” he husks under his breath, unaware of how much he enjoys watching you and getting jealous from nothing. you respond with a heavy sigh, tongue poking out as you feel yourself getting closer.

“gun- cum with me…ry-haah?”

he starts working his chubby cock, wishing to death he can feel the heat of your pussy against his swollen tip. “yeah, keep working those little fingers, make yourself cum.”

your whine pitches a little higher in the small car. thighs spreading wider as you stimulate your clit, oblivious to the low praises sukuna is muttering, feeling his heavy balls clench up. and just as your about to reach the edge, toes curling in your shoes, your phone tips over, hitting the ground just as sukuna hears you moan—

“anhh—“

“what the fuck!?”

you whine, back hitting the door as your legs close around your hand. lips parted as your chest rises with each heavy breath. you don’t even realize what happened until you hear your name being called, followed be another “where the fuck did you go?!”

your brows furrow, glancing at where your phone once was, then to its place on the floor of the passenger side. “oh.”

you move over the center, reaching down to lift your phone, and the moment your face comes to view, sukuna’s jaw tenses more.

“you came?”

your lips part sitting back in your seat. “yeah, I think i accidentally kicked my bag. did you cu—“

“no.” he cuts sharply. you suck your lips in to refrain from laughing. “cum again.”

your brows rise. “I can’t.”

sukuna barks out a humorless laugh. “I always make you cum more than once—“

“yeah, YOU—not ME. I don’t know how to overstimulate myself,” you reach for some tissues to clean yourself off camera. but sukuna groans loudly, cock throbbing as he works himself. “just imagine me cumming.”

his jaw locks, head tipping back so you can get a perfect shot of his sharp jaw. the silence stretches for a second before sukuna opens his mouth, refusing to look at his phone, missing the way your lips part, and face burns.

“talk into the phone then.”

your stomach flips with something you don’t want to name, especially when he tilts his head back clearly still working his monster of a cock that’s painfully red. “I’m close. speak.”

the command has you closing your thighs tighter, raising the phone to your lips, inhaling slowly, controlling the butterflies.

another beat passes before you finally begin.

“my fingers are so wet after cumming…” you dramatize a gentle sigh, “my pussy is so empty…I need your big fat cock filling my tight…little…pussy…ryo.”

“fuck,” sukuna’s jaw clenches harder, abs tightening as he aggressively twists his hand up his cock, thumb digging into his slit, much more aggressive than how you’d touch his cock, but he just needs to cum.

“can’t wait to see you, ryomen,” you exhale sweetly, adding a little pitched hum, “want you to use my pussy like it’s your pretty toy,” you blush at your own words, keeping it just a little over a whisper because if it was any louder than you might melt into the seat with embarrassment. but sukuna’s strained, low grunts, is reassuring. “fuck me until I can’t move, kiss me until I can’t breathe…you wanna kiss me right, pretty boy?” your cheeks sting viscously at the pet name that casually rolled off your tongue—

but then, a long deep groan comes from the back of the 6’4 footballer’s throat.

your entire body catches on fire, and a smile quietly tugs at the corners of your lips.

“you wanna kiss me that bad, baby?” you tease lightly, and even though sukuna refuses to reply, his strangled grunts, and sounds of his squelching cock being tugged, is enough reassurance to give you that final sentence that pushes him off the edge. “you also wanna stuff my pretty pussy right: wanna fill me with your thick…heavy cum, don’t you ryo?” you bite your lip the moment you hear the choke on the other end.

you quietly listen, pulling your phone to see that sukuna’s phone is forgotten in his lap. your finger playing at your lip, still smiling, waiting for sukuna to come down from his orgasm.

the man’s jaw is locked. head tipped back against the head rest. chest heaving. and face burning with a light shade of pink.

“you cum?” you break the silence, tone laced with something that twists in sukuna’s gut. the phone shifts, your face unable to stop your smile when you see his flushed face. your fingers still playing with your lips with faux innocence.

“yeah.” his clipped tone isn’t too harsh, but definitely shielding something else as he looks down at the mess. his jaw tenses seeing his cum covering his hand and splattered on the steering wheel. even if the phone is on his face, you can see the way his eyes are looking past it.

“you made a mess?”

he licks his teeth, eyes catching yours. “yeah.”

dang he’s cold. is he embarrassed? a warmth settles in your tummy at the thought. it’s hard to read him, but it’s even harder when it’s through the phone. either way, you shift around your car, putting your panties and pants back on and pulling your shirt down, fixing your bra. on the other end, sukuna is pulling his shirt off, and using it to clean the mess he made. jaw tensing every time your voice rings in his head again.

“who taught you how to talk like that?” he raises his hips pulling his pants back up, tucking his softening cock in.

your brow quirks lightly, “nobody lol,” you look back at your phone. “I was just going with the flow,” you smirk, head tilting just a bit that the man freezes, stomach flipping at the pretty sight on his phone and he instinctively just….*screenshot* “was I good?”

he makes a grumbling noise, then, “made me cum.”

“so, good?”

he rolls his eyes, “sure.” he ignores your smile as he finishes cleaning his mess. the buzzing of your phone interrupting. “you have to go?”

you hum, “yeah, gotta pick up shoko.” you text her that you’re on your way. sukuna looks back at his phone as he starts his car up, you do the same. “I’ll talk to you later, then.”

and the second sukuna gives an affirmative hum, you hang up.

as the days pass. neither one of you found your stress levels steady. instead, you were tested again and again, more rejection emails coming in for writing and producing programs you applied too for the summer. and as was sukuna with his brother’s attitude, especially with this weird phase that’s caught his attention with yuuji.

“I thought you were seeing megumi tomorrow?” sukuna glances up from his spot behind the bar, stopping mid-wipe down to see yuuji slinging his backpack on.

“we’re going to the beach today to see them set up before the festival tomorrow,” yuuji mutters, pushing his overgrown hair off his forehead in quiet annoyance.

sukuna’s brows pinch tight, “thought we were gonna do that?”

yuuji shrugs already walking to the back of the bar, large open windows lining the back that overlooks the beach. megumi and nobara wait outside, chatting. “s’fine,” yuuji stops by the door, “choso doesn’t talk to you, and you’re always busy—so whatever.”

sukuna tenses, grip curling around the dirty rag as his little brother turns and leaves. what the fuck?? since when has yuuji been cut and dry with him!?

just as sukuna stresses about his younger siblings, you’re wondering how much longer you have to hold yourself back until you tear your eyes out. another rejection email, that could’ve been the reason why your sudden stress skyrockets and then it immediately crashes after higuruma finally texts you after not hearing anything from him since you first got his number.

[12:34PM] hiromi higuruma: hey this is hiromi

[12:34PM] hiromi higuruma: sorry it’s been awhile but my uncle finally got back to me, he’s free thursday or friday around the afternoon to chat

[12:35PM] hiromi higuruma: lmk which day works so he can put it in his calendar before he gets booked

your lips part, standing outside a patient room staring at your phone. shit. your heart pounds rapidly against your ribs. you work until five everyday. your jaw tenses…just ask if he can do anything after—he can’t. unlike you, people can’t just move things around for you. your fingers quickly tap your screen.

[12:40PM] you: hii

[12:40PM] you: yea friday works for me, would this be a zoom call or phone call?

you see the bubbles appear, then disappear. you shift your weight, stomach churning.

[12:42PM] hiromi higuruma: shit

your stomach drops.

[12:42PM] hiromi higuruma: I forgot—you’re not based in the city?

[12:42PM] you: no, I’m back home for the summer

[12:43PM] you: would it be a problem doing it on zoom?

your back leans against the wall, stomach aching as you wait for his response. seriously, can one thing not work out in your favor?

[12:44PM] hiromi hirguruma: I’ll talk to him, but I think it’s better to wait until you’re back in the city and do it in person

[12:44PM] hiromi higuruma: only saying this bc he forgets everyone he talks too on zoom but he’ll be much more helpful if he meets you face to face, plus you’re a good conversationalist (js from my perspective) so you’d leave a good impression

a beat passes.

[12:45PM] hiromi higuruma: your call tho, i can still talk to him if u want

[12:45PM] hiromi higuruma: he's here all summer, so whenever you're back js Imk and I can set up a meeting

fuck!! your jaw aches, clenching down hard enough to break your teeth. hot tears sting behind your eyes, threatening to spill. you inhale sharply. grinding down harder on your teeth as you squeeze your phone.

what’s the fucking point in meeting with him now if he’ll just forget about you?

[12:47PM] you: oh okay, yeah I think it’s better in person then

[12:47PM] you: I’ll be in the city in august, is that okay?

your heart twists unbelievably tight, nails digging into your palm.

[12:48PM] hiromi higuruma: yeah for sure! and dw I’ll set a meeting up with u and him

almost like he can sense your disappointment through your hesitant texts. he sends another message.

[12:49PM] hiromi higuruma: how’s your summer?

wrong question…

[12:49PM] you: 😀 so good!

the bubbles appear then disappear, then:

[12:50PM] hiromi higuruma: that’s a sarcastic emoji right?

you can’t control the quiet chuckle that slips out.

[12:50PM] you: loll yeah

[12:50PM] you: its fine…working here…with my dad…yayy

higuruma seems to understand your tone as he responds.

[12:51PM] hiromi higuruma: u losing ur mind?

[12:51PM] you: nope

[12:51PM] you: y would u say that (I wanna kms)

[12:51PM] hiromi higuruma: (rip) just a hunch, guess I was wrong

a smile threatens your face.

[12:52PM] hiromi higuruma: don’t stress tho, my uncle has some rlly good connects so he’ll help u out

you bite your cheek, pushing down the anxious twists that’s been eating at you for months. you’re still waiting on another possible opportunity for the second half of summer, but now you’re scared if that falls through, all you’ll have is nanami’s friend’s uncle as a connection..

[12:52PM] you: thanks🥹🙏

[12:53PM] hiromi higuruma: how long is ur program?

[12:53PM] you: till the last week of july so js two-ish more weeksss

[12:54PM] hiromi higuruma: homestretch

[12:54PM] hiromi higuruma: u need a vacation after

[12:54PM] you: TRUSTT

[12:54PM] you: it is in the works🫡 my friends r planning it

[12:55PM] hiromi higuruma: where r u guys going?

you pause, lips parting.

[12:56PM] you: oh….i forgot

[12:56PM] hiromi higuruma: fr?

[12:56PM] you: no frrr shoko just told me to block off the dates but i actually forgot where we’re going bc they were planning it for awhile and i was too busy to pay attention

you cringe, trying to remember where shoko said satoru’s infamous mediterranean summer house is. either way higuruma responds with a cool message, unbothered by your lack of remembrance.

[12:57] hiromi higuruma: well it’s clear u need that vacation then

[12:57PM] you: 😪✊

you don’t realize you’ve basically been standing on your phone for awhile until a resident passes by, eyes flicking down.

“put the phone away before I tell your dad,” he mutters, and though the “joke” has been tossed around multiple times by the residents who know exactly what your relationship is with the chief of surgery, it doesn’t make it any funnier when you heard it the first time or the hundredth time —

your jaw tenses, glancing at your phone to see higuruma’s text.

[12:58PM] hiromi higuruma: make sure to stop in the city after tho and text me ahead of time

[12:58PM] you: i willlll

you shut your phone off, exhaling sharply as your head tips back. at this point…the only thing you’re looking forward to now is this trip. considering the second half of your summer is delayed after pushing this meeting back. and from the looks of it…you highly doubt you’re getting accepted into those writing programs.

“great,” you mutter to yourself.

your feet finally drag you away from the wall, and down the hall. unfortunately the pressure on your chest doesn’t leave, instead your mind quietly moves in circles as you continue the day’s work. unable to remove yourself completely from the stress of your future.

you smile at patients when they greet you. you laugh when shoko mutters something inappropriate under her breath. you still finish your notes, answer questions, make coffee runs, and remember to ask people how their weekends were. nothing is wrong enough for anyone to pull you aside and ask if you’re okay because you’re not falling apart. you’re just…tired. there’s a heaviness that sits beneath your ribs and makes everything feel harder than it should.

even when you check your phone during lunch. your conversation with higuruma sitting near the top of your messages. another month of waiting. another month of this feeling. you lock your phone just as someone calls your name, answering immediately.

it all keeps moving, dragging you along. the routine sucking you in. driving home as shoko talks from the passenger seat about the residents. about a movie she wants to watch. about a patient that yelled at her. about her not fully confident about her mcat studying methods. you nod and laugh, chiming in.

that’s how it goes in the mornings. driving at six am, music playing softly through the speakers. your eyes randomly burning behind your sunglasses, making you blink, unable to stop the tears from gathering for no apparent reason other than you can shake this heaviness on your chest. but it’s easy to wipe beneath your eyes during the red light. shoko doesn’t notice.

even at home, your sister asks how your day is, if you ate, how dad is, and you answer shortly without much thought. jennie watches you for a moment longer. her eyes lingering, opening her mouth like she’s going to say something before deciding against it. especially when you quietly play with yazzy now. playing with her barbie’s clothes in silence, clearly not fully present, but still able to pull a smile for your niece.

“fix her hair now!” yazzy shoves another barbie in your hand, the gum stuck to the ends making you scowl.

“why is there candy all over them?” you lightly scold, making yazzy cover her face with a doll, bashful and guilty.

“it was an accident!” she giggles, making you tsk lightly, giving her a faux disappointed look which earns you another loud giggle from her.

jennie quietly watches from the living room, eyes softening. she’s been gone for some time, but her concerns are present, so when shoko walks into the kitchen, her attention shifts momentarily.

“question,” jennie glances at the brunette. shoko hums, looking over her shoulder from the fridge. “how upset is she? because she’s working with our dad?”

shoko glances at you in the living room, the tv playing masking the conversation in the kitchen. “she hates it.”

jennie hums, looking down at her nails. “she said that?”

shoko nods, “she takes it on the chin though, but yeah…she hates it. she usually complains then feels guilty for complaining.”

that seems to twist something inside jennie, her jaw clenching. “yeah…she’s an idiot.” she mutters, hand rubbing her face. “there’s only so much you can tell her and she still won’t listen.” jennie stands straight. “it’s her life.”

shoko doesn’t respond. instead watching as jennie calls her daughter to head back to the hotel, and once they leave the house quiets, and you’re left alone with yourself.

you brush your teeth while staring into the bathroom mirror, foam gathering at the corners of your mouth as your reflection stares back. the faucet runs as you tilt your head. you look the same…same face, eyes, person — there’s no visible proof that anything is changing beneath your skin. but…you wonder if everyone else feels this way. is everyone secretly mourning versions of themselves they haven’t even become yet. are they walking around pretending everything is okay too? do they also hate where the direction of their lives are heading? can they even see what path they’ve taken—

you spit into the sink, washing your face.

once you crawl into bed, your room finally settles, feeling the darkness press close. and once again, your chest tightens. you think about the mcats. about the future. about all the people your age collecting internships and recommendations and certainty. you think about your father’s anxieties of your future. your mother’s concern. jennie’s harsh words—

you turn onto your side…then your back…then your other side. then…your eyes sting.

the tears build on their own, as they always do. your throat drying as you feel the warm liquid slide onto the pillow. you’re not sobbing. you don’t even know what you’re crying over. nothings happened. but eventually, sleep takes you.

“are you excited for college?” “what are you majoring in?” “you’re going to be a doctor, right?” “isn’t your dad a really good surgeon? my dad wants me to go into med school, but i don’t think i have the patience.”

the high school girls are packed into the locker room before gym, voices bouncing off metal lockers and tiled floors. someone’s trying to braid their ponytail in the mirror. another girl is complaining about wanting to get out of this gym period.

“wait, did they release decisions yet?”

“can your dad help me out when i’m looking for an internship?”

“yeah, you always work for your dad, so it’s not fair.”

“i’m jealous.”

your seventeen year old brain can only laugh, “it’s not like that,” you say automatically. but your friends only seem to double down. marking all your “wins” on one person who isn’t you.

“must be nice having your whole life figured out.”

the pressure in your chest tightens. you blink. you’ve heard these conversations a hundred times, so you should be used to them by now. but something tight twists in your chest. your fingers fumble with the combination lock on your gym locker. the metal slipping beneath your hands.

“you okay?”

“yeah,” your voice comes out too fast. you try again. however, it becomes harder to breathe, your vision blurring around the edges.

“shit!” your friend moves back just as you hit the lockers, falling to your knees as you grab your chest. is this a heart attack? people have heart attacks. can a high schooler have one? your dad would know—

“i can’t breathe.” the words tear out of your throat. your heart pounds harder, your fingers feel tingly and your head lightheaded.

