I AM VERY SCARED

His voice was warm enough to unsettle the discipline you’d spent years perfecting. It sounded amused, as if teasing a lover or a favorite pet. You lifted your gaze, claiming what little ground a kneeling woman could take.

His thumb drew a small, contemplative circle over your pulse. Ideally, you would have been immune to the sensation. Unfortunately, your body, treacherous thing, had neglected to consult you before responding, and leapt under his touch.

You opened your mouth. “I told you—”

He pressed a fingertip to your lips, stalling the story behind your teeth.

“Come now, my little hishō,” he coaxed, voice dipping perilously close to indulgence. “What did I say about lying?”

Your mission was simple: kill Satoru Gojo.

Revenge rarely came with straightforward instructions, yet yours had.

A clean directive: infiltrate the largest criminal organization in Tokyo, get close enough to its untouchable king, and, at the right moment, put a bullet between his blue eyes.

It was simple in the same way “just swim” was, if someone tossed you into open water with your hands tied and your legs lovingly fastened to an anchor.

“Swim,” Sukuna had said. “Or sink. Either way, don’t float.”

Sukuna had taken you in when you were sixteen, found you barefoot in the ash with dried eyes and smoke-filled lungs.

“Satoru Gojo did this,” Sukuna had told you. “Remember that name.”

And you did.

He gave you a decade to prepare; to shape grief into discipline, and discipline into weapon. Ten years to become the sentence he intended you to deliver.

Which made your circumstances almost comedic, because instead of slinking through alleys with knives strapped to your thighs, you’d spent the last few years filing expense reports and color-coding calendars. Hardly the glamorous, blood-soaked assassin work one would expect of a deadly femme fatale.

But infiltration thrived best in plain sight.

So while other recruits broke bones and bled out on warehouse floors, you embedded yourself in the administrative route, where competence was revered and cleverness went politely unremarked so long as the numbers balanced.

You sorted accounts, memorized which fronts were real and which were hollow, pretty façades. You learned where bribe money came from and where it went. Took careful note of whose name appeared too often, and whose never did.

One such name appeared everywhere, and it belonged to Suguru Geto — chief advisor, architect of order, and Gojo’s shadow in human form.

You spent three years under him, working ostensibly as a junior clerk. You made sure every schedule you touched ran seamlessly, every file was where it needed to be, every problem disappeared before his attention needed to land on it.

Your work was your audition. Suguru never said much, but when an opening finally appeared, he had given a thoughtful hum and offered your name in recommendation.

And that was how you came to be the kumichō hishō : personal secretary to the oyabun himself. A position that required trust, access, and proximity — all things you intended to weaponize.

You met him on a Monday.

“Gojo-kaichō,” you announced yourself, every syllable pristine, bowing at an angle that served as a testament to the formality drilled into every junior member of the House.

He didn’t return the courtesy. He didn’t need to, he’d seen you before — briefly, in passing moments that barely counted as acknowledgment. To him, you’d simply been another administrative disciple; to you, he’d been a ghost with white hair.

Satoru Gojo sat behind a low, elegant desk, scrolling through something on his tablet. He wore no sunglasses indoors — a small, stupid thing to fixate on, but every rumor you’d ever heard had included them. Now you finally got to see his blue eyes.

Eyes your nightmares had worn all your life. Eyes etched into your memory with fire and grief. Eyes belonging to the man who slaughtered your family.

If vengeance had a face, you’d been told it wore his. And your vengeance smiled at you now.

“You’re early,” he said, looking up. “Trying to impress me?”

“I aim to meet expectations,” you replied.

And yes, those expectations included stabbing him someday, but one shouldn’t spoil a perfectly good surprise.

He leaned back in his chair, long legs crossed, fingers steepling as he regarded you. He stared long enough that your spine locked straight on instinct, long enough that you wondered if he could sense the lie coursing through your veins.

“Your file says you worked under Suguru,” he continued. “He speaks highly of you.”

Satoru Gojo only allowed a select few within arm’s reach, and he trusted even fewer. You had known since the beginning that the fastest route into Satoru’s confidence was through the men guarding his throne. Suguru had been the doorway, and you had stepped through without hesitation.