“i can’t breathe.” you try again. nothing is coming out. air won’t come in. your hands shake violently, chest twisting.

“someone get the nurse!”

“she’s crying—”

you don’t feel the tears spill down your face before you even realize you’re crying. your chest hurts, your head spins, and the girls crowd around you.

—

the week leading up to the trip moved strangely, it was slow. the days blurred together as each individual hour stretched.

sukuna picked up more shifts at the bar, the smell of beer and musk clinging to his clothes long after he got home. when he wasn’t working, he was on the field by the beach, shirt sticking to his back beneath the summer sun as he played against whoever was willing to challenge him. usually it was gojo and geto. sometimes yuuji joined him, always laughing, but sukuna could feel the subtle shift. the kid lingered less…asked fewer questions, and as close as he is with gramps, even he wasn’t telling wasuke the full answer. and that was starting to make sukuna a little on edge.

then there was choso. it was inevitable after their argument. choso went out of his way to avoid his older brother and buried himself in rehearsals for the upcoming semifinals, spending more nights at ino’s, then with yuuji or gramps.

meanwhile, you’ve settled deeper into a routine. the hospital shifts, and early mornings that made you want to claw your eyes out. the drives with shoko that always eased you a bit. but then there was the wedding that jennie came for. and every aunt and family friend had something to ask. was there anyone special? were you talking to someone? how is it going into your senior year of undergrad? had you started studying for the mcat? have you taken the mcat yet?

your mother brushed them off, while your sister laughed because dating felt like the last thing on your mind. you smiled through it all, even as your stomach twisted tighter with every question you couldn’t answer honestly.

and then there was your father. he’d become quieter after the incident in the staircase, polite but distant in a way that unsettled you more. is he disappointed you aren’t taking the mcat yet? did one of the residents say something about your performance? you don’t ask. you just keep the questions with you, swirling in your mind whenever you see him.

none of the stress eases. not even when you quietly see sukuna in gojo’s ig stories. not even when yazzy tries to teach you and shoko a new dance move she’s learning. not even when your sister finally heads to the airport. none of it seemed to scratch that itch that kept your mind loud and irritating.

“did you get any sleep?” shoko pulls her shirt off, slipping into her scrubs. you stifle a yawn, shaking your head as you pull your scrub pants up. shoko yawns along with you, but exhales loudly afterwards. shaking her hands as she gives you smile. “last day though!”

your lips part, eyes widening, “oh snap.” and maybe that was what you needed because you’re suddenly smiling with shoko, laughing as you look at your phone. “last day!”

shoko hums, smiling wider as you both start dancing. and that definitely could be considered the longest, and best day of your week. and before you can blink, you’ve packed your suitcases and kissed your mom goodbye as she drops you and shoko off at the airport.

and with full unbridled honesty, you knew the best part of this trip was the excuse of being away from everything and everyone, and that’s what you’ve convinced yourself is what you need.

even after hours trapped in a middle seat, struggling to fall asleep, awkwardly folding yourself away from the men occupying both armrests beside you, you endure it. by the time the plane lands, your eyes burn with exhaustion and dark circles sit beneath them. the warm air greets you outside carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen.

you and shoko collect your luggage in a daze, exchanging tired glances until your attention catches on a sharply dressed man near the exit, holding a sign with both your names.

and that’s when your oasis begins.

the drive stretches along the coastline, blue water glittering beneath the afternoon sun. the mediterranean houses blur past the windows. shoko rests her cheek against her fist while you stare outside, feeling something inside your chest tighten again. what’re you even taking a vacation for?

you turn the corner into the neighborhood and your jaw drops. a villa sits at the end of the hillside like something straight out of a movie, and beyond the property is the ocean stretching endlessly, waves crashing.

“…you’re kidding,” you breathe.

shoko lets out a low whistle, stepping out of the car, “i forgot how disgustingly rich he is.”

the front doors slide open before either of you can fully process the sight, grabbing your suitcases.

“well, well, well!”

of course, the first thing you see is satoru gojo. he stands at the entrance wearing nothing but black swim shorts and a pair of sunglasses perched on top of his white hair, arms spread wide like he’s welcoming royalty into his kingdom. his skin is slightly tanned, abs glistening, and veins crawling up his forearms.

“took you guys long enough,” he announces obnoxiously. “i’ve been suffering all alone.”

“you’ve been posting pool pictures for three days with everyone,” shoko deadpans.

“but we’re still missing people,” gojo rebuts.

shoko laughs despite herself, stepping forward to wrap him in a quick hug. gojo squeezes her dramatically before turning his full attention toward you, who’s still dragging your suitcase across the polished floors, gaze darting between the towering ceilings, the sweeping staircase, and the ocean visible through the open living room.

“…what the hell,” you murmur. “this is insane.”

gojo’s grin somehow widens, “i know.”

you finally look at him properly, “thanks for letting me join,” you say, sincerity slipping into your voice before you can stop it. “seriously.”

for a brief moment, he looks genuinely touched, then— “well, it’s the least i can do,” he says, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “i’ll just need significantly more praise from you and sho for being such a generous, handsome host—”

“sure,” you cut him off easily, making him pout. but you finally step closer, wrapping your arms around him in a greeting hug anyway. “thank you, satoru.”

the complaint dies in his throat. “you’re welcome,” he says quickly but sounding almost suspicious of your sincerity before recovering instantly. “see? this is why you’re my favorite guest.”

“sure,” you sarcastically hum. “I’m just guessing you say that to everyone.”

“i do not.”

“you literally called utahime your favorite yesterday on facetime,” shoko points out.

“that was an obvious lie,” gojo shrugs.

“you definitely told geto he was your favorite,” shoko adds quickly.

gojo points, “he’s my favorite best friend.”

you glance between them, exhausted laughter bubbling out of you despite the lingering ache behind your eyes. sunlight pouring through the windows.

your suitcase stands forgotten by the doorway. somewhere outside, waves crash against the shore. and as gojo continues arguing with shoko about favoritism while leading you deeper into the villa. more people start coming into view.

“ahhh!! finally!!” a familiar voice booms, suddenly seeing a blur before you’re being engulfed in a hug by utahime. “it’s been hell with just these guys!”

gojo snorts, rolling his eyes, “why don’t you go ogle yuno, you perv—“

the harsh slap to his bare arm shuts him up, utahime glaring at him as she looks over her shoulder. luckily, yuno was still chatting loudly with nanami and some other guy you weren’t familiar with.

geto takes the attention as he steps in from the front door, sunglasses on and hair tied in bun. a smile immediately comes to his face when he spots more people. “it’s finally starting to feel like a vacation.”

you and shoko are taken upstairs. your suitcases bump softly against the polished tile floors as gojo launches into an overly detailed tour that neither of you retain, and something shoko’s already heard before.

but what you do manage to take in is how the villa becomes even more breathtaking the more you see of it. the arched doorways connecting the rooms, the patterned tiles lining the hallways, and carved wooden accents softening the stone walls. the villa held about eight bedrooms, and you and shoko barely process the number before finding yourselves in your room—or rather, your suite.

utahime’s presence is immediately obvious. her clothes are draped over the armchair near the balcony doors, makeup bag open across one of the dressers, bikinis and dresses laying on two of the beds, and several pairs of shoes already claimed near the closet.

“she really made herself at home,” shoko mutters.

you hum softly, too distracted by the room itself. two queen-sized beds sit beneath the exposed wooden beams, white linen curtains swaying every time the wind passes through the open balcony doors. the adjoining layout gives the three of you more than enough space, and the balcony utahime had apparently secured for the girls stretches across the back of the villa.

you wander to the open balcony before you can stop yourself, curious as to what the view is. warm air brushes against your dampened skin from the journey, but you’re immediately welcomed by the scent of salt and blooming flowers. below, you see the large pool, and then past the trees that circle the property, are terracotta rooftops of other villas, then the coastline in the distance. you can see the ocean glittering invitingly.

eventually, you peel yourself away making your way to the shower, washing away the hours of sticky travel air. the warm water loosens the knots in your shoulders, the steam clouding the mirror. by the time you emerge in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, toweling your hair dry, your body feels impossibly heavy.

the room is empty. you can hear shoko and the rest of the group outside from the open balcony. but all you can manage to do is walk across the tiled floor, barely managing to crawl onto the bed to turn of your phone alarm. your eyes struggling to stay open as you uncap your bottled water and swallow your scheduled pill. and once it goes down your throat, you toss the birth control pills back in your bag, and hit the warm sheets. you sink into the mattress with a relieved sigh.

the balcony doors remain open. the breeze filtering through the curtains. setting sun painting soft patterns across the tiled floor. and somewhere between one blink and the next, lulled by the sound of the ocean just beyond the villa walls, the exhaustion from everything finally catches up to you.

your eyes eventually drift shut.

unaware of what’s taking you so long, shoko and utahime go upstairs after an hour, freezing once they see you passed out.

“what the—“ utahime frowns. “we’re gonna go out to eat, wake up—“

utahime’s words die feeling shoko tug her out of the room.

“just let her sleep,” shoko cuts. “she’s been stressed for weeks, and i feel bad.” shoko’s voice is much softer, eyes down as utahime glances at her expression, then at the closed door.

“did something happen?” utahime’s brows are pinched.

shoko steps away from the door, shrugging, “I dunno,” a beat passes. “her sister just told me she doesn’t sleep well when she’s stressed, so just to keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn’t drink too much if she’s still, like,” shoko tries to find the right words. “funky, I guess. so like…this is a good chance for her to catch up on her sleep and relax a bit.”

utahime nods, immediately. “for sure. I’ll keep an eye on her too then— and we can help her destress in these next two weeks!—“ utahime suddenly slaps a hand over her mouth after she basically shouted.

shoko chuckles, but hums along.

the two had the right idea leaving you to sleep. you knocked out for the rest of the day, and by the time you wake up, the sun is only a few minutes from rising. you were slightly confused, having slept for so long. groggy, you sit up and blink around the unfamiliar room. the pale morning light filters through the open balcony doors, the curtains shifting softly with the breeze. and once you see the two other people sleeping in the room, you realize where you are.

utahime is asleep beside you, laying on her side hugging her pillow. shoko is sprawled across the other queen bed like a starfish, blanket tangled around her legs.

and you simply sit there, still waking up, until your stomach starts growling. you rub your eye, reaching for your phone, happy someone had put it in the charger.

6:02 a.m.

“…damn” you mutter to yourself, you hadn’t eaten since the shitty airplane food. careful not to wake either of them, you slide out of bed and slip out of the room.

the villa is quiet in that way when everyone’s still asleep. it’s peaceful and calming. you notice a few abandoned glasses still sitting on the kitchen island from the night before. some half-finished bags of chips on the counter and couches. through the open doors, the warm morning air drifts inside carrying the scent of the ocean.

gojo’s pretty rich to not care that all the back doors are wide open, you think.

you rummage through the mediterranean style kitchen until you find bread, cold cuts, cheese, and enough ingredients to throw together a decent sandwich. then with a plate in hand, phone tucked beneath your arm, you wander outside. the backyard overlooking the hillside below, terracotta rooftops spilling toward the ocean in the distance. the pool reflects the pale pinks and oranges beginning to stretch across the sky. and you settle onto one of the lounge chairs by the pool. your legs curl beneath you as you scroll mindlessly through your phone between bites of your sandwich.

it’s nice and quiet, and your shoulders sink further into the chair, slowly beginning to force yourself into a vacation mindset. and because of that, you don’t hear the front door open, or the footsteps crossing the brown tiled floors.

what you suddenly hear, mid-scroll, is a heavy unexpectedly loud thud of a duffle bag hitting the ground startling the living hell out of you. your heart hitting your ribs.

“…what the fuck?!”

you yelp entire body jerking, nearly tumbling off the chair as your heart launches straight into your throat. you’re still holding your sandwich, immediately whipping around to see the perpetrator.

and standing in the middle of the living room. black soccer shorts hanging low on his hips, a loose black t-shirt stretching across his shoulders. a cap resting in one hand, headphones around his neck. suitcase standing beside him, and a worn-in duffle bag abandoned at his feet….is sukuna.

he looks like he just got off a flight, slightly sweaty, slightly irritated, slightly exhausted, and unbelievably attractive. his scowl is already in place from being startled by the scream, but then he pauses once he sees you.

his eyes drag over your messy sleep-tangled hair, oversized shirt, bare legs tucked awkwardly beneath you on the lounge chair, and the bite of your sandwich still sitting in your mouth as you slowly chew. the edge of his expression shifts, not quite a smile, but something softer than his scowl.

“…the fuck are you screaming for?” he asks.

you stare at him, chewing the rest of your sandwich that flew out when your screamed. he stares back.

“…you look a mess,” you finally say through your bite.

his gaze flickers over you once more. “i think you’re looking in a mirror,” he replies flatly.

and just like that, sitting barefoot beside the pool at six in the morning with food in your mouth and your heart still hammering against your ribs, you can’t explain the way your shoulders ease a bit.

“asshole,” you reply with no bite. sukuna hums, sliding his backpack off and dropping his cap, headphones, and phone on top of his duffle before walking towards you. you swallow the bite you’d been chewing just for sukuna to kneel on the ground beside you, inspecting your sandwich.

“what is that?”

you glance at it, then down at him, your cheeks warming in seconds. he’s so close. “turkey, cheese, olives—“

“olives?” his large hand wraps around your hand, holding the sandwich.

you raise a brow, “yeah, it’s good—wha!” your eyes blow wide when he suddenly takes an obnoxiously large bite out of your sandwich. “what the hell!” you shove his shoulder back, making him loose his balance and catch himself on his annoyingly big arm, but it was too late. he’s chewing your sandwich, as you frown. “you didn’t even ask.”

“y’ didn’t look like you’d give me a bite if I asked,” sukuna speaks with his mouth full.

you scowl, “obviously, it’s mine. you can make your own, tch.”

sukuna continues chewing, still sitting back on his arm, eyes heavy as he stares up at you from your spot on the lounge chair.

you frown right back at him. even half-awake, with travel exhaustion weighing down your limbs, your expression pinches in annoyance. your brows pull together, nose wrinkling slightly, and your grip tightens around your sandwich.

his gaze lingers, “your eyes are bloodshot,” he finally says. you blink at him. “did y’ get any sleep?”

you take another pointed bite before answering, glaring at him over the edge of your sandwich, “yeah, actually. i slept the second i got here and missed dinner,” you narrow your eyes. “which means the first thing i’ve eaten since yesterday is the sandwich you freaking stole.”

sukuna scoffs, “dramatic.”

“you took half of it!” you screech lowly.

“that’s not half.”

“you have no idea what half means.”

his eyes drift downward before returning to your face. you’re sitting cross-legged on the lounge chair, turning slightly away from him now as you continue eating, subtly trying to finish it before he tries to take another bite. which he probably would do, just seeing the way he’s eyeing it.

sukuna feels a quiet tug beneath his ribs. the morning sun finally stretches over the horizon, painting gold across the pool water and catching against your soft skin. you’re still grumbling under your breath as you chew.

“you’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

he pushes himself up a little straighter beside your chair, his calloused palm rests on your bare thigh. “one more bite?” he asks.

you let out a humorless laugh, “yeah, as if.”

he lifts a brow, squeezing your thigh, “c’mon I’m starving. the plane’s breakfast was ass.”

“make your own then,” you say through another mouthful, keeping your free hand against his shoulder to keep him at arm’s length. he glances down at it, then back up at you.

annoyance flickering across his face. “seriously?”

you glance between his eyes, swallowing and taking another bite, “yeah.”

“one more bite.”

“there’s barely any left though,” you whine, keeping his shoulder back as he tries to get closer. but he clicks his tongue before wrapping his hand loosely around your wrist, pulling your palm away from his shoulder with little effort.

“selfish,” he mutters.

you nearly choke. “selfish?” you repeat, staring at him in disbelief. “you’re tryna steal my breakfast.”

“whatever,” he scowls, still holding your wrist. “I’m hungry.”

“ryomen.”

“what?”

“make your own sandwich.”

he stares at you. you stare back. then, without warning, he reaches for your wrist that holds your sandwich, making you gasp loudly, using your legs now to keep your bodies apart. “don’t—“

your free hand wiggles in his grip while he leans over, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as your horrified complaints echo through the otherwise peaceful sunrise. your body struggles as he takes control, easily manuring himself onto the lounge chair, your knee keeping him away, as the other squirms to move between your body, but hanging loosely around his torso.

“ryo pleasee,” your whine rings so clearly, he can’t contain the flip in his stomach. he stops.

your chest is rising and falling from the struggle, anxiously glancing at him, brows pinched expecting him to pull your wrist to his mouth, but he remains still. staring down at you. then at your lips. then back at your eyes.

and suddenly, your legs are loosening, heart beating against your ribs, and letting sukuna fit himself comfortably between your legs. his hand holding your free hand, carefully brushes beneath your jaw before settling against the side of your neck. it’s warm and familiar. the morning breeze lifts strands of your hair across your face, and for a second, neither of you move.

waves crash in the distance. birds calling out in the pale sky. sunlight spilling over the terrace, painting soft lines across the sharp planes of sukuna’s face. his eyes don’t leave yours, and you can feel his breath against your lips, warming a deep spot in your tummy.

“you good?” you whisper eventually, voice smaller than you intend.

his gaze flickers down again. your mouth, then back to your eyes. then groggy, and voice much deeper then before, he mutters… “been a minute.”

your stomach flips. wetting your lips unconsciously, and sukuna’s eyes sharpen at the movement, barely blinking before you feel his firm lips against yours.

the breath leaves his lungs in a quiet rush. there’s a desperation hidden beneath the steadiness he tries so hard to maintain. but his hand tightens ever so slightly where it rests against you.

your lips move in sync like muscle memory. it’s familiar and instinctive. your fingers drift upward, threading through the soft strands at the nape of his neck before settling against his scalp. he releases a gentle exhale against your mouth at the contact, making your pulse stumble. sukuna leans closer without realizing it, his broad shoulders block out the morning sun as he deepens the kiss. your lips part on instinct, welcoming his tongue.

you can’t explain the urge that grows inside you the longer you kiss. the make out feels unbelievably calming, his grip tight around the lounge chair above your head, his knees digging into the seat, and his tongue swallowing your moans that have his pulse stuttering. your nails scratch at his scalp, threading through the pink locks digging gently.

“you taste like my sandwich,” you murmur with a clipped tone, tongue kissing his as he hums.

“yeah, fuck if I care,” he so easily brushes off the attitude to kiss you again. there were only two bites of your sandwich left, but you still held on to it, even as sukuna skillfully traced your bottom lip with his tongue. his hips lowering just to press his semi-bulge right against your clothed cunt, and that was enough to note the way your breath catches.

he can’t put into words how much his body needed you. just seeing you when he first walked in after his shit flight had his chest twisting, and now, kissing you…he feels every second relieving the weight on his shoulders.

your nails scratch at his scalp, tugging gently just to have him pull away, his eyes watching the way you catch your breath. lips all pretty and wet from him. eyes slightly dazed as you stare up at him, face lit softly with a healthy glow that has him leaning down again. he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your bottom lip, caressing your tongue as it meets again.

“you didn’t send me any more pics,” he mutters.

your cheeks flush, nails caressing his nape. “you didn’t ask for more.”

“it should be unspoken.”

you snort, leaning closer when he pulls away, “it’s not now.”

sukuna grumbles, jaw ticking for a moment until your lips find each other again, your legs wrap around his torso, letting him put his weight on top of you, unbothered by the plane’s air that still clings to him. “give me a bite of the sandwich,” he mutters, trailing his lips down to your neck. and even if it’s been weeks, he still finds your sweet spot in seconds, nipping at it. your breath catches in your pretty throat, whining shyly when he licks the spot again with his warm tongue.

“no,” you say, managing to take another bite, doing your best to chew it as fast as you can, even with the bread being so thick, sukuna catches your wrist again. your eyes widen, watching him move your hand to his open mouth, taking the last bite.

you groan with a mouth full, eyes harsh as they glare up at him. the two of you chewing all the while his hand finds its way to your waist, slipping under your shirt to caress your bare skin.

“is it too hard for you to make a sandwich?” you speak with your mouth full, swallowing bites but still chewing.

“yeah, it is,” he replies coolly.

your brow twitches in irritation. but you still can’t help the way your gaze lingers. it’s been almost two months, and somehow he looks exactly the same. however, his salmon hair has grown out just enough to brush against the nape of his neck, it’s slightly damp from the warm weather. his shoulders seem broader than you remember, his t-shirt stretching across his frame. his veins stand out beneath his sun-bronzed forearms, hands rough and familiar where they rest against the lounge chair and your bare waist.

even sitting there, lazy and half-awake from travel, there is something unfairly imposing about him. it’s all familiar, but it could be the distance apart that has you pointing out the sharp tattoos again, the intimidating size difference, and the quiet confidence of him, painfully aware of what his body does to you.

your eyes drift over the dark tattoos peeking beneath his sleeves and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. his beefy thighs crowding the edge of the chair when he shifts, solid beneath his worn soccer shorts. he’s inconveniently attractive, stealing your sandwich like a jerk, familiar arrogance seeping with each glance your way, and his typical scowl…but still, your fingers almost ache with the remembered habit of tracing his inked skin beneath your fingertips, wanting to hear the low huff he’d give you in response.

you don’t miss him…but you do miss this pull of wanting someone who always feels just out of reach, but still appears right in front of you when you need him most.

“good-fuckin’-sandwich,” he finally swallows, licking his lips. he leans down with little effort, and high confidence, pressing his lips to yours again. body moving on top of you, rolling his hips down just to hear your little hiccup, your hand suddenly presses against his shoulder, pushing. he barely moves, but he does pause, pulling away enough to keep his face hovering close. “what? you mad I took the last bite?”

you roll your eyes, ready to respond when your stomach suddenly pierces the air with a loud grumble.

the sound has the frat boy freezing, glancing down. your lips part, cheeks flaring, glancing away as sukuna sits up just a little. “you seriously didn’t eat anything?”

“I told you I haven’t eaten,” you tsk, cheeks inflamed from the sound, desperately trying to ignore the caresses of sukuna’s hand under your shirt, thumb brushing your torso, suddenly pushing the material of t-shirt higher revealing more of your torso.

the air grows awkwardly uncomfortable, neither of you saying a word, and him not responding has you growing slightly more aware of the position he has you in. you don’t want to address it, you seriously, strongly, want to ignore how he’d just made himself comfortable with touching you after being apart for weeks. but that sudden thought as you pushing yourself up.

your hand climbs up his chest, curling your fist around his collar. and with little resistance, you tug him towards you.

“I’ll make another sandwich,” you mutter, your pretty chest rising with each breath. “you can keep kissing me…” his eyes flick between yours, they’re heavy with either exhaustion, lust, or both, but then you whisper the precious words he’s been dreaming of hearing this close, with your warmth wrapping around him, and your scent making his head spin… “please, ryo.”

his lips twitch up, arm wrapping around your waist, holding you close from under your shirt. then your heart skips a beat. his head tucks down to your shoulder, burying his face there, pulling you to his chest.

your lips part, cheeks burning hot as he hugs you closer. his fingers dig possessively around your waist, bicep flexing around.

the summer breeze wraps around you. heart beating aggressively against your chest. fingers twitching trapped between your bodies, his hot breath fans against your neck. seagulls fly above you, the sky clear as day. but none of it can be fully processed, not when sukuna is hugging you like it’s been years since you’ve seen each other.

“r—“ you stop yourself when a warm kiss is pressed against your neck. then another. his hand brushes up and down your warm torso, making you always aware of his presence. slowly trailing kisses up your neck, subtly inhaling more of your flowery scent.

his cheeks sting, and he feels the heat crawl up his neck as his bulge grows harder. but he doesn’t stop peppering your burning skin with wet kisses. he pays a certain spot with more attention, sucking just a bit harder, smiling subtly when he hears your cute hiccup-like-moan.

“y’know,” he mutters against your skin, sucking another light hickey on your pretty neck, barely noticeable. he doesn’t wait for you to respond, your fingers twitching at his waist, holding his shirt. “I’ve been thinking’ bout how you got naked in your car,” your cheeks sting as the memory resurfaces quickly. “and how you fingered this pussy ‘cause I asked ya too,” you don’t have to look at him to hear the devilish smile he’s sporting. “then you fucking knocked over the phone when you came.”

your lips part in a quiet gasp, “it was an accident—“

he tsks, “still.” you blush. “I wanted to see it.” his hand brushes higher, unbothered by how he’s pushing your shirt up, revealing your lower back to the warm air. your skin is just so soft under his rough palm, and you fit perfectly against him. “you’ve been teasing me.”

your eyes go wide, “me?!—haah—“

the moan has your face bursting into flames, his teeth sink into your neck. your hand finding its way to his bicep, nails digging in, as he licks the mark he leaves. his lips skim up your neck, warm breath fanning gently until your lips are parting to inhale the same air.

“yeah, you,” his eyes flick over your lips. “with that call, and the one before that, and your photo.” he wets his bottom lip, a sinister smirk exposing his sharp canines. and in that moment you feel like he’d swallow you whole any second. “and now you’re lounged out here waiting for me.”

that’s when a a loud scoff leaves your lips. cheeks aflame. “as if. I didn’t even know when you were coming. it’s a coincidence.”

a disbelieving hum resounds from his throat. “so you were camped out here in these little shorts,” he tugs the hem of your shorts. “and this shirt wearing nothing underneath, for who then?”

you raise a brow, amused by him, forearm casually resting on his shoulder as you look back at him. “would you believe me if I said it was for me?”

he clicks his tongue.

you hum, glancing away for entertainment, free hand coming up to your chin. sukuna sits still, surprisingly patient, almost like you both have all the time in the world. it was unnervingly attractive. but you still decide to tease him, amused by the thought so you say it.

“then it was for satoru.”

and the moment that name leaves your lips, the reaction is far from what you’ were expecting. sukuna’s once calm features shift into a sudden disgusted scowl. the expression catches you so off guard that you suddenly burst out laughing, right in his face.

“fuck outta my face,” he spits.

you laugh even louder, hand coming up to your mouth trying to control yourself. “what? you don’t believe me?”

your push has sukuna rolling his eyes to the back of his skull. “playin’ in my face.”

“pleaseeee,” you cackle, adjusting yourself higher, waving a hand in front of him. “I was—I meant to say it’s for suguru.”

you visibly see the twitch in his eye, and that has you laughing louder hitting his chest as your head falls back. “I’m DEAD, you’re actually killing me!!” your laughing is so loud it irks him how much you’re getting a kick out of his reaction. he also ignores how cute your stupid laugh is after not hearing for so long. “cmon, it’s no biggy, wearing this skimpy little thing for my suguru.”

“your suguru,” sukuna spits back, disgust laced in every word.

you nod, bitting your top lip as you hold in your laughter, even if your eyes are laughing. “it makes sense, since me and him are sharing a room.”

his body suddenly goes dead still. “you’re fucking with me.”

his tone has you laughing louder, unaware how much that bothered the footballer. “you don’t believe me?”

sukuna rolls his eyes, loosening his jaw as he exhales through his nose. “daamn, relax ryo.” you coo, hand coming up to squish his cheeks. “tough month? you can’t take my little jokes anymore?” your faux pout has him scowling immediately, but his cock jumps at the expression.

“ragebait,” he mutters. you softly snort, smile lighting up your face, then your pretty head tilts for him. so fucking pretty.

“aww, that wasn’t my intention,” you coo.

the lie has sukuna scoffing, eyes flickering between your insincere doe eyes, and it tickles an itch deep in his core. “I was just playing with you,” you playfully squish his cheeks again, watching the way his lips purse together. he’s so cute.

his hands rest on your waist, staring straight into your eyes, and he unknowingly allows you to mess with him. enough that a string tugs at his chest.

“you mad?” your lips part slightly when he doesn’t respond, your eyes still holding a playful spark in them.

“yeah.”

it was a detectable lie that has your pretty lips pulling into a smile you can’t control. “yeah?” you’ve seriously grown confident in your time apart, and it’s unbelievably attractive. “but I thought it was pretty funny. you can’t be mad about that, can you?”

your thumb brushes the morning shadow on his chin, the stubble beyond attractive. but sukuna is too busy clicking his tongue at you to notice the way you’re checking him out whilst pushing his buttons. “I can. do you see me laughing with ya?”

you purse your lips, smile spilling out wide. you shake your head, then you push yourself up. your pretty legs are loose around his hips, your fingers gently curling under his chin, wetting your bottom lip with a soft hum.

“I don’t,” your voice is low, sweet. his jaw tenses slightly, waiting for you to act, and surprisingly you catch it. and you start smiling again. “you’re so patient, ryo.”

his breath catches, covering it with a loud, offended scoff. “maybe finish your sentences,” he snaps. “y’ keep fucking trailing off.”

you smile, leaning close to his face. breath warm against his lips. “I just answered you though,” you trail off again, purposefully. your lips hover over his, slowing your breath, lashes fluttering like a subtle seductress. and it works. he leans closer, wanting your warmth to encompass him even more. his cheeks a stained dark pink as you exhale softly. “you just like listening to me…don’t you?”

your smile is unbelievably beautiful, but his remains still, glaring at you through his dark lashes. his thick brow quirks. “i don’t remember ya being this cocky,” he mutters and there isn’t much heat behind the insult.

your smile only widens, “I didn’t realize how easy you make it,” you coo softly.

his brow twitches, “don’t flatter yourself.”

“mm.” your fingers drift along the collar of his shirt, eyeing the tattoos that peak, then meeting his crimson gaze again. “too late.”

the morning breeze curls around the two of you, the scent of salt and sunscreen drifts through the quiet villa. the pool glitters behind him and still, neither of you moves away.

his eyes drag over your expression, lingering on the curve of your smile and the amusement brightening your face. he’d spent weeks listening to your voice through a phone speaker, catching glimpses of you through photos and stories, and now that you’re here, he finds himself unable to take his hands off you.

you tilt your head. “what?” you ask, trying and failing to sound innocent.

“you’re annoying,” he cuts.

“but…” you lean closer, your lips brushing his, and he barely reacts. “you haven’t asked me to stop.”

something shifts behind his eyes. the confidence in your expression flickers for half a second, replaced by something softer, and something he sure as shit brushes away. but the teasing quiets just enough for his stomach to twist.

“tell me ryo,” you murmur quietly, voice just above a whisper. the sweetness drips into his ear like honey. his cock straining in his shorts, unable to control his body’s reaction to you. “you like being teased…right?”

his mouth twitches. “you fucking with me again?”

you slowly shake your head, staring into his eyes, twirling his hair around your finger. “you can tell me,” you tug at his hair lightly. “I don’t judge.”

he’s leaking for sure. the clear outline of his cock would be embarrassing if he wasn’t packing. and even with how obviously turned on he is, how flushed his ears are, and how blown his pupils have gotten. he still manages to hold his composure, and bite back a shit eating grin.

“cute,” his arm tightens around your waist, the other dragging up your thigh, pushing up your shorts. his bulge is pressing directly onto your shorts, and his sharp canines almost make him look animalistic. “I don’t think you realize what you’re doing.”

you hum, dragging the sound in faux innocence, lashes batting up at him, almost making him release a pathetic noise. “what am doing? I thought I was creating a safe space for you,” you coo.

“don’t play dumb.”

you shrug, face still close, and fingers still playing with the ends of his hair, the other squeezing his bicep. “I’m not.“

and once your eyes glance over the scowl that flickers across his face, your unable to control your reaction. you laugh softly against the small space separating you, and the sound seems to snap whatever fragile thread of restraint he’d been clinging to.

you make a startled sound against him, one that quickly melts into something softer when he kisses you harder than before. his brows knit together, expression caught between irritation and want.

he completely steals the breath from your lungs. all the teasing from the last several minutes dissolves into something far less careful. the laughter lingering on your lips disappears beneath the press of his mouth, your fingers tangling tighter in the ends of his hair as he forces his tongue to meet yours. and the moment your tongues make contact, a guttural groan comes from the back of his throat. the sound is muffled against your lips, but the way you feel the warmth pool between your legs is immediate.

he doesn’t care anymore. his mind has wrapped itself around you, the familiarity of your lips, the warmth of your body, and the soft edges of your aura, it all has him melting. and it doesn’t take long for him to press his fully erect cock right against your shorts. rutting.

a squeak escapes your pretty lips at the first roll of his hips. jaw falling agape at the stimulation. the sunrise paints everything gold around you, warm light spilling across the pool deck while the rest of the villa remains asleep. and as exhausted as sukuna is from his flight, he physically can’t stop his body from rutting into you like a dog in heat.

his tongue is thick and hot, slowly stroking your lips passionately until you’re meeting the wet muscle with your own. your whine is muffled, arms latched around his shoulders, as he hooks your leg over his arm, humping your clothed pussy.