Another polite bow, poised and deadly. “Thank you, kaichō.”

“No—”

He lifted a single finger.

“—drop the title when we’re alone. We don’t need all that boring formality, do we? I’d hate for us to sound like strangers.”

You recalibrated. Quickly. “Understood, Gojo-san.”

That earned you a wince. Wrong answer.

“Doesn’t my own hishō know my name?” he questioned. “Try again.”

Stories had warned of that small change in expression. There were rumors of how a slight downturn of his mouth could send seasoned officers stumbling over apologies. All it took was one look from him to remind you exactly how disposable you were, and whether or not you would see tomorrow.

You had been breathing on borrowed time since the night you lost everything. Since Sukuna found you in the ruins of your childhood home with soot in your hair and your parents’ bodies growing cold beside you and told you their killer’s name.

The man you’d been raised to destroy stood only a few inches out of reach, and if you wanted to get close enough to kill him, you had to get close enough to please him first.

You met his gaze, bright as a blade-silver in sunlight. “If that is your preference… Satoru.”

His smile widened in private satisfaction. It was the kind of smile that made women foolish and men dead. But you didn’t allow yourself to gloat. Not until the knife went in.

“Mm. Much better.”

He looked you over in a way that wasn’t entirely professional. Not lecherous, either. You felt his gaze sweep from your face to the curve of your throat, along the line of your waist, and back up.

Pushing back from the desk, he rose to stand. Up close, he was taller than memory had promised, lean underneath the tailored shirt, sleeves rolled high enough to reveal the beginning of dark ink curling along one forearm.

“As my secretary, I expect you beside me at all times.” He circled around the desk, not offering you a chair. “Suguru tells me you’re the right person for the job. Prove to me you’re more than just a pretty face.”

He gestured toward a stack of files on the side credenza. “These are this week’s problems. You’ll sort, prioritize, and decide what I actually need to care about. If I see something on my desk that shouldn’t be there, you’ll know.”

You moved toward the stack, already calculating. One third legitimate, two thirds rubbish. Some pieces were neither, and those were the truly important ones.

As your fingers touched the top file, his hand came down lightly over yours.

“I don’t believe in second chances,” he said conversationally. “And if you ever decide to betray me…” His thumb pressed down with a force that made your knuckles pale. “… I won’t be kind.”

Your heartbeat was traitorous, but your smile was perfect.

You angled your face toward him, stubborn to the bone. “Don’t worry, I’ll do everything to win your trust.”

“I’m sure you will.” His hand lifted. The contact faded, but the impression of it remained.

You stacked the files into your arms. They were heavier than they looked — as problems often were.

“Conference room in twenty,” he said, already turning back toward his desk. “Your performance there will decide if you stay or get replaced. Good luck.”

“Yes, Satoru.”

You had made it into the lion’s den. Now you just had to survive long enough to kill the king.

By the time the meeting ended, you had a rough working map of the House’s power structure, a mental dossier of names to avoid, and enough amended drafts to build a modest fort.

A sensible woman would have gone straight back to her desk. You were not always sensible.

Not where Satoru Gojo was concerned.

He stayed behind after the others left, perched on the edge of the long table with his jacket discarded and his tie hanging loose in a silk carcass. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, sleeves pushed up, the ink on his forearms more visible now, winding in sharp black lines along tendon and fibers.

You hadn’t planned on seducing him today.

Truly.

You’d intended to wait until you understood the terrain of his office, the weather of his moods, the purpose of his glances.

But after the third time Satoru’s eyes slid over you—with a touchless look that felt like a fingertip trailing the length of your spine—your patience dissolved like cheap sugar.

“I believe this is the part where you leave,” he said, without looking up. “Take this opportunity to go home before I find something else for you to do.”

You should’ve obeyed.

But Sukuna would’ve called that a half-measure. Anything short of the throat was a waste of effort.

Besides, seduction was a language you spoke fluently; a weapon you wielded better than a knife. And if he insisted on looking like that, well… you could hardly be blamed for responding in kind.

You let a single page slip from your stack.