“we should fuck,” he mutters between kisses, grinding even harder, stimulating his cock. “yeah?” his hand squeezes the flesh of your thigh, kissing your bottom lip with haste. “everyone’s sleeping, I got a condom in my bag—“

a choked groan slips out of his throat when you tug his hair, his pupils twice their normal size. cheeks flushed a dark red, and his body unable to pull away from you. he doesn’t want to address how quickly you turn him on, or how much he craved your touch after being away from you for so long—no, none of it crosses the front of his mind when you’re under him, hands caressing his nape, lips glossy and swollen from kissing, and dark lashes batting up at him like you know everything. “you haven’t showered.”

he kisses down your neck, grinding slower, reminding you what he’s asking for. “I don’t smell that bad.” he unintentionally presses his face against your nape, inhaling. “fuck, but you smell so fucking good.”

your lips part momentarily, cheeks flushed. you feel him kiss the warm skin of your neck. he trails back to your lips, hand wrapping gently around your neck, tilting your chin up with a thumb, kissing you deeper, if possible.

it was a scene. and it was one that gojo was waking up to. his blue eyes are still heavy with sleep, white hair sticking in every direction, as he wanders down the staircase in nothing but a pair of shorts hanging dangerously low on his hips. one hand disappears beneath the hem of his shirt as he scratches absentmindedly at his chest, the other reaching automatically for the carton of orange juice waiting in the fridge.

the villa is quiet. the open screens let the morning breeze drift through the house, sunlight spilling across the floors and stretched toward the living room, where a duffle bag and suitcase had been abandoned carelessly near the entrance. gojo blinks, his gaze moves from the luggage to the open patio doors, then stops. “…oh.”

outside, beneath the morning blue sky, was a certain someone hidden behind one of the lounge chairs overlooking the pool, and sukuna was right on top of her. the two of you were obviously making out, his head bent toward yours, your hand buried somewhere near the ends of his pink hair, his broad shoulders blocking part of your frame from view, and his lower body was rocking against yours.

gojo stared, lifting the orange juice to his mouth, then lowering it. “…they’re still not dating,” he murmured to absolutely no one.

“what are you doing?” nanami’s voice breaks through the silence making gojo glance over briefly. fresh out of bed himself, nanami is halfway through pulling a shirt over his head, pajama pants slung low against his waist, catching a brief sight of his dark blonde happy trail, as he walks into the kitchen, following gojo’s line of sight. his steps slowed. “oh.”

gojo points toward the patio, “they’re not dating.”

nanami yawns, moving toward the fridge anyway.“i went to bed early,” he said. “did he get here last night?”

gojo shakes his head immediately, finally twisting the cap off the orange juice. “nope. he literally just got here. i got the notification from the security.” nanami pauses, glancing over his shoulder again, then toward the abandoned bags in the living room, then back outside.

“…they’re that comfortable with each other?” the question slips out before he can stop it.

gojo snorts, “or they’re just ridiculously attracted to each other,” he shrugs. “but they’re definitely not dating.”

nanami raises a brow thoughtfully. “did they not have sex with anyone else if they’re jumping each other like that now?” gojo tilts his head in genuine surprise. nanami’s eyes linger on the scene outside.

maybe it’s instinct or it the unmistakable feeling of being watched, because outside, sukuna’s gaze lifts. his sharp crimson eyes slide toward the villa without warning and land directly on the blue and honey-colored pair staring back at him from the kitchen. the silence stretches, until gojo slowly raises his carton of orange juice in greeting.

your brows quirk seeing sukuna’s suddenly pulling away and scowling over your shoulder. that’s when you decide to stick your head out, brows quirking at gojo and nanami both standing in the kitchen.

“didn’t mean to interrupt the streamy sesh,” gojo calls out casually, nanami glancing at him in annoyance. “you guys can continue.”

you snort, pressing a hand to sukuna’s chest, just for the hot head to sit back on his knees, glaring at his friends. “damn, but you kinda made me loose my appetite though,” you say stepping away from sukuna to stand up. his eyes follow you, jaw tightening as gojo cackles loudly from the house.

“whaaaat—but don’t you guys miss each other? I didn’t wanna ruin the reunion,” gojo lightly teases, unknowingly hitting a nerve as sukuna tsks, and you surprisingly raise a brow.

“you’re not ruining anything,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at sukuna who’s still sat on the lounge chair, hand over his bulge. “we were jus’ talking.”

gojo smirks, nodding sarcastically, “yeah, for sure. must’ve been the wind then.”

you sarcastically cringe, shrugging. “ah, must’ve been.” you don’t break a sweat as you walk further into the house passing by the boys as you make your way up the stairs, leaving them behind. and even with your heart beating erratically, and your face sweltering. you keep your composure until you’re out of sight.

as for sukuna…he remains seated, quiet, and unbelievably pissed off. nanami finds it slightly amusing, while gojo is snorting loudly. “that’s how much you wanna get in her pants—I just got the notification that you walked in and you’re already tryna fuck her—jeez.”

sukuna scowls, standing up. the irritation dripping from his being as he slips a hand into his shorts, tucking his erection up. “since when do you fucking cockblock me?” he snaps, walking into the house.

gojo’s hands fly up in defense, “you’re the ones that stopped. I was just drinkin’ my juice here.”

“he was watching,” nanami casually corrects, earning another shrug from gojo. sukuna clicks his tongue, and it prompts nanami to follow up with the only question swimming in his head. “are you guys dat—“

“no.”

the room falls silent.

sukuna picks up his duffle bag. his sharp eyes find the two men, and he utters his next words, with little thought, only wanting to end any further discussion on a subject he has little care to address with outsiders.

“we fuck. and I’m gonna fuck her again. and that’s my deal with her.”

his harsh tone is followed by a low whistle from the white haired man. and though sukuna walks away from them fully believing he put an end to whatever assumptions they insisted on making. because whatever existed between you and him has always been simple, physical, and convenient. except…

later that week, the simplicity shakes just a bit. when your arms lock around his torso, fingers twisting desperately into the back of his soaked shirt, refusing to let go. face pressed against his chest, eyes rimmed raw, breaths breaking apart into uneven pieces as your entire body trembles against him. the rain coming down harshly, drenching the quiet street and soaking through your skin and fabric.

and sukuna can only stare over your head into the empty street. his arms tighten around you without fully realizing what he’s doing it. his veins straining beneath his skin because you won’t stop shaking. your nails digging into him.

“don’t…” your voice is strained, the softness still shining through even in the state you’re in. “don’t push me away yet.”

his jaw clenches.

“please.”

a/n: watch you guys burn me alive after this. no joke, this shit was gonna be longer but I reached the line count limit on tumblr so I had to cut the scene short and add a sneak peak into next chapter.

From there your social quarantine only escalated—no playdates, no sleepovers, no extracurriculars—unless it was church related. 

Eventually, your childhood friends gave up even trying. You don’t even blame them. With your brick-like fossil Nokia phone you couldn’t even download any social media apps to keep up with them. 

Sure, you’ve technically been a legal adult for a while but for now you’re biding your time until graduation. You’ve already got a full ride to an out-of-state college lined up behind your parents’ backs. So missing out on being blackout drunk in a field somewhere wasn’t exactly tearing you up—there would be many more opportunities in college to drink that didn’t involve trying to dodge cow shit. 

But there IS one thing you definitely feel like you’re missing out on—

Dating.

Boys and dating are two things your parents, especially your mother, would absolutely not tolerate until marriage. 

No exceptions. 

Not even a chaste courtship with Ino—the good-natured, boy-next-door who played acoustic guitar for the church choir—was allowed.

You still cringe thinking about the first (and last) time he bought you a popsicle from the ice cream truck one summer. Of course, your mother snatched it right out of your hands then gave you both a scathing 10-minute lecture on how popsicles are a ‘slippery slope to orally sinning.’

You’d say she put the fear of God into Ino, but honestly?

Ino seemed way more afraid of your mother than of God—especially with the way he’s avoided you like some biblical plague ever since.

Not that you were too heartbroken.

Sure, Ino liked you. Like a lot. 

But you mostly just liked the idea of being liked. 

Still, the fact remains that beggars can’t be choosers and Ino is sweet enough that you would’ve let him be your first kiss. 

With a sigh, you shut your bedroom door—not that it mattered when it didn't even lock.

Your mother has a sixth sense for depravity and always knows the worst possible moment to barge in.

You can’t even goon in peace.

So something perfectly normal for a nineteen-year-old—like a vibrator? Yeah, no. 

You’d never risk bringing one into the house. Your mom wouldn’t just ground you—she’d send you straight back to the Lord himself.

Tossing your hoodie on your desk, you dig through your drawers for your favorite sleep shirt: the faded one that says Crystal Lake Camp.  The yellow, worn cotton is basically the closest thing you own to illicit contraband.

It used to belong to a hot camp counselor at the church-run summer camp your parents dumped you in last year, hoping it would “instill moral character.”

(Spoiler: it didn’t.)

Thankfully, every camper and counselor got the same oversized shirt, so it was easy to swipe Counselor Kashimo’s from the laundry pile without anyone noticing. 

And yeah... you shamelessly didn’t wash it for like a month. Not until the woodsy, storm-soaked scent of the punky, blue-haired hunk faded completely.

Nostalgia clings to it like old cologne as you change and enter your bathroom.

Sigh. Your nightly routine is as dull as ever. Brushing your teeth on autopilot, you rinse and glance up at the mirror. Gaze catching on your reflection, you just stare.

Same tired eyes. Same boring hair. Same pouty lips, still tasting faintly of berry chapstick—untouched by anyone else’s.

Well, anyone real. (Doesn’t hurt to stay ready, though.)

While staring in the mirror you often imagine Suguru Geto—your school’s unnervingly charming student council president—standing behind you, just out of frame. One hand ghosting over your neck, the other trailing down your spine as he leans in to whisper something unhinged in that smooth, reverent voice of his.

You don’t even need to close your eyes to picture it.

You’ve rehearsed this scene so many times before in your dreams you can practically see him in the mirror behind you.

A familiar heat pools low in your belly as you quickly flip off the light and exit the bathroom. 

Eee! You’re so horny—you need to get to bed like asap!

Your panties are already soaked, clinging to your heat as you kill the light and melt into the mattress—settling in like a seasoned whore slipping into her usual spot on the curb, ready for the night.

Daydreams are one thing—but lucid dreams? A whole different beast. 

Vividly visceral, they’re the only place you start living the way you were meant to. There you can flirt like a slut, wear skirts with nothing underneath and kiss boys your mother would definitely deem to be demons.

And in your dreams? They might as well be devils. 

Bending you over desks, pinning you to lockers, in their hedonistic hunger they are too down to stuff you full at the drop of a hat—usually more than one of them at the same time too.

You smile to yourself, already squirming just from thinking about your favorite senior boys who make up the main cast of your delusional dream harem.

First up—

Toji Fushiguro—quarterback of the football team, built like he does prison workouts for fun (which is convenient as prison is exactly where everyone thinks he’ll end up). 

He’s got a sexy scar on his lip, a black ‘67 Impala he calls “Baby” and allegedly a secret kid according to the rumors.

You’re pretty sure he’s repeated a year or two if not flunked out entirely—no one’s ever seen him in a class. Moonlighting as the school’s resident plug, Toji just shows up to deal, wreck the other team on game days and rail a cheerleader in the parking lot before dipping. As long as he keeps winning, no one seems to care.

The only place to reliably spot Toji is at his part-time gig at the local auto shop. You started tagging alone so much your dad thinks you’ve developed an interest in cars—but really, your interest lay in seeing Toji. You know without fail, the second your dad’s back is turned, Toji will tower over you wearing that deadly smirk and ask if you need anything “checked under the hood” while he licks his thumb like he’s prepping it just for you.

He’s grimy and disgusting. 

Far beneath any self-respecting standards of the modern woman.

And yet? 

You’d let him raw dog secret baby #2 into you—no questions asked.

Even so, you could only imagine the shotgun marriage your parents would force upon you so a much safer option would be…

Gojo Satoru—the basketball star that’s six feet of snowy-haired chaos with dazzling crystalline eyes and a mouth that never shuts up. 

He has no concept of the term “inside voices” and half of what he says is utter nonsense. Yet somehow the devastatingly attractive goofball still manages to be the school’s resident heartthrob.

Once you ran into him while he was skipping class on your way back from the bathroom. Thinking he’d ignore you, you were completely blindsided when he complimented your Digimon keychain like it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen—right before having the audacity to ask if he could borrow your hall pass.

And of course—like the absolute simp you are—you handed it over without a second thought before he could even finish the question.

Pleased, Gojo purred out a thanks with a wink, tongue peaking out between his lips

And then you blacked out. 

No, seriously—like full-on collapsed. 

You came to twenty minutes later in the nurse’s office with a goose egg on your forehead and Gojo looming over you amused as fuck at you giving him an actually legit reason to skip class.

Now he calls you ‘anemic girl’ in the halls and occasionally tosses you a hard candy like you’re some random stray he adopted. He’s given you 16 so far and you’ve kept every single one—carefully hoarded like relics—in a shoebox shrine under your bed. 

Obviously.

Although there is never a dull moment around Gojo’s chaotic energy, sometimes you crave a little order. Someone more on the straight and narrow to keep you on track. Someone like…

Nanami Kento—head of the disciplinary committee. 

Nanami is the only senior who people sometimes mistake for an actual teacher as he dresses like he already has 3 kids and holds down a grueling 9-to-5. One thing is for sure though, those khaki slacks that Nanami wears are most definitely working overtime as they have absolutely no business showing off just how double-cheeked up he is (and still being within the dress code). 

Nanami carries a clipboard stacked with half-pre-filled detention slips like he’s just waiting for someone to fuck up. His moral compass is so rigid it could be registered as a weapon. 

And if the outline in his pants is any indication—so could his dick.

One morning, you were sprinting through the halls, already late, when Nanami caught you. Flushed and fumbling, you spat out some half-baked excuse about helping a teacher.

Nanami didn’t blink. Just stared right through you like he’d already clocked your piss-poor lie and filed it and you under ‘pathetic’.

Yet in a rare show of mercy, noting your otherwise perfect attendance, he simply adjusted his glasses and let you off with a cool, “don’t let it happen again.” 

You could’ve cried in relief—which, in hindsight, would’ve been way less humiliating.

Instead, nerves had you whimpering out a needy, “Y-Yes, sir.”

It was the one time you ever saw him falter—just briefly—before he smoothed it over, raising a single brow. But the faint curl of his smirk and the darkening heat in his eyes as he turned away nearly brought you to your knees.

You would’ve gladly taken in-school detention and correction right then and there—which, unfortunately, left you fantasizing whether Nanami detentions come with safewords.

Still, there were times when the thought of answering to anyone in your already sheltered life felt suffocating—and that’s when you craved someone more free-spirited. Enter...

Choso Kamo—the art freak burnout with a facetat, who’s always “getting air” behind the gym with the other stoners, the smell of weed and acrylic paint always trailing behind him.

Notorious for that pale, sleepless Edward Cullen look, Choso’s eyebags all but screamed he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since leaving the womb. And if expecting him to sparkle didn’t keep you staring at him more than the whiteboard during class, the way he toys with his labret piercing using his tongue barbell definitely did the trick.

You’ve watched him do it enough during fifth period to know—deep in your depraved little soul—that he eats pussy like it’s his last fucking meal.

But the most disarming thing about him? 

That brooding emo-boy exterior melts into golden retriever sweetness any time he talks about his younger siblings.

Surprisingly sentimental, you once caught him tearing up at his locker over a crayon drawing his little brother Yuji hid in his lunch bag, along with the message to—“half a gud dae at skool :)” scrawled in glitter gel pen. When you handed him a tissue, he looked up at you with glassy puppy-dog eyes and whispered a broken, “Thanks,” like you’d just saved his life.

You can’t decide if you want to wreck him or swaddle him but either way?

Choso is your Roman Empire.

And finally…

Suguru Geto—class president. What healthy ovulating girl didn’t want Suguru?

Smart, commanding and terrifyingly magnetic—Suguru’s morning announcements feel more like political rallies. He’s got the presence of a world leader and the aptitude of someone who’d absolutely start a murderous apocalyptic sex cult. 

One that you’d be first in line to pledge yourself to, collar, chains and all.

Especially when he smiles that polite, unnervingly deliberate smile. 

Geto is always top of the class. Always ten steps ahead. 

Like he could correctly guess the color of your panties—and then know exactly how to talk you out of them for "the cause."

Your parents might’ve put you off religion, but you’d still worship at his altar any day of the week—even if he was Damien in the flesh, horns tucked beneath that gorgeous spill of raven hair. 

One time during an assembly, Suguru stated that, “devotion breeds obedience”—while staring dead at you.