Just one.

A delicate little tragedy that fluttered off the top and land squarely at his feet.

“Oh—sorry,” you said, stepping closer.

You were aware of your blouse, your perfume, the way he watched you like he already knew something was coming.

You knelt.

The table blocked his view from any potential passerby. You leaned forward to reach the document, enough to send the neckline of your blouse dipping into suggestion.

And when you looked up, those blue eyes were already looking down at you. Fucking beautiful, unfortunately. Though, fortunately, it made your job all the more easier.

“Oops,” you said, with a smile that was not sorry at all.

You knew how you looked — knees together, spine straight and back arched. Men were so predictable you sometimes pitied them.

“Long day,” you said. “You must be tired too.”

“Oh?” he questioned, eyes taking a leisurely tour of your body. “Think you can make it better?”

He walked right into your trap. Bless him.

You let out a small laugh and trailed your fingertips up the inside of his calf, eyeing him all the while with the most devastating look in your arsenal.

“If there’s anything you need,” you whispered, “anything at all… you can tell me.”

Satoru’s lashes dropped a shade, mapping you, deciding which part of you he’d like to taste first. A thoughtful drag of his tongue ran along his cheek.

“Is that so?”

You had him. It was disappointingly easy.

He watched you from above, your body half-kneeling before him, lips parted, breath subtly quickened. You’d spent years sharpening seduction into strategy, into blade.

You could see him wanting; you could smell it. Men, no matter how mythologized, were so obedient to hunger.

You nodded, eyes on his. “You only have to say.”

His eyes narrowed in amusement and he curled his finger in a slow beckoning motion.

“C’mere then.”

You rose slowly, smoothing the page between your fingers, letting your hair slide to one side in a practiced cascade while shifting your posture in a way that offered him an undeniably enticing vantage point — the perfect portrait of desire.

He leaned back, bracing his hands on the table behind him. You took up the space between his knees.

Satoru Gojo, for all his reputation, wasn’t immune to gravity.

“You’d do anything, huh?” His voice dipped, dark and teasing.

Your lips curved into a soft, inviting shape. “Anything within reason. And perhaps beyond it, if you’re persuasive.”

You felt the moment crest; the dangerous, dizzying ache of a man about to fall headfirst into your orbit. You felt his desire inches away from being exploited. His heart was being pressed beneath your blade.

“Is this the depth of your ambition?” he asked, lips touching the shell of your ear. “You climb ranks like this? On your knees?”

He tugged the paper out of your fingers and set it aside, then caught your wrist. He guided your hand to rest against his shoulder, then to the back of his neck, as if testing what you would do with the contact. Your fingers flexed before you could stop them.

If his touch had been possessive, it would’ve been easier to hate.

His free hand settled at your waist and pulled you close. It would have taken very little to close the gap between your mouths.

“By the way,” he murmured, eyes skating down, “this blouse isn’t workplace appropriate.”

“Neither are you,” you replied, steady, sweetly venomous.

His laugh was low and sinful. “Care to tell me why you’re doing this, exactly?”

You smiled in return, one you’d practiced time and time again on your past missions.

“I love fucking powerful men.”

Stated plainly.

“You’re good,” he conceded. “If I were a foolish man, I’d be flat on my back already.”

“You’re assuming I’d let you lie down,” you said.

He laughed, delighted, then raked a hand through his hair, humor not quite reaching his eyes anymore.

“Here’s your problem, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You walked in here thinking you could seduce me—”

His hand wandered near your shoulder, fingers brushing your bra strap, slipping under it. He tugged. A soft snap of elastic that claimed you.

“—and I enjoyed it, don’t get me wrong.” His lips brushed the corner of your cheek, a shadow of a kiss. “But I don’t fold that easy.”

You swallowed: a fatal little give-away. He’d heard it.

“If you play with me again,” he said, hooking a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to his, “I won’t stop halfway.”

God, he was insufferable.

“And sweetheart,” he added, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear in a gesture far too gentle for the threat underneath, “the next time I ask you why you’re really here—” his thumb tapped your lower lip, “—I’ll make sure you’re in no position to hold anything back.”