Your panties haven’t been dry since.

All-in-all, with such a powerful teen dream starting lineup, of course it made the perfect sleepy-time goon fodder

Or at least—it used to.

Then the deaths started.

Peculiar ones. Grotesque in that slasher-movie kind of way that even left investigators rattled. 

Too violent to be self-inflicted, yet no signs of forced entry, no murder weapon, no DNA—no trace of anything, really.

Like their dreams themselves were killing them.

The few who survived long enough to wake up? None of them stayed sane. Every single one was institutionalized. And all of them raving about the same thing: A pink-haired monster who crawled into their heads and twisted their worst fears into blood-soaked nightmares.

The only thing anyone could confirm? It only happens while asleep. 

And it wasn’t just at night either.

A girl in your Biology lab—Riko—nearly jammed a scalpel into her own temple, convinced there was a giant bug burrowing into her brain.

She would’ve done it too, if class president Suguru hadn’t reacted fast enough—snatching her wrist and shaking her awake just in time.

Soon all over town, whispered rumors and wild theories began spreading like wildfire.

The cops blamed a new wave of hallucinogenic drugs. 

Churchgoers (your mother included) pointed fingers at violent video games and action movies.

But the older folks, the ones who’d lived here long enough to know where the skeletons of the town were buried, blamed something else entirely—a curse. 

An ancient and particularly malevolent one at that.

The local folklore of the town’s founding told of a vengeful spirit—one from an evil man from nearly a thousand years ago who could control the souls of others. 

One who was burned, quartered and his body sealed away for his blasphemous sorcery. 

Supposedly, he wasn’t even from the area and among the founding settlers of your town were the guardians of the sealed parts and they scattered his remains across it.

But these were just stories. Just silly hoodoo.

Or it was until Yu Haibara died. The pastor’s son. 

Bright, kind and beloved with no moral vices nor enemies to blame—that’s when the fearful frenzy truly hit. 

Yet somewhere in all the chaos, someone suggested a desperate, off-the-cuff fix—Dreamless sleep.

And shockingly? 

It worked.

The deaths stopped. Just like that.

Naturally, what followed was a strict curfew along with mandatory, state-distributed, sleeping pills were handed out to every teen in town. The heavy stuff—the kind that shoved you right past REM and into a dreamless, black void.

No dreams meant no monsters. 

No monsters? No mysterious murders.

Unfortunately for you, it also meant no wet dreams.

It’s been almost a week since your last one and you’re on the verge of crashing tf out. 

Forget killer nightmares—at this point, it’s the built‑up tension in your core that feels lethal.

Your one escape—poof, gone. Just like that.

God, you miss getting railed in every depraved way your real life refuses to allow.

Unlike the rest of the town—currently drowning in shared hysteria—you’re keeping your head. 

Thankfully, you literally just covered something like this in your psych textbook.

To you, the “dream murders” sound like a perfect storm of sleepwalking, mass panic and one very real killer no one’s caught yet. You’re not about to knock yourself unconscious any longer while everyone else plays catch‑up.

So tonight? You don’t take the pill.

The second your mother’s back is turned, you spit it into your mint tin for safekeeping.

You’d flush them, but hey—never know when they’ll come in handy. 

Maybe once this all blows over, you’ll spike your parents’ nightly chamomile and finally sneak out. 

Toji did say to stop by if you were ever in need of a tune‑up… and you wouldn’t mind letting him pop your hood—among other things.

Settling deeper into your pillows, you release a few cleansing breaths. You’re too eager to see who your subconscious picks tonight—or maybe something more collaborative?

Yeah.

A gangbang sounds like the perfect ‘welcome back’. Every hole and limb filled, twisted into tools of pleasure, used exactly like the desperate little slut you are.

With a hum you close your eyes and allow your mind to drift into sleep. There’s no way you could’ve known that the thing haunting this town wasn’t just real—it had locked onto you the moment your brain dared to fall into REM.

Inside of your dream world, you awake in the boys' locker room.

Nice. 

Looks like you’re getting that gangbang after all.

Although you're no stranger to the boys’ locker room in your dreams, something about this time feels off.

The rows of lockers stretch farther than they should, looming taller, their metal faces dull and streaked with grime. Overhead, the lights flicker with a  jaundiced glow, casting jagged shadows across pale concrete walls. The air buzzes with the sputter of dying ventilation and reeks of damp metal, mold, and something almost bloody.

Technically, it’s the same room. But it feels... wrong.

Too quiet. Too empty. Like a space between spaces.

Then again, it is the boys’ locker room—nobody expects it to smell like a field of lilies.

Then you glance down at your outfit.

No cheer skirt. No pom-poms.

No thigh-highs, chokers, or themed S&M ensemble.

Just the ratty Camp Crystal Lake sleep shirt you passed out in.

Yeah… that’s definitely not normal.

“Hey, cutie…”

Oh! 

Eagerly, you shove the weird vibes to the back of your mind the second you hear a familiar voice echo behind you. The setting was never the main event in your dreams anyway—you’d fuck on a cardboard box in an alley if the dick was good.

“…ya know you’re not supposed to be in here.”

Fresh off the court and glistening, Gojo rakes a hand through the messy white strands clinging to his forehead. With the other, he lifts the hem of his jersey just enough to wipe the sweat from his face.

“…but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Your eyes trail down his exposed waist, savoring the definition of his glistening abs. You follow them as they dip into a deep V-line, the waistband of his shorts hanging dangerously low, teasing tufts of well-kept fuzz.

Gojo chuckles, clearly enjoying the way you’re eye-fucking him like he’s girl dinner.

“See something you like, doll?”

He winks.

Thank god you never pass out in dreamland, although you do erupt in shameless giggles out of glee of seeing Gojo.

Of all your guys lately, Gojo’s been showing up the most—your unofficial dream boyfriend. 

So you’ve gotten used to this version of him—Dreamjo, as you’ve dubbed him.

No doubt nerfed by your subconscious, your brain probably built this version of him off that one time he called your Digimon keychain “sick as hell”—which means the man has serious dork potential.

Real-life Gojo? A walking ego-trip in Airforces.

Dreamjo? Still cocky, but also nerdy and endlessly down bad.

And you do mean endlessly.

Whether he’s center stage or getting gleefully cucked by the rest of your lineup, he plays his part.

So no—you’re not even a little mad that he’s the first to greet you after your dream drought.

“You missed my game again.” Gojo pouts, swaggering toward you until your back hits the lockers with a hollow clang. “Hard to focus on the court without my lucky charm in the stands... dressed like my personal guardian angel in that slutty Angewomon cosplay.”

You roll your eyes.

You’ve never actually worn the cosplay—even in your dreams. It’s just one of those weird lore bits your subconscious cooked up for him and now Dreamjo won’t let it go. 

But that’s part of the fun—letting your mind run wild, turning fantasy into fact.

Whatever. This is your dream.

Your rules.

And Dreamjo? He always falls in line.

“Urgh, just shut up and fuck me, Toru!” 

You mean it to sound commanding—but it comes out breathy, desperate and you can’t keep up the femdom act for long.

“C’mon… let’s hit the showers. You’re already filthy.” You whine as your hands roam his sweat-slick abs, fingers slipping under his jersey to grope at his pecs.

Gojo groans, gripping your waist, before dipping lower to mold his hands into your fleshy bare bottom.

“Mmm, so you did miss me…” His voice is hot against your ear, lips brushing your lobe before he nips at it. “Y’know it’s been even longer for me... especially since you cucked me last time.”

If you weren’t already feral, that line might’ve given you pause—lore aside, your dreams always reset. 

But you’re so hard up your brain automatically switches off when his long fingers ghost over your already soaked folds.

Your mouth crashes on his, hungry and impatient, making Gojo groan into the kiss. Lifting you with ease, he carries you toward the showers.

Expecting to be pinned to a tile wall with steamy water pouring over you—you blink in confusion when Gojo sets you on a bench, a wild gleam in his eyes.

“Aht-aht… I’m the messy one, baby. But you’re not dirty enough for a shower. Not yet, at least.”

Great. Even your own mind is edging you.

Not that you don’t love Dreamjo’s games—his teasing is half the fun. But tonight? 

You’re wound far too tight to mess around.

“C’mon, princess. Get nasty for me, please? And I’ll fuck you just how you like it.”

You pout for show but of course, you already know what he wants. Dreamjo’s wired into the most crazed parts of your subconscious afterall.

Gojo peels off his jersey and tosses it at you.

Catching it on reflex, the jersey is damp with sweat and adrenaline. You don’t hesitate to pull your own top off and slide it on instead. 

Urgh, the oversized fabric soaked in jock pheromones feels clammy and damp against your skin. Sick. 

And yet somehow your pussy’s even wetter than before as you bury your nose in the material, inhaling like it’s life support.

“That’s it,” Gojo breathes, voice thick as he palms his cock through his shorts. “Take a nice, lonnnnng whiff, babydoll.”

Gojo’s musky amber scent hits like a slap: the tang of salt and heat with an undercurrent of something primal. You squirm on the bench, thighs rubbing together, belly molten with slow, coiling heat.

“Heh, now turn around and show me how messy my nasty girl’s pussy gets sniffing my musty jersey.” 

You think about mouthing off, maybe rolling your eyes—but the way his scent is sinking into your skin brain makes it impossible to deny him anything.

“Toruuuuu….” You whimper out complaints, but you obey—because the sheer depravity of it only makes you more desperate to be fucked.

Turning around, knees digging into the bench, you lift Gojo’s jersey around your hips.

The basketball hunk whimpers out a moan as you arch—back bowed, cunt spread—two fingers parting your folds. A thick string of slick drips from you, glossy and obscene, smearing on the bench beneath you.

Glancing over your shoulder, you catch the sight of his shorts hitting the floor—his cock already leaking globs of pre as he strokes himself slowly, eyes glued to the gorgeous mess between your thighs.

“C’mon, my pretty goonette princess…” Gojo as groans his own need seeps through. “T-Touch yourself…”

Turning back around to face the lockers, your fingers circle your fluttering hole, gathering creamy juices to smear on your clit. 

“S’toruuu c’mon… am I not wet enough for you yet.” You slur out his name, trembling with raw need to feel his thick cock inside you.

Exposed to the air, you squirm, the cool draft making your muscles spasm as you fight to keep yourself spread.

“Jus’ a second, doll…,” Gojo pants out. He’s so close now you can feel his warm breath tickle your soppy folds, “...lemme get a better look.”

The sounds of a lewd schlick-schlick, fill the room as Gojo fists his cock. You’re tempted to groan remembering how stupid sensitive he is—almost as bad as Dreamcho (Choso)—who often busted from just one look at your sloppy pussy. 

Gojo better not fuck around and cum before actually stuck his dick in you.

“Hurry up, ’Toru n’ fuck me before you c—”

You freeze as warm liquid splashes your backside as wet gurgles bubble up behind you.

He came.

Urgh fuck—fine. 

You’re taking matters into your own hands now. You’ll just have to ride his twitchy, oversensitive cock until it’s hard again, no matter how much he cries or begs for mercy.

Wait. You’re cooking, not a bad plan, all things considered.

As much as you wanted to be manhandled, bent over and used like his personal onnahole—there’s something equally delicious about wrecking Satoru. Riding him half-hard while he sobs under you, limbs quivering from overstimulation, his cock slipping in and out of your creamy cunny before you grind your clit against the feathery soft hair on his pubic bone.

Yup, you’ll take it—you’re still gonna give him plenty shit about it though.

“Toruuuu! You dummy, I told you not to—” 

Whipping around, you stop when you don’t see him. 

He’s gone.

What?! He was just right behind you!

Wiping a hand over your backside, you roll your eyes when your fingers come back slicked in thick red liquid.

Blood.

Oh. My. God—did that dork seriously get a nosebleed before even putting it in again!?

Well… wouldn’t be the first time the little perv squirted blood mid-thrust trying not to cum too fast.

But where the hell did he go?

Not like you can see anything now with steam rolling in the area like a tsunami, swallowing everything until the whole room’s bathed in a sickly haze.

Looking around frantically you spot it: a single bloody footprint leading deeper into the locker room.

Okay. That’s way too much blood for a nosebleed.

Your stomach tightens.

“S’toru?” you call, voice pitching high. “It’s okay, I’m not mad! Wouldn’t be the first time you bled all over me…”

Shit. Maybe the sleeping pills are still in your system, messing with your ability to lucid dream. Or maybe your poor, dick-deprived subconscious has finally snapped.

Okay. This dream is officially a bust.

And with nothing to show for all that buildup with Gojo, there’s no way in hell you can stay still. Your hips rock against the bench, chasing friction like a dog in heat.

No, girl—focus!

You sit up, close your eyes, force a breath.

With a shaky sigh, your fingers snake back between your thighs—just a few light circles. Just enough to quiet the needy throb at your clit so you can concentrate.  

“Okay. Malaysia. Beach. Gangbang. Any guy—go!” You chant it under your breath like a spell.

Nevertheless when you open your eyes, you’re still in the same musty old locker room full of steam.

Fuck. Well at least the blood’s gone.

But Satoru is too, every single trace as realize you’re right back in your old sleep shirt.

What the actual fuck!?

BANG!

You jump as a loud crash echoes from the far entrance near the football field. 

Heavy footsteps drag as the sound of metal screeches like nails on a chalkboard.

“Toji?!” you call out. Though your gut’s already telling you that’s no football cleat.

The steps stop.

Silence.

The hiss of steam thickens it’s angrier and choking what little visibility you have left in front of you.

BAM!

A locker slams shut—closer this time.

You squeak, heart jackhammering... but your fingers don’t stop.

They move faster now, shaking with horny panic, the tension somehow is making you even hotter.

God, you just want some cock is that too much to ask!?

“T-Tojiiii…daddy? Is that you? I’m really pent up—come fuck n’ me already…”

Still no answer.

Fuck—maybe if you could just get off a lil, maybe you could reset this weird dream spiral?

“Toji, stop playing around! I’m serious—I’ll…urgh, I’ll even eat your ass this time…how does that sound?!” 

Yeah, you were getting pretty fucking desperate alright if eating that caveman’s ass was now on the table.

A low growl resounds through the locker room just as the lights above stutter—then flicker violently.

Then—

Blackout.

Every bulb dies at once… except one.

It buzzes overhead, flickering weakly, drowning you in static and shadows. A singular light casts you in rouge.

The rest of the room disappears into heavy black fog.

Unnerving? Sure.

BUT—the red haze reminds you of something. 

That sleazy adult video store you snuck into when your parents allowed you to visit your aunt’s place in the city for your bday—who, frankly, didn’t give a single rat’s ass what a nineteen-year-old got up to.

The place was sensory overload—neon buzzing like a live wire, shelves of sex toys and cursed DVDs. You remember the sticky faux‑leather peep booth seat, the moaning through the wall—and that flicker of real flesh on the other side of the viewfinder.

And now?

It’s like you’re the star. On display. Center stage. 

And the idea of one of your dream boys dragging you into a sleazy backroom for a “demo”… yeah, you’re already dripping for it.

Your fear slips the leash, devoured by the hunger igniting in your core.

Well you might as well put on a show then!

Your frame control is shaky, but you force it—closing your eyes and gritting your teeth until it appears in your hand: a long, fat, ridged pink dildo. It’s curved just right for maximum g-spot stimulation and features a giant knot sitting atop two heavy balls at the base.

Sigh. It’s a start.

“Looks like I’ll just have to fuck myself againnnn, if no one wants to put their big fat cock in my wet lil holeeee!” you shout into the haze, voice frustrated with need.

Equipped too with a suction at the bottom, you hurriedly slam it down onto the metal bench as you straddle it. Steeling yourself, thighs trembling, you sink down—inch by greedy inch—until a desperate moan tears from your gut. 

You’re being extra loud on purpose, hoping someone hears. Anyone.

Oh sweet relief! The ridges scrape perfectly along your walls. Building up more pleasure, you tweak your nipples, moaning again as they stiffen with every flick.

Not enough. 

Dropping your hips hard, the toy slides in deep with a wet, obscene squelch, knot popping past your entrance, stretching you wide.

“Mother-fuck!”

Spasming around it, you feel a wave of release rippling through you. 

But even gasping, hunched over on the bench, your thighs clenching—

You wouldn’t be satisfied with mere solo play.

“Slutty ass nerd, ya mean you couldn’t even wait f’er me, ma?”

Relief washes over you—Toji!

Oh thank fuck!

Finally, sweet salvation. 

Wet from the showers, water carving down golden skin and sculpted muscle to soak into the towel slung low on his hips, tented over his girth. 

He looks positively delectable coming out of the fog.