You felt that line in places you pretended not to own.

And just like that, he released your wrists and leaned back, dismissing you with a sharp smile.

“Now, go,” he said, “before you do something else you’ll regret. And try not to dream about me tonight.”

He nodded towards the door, as if that settled things.

You stepped back on shaky legs, cursing the heat crawling under your skin as you left the room. Your heels clicked down the hallway in the kind of grace only born from spite. Inside, you trembled with an emotion you refused to name.

It wasn’t desire. You’d rather die than call it desire.

You had vowed to kill him, yet he made your blood sing. And that was unforgivable.

The prologue of your revenge had always been simple in your mind: enter, get close, strike. But now you understood that to kill him, you’d have to stand far closer than you ever intended.

The House had it’s own choreography, and you learned it quickly.

Your day began at six.

Not six-oh-five. Not six-twenty after lingering in a hot shower fantasizing about slitting Satoru’s throat.

Six.

You arrived every morning before sunrise. No one never told you when to be there; he simply expected you to know.

By the time most staff staggered in with their coffees and their dread, you’d already skimmed the night’s reports—shipments, debt with numbers so creative they deserved rewards, bribes disguised as philanthropy—and marked the three items you knew Satoru would point at first before placing those on the top of the stack.

The first time you did it, he flicked through the pile and said nothing. The third time, he didn’t even look down before asking you, “What do I need to know?”

The first emergency landed on your desk precisely on the hour each day. Crises that were dispassionately thrown on your in-tray. Your hell now resembled an inbox full of unread emails and misfiled invoices.

One morning, it’d be the death of a debtor who owed a grand amount. The next, it’d be dockyard disputes. Either they were late, lying, or terminally stupid.

It fell to you to determine which, and to solve it.

Today’s agenda covered routes, port inspections, business owners with sudden moral objections, and a shipment that had “gone missing” in a way that suggested it had acquired new, unofficial owners.

When a mid-level captain proposed handing a district over to an outside crew in exchange for a cut, you advised mildly, “It would seem unwise to trust a man with forty million in debt to handle even more money.”

“And you know this how?” The caption retorted.

You slid a copy of the ledger to him. “You authorized their last restructuring. But you forgot to hide it.”

Satoru tapped his fingers on the table once, pleased. “Listen to my secretary. She knows where we keep the bodies.”

By dinner, you had filtered his messages, deleted thinly veiled bribes, flagged three assassination warnings, and answered enough correspondence to keep five lesser executives busy for the week.

At supper, you had escorted a “visitor” into the private parlour. A model with legs up to her ears and the young ambition in her eyes. She was a gift from a Kabukichō club owner as a gesture of good will in exchange for the clan’s protection.

“When is Gojo-kaichō arriving?” she asked, hopeful.

“He’s not coming,” you replied curtly.

She blinked. “But I was told—”

“I’m sorry.”

You gave her a polite smile and reminded her to maintain decorum before exiting the room.

You’d almost laughed; poor girl thought she was here for the big fish, when in reality, she was just a treat fed to the oyabun’s many lap dogs.

An occupational hazard of selling one’s body to realize a dream is that everyone else had the same idea.

Including you, for that matter.

And by nightfall, you were bone-tired, hair escaped from its pins and blouse rumpled from twelve hours of grueling work. Your mind began drafting a resignation letter.

Your day didn’t end here though, for being Satoru Gojo’s hishō meant your days belonged to him. Your mornings, your afternoons, your whole being. And tonight was no different.

You were now responsible for running the beating heart of the clan, and your desk was the axis upon which the empire spun.

And when the monsters of the underworld finally slept, you returned to his office. Past the shoji screens that hid dark secrets, past the pillars that raised Tokyo’s crime rate — you found the devil by the low table.

There he lounged, the unchained beast of Tokyo’s veins, sleeves undone, hair falling loose around his face, tie lay discarded, a silk carcass. A bottle of expensive sake sat uncorked beside him.

He looked up, a decadent smile stitched on his lips. It was indecent, the sight of him.

“Busy day?” he asked, knowing full well he’d engineered all your inconveniences and even made some profit off of it.