And unlike Dreamjo, Dreamji didn’t fuck around—he just fucked.

Except… something’s wrong again.

Argh! You try to shove the thought away—desperate to stay in the moment—but then you see it. 

The scar.

It’s on the left.  It’s supposed to be on the right.

You’re not Toji.

The second the thought crystallizes, the illusion ruptures.

To your horror, Toji's skin begins to bubble like wax in a furnace, melting off in thick, gleaming globs. His flesh is sloughing off from the bone, muscles bulging as his left side bursts open, a chuck missing from his torso. 

You scream, unable to move—still speared on the knotted toy, legs paralyzed. Your hands fly to your face, eyes clenched shut like a child praying the monster away.

The air fizzes with something sinister as you fight to reboot your dream once more.

Yet when you dare peek one eye open.

The locker room is normal again. 

Pristine and silent, no corpse, no red blood nor haze.

But your heart seizes as realization sinks that you are not alone.

A foreign presence consumes the room. It’s overwhelmingly oppressive. 

For a moment you struggle to even breathe under its weight. 

Then a voice cuts through the silence, soaked in venomous delight that grips you in feat.

“Figures the only other person in this pathetic town who knows how to control their dreams is a filthy little whore.”

A masculine figure steps into view. 

There’s a bleeding red aura clinging to him as he looms above the lockers—eight feet of muscle and malice—shoulders squared beneath a haori that drapes from him prominently like a war banner. His chest is bare, skin the color of desert stone, marred with old scars and writhing with black markings—symmetrical, like incantations meant to cage something.

There’s just too much of him. Too much presence. Too much mass. Too many arms. 

Wait—four? Four!?

You count again, just to be sure—fuck. 

Yep. Still four. Each one outfitted with razor sharp claws too.

Yet most striking of all is his face—almost beautiful in a twisted, uncanny way. Four fiery crimson eyes glower down at you. Two in the right place. Two more set in a mangled, flesh-twisted mask along his right cheekbone.

Buffer than Toji. 

Taller than Gojo. 

More tattoos than Choso.

And with a commanding presence that would put both Nanami and Geto to shame.

Oh, this creature is giving major demon daddy vibes …and is that?

Holy Shit.

Your eyes widen at the monstrous grin stretching across his stomach—teeth jagged like carved ivory, lips peeled back around an obscenely meaty, drooling tongue.

Okay….This is definitely not where you thought the dream was going.

Your imagination is good—but this? 

This had to be aftereffects from the pills. You haven’t even been allowed to watch enough sci‑fi or fantasy to dream of something this elaborate.  

But one thing’s for certain—you abso-fucking-lutely have a monster-fucking kink now.

Sukuna growls as he stalks forward toward you, moving in the space like gravity bends for him alone.

“One, two…Sukuna the Curse King’s coming for you.”

Releasing a shrill cry, your pussy pulses feverishly around the dildo inside of you—shit you almost came from just looking at him—omg, how humiliating! (although you now sympathize a bit more with Dreamjo and Dreamcho).

Watching you wiping spittle off of your chin, with damn-near hearts in your eyes, Sukuna’s upper lip curls as he feels your fear lessening the closer he gets.

“Couthless woman.” Sukuna sneers. “Did you hear what the fuck I said?”

You nod rapidly, biting your lip, every nerve in your body screaming for you to run is easily overpowered by your pussy practically sobbing for you to stay.

“Uh‑huh,” you breathe excitedly, eyes still focused on that vulgar looking tongue flicking out from his stomach, “I, uh—something about you… cumming in me?”

Sukuna stops dead in his tracks, blinking with all four eyes.

“…You—What? No, whore. I said I’m coming for you, brat—as in I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Lost in your arousal, your dream brain doesn’t register the actual threat—it just chalks it up to your slutty-ass subconscious cooking up its most diabolical scenario yet.

Guess you weren’t so immune to the hysteria after all, well might as well enjoy it.

“Yeah—demon daddy, mmm fuck—murder this pussy!” you moan, desperate to swap the  plastic for cock inside you for a real one.

If the rest of him was any indication, his dick would be like a goddamn tree trunk. 

Oh you’d break for sure. 

You can’t wait!

“Demon?” Sukuna snarls, eyes flashing. “I’m a curse, you insolent brat.”

With a lazy flick of his claw, a gash splits open across your thigh.

The pain hits instantly. You scream as blood gushes—hot, thick, and far too real.

“Keh. Figures,” Sukuna sneers. “Bet if I cracked open that slutty little skull, all that’d ooze out is cum.”

A white-hot bolt of agony surges through you leaving your nerves tangled in something raw and electric. Confusion coils tight in your gut as the pain on some level feels exhilarating. 

Shit. Knife play too? Really?

You’d laugh at your ever-expanding kink list if you weren’t seconds from blacking out.

The pain doesn’t fade, it gets worse.

No dream logic. No mercy failsafe. Nothing kicks in to soothe it.

Okay, this is getting a lil too real. 

Frantic, you clamp your eyes shut, trying to force him out. Force the pain away.

But it’s still there—throbbing louder, sharper, deeper.

There's a siren blaring through your soul. Telling you something’s pushing in, peeling apart your dream from the inside out, cracking open your subconscious like a ribcage.

And the more you resist, the more it hurts.

Your breath falters. Your chest tightens.

All that shit you brushed off—the whispers, the rumors, the monster hiding in the dreams?

It’s real.

“Bingo, you ditzy whore,” Sukuna purrs evilly. “Finally catching on? If I kill you here—in your dream—you die for real.”

Your eyes fly open, breath hitching. 

He’s inside your thoughts too?!

“Of course I am.” Sukuna’s grin widens.  

“If I can crawl into these vapid, dick-obsessed dreams of yours, I can root around wherever else I like as well. There’s nothing you can hide from me.” 

Those last words bypass your ears entirely—hot and sticky, slithering straight into the depths of your mind.

“I don’t just know your fears... I bathe in them.”

Well damn…

“Ahhh, so you get it now,” Sukuna drawls, laughter echoing off the lockers. 

“You’re fucked—and not the kind you’re so desperate for. But don’t fret. One of us’ll enjoy it, pet. I’ll take my time… peeling the ski—”

“Wait!” You throw your hands up—palms out, halting.

“Sorry—, not to interrupt but... speaking of fucked...,” you cut in, words tumbling as your brain trips over the spiral it's in. “Just walk with me here—let’s say you did actually fuck me—would I lose my v-card in real life too?”

Sukuna stops. Not dramatically. Not ominously. Just... stops. 

His whole face slackens in unfiltered disgust that anyone could have terminal brainrot to this degree without quite literally being braindead. 

To add insult to injury, you simply blink up at him in earnest, like you actually expected him to take that obscene drivel seriously. 

You had to be categorically insane.

Sukuna grits his teeth. “Exactly what in the fuck is wrong with you, woman?”

You have to fight to suppress a giggle at that—beacause honestly?

A lot.

But you do not have the time—nor emotional bandwidth—to unpack all of that right now. Not when the only problem you care about is still leaking so audaciously around the knotted dildo still lodged inside of you.

“Look, uh, Sukuna, right? This cut sucks,” you wince poking at it, “but I’m still not totally sure you’re real. I’m like, 85–90% there.”

You cross your arms, unconvinced. “There’s just this stubborn little 10% whispering that I made you up to rail me. I mean… there’s a mouth on your tummy for crying out loud! Why else would you have a tongue that big if I’m not supposed to ride it!?”

Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, resisting the urge to slam his head into the nearest locker.

You have no idea how powerful your dreams are. Consuming your soul would amount to dozens of others. Your subconsciousness is a loaded weapon—and you’ve turned it into a hedonistic fuck circus, it’s pitfull. 

“It’s to tear the flesh off the bones of women and children before I devour them.”

Sukuna roars, the sound shaking the lockers with unseen force. The mouth on his stomach splits wider—dagger-like teeth bared, tongue thrashing like a whip—clearly meant to terrify you.

Unfortunately for him, all it does is make you cream harder around the dildo as you tilt your head, genuinely considering it.

“Mmm. Yeah, okay I can see that too—but it honestly looks wayyyyy better suited to devouring pussy and breeding children, Curse Daddy.”

Curse Daddy!?

Sukuna lets out a guttural snarl as his aura lashes out in fury—but it’s no use.

If he had the power to kill your infuriating ass, he would’ve done it ten minutes ago. 

But it’s been a week since he last fed.

The whole town’s gone dark—one big dreamless dead-zone.

And you?

Even with fear buzzing under your skin, your brain short-circuits the second you look at him. There’s no room for survival instincts in that slutty little head of yours. 

Just one thought on loop:

What his monstrous tongue, thick n’ velvety, would feel like thrashing inside of your pussy, flicking at your cervix.

For once, the Curse King is at a loss.

He’s fed on nightmares for centuries. 

Roamed the minds of tyrants, zealots, serial killers—hell, even a few professional whores.

But never—not once—has he met a creature so catastrophically, proudly down bad.

Did you never leave your house?!

“With my mom? Tuh. I’m lucky she lets me go to school,” you snort, catching his thoughts.

You grin as his face falters.

“Figured if you’re poking around in my brain, I could poke around in yours. It’s called home field advantage, Curse Daddy. You’re in my dream, remember?”

Malice hums in the air and the tile beneath Sukuna’s feet cracks.

But you don’t flinch.

Because Sukuna has already said too much and upon that confirmation the power dynamics decidingly shift. 

“Anyway, judging by how much this fucking leg hurts, I’m bumping you up to a solid 99.9% real. And since you’ve already murdered your way through half this shithole town, you already know how ass-backwards it is.”

You press on. 

“Hate to break it to you, Curse King—but your reign of terror? Yeah, that’s over. Everyone’s doped up on prescription elephant tranquilizers. Nobody’s dreaming about anything anymore.”

Sukuna growls something under his breath about modern bullshit—how no tincture or herb in his time ever blocked dreams, only enhanced them.

“I’m SAYIN’!” You throw your hands up, equally annoyed. “We need our dreams!  I haven’t been properly fucked in a week and it’s starting to show!”

Your leg throbs, pulsing hard enough to break your focus. 

Wincing, you groan and slowly lean forward, using the leverage of your body weight to slide off the dildo. There’s a salacious pop that echoes once you are free of it, catching Sukuna’s attention as his eyes track the tantalizing trail of slick shimmering as it drip-drops down your plush thighs.

Indecorous slut.

Yet staring a moment too long, Sukuna’s eyes immediately flick to your face. 

Oop, busted! You smirk. “Anyway, if you’re really just a dream demo—”

“Dream curse,” Sukuna sneers. “I’m The Curse King, you crude little cumdump.”

“Right,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. 

Big difference. 

“So, as I was saying—If you kill me, you lose your only power source. You feed off nightmares—but you’re still standing here, aren’t you? That means you can survive in normal dreams too. So if I’m gone then you’ll fade away, huh?”

You cross your legs and fold your hands in your lap, playing fake diplomat which leaves Sukuna scowling at you harder.

“Let’s cut a deal, then!”

Sukuna narrows his gaze but allows you to continue, he had little choice otherwise.

“I let you squat in my dreams—for now. But no nightmares. No trying to murder me nor anyone else, seems fair, right?” 

Sukuna scoffs at you, all four of his arms crossing. “Tell me why the fuck would I want to squat in some horny brat’s cock-crazed delusions?”

“Because you’d be alive, jackass! Uh.. and maybe…” You clear your throat. “...maybe I could make it worth your while?”

Sukuna glares at you menacingly, seeing your pathetic attempts at tempting him.

“If I have to suffer, so do you,” he snarls. “And you think, someone as powerful as I would stoop to fucking some sad twitchy virgin who’s desperate for male validation?”

Biting your inner cheek, you bristle, your hands clenching into fists as you stand to face him, bare and bloodied.

“I never said I wanted your approval, you dream creeper!”

Sukuna laughter is full of dark amusement. 

“No, you didn’t—and yet that vulgar ass cunt of yours is practically penning me a puddle of love poems every time you glance at my stomach.”

You don’t need to look down to know he’s right. 

Yet the vibes are still undoubtedly set to ‘fuck this guy’ as your indignation builds.

“You’re nothing but a fraud, you know that!?” 

Rage, arousal, and defiance crackle through you like live wires.

“You couldn’t kill me even if you tried. You’re too weak. You’re nothing but a big sad bully,” you snap. 

“And now that I have an idea of how this whole dream shit works—you don’t even scare me anymore!”

In a flash Sukuna is in front of you. The size-difference apparent as his body dwarfs yours and all light cast upon you. 

“So do what you want. Cry. Brood. Fap in the corner for all I care!”

Your determination only grows stronger as you stand your ground, finally assuming your the title of deity of your own subconscious domain.

“Fuck you, because after I fix this leg and I’m going and getting my shit wrecked like I should have been doing all along!”

Because god knows how much time has actually passed—you might have to wake up soon!

You challenge Sukuna, eying him up and down. “And that's worse right? Sentenced to rot slowly, not quite dead but wholly dismissed in the mind of a ‘silly little slut’ who you couldn’t even scare enough to kill.” 

For a moment it’s quiet, only your huffs of exertion filling the space.

Then, just as suddenly, the room shakes more violently than before as rows of lockers begin to explode in shockwaves, the ceiling cracking like it might collapse entirely.

Through the chaos and rubble, Sukuna’s eyes glow sharply, locked on your form. 

“I’ll kill you yet,” he hisses, “That’s a promise.”

Ignoring him, you fling open the door of a mangled locker that has fallen on its side. 

What pours out is an otherworldly light, bright and swirling, reshaping into a portal to the deeper parts of your mind where your real sex-crazed dreams await you.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you blow him a kiss.

“Try it then, Curse King. Let’s see whose kingdom this really is.”

And with that, you step through—the portal vanishing along with you.

The realm rapidly dissolving, Sukuna seethes in the crumbling dark.

“Fucking brat.”

               all rights reserved. blkkizzat©2023-2026

𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? then please 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 or 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! you can also join my gen. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 or contribute to the 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨$𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐝.

ꉂ a/n: i will release p2 of plug!reader (final edits), incel!naoya, elevator p2 and then come back to this before working on invisible man!gojo. [if i didnt mention it no im not working on it right at this second, yes i do plan to finish it, please don't bug me about it :) ]

You and Sukuna would step out of the car already attached to one another somehow—his hand firm at your lower back, your fingers hooked in the front of his shirt, your mouths finding each other before your feet had even fully crossed the gravel path. He would keep you close like he had forgotten the shape of distance, pausing in corridors to kiss you again, dragging you into empty classrooms for a few stolen minutes just to murmur something low in your ear that made your face go hot. He would take more breaks during training on those days, which the students noticed immediately and appreciated like it was a blessing from the gods. He would sit beside you on the grass instead of across from you. He would hand-feed you fruit from the cafeteria as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He would touch you constantly—your cheek, your waist, your hand, your thigh, the back of your neck—small private claims made in public with no shame in them at all.

Those were the easy days.

The soft days.

The ones where even Gojo knew better than to comment too much, because Sukuna’s temper was buried deep under something warmer and less violent, and you—despite all your sharp edges—looked almost peaceful.

Then there were the other days.

The fighting days.

Those were just as common.

Sukuna would pull up to Jujutsu High already looking aggravated, and before the engine had fully died, you’d be snapping at him about something. Sometimes it was because he told you no. Sometimes because he had left for a mission too early. Sometimes because you woke up angry and decided he was the safest place to throw it. It did not have to make sense. It only had to exist. And if it existed, you would take it out on him with the full dramatic violence of your nature.

More than once, the students had watched Sukuna drag you out of the car with you thrown over his shoulder like an angry cat in expensive silk.

You would be clawing at his back, biting at the air, screaming that you were going to skin him alive and wear his hide as a winter coat.

He, infuriatingly calm, would keep walking.

“Put me down!”

“No.”

“I’ll gut you!”

“Later.”

“I hate you!”

“No, you don’t.”

You would hit his spine with both fists.

He would keep carrying you anyway.

And then, not even an hour later, the same students would see you sitting sideways in his lap under a tree or on the edge of the training grounds, still sulking, still muttering that he was awful, while Sukuna peeled plums for you or handed you slices of fruit one by one. You would snatch them from his fingers with a growl and say, “You are not forgiven.” And Sukuna, because he understood you far better than anyone else ever had, would answer, “I know.”

Today had begun somewhere between those two moods.

You had not bitten him in the car, which was usually a good sign, but you had been in a sharp strange little mood all afternoon—restless, clingy, easily irritated, wanting him near and then snapping when he got too close, wanting his attention and then acting offended when he gave it too slowly. Sukuna had tolerated it with the patience of a man who knew that if he handled you wrong, he’d spend the next hour with his throat under attack.