“You certainly give your subordinates plenty to do,” you replied, setting the last reports of the day down.

“Poor thing.” He reached out tenderly, lifting a lock of your hair and curling it around his finger. “Want me to put you to bed?” he asked, as if offering you a noose.

It was remarkable how swiftly one could fantasize about snapping a man’s finger clean at the joint. But patience had preserved your life this long.

“I’d like to go over the finances.”

“Later.” A single command, a stone wall. He patted the cushion beside him — a directive disguised as hospitality. “Sit.”

Obedience was the quickest way to reach the throat, so you slid in beside him and sank into the seat.

He poured a second cup and tipped it your way. “Drink.”

If he beckoned, you’d obey. “As you wish.”

Satoru toyed with the lip of his glass while he watched the movement of your throat. He shifted, propping himself on one arm, the motion rippling muscles beneath an anthology of tattoos.

You had intended to behave tonight, but exhaustion and the warmth from the alcohol loosened your restraint, and he was looking at you with the same indulgent interest again.

His intrigue was a crosshair, and you didn’t mind getting caught in the fire. So you inched closer, letting your shoulder kiss his arm.

It was a small thing. A spark tossed into a waiting tinderbox.

His eyes narrowed at the gesture. “Hm,” he said, “is this your second attempt?”

“… attempt?”

“To fuck me.” His grin widened, wicked and pleased. “Or to kill me.”

Your nearly choked on the liquor, the burn lodged in your throat. Knowing the sick bastard, he’d say just about anything to see how you’d wilt. And if he wanted to be bold, you’d match him measure for measure.

“Such narrow options,” you said sweetly. “Why not both?”

His hand slid to your jaw, a touch both intimate and deadly. For a split second, you felt the ghost of a possible death.

“Satoru—”

He shushed you, thumb brushing your lower lip, commanding silence.

“What do you want from me tonight?”

“I’m here to deliver your reports.”

“No,” he said, gliding over the corner of your mouth. “That’s your excuse, not your reason.”

You held very, very still.

“What is it? Position? Protection? Pleasure?” He studied your face, searching deeper. “Or is it something else?”

He waited; for the truth, or for the lie, but you didn’t give in. You were trained to be made of silence. You couldn’t reveal yourself yet.

“Interesting,” he sighed.

And on cue, he reached into his back pocket and withdrew a revolver. A sleek black thing, polished and heavy.

Your blood iced. You knew enough of guns to recognize the weight of consequence.

He cracked open the chamber, and inside, one bullet glinted. He spun it, and with a metallic whirr, clicked the cylinder back into place.

“Well,” he said softly, “if what you want is to kill me, now’s your chance.”

Satoru took your hand and wrapped it around the weapon. Your fingers curled around it without conscious thought, an extension of your will.

Russian roulette — a one-in-six chance, a one-in-six promise. Either you’d succeed, or you’d die trying.

“Are we playing?” you asked, savoring the electric thrill that danced under your skin.

Satoru’s smiled tilted, sinful and bright. “Only if you’re up for it, darling.”

You lifted the revolver and pressed the barrel to his temple — a lover’s kiss in steel. As expected, he didn’t flinch. Neither blinked nor breathed.

“You remember what I said?” he murmured. “That if you tried to seduce me again, I’d make you finish what you started?”

His hand slid to your waist, then lower, then back up to the nape of your neck. From there, he guided you onto his lap—slowly, insistently—until your knees straddled his thighs, skirt riding up, breath colliding with his.

“I’m holding you to it,” he whispered against your lips, hand gliding up to curl into your hair. “So go on. Kill me, if you can.”

Your thighs clenched involuntarily around him. You felt your pride shrivel, but your hunger grow. How humiliating.

“What exactly do you stand to gain from this?” you questioned. “If I win, the throne falls; but if you win, all you have to do is replace me.”

“I get excited when a beautiful woman puts my life between her pretty fingers.”

His other hand slid between your thighs. His thumb pressed slow, sinful circles over your underwear, heat radiating under his touch.

You cocked the hammer with your thumb — a sound crisp enough to carve the room in half.

He let out a sound nearer to a moan than anything else. His fingers pressed harder between your legs, stroking you with maddening precision.

“Pull it,” he whispered, grinding you down onto his hard length. “C’mon, sweetheart. Give me your best shot.”

The first command of his you wanted to obey.

Your blood ignited and you leaned in close. You didn’t want to miss the sound of his skull breaking open. The crack, the shatter.

“As you wish.”

And you pulled the trigger.

Click.

Empty.

His breath broke, melting instantly into a strangled, ragged sound you’d never heard from him before, then he crushed his mouth to yours.

The kiss was hungry, beautiful — his tongue slid against yours, claiming, taking. His hands gripped your thighs as he rutted up into you through your clothes. You gasped into his mouth as his thumb slid beneath your underwear, stroking your clit with ruthless intent.

“Fuck—again—“ he exhaled, hands sliding beneath your blouse, palms rough, fingers greedy.

“Satoru—” you breathed, dizzy with pleasure.

He dragged his lips down your throat, sucking hard enough to bruise. “Do it again,” he growled. “Pull the fucking trigger—now.”

“But that’s not how the game works—”

“—I don’t care, just do it again.”

The desperation in his voice was obscene, the sound of a man who’d finally found something worth worshiping or destroying. You pressed the barrel under his jaw this time, angling it upward. He groaned, hips bucking.

“You’re making this too easy,” you said, rolling your hips down on him.

He laughed, breathless. “Oh, sweetheart… don’t make me beg.”

His hands slid higher, knuckles grazing the edge of your bra and fingers brushing bare skin, dragging soft sounds from your lips you hadn’t planned to give him. The undercover veil you were hiding behind began to thin as desire clawed its way free, and you had to contain it.

You pressed the gun harder into his jawline, down the column of his throat. His head tipped back for you, exposing himself in the most sinful offering — inviting death itself.

His body under yours was solid heat, his blatant lust was a warning you welcomed. And for a traitorous moment, you wished the bullet wouldn’t bite just yet. His fingers slid deeper inside you, and you instinctively cocked the weapon once more, choking on a moan.

“God, you’re tight, fuck—” he hissed.

His voice was a wrecked, ruined mess. It made your entire body tremble, not with fear but with the intoxicating thrill of being the only person in the world who could tip him over the edge now. His eyes fluttered shut, mouth parting in anticipation.

“C’mon baby,” he whispered, barely audible. “Make me feel it.”

You pulled the trigger.

Click.

Empty, again.

And Satoru Gojo—oyabun, kingpin, untouchable monarch of Tokyo’s underworld—made a noise so filthy, so shattered, it rewired your entire understanding of power. His fingers thrust into you even harder, so fast and relentless it made you break open.

“Again,” he begged. “Again—pull—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”

You smiled against his mouth, mumbling, “Aah—you must really want to die for me.”

“And you must really want me,” he murmured, stroking tender circles inside you, rendering you a sloppy, shuddering mess. “Still wanna play, darling?”

His fingers stroked deep enough to rob you of coherent thought. The next word left your mouth as a broken sigh, more confession than answer: “Yes.”

In an instant, fabric began to tear away in frantic shreds and your blouse, the same one he reprimanded you for, ripped open to bare breasts heaving with labored breaths.

Satoru’s hands slid up your hips, firm and commanding, shoving his trousers down to free the thick, flushed length of his cock, already rigid and leaking pre-cum like venom from a fang. He pressed himself against the wet mess between your thighs, heavy and twitching with impatience.

He guided you down onto him with a single brutal thrust, sending your vision white and blurry. Your pussy clenched around the brutal invasion, walls stretching to accommodate his girth.

“Satoru—” it spilled from you, uncontrollable and pathetic.

“Fuck, you’re a vise—” he grunted through gritted teeth, head tipping back as he bottomed out inside you, hips grinding up and punishing you with every inch of him. “Tight little thing, aren’t you? Who knew my hishō could take my cock so well.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your hips jerked. He set a savage rhythm, hard, deep and wholly unrelenting. Each thrust was a violent kiss against your insides. Your breath dissolved into a fractured sound, landing between a moan and a plea.