So he had kept you nearby.

Training had ended not long ago. A few of the students still lingered on the edges of the grounds, talking, stretching, or pretending not to watch the horizon out of old habit. Yuta was a short distance away, half in conversation with Maki before she wandered off toward the equipment racks. Panda and Toge were closer to the main steps. Gojo was nowhere immediately visible, which usually meant he was about to appear at the worst possible moment. Sukuna stood near you with one hand resting absently against the small of your back while you looked out over the grounds with a faint frown.

Then you felt it.

Your body stiffened before your mind caught up.

The cursed energy in the air changed—thicker, colder, threaded through with something old and purposeful and wrong in a way that made the hair on the back of your neck lift. You turned your head first, then your whole body, eyes narrowing toward the sky beyond the trees.

You saw it before anyone else fully reacted.

A cursed spirit shaped like a grotesque pelican was cutting across the air toward the school, its wings wide and unnatural, its body stitched together from black cursed energy and half-living intent. It descended with sickening grace, and on its back stood Suguru Geto with some of his people behind him, robes and hair shifting in the wind, the entire image so calmly theatrical it might have been absurd if it were not so dangerous.

The training grounds went still.

Every conversation died.

Sukuna’s hand left your back instantly.

His whole body changed in one breath—posture sharpening, cursed energy waking under his skin, the lazy domestic warmth of moments before burning away into something colder and far more dangerous. Around you, the other sorcerers reacted fast. Yuta turned fully. Maki’s hand went to her weapon. Panda moved closer to Toge. Somewhere behind, footsteps broke into motion as others on campus began to notice the intrusion.

The cursed pelican descended lower.

Then touched down.

The thing’s claws dug into the earth with a wet crunch of torn sod. The wind from its landing stirred your kimono and sent your hair back from your face. Suguru stepped down first, elegant as ever, composed in that terrible way of men who believed entirely in the righteousness of their own destruction.

His eyes moved over the field.

Found Yuta.

Then found you.

And he smiled.

It was not a warm smile. Not kind. But it was beautiful in the way poison sometimes was—smooth, practiced, awful because it came wrapped in something almost gentle.

“Well,” Suguru said, voice carrying easily over the silence. “What a lovely surprise.” You bared your teeth without thinking.

Yuta went still beside you, his expression tightening at once with recognition and something older, heavier.

Suguru looked between the two of you as though he were seeing treasures laid before him. “You both possess gifts that this world does not deserve.” Sukuna moved in front of you in the same second Gojo appeared and stepped in front of Yuta.

It happened so fast it almost looked rehearsed—the two strongest men in the field positioning themselves between the vulnerable thing behind them and the threat advancing from ahead. Sukuna’s body blocked yours almost completely, broad shoulders squared, crimson eyes lit with immediate violence. Gojo stood looser on the surface, but the air around him changed all the same, easy posture gone taut with deadly attention.

Suguru’s smile widened at the sight of them.

“How predictable,” he murmured.

Gojo tipped his head slightly, voice deceptively bright. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.” Sukuna said nothing at first.

He didn’t need to.

The pressure rolling off him spoke more clearly than language. His cursed energy began to gather in dark threads around his body, the atmosphere near him tightening as if the world itself understood that if this went one inch further than he allowed, something monstrous would step fully into the light.

Suguru’s gaze flicked to Sukuna. “And here you are.” His tone held an old curiosity. Old knowledge. The strange frayed thread of a history that predated this moment by years.

“I heard rumors,” Suguru said. “I didn’t believe them. Not at first.” Sukuna’s mouth curled without humor. “Then you should’ve stayed away.” Suguru ignored the warning.

Instead, he looked at you again over Sukuna’s shoulder. “You,” he said softly, almost reverently, “have a power few in this age could even comprehend.” Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

Behind you, you could feel Sukuna’s awareness shift for the slightest fraction of a second—not away from danger, but enough to know where you were, to make sure you were still behind him, still breathing, still under his protection even while his attention remained fixed on the enemy ahead.

Suguru continued, “Life and death in the same hand. Creation and ruin. Do you know what you could become if you stopped letting lesser men fear what you are?” You glared at him, face twisting with disgust. “You talk too much.” That earned a low snort from Gojo.

Yuta stayed quiet, but the tension in him had become its own kind of sound.

Suguru’s smile shifted. “And Yuta. Still wasting himself among people who fear his potential.” Gojo’s grin returned, thinner and sharper now. “You really know how to make a sales pitch sound creepy.” Suguru let the jab slide off him.

“You both have gifts,” he said. “Gifts great enough to change the world with me.” Yuta’s jaw tightened.

You looked openly revolted.

Sukuna took one step forward.

Not much.

Enough.

The earth under his foot cracked. “You are not speaking to her again,” he said, voice low enough that everyone on the field had to lean into the threat to hear it properly.

Suguru met his gaze. “And if I do?” The dark fog around Sukuna thickened. Gojo, still smiling in that sharp white way of his, said without taking his eyes off Suguru, “Then we all get to have a very unpleasant afternoon.”

Suguru’s followers shifted subtly behind him, sensing the escalation. Curses stirred. The air around the pelican spirit warped with restless energy. Somewhere farther back, a student swallowed audibly.

Suguru tilted his head.

“You always were quick to violence.” This time it was Gojo who answered first, his tone light and dangerous all at once. “That’s rich coming from you.” Suguru looked at him briefly, then back to Yuta and you. “I am offering freedom.”

“No,” Sukuna said. “You are offering yourself a weapon.” Suguru’s smile did not leave, but his eyes cooled. “And you aren’t?” That struck the air like flint.

For the briefest second, the whole field seemed to hold its breath.

Then Sukuna laughed.

A short, ugly sound with no real humor in it.

“If I wanted her as a weapon,” he said, “you wouldn’t still be standing there talking.” Something flickered across Suguru’s face then. Acknowledgment, maybe. Or irritation. Or the recognition that whatever fantasies he had woven around you, they had arrived too late. You were not lost anymore. You were not alone. You were not unclaimed by the world.

And worst of all for a man like him, you were loved by something even more dangerous than himself.

Gojo’s smile sharpened as if he sensed the same realization. “You can go now, Suguru.”

Suguru did not move.

His gaze lingered on Yuta.

Then on you.

Then returned to Sukuna.

“This does not end here.” Sukuna’s eyes flashed. “It ends wherever I decide it ends.”

The cursed pelican gave a low, grotesque croak.

Wind shifted over the training grounds, heavy with the promise of violence not yet spent. Around you, everyone stayed taut, waiting to see which way the moment would break—toward blood, or retreat, or something in between.

And there on the field, with Sukuna standing before you like a wall built from hunger and devotion and rage, and Gojo before Yuta like a blade smiling at the dark, Suguru Geto looked at the two of you one final time as though measuring the shape of what he had come too late to take.

The drive home was silent.

Not the easy kind. Not the heavy warm quiet that sometimes settled between you and Sukuna after long days when words were unnecessary because his hand would rest on your thigh and your head would lean against the window and that would be enough. This silence was sharp. Sealed. The kind that filled the car so completely it made even the sound of the tires against wet pavement seem too loud.

Sukuna had not said a single word since leaving Jujutsu High.

Not to you.

Not to the road.

Not even under his breath.

His jaw had stayed tight the entire drive, one hand locked around the steering wheel, the other resting stiffly at his side. The muscles in his forearm had not relaxed once. The air around him felt wrong—too still, too tightly wound, like all the rage he had refused to let loose on the training grounds was now trapped beneath his skin with nowhere to go.

Even you did not press him.

That, by itself, said everything.

Rain had started somewhere along the way, first a mist, then a soft steady fall that silvered the windshield and blurred the world outside into dark trees, wet roads, and passing lights. By the time the gates opened and the car rolled through onto the estate, the rain had settled over everything in a cool gray hush.

Sukuna parked.

The engine died.

Still he said nothing.

You followed him inside in silence, your kimono brushing softly against your legs, the damp scent of rain clinging to the air as the door shut behind you. The house felt too quiet. Uraume had the sense to remain out of sight, or perhaps they had already felt his mood long before the car reached the drive and chosen wisely.

Sukuna stepped out of his shoes and reached for the tie at his collar.

You moved closer.

It was instinct by now, one you had learned without ever naming it. When he came home, you helped. You took his outer robe, undid what needed undoing, touched him in those small domestic ways that still startled you sometimes with how natural they had become.

Your fingers had barely reached for the edge of his robe when he pulled away. “I’m fine.” The words were clipped. Flat. Not cruel exactly. But hard enough that you stopped immediately.

Your hand stayed hovering there for half a second before you let it fall.

Then, because you could see how tightly strung he was and because something in your chest hurt at the distance of him, you reached again—smaller this time, only catching lightly at his sleeve. “Sukuna.” You said his name gently.

So gently that he looked at you.

That seemed to surprise him more than the touch itself.

Rain whispered against the house. Somewhere deeper inside, water moved through the garden stones. Sukuna closed his eyes for one brief second and took a slow breath through his nose before answering.

“I need to be left alone for a little bit.”

You went still.

He opened his eyes again, gaze fixed somewhere just over your shoulder rather than directly at your face. “I don’t want to fight,” he said. “And I need everyone to leave me alone.” The words were measured, like he had forced himself to choose them carefully so they would not come out worse.

Still, they struck.

You pulled your hand back.

Your fingers curled into themselves, clutching against your palm as if they needed somewhere to go. You swallowed once and nodded. “Okay.” That was all.

No snapping. No claws. No bitten threats. No immediate violence to cover the bruise of being turned away.

Just that quiet little answer.

It startled him.

You could see it in the way his eyes flicked to your face properly then, as if only now realizing you had taken the words exactly as they were meant and also not at all the way they had been intended. You were being gentle for once. Accepting the boundary. And because of that, the rejection sat naked between you instead of buried under one of your tantrums.

Your face gave almost nothing away, but Sukuna knew you too well now not to see it.

The hurt.

The small withdrawn shift in your body.

The way your shoulders tucked in, just slightly, like something tender had instinctively folded itself away.

For half a second, he almost said something else.

Almost reached for you.

But he was too angry, too wound tight, too full of the poisoned feeling Geto had left behind with his smile and his words and his eyes on you. He was in no shape to comfort anyone. Least of all in a way that would not break open into something uglier.

So he didn’t.

He turned and went down the hall toward his office.

You stood there for one long second after he disappeared, your hands still clasped together in front of you.

Then you turned the other way.

You went to your old bedroom.

The room still smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen, though you no longer slept there. Not really. It had become a place of old things. Folded clothes. Drawers half-full of garments Uraume had gotten for you before you began living full-time in Sukuna’s room. Small items that had once mattered simply because they were yours. The air inside was still. Safe. Empty.

You crossed to the closet and opened it, more for something to do than because you needed anything from it. Your hands moved over hanging fabric, brushed folded sleeves, touched the neat lines of order Uraume always kept there for you. You stood in front of it longer than necessary, staring without really seeing.

Then your gaze lifted.

To the box.

It sat high on the shelf, pushed toward the back, plain enough that anyone else might have missed it. But you knew it. Knew exactly what it was. Knew why it had been put there.

Sukuna had sealed away the most dangerous part of your cursed energy because the world was full of people who would rather kill what they feared than learn how it hurt. He had done it to protect you. To protect everyone else, too. You had accepted it because you had loved him enough to let him try.

But today had changed something.

Geto’s face.

The way Sukuna had gone silent afterward.

The dark pressure in him that had not eased once on the drive home.

Something was coming.

You felt it and you had spent too many years surviving the shape of coming danger to ignore what your bones already knew.

You looked over your shoulder first.

Listened.

The house remained quiet. No footsteps nearby. No movement in the hall. Rain against the garden. Distant thunder so soft it was more vibration than sound.

Then you dragged a chair beneath the shelf, climbed up, and pulled the box down.

It was heavier than it looked.

You set it carefully on the floor and knelt in front of it, breathing slowly through your nose. The seal threaded across it shimmered faintly under your fingers, intricate and strong and familiar. Sukuna’s cursed energy still clung to it. Protective. Restrictive. Absolute.

Your hands trembled.

Not from doubt.

From the strain of what you were about to do.

You placed both palms over the seal and closed your eyes.

Then you reached inward.

Not for the gentle bright side of your cursed energy, the part that coaxed life back into wilting things and stitched broken edges together. You reached deeper. Lower. Into the cold place. The starving place. The part of you that had once touched a man and watched him die. The part Sukuna had wrapped and buried and bound because it frightened the world and nearly frightened you too.

You pulled.

The seal resisted first, biting against your energy, then began to loosen under the specific shape of your will. You were patient with it. Quiet. No wasted force. No spectacle. Just a steady unwinding, thread by thread, until the dark locked portion of your cursed energy rose up to meet the rest of you like a shadow returning to its body.

Decay slid back into your system.

At once, you felt it.

The difference.

The balance of you righting itself in a way you had almost forgotten—life and ruin both humming beneath your skin, twin currents at last touching again. Your breath caught hard in your throat. The sensation was not painful, but it was overwhelming. Your fingers twitched against the floorboards. The room seemed sharper around the edges. Every living thing beyond the walls suddenly felt louder to your senses—the moss outside, the rain on the leaves, the tiny shifting pulse inside the roots beneath the garden stones.

And under it all, the old familiar darkness waited obediently in your palm.

Controlled.

Not wild.

Not now.

You opened your eyes and stared at your hands.

No visible change. No marks. No smoke. Just skin trembling faintly over the return of something too dangerous for ordinary people to imagine.

You did not smile.

You did not gloat.

You only breathed.

“I know,” you whispered to the empty room, though whether you were speaking to Sukuna in your mind or to yourself, you could not have said. “I know.”

Carefully, you sealed the box back up as best you could. Not perfectly—never as perfectly as he had—but well enough that unless he inspected it closely, he would not notice right away. You returned it to the shelf, moved the chair back, and stood there for a moment with your hands still shaking at your sides.

You had not done it to betray him.

You had done it because something in the air had changed.

Because Suguru Geto had looked at him and at you like pieces on a board.

Because you knew, in the deep ugly animal place that had kept you alive, that if something came for Sukuna, you would not survive standing there helpless behind the safety he built for you.

You left the room quietly.

The hallway felt cooler now. The rain louder. The whole house washed in that blue-gray light storms brought near dusk. You passed the office door without stopping. Heard nothing from inside. He was still there. Still alone. Still locked inside whatever storm Geto had left in him.

You didn’t disturb him.

Instead, you went to the room you now shared.

Inside, the futon had already been laid out. The air smelled like him—cedar, linen, faint smoke, clean skin, the warmth that clung to his pillow even when he wasn’t there. You crossed the room and slid open the shoji door that led out to the garden.

Cool wet air drifted in immediately.

The rain outside came down in soft silver lines, veiling the stones and darkening the moss until everything glistened. The koi pond rippled under it. Maple leaves bowed and shivered. Somewhere water collected and spilled in a rhythm so steady it almost sounded like breathing.

You left the door open.

Then you went to the futon and lay down on your side, facing the garden.

One hand stretched across the bedding until your fingers found Sukuna’s pillow. You touched it lightly at first, then curled your hand against the edge as though some part of him might be reached that way even when he was still behind another closed door.

The rain kept falling.

The house stayed quiet.

And eventually, with the fresh air brushing cool against your face and the low endless song of water filling the room, your eyes drifted shut. Your fingers remained resting on his pillow even in sleep, your body curled toward the space he would later fill, while outside the storm moved gently over the garden and inside your veins both halves of your cursed energy breathed together once more, waiting.

Sukuna came to bed long after the rain had settled into a softer, thinner hush.

You didn’t wake when he first entered the room.

At least, not fully.

Some part of you felt him there anyway—the subtle shift in the floorboards, the draft of cooler air as he closed the shoji to the garden, the familiar weight of his presence moving through the dark. He had bathed, because he always did when his mind was too crowded and his body needed the ritual of water to wring some of the violence out of it. The scent of rain still clung faintly to him beneath the clean smell of soap and cedar.

He moved quietly.

For all his size, all his power, all the menace he carried through the world like a second skin, Sukuna had always known how to be quiet in rooms that mattered.

He stood by the futon for a moment.

Looking at you.

Your hand was still on his pillow.

Your body curled toward the space where he should have been.

And even though you had fallen asleep after he turned you away, even though some part of him knew he had hurt you and left the bruise of it there without tending it, you had still lain down in his bed like you belonged nowhere else.

That knowledge settled in him with a weight he didn’t have the strength to examine.

So instead, he undressed in the half-dark, folded himself down beside you, and let the day finally drag him under.

Sleep took him hard.

Exhaustion always did when it won. There was no drifting with Sukuna, no graceful surrender. One moment he was awake enough to feel the warmth of the futon and the lingering shape of your body near his. The next he was gone, dragged into sleep by sheer depletion, his face losing some of its iron severity only when unconsciousness stole the tension out of it.

That was when you woke.

Your eyes opened slowly to darkness softened by rainlight, the room dim and silver-blue at the edges. For a second you just listened.

To the storm.

To the quiet of the house.

To Sukuna breathing beside you.

He had fallen asleep on his back, one arm thrown loosely across his stomach, the other near his side. His face in sleep always startled you a little. Not because it became gentle—it didn’t, not fully. But because something about the guard of him eased just enough that you could see the boy he must have once been buried somewhere under all that barbed wire and blood and silence.

You turned toward him carefully.

Your hand lifted and touched his face.

Just your fingertips at first, brushing the line of his cheek, the strong angle of his jaw, the skin near his temple where his damp hair had half dried against him. He didn’t stir. Only breathed, deep and even.

You leaned over him then.

Slowly.

And kissed him.

It was a soft kiss. The kind he would have teased you for if awake. No bite, no playful cruelty, no demand in it. Just your mouth resting gently against his for one lingering second, a tenderness so quiet it almost disappeared inside the dark.

When you pulled back, your throat hurt.

You sat there looking at him for a moment too long.

Then you slipped out of bed.

The floor was cool beneath your feet. The room felt enormous with him asleep in it, as though silence itself had stretched wider around his unconscious body. You moved carefully so as not to wake him, glancing back once before you left the room.

He hadn’t moved.

You went to your old room.

This time when you opened the closet, your hands did not hesitate. You dressed quickly in simpler clothes, the sort better suited for travel and hiding than for house life or soft evenings beside someone who knew the shape of your body too well. You packed a bag with practical movements—changes of clothes, what small things mattered, things Uraume had once taught you to keep near in case of necessity. Money too. So much money. More cash than anyone like you should have ever had in one place, all of it given by Sukuna with the rough dismissive ease of a man who never treated wealth as something sacred and had long ago decided you would never go without again if he could help it.

Your hands shook while you packed.

Not enough to stop.

Just enough to make each careful fold feel like something being broken.

When the bag was done, you slung it over your shoulder and stood in the middle of the room for one last second, looking at the life that had once been impossible for you—clean drawers, soft clothes, warm walls, shelter without fear.

Then you went to the front door.

You had just slipped your shoes on when Uraume appeared.

Of course they did.

You looked up and there they were at the end of the hall, pale and silent as moonlight, watching you with a face that had already understood too much before a single word was spoken.

For a second neither of you moved.

Then Uraume asked quietly, “Where are you going?” Your grip tightened on the strap of the bag.

You shook your head once.

Not because you wouldn’t tell them. Because if you said it too quickly, too plainly, you might break apart around it. “I gotta protect Sukuna,” you said at last.

Your voice was low. Rough with feeling you were trying not to let own you.

Uraume’s expression did not change, but their eyes softened with something sad and knowing.

You swallowed and looked down at your own fingers. “I ain’t always smart,” you said. “I know that. I’m not… literate like you. I grew up sleepin’ in dumpsters and eatin’ scraps and fightin’ like an animal.” The words came ugly because truth usually did. “But I got a heart,” you said. “And my heart wants to protect him.” Your eyes lifted again to theirs, bright now despite your effort.

“Even if it means I gotta hurt for it.” The house remained still around the confession.

Rain whispered against the walls.

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “I have to go back into hidin’,” you murmured. “Maybe one day life’ll be kinder to both of us.” Uraume came closer then.

Not enough to stop you.

Only enough to stand before you like witness.

You reached out and touched their hand. Your fingers curled lightly around theirs for just a moment. “Take care of him.” Uraume looked down at your joined hands, then back up at your face.

And nodded. “I will.” Then, to your surprise, they stepped forward and hugged you.

Tight.

Not careful. Not ceremonial. A real embrace, firm enough that your breath caught. You stood frozen for one second before your arms lifted and wrapped around them too.

“Take care of yourself,” Uraume said softly near your ear.

Your throat closed.

You nodded against their shoulder.

Then you pulled away before you lost the nerve to leave at all.

Outside, the rain had eased to a mist.

The world beyond the house was dark and wet and silvered by the last of the storm, the gravel drive shining faintly beneath the estate lights. At the front of the house, a car waited.

Your mother was already there.

The trunk stood open, and inside were her bags packed neatly for travel. She had done exactly what you asked when you called her after Sukuna fell asleep—no questions that would slow you down, no pleas to stay, only the simple, immediate yes of a mother who had already lost you once and would not fail to come when you reached for her again.

She looked at you when you stepped outside, and whatever she saw in your face made her own tighten with grief.

Still, she said nothing.

Only opened the passenger door and waited while you climbed in.

The bag settled at your feet. The door closed. The inside of the car smelled like rain and old upholstery and your mother’s perfume. When she got in beside you, she reached across the center console and touched your hand.

You held still under it.

Then you looked up.

At the front of the house.

At the dark windows.

At the room where he still slept, unaware that the place beside him was already cooling, unaware that by morning your scent would be faint in the sheets and your money gone from the drawer and your old room empty again.

A tear slid down your face before you could stop it.

You did not wipe it away.

You looked at the house and whispered, so softly the words were almost only breath, “I love you, Sukuna.” Then you turned your face away before the house could become something impossible to leave.

Your fingers closed around your mother’s hand.

And in a voice already breaking, you said, “Let’s go, Mama.” The car pulled away through the mist and the wet quiet of the estate, carrying you farther from the house that had become your home, farther from the man sleeping inside it, while dawn still waited somewhere beyond the rain and love—once again—made itself known to you first as sacrifice.

When Sukuna woke, the first thing he noticed was wrongness.

Not loud.

Not immediate.

Just wrong.

The room was dim with the pale gray light that came before proper morning, the rain having passed sometime in the night and left the world outside washed clean and still. The futon was warm in places it should not have been, cool in others. The air held your scent, but not enough of it. Not fresh. Lingering.

His eyes opened fully.

He turned his head.

The space beside him was empty.

For a second he didn’t move.

Because sometimes you wandered. Sometimes you woke before him and drifted barefoot into the garden, or into the kitchen to bother Uraume, or into one of the other rooms because you wanted to bring something back to bed and then forgot what you were doing halfway there. He was used to waking and sensing you somewhere in the house like a low familiar pulse under his skin.

So he reached for that instinctively.

And found nothing.

Sukuna sat up.

Fast.

The room sharpened around him immediately. He looked toward the open doorway, toward the folded blankets, toward the faint impression your body had left on the futon. His hand moved across the bedding once, palm pressing into the place where you should have been. Cold enough now to tell him this was not recent.

He stood.

“Y/N.”

No answer.

He stepped into the hall. “Y/N.”

Still nothing.

The house was too quiet.

Not empty. Uraume’s presence was somewhere below, faint and steady. But yours—your strange split energy, your life and decay, your restless impossible pulse—was gone.

Something cold opened under his ribs.

He moved through the house quickly at first, then faster, calling your name in a voice that kept roughening each time the silence answered instead. He checked the sitting room. The garden corridor. The room that had once been yours. The bathroom. The engawa. Every place your body had made a habit of occupying. Every corner that still smelled faintly of you and offered him nothing.

By the time he reached the kitchen, his breathing had changed.

Uraume stood there at the counter, already cleaning.

The sound of cloth over wood stopped the moment Sukuna entered.

He didn’t waste time. “Where is she?” Uraume went still.

Slowly, they set the rag down.

That alone was enough to make the temperature in the room drop.

Sukuna’s eyes sharpened to something murderous. “Where.” Uraume turned to face him fully. Their expression was calm, but not unreadable. There was sadness in it. Resignation, too. “She left,” they said.

The words hung there.

For one second, Sukuna just stared.

Then his voice came out low and dangerous. “What.”

“Last night.” He took one step forward. “Explain.” Uraume did.

Quietly. Clearly. Every ugly piece of it.

How you had gotten up after he fell asleep. How you packed. How they found you at the door. How you said you had to protect him. How you believed leaving was the only way to do that. How you said maybe one day life would be kinder to both of you. How you asked them to take care of him. How your mother had been waiting outside. How you left with her before dawn.

Sukuna listened in utter stillness.

Only his hands gave him away—slowly curling into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening, tendons pulling sharp beneath skin.

When Uraume finished, silence crashed down.

Then Sukuna shouted. “WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP HER?” The force of his voice shook the dishes on the shelves. It struck through the kitchen like a physical blow, but Uraume did not flinch. They only held his gaze with the same eerie steadiness they always had.

“This is not a prison,” they said. “Every person is allowed to come and go.” That answer detonated something in him.

A plate sat on the counter within reach.

Sukuna grabbed it and hurled it across the room so hard it shattered against the far wall in an explosion of white ceramic. Shards rained over the floor. The crack echoed through the house and vanished into silence.

Uraume still did not move.

Sukuna was already turning away.

He crossed the hall in a blur and went straight to your old room. The door struck open hard enough to rattle in its frame. He went to the closet immediately, reaching high for the sealed box on the shelf.

The moment his fingers touched it, he knew.

The box still held the shape of the seal.

But not the weight of what had been inside it.

His whole body froze.

Slowly, very slowly, he brought it down and looked at it properly. The seal had been disturbed. Closed back up. Made to resemble what it had once been. But he knew his own work. Knew the exact shape of his cursed energy. Knew where the threads should sit and where they had been forced apart.

And beneath that, far worse—

The box was empty.

Not physically.

But spiritually.

The locked portion of your cursed energy was gone. Back where it belonged. Back inside you.

Sukuna felt it like a blade between his ribs.

Then he roared.

The sound ripped out of him so violently it shook the room. He threw the box across the bedroom, and it smashed against the far wall hard enough to splinter wood and burst the weak reseal entirely.

After that came destruction.

Fast.

Mindless.

Immediate.

He kicked through a chair and sent it flying into the dresser. He tore the small table beside the bed apart with one hand and flung the broken pieces into the wall. A lamp shattered. Drawers split. Wood cracked under the force of his rage. The room ceased to be a room and became a storm’s center, everything inside it reduced to collateral.

And then his body changed.

The shift into his true form came not with ceremony, but with fury.

His frame surged larger, heavier, more monstrous, cursed markings darkening as extra arms unfurled and his energy flooded the room in violent waves. The ceiling seemed lower under the weight of him. The walls groaned. The air itself strained around the sheer density of his power.

He stood there in the wreckage at seven foot seven, chest heaving, crimson eyes burning.

Angry.

Yes.

But anger was the easiest word.

He was hurt in a place nothing had touched in a very long time.

It felt like being stabbed somewhere no reverse cursed technique could reach. Like his heart had been split open and left there to bleed into the floorboards while his body stayed standing out of spite. He could heal flesh. Bone. Tendons. Organs. He could stitch a throat back together in seconds and regrow torn pieces without blinking.

But this—

This would not close.

Not with cursed energy.

Not with rage.

You had left him.

You had left thinking it was love.

That knowledge was worse than betrayal because he understood it too well. Understood exactly how your mind had worked its way there. How fear had twisted itself into sacrifice. How your love, still so young and so malformed by pain, had reached for the sharpest possible shape because that was the only one it knew.

And he hated it.

Hated that you had gone.

Hated that you had done it alone.

Hated most of all that some part of him had helped build the thought in you that he would be safer without you near.

A broken sound left him then—not quite a growl, not quite breath.

His hands flexed, claws scraping splintered wood from the ruined dresser. The room reeked of torn cedar, dust, and the fading remains of your scent. It was everywhere and nowhere all at once. In the clothes left hanging. In the pillow indentation long gone cold. In the absence that now had shape enough to choke on.

Uraume appeared in the doorway eventually.

They did not try to calm him.

Did not speak.

There was no point.

Sukuna stood amid the wreckage of what had once been your room, monstrous and shaking, surrounded by broken furniture and the remains of the seal that should have kept you safer than your own heart had allowed, while inside him something raw and human bled where no technique could reach.

It had been six months since you left.

Six months since the car pulled away from the estate in the wet hush of dawn while Sukuna slept with one arm thrown across the futon and your warmth fading beside him. Six months since you had chosen to disappear rather than risk being the blade someone else turned toward his throat.

A year since you met him.

Six months of marriage.

And not one day had passed in which you did not miss him.

Missing him had become its own weather inside you. Some mornings it was only a faint ache, something manageable, tucked down low beneath work and errands and the ordinary small survival of living. Other days it came down on you like floodwater. You would wake with his name halfway up your throat, or catch the scent of cedar and clean linen in some passing stranger’s coat and have to stop yourself from turning around. At night, it was worst. In dreams he always came back to you whole—warm and broad and still wearing that tired irritated look he had when you were being impossible. Sometimes he would only look at you. Sometimes he would hold your face in both hands and kiss you until your heart hurt from waking.

Then morning would come.

And you would still stay away.

Kyoto had taken you in quietly.

The little house you and your mother bought with cash sat on a narrow street lined with older homes and small gardens where everything bloomed in the spring like it had something to prove. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t hidden behind walls or spread across acres of private land. But it was yours. Small kitchen. Low ceilings. Windows that stuck when it rained too hard. Floorboards that creaked in familiar places. A patch of earth out back that your mother coaxed into herbs and flowers. You both fixed it together, slowly, with careful hands and the sort of joy that comes from making a place livable after believing for too long that you didn’t deserve permanence.

Your mother worked at a nursing home down the road.

The residents loved her.

They called her gentle. Steady. They trusted her in that instinctive way old people sometimes trusted only those who had suffered enough to move quietly through the world. She came home smelling faintly of tea and antiseptic and old paper, with stories she only told half of because some griefs belonged to the people who carried them.

You worked at a florist.

The owner had hired you first because your hands were quick and your eye for arrangement was unsettlingly good. She kept you because every plant in the shop seemed to come alive under your care. Wilted stems recovered. Blooms opened fuller. Sick leaves brightened. Cuttings rooted faster than they should have. She would laugh sometimes and say you must have the gentlest hands she had ever seen.

Little did she know.

You smiled when she said it.

And by now, the smile no longer looked as wild as it once had.

Time with your mother had changed your speech in little ways. So had the florist shop. So had being spoken to gently, day after day, by women who did not demand you make yourself smaller in exchange for kindness. The rough edges were still there—you would always keep some of them—but the language of you had softened. You no longer sounded like every sentence had been hauled up out of an alley with your teeth. You spoke more clearly now. More carefully. You learned the shape of patience. Learned how not to brace before every conversation like it might become a fight.

But at night, alone in your room, the old ache always returned.

There was a drawer in your bedside table.

You kept the photograph there.

You and Sukuna on your wedding day.

Every time you pulled it out, your breath caught in the same place. He stood tall and terrible even dressed for ceremony, the lines of him too severe for softness and yet softened anyway by the way he looked at you. And you—eyes bright, mouth trying and failing not to smile too much, your body turned toward him like every part of you already knew where home had become.

You would stare at the photograph until your vision blurred.

Then the crying came.

Quietly, usually. You had learned how to do that too. How to cry without sound. How to fold your hurt in on itself so it did not disturb the walls. Tears would slip down your face and drip onto the bedding or onto the edge of the photo while outside the little house held steady around your grief.

And every time it happened, the plants wilted.

Not by choice.

Not because you wanted them to suffer for what lived inside you.

But your sorrow moved strangely through your cursed energy, and the life in the house always felt it. Leaves drooped. Petals folded in on themselves. The ivy by the window curled brittle at the edges. Even the herb pots in the kitchen bowed under the weight of what your heart could not hold quietly.

The first few times, it had terrified you.

Now it only made you weep harder.

And in the mornings, you and your mother would go room by room together, touching each plant back to health with soft apologies murmured under your breath.

“I’m sorry,” you’d whisper, fingertips brushing a limp petal.

Your mother, beside you, would revive the fern by the sink and say nothing at all, because some griefs were too old and too fresh to name every day.

You always said sorry to the plants.

Never to yourself.

Sukuna, meanwhile, was coming apart in public.

Everyone saw it.

At first, they only noticed the temper getting worse.

Sukuna had never been easy. Never patient. Never particularly invested in seeming stable when fury suited him better. But after you left, the anger in him changed shape. It stopped being a blade and became a storm. Less precise. More constant. More likely to strike for smaller reasons. The school felt it. The students felt it most of all.

Yaga took him off training them.