“Didn’t you want to kill me, sweetheart?” he taunted, breath hot against your jaw. He snapped his hips again, stuffing your pussy with his thickness. “Or did you change your mind after riding me?”

You could barely inhale, let alone answer. His hands dragged up your back and gripped your hair, guiding your mouth to his. You shook your head, denial on your tongue that you couldn’t arrange into words.

He thrust up harder. “Can’t speak all of a sudden?”

You whined — a tiny, belittling sound.

“That’s it,” he whispered, fucking you devastatingly slow, wanting to savor each ruined breath you took. “Let me hear how weak I make you feel.”

He reached for your hand, the one still clutching the revolver, and guided it back to his temple. “Pull the trigger,” he urged, ramming into you with delicious force. “Pull it while you’re squeezing me like that.”

The gun’s metal glinted mockingly, a cold kiss to his skull while his hips slapped against you. Your entire body seized as he fucked harder, his free hand gripping your ass to hold you steady as he claimed every inch of you.

“God, you’re perfect,” he groaned, sweat beading on his brow, the chamber’s uncertainty fuelling his frenzy. “So tight—if I die like this—fuck—”

His words were drowned out by the sound of your moans. Your walls fluttered around him, desperate for release. You arched up, nails raking down his back as his cock throbbed inside you, swelling with each reckless plunge.

“Do it,” he rasped, burying his head into your shoulder. “I wanna feel it—while I’m inside you.”

You cocked the hammer.

“Ready?” you whispered into his ear.

His hips jerked violently at your voice, cock throbbing inside you, thick and merciless. The risk twisted pleasure into something psychotic, a symphony of gasps and grunts echoing off the walls.

“Baby—” he grunted. “Shoot. Now.”

You leaned back, eyes locked on his, all blue, blown and wild. The trigger hovered under your finger now, his trust a deranged offering, and with one brutal thrust, he slammed into you —

BANG.

You had a clean aim. You had a clear shot. But you… missed.

The bullet grazed his shoulder.

“FUCK—”

He cried out; sharp, guttural, erotic. His hands clamped down on your hips as his entire body arched into you, shattering into a raw moan — a king’s unraveling as he spilled deep into your depths, ropes of seed flooding you while his body convulsed in ecstatic defeat.

Hot spurts filled you in waves, each one forcing your own release to crest and crash down your spine. Your cunt spasmed around his sex, milking every last tremor from it.

Power inverted in that moment — the feared oyabun reduced to a quivering wreck under you, the gun’s empty laugh sealing your dominion in the underbelly’s fevered night.

The smoke from the spent cartridge curled upward in a thin ribbon, drifting between your faces like a spectator that couldn’t decide where to look first: the blood sliding down Satoru’s arm… or the way you were still seated on his cock.

His shoulder bled in a neat, warm streaks, marking the path of the bullet you’d meant—and failed—to bury in his skull.

He looked beautiful all bloodied. Serene, even. Didn’t even seem to feel the pain; or perhaps he felt nothing but the pain and reveled it like some kind of masochist kink.

You had nearly killed him, and he came apart beneath you for it. How grotesque. A terrifying, magnificent man to destroy.

He held you there, impaled on him, unwilling to withdraw, keeping you exactly where you’d been at the moment of impact.

“Now tell me, my dear hishō, who taught you to shoot?”

His tone was gentler than the question deserved. Your fingers flexed around the revolver still in your hand, barrel still warm from the shot.

Your parents would’ve hated who you’d become.

They had clawed their way out of the underworld before you were born, trading blood for anonymity, carving a quiet life under names that weren’t their own — a fragile refuge meant to keep you hidden from exactly this kind of world. You were never supposed to learn of their past, but secrets have a way of surviving fire.

Kohaku and Shiranui.

Aliases you had uncovered by accident only after their deaths — a scrap of a document left behind in a lock box, written in the thin handwriting of people who had worn names never meant to last. They believed secrecy would save you, but the same world they ran away from found you anyway.

“I asked you a question, sweetheart.” His blue eyes sharpened, luminous and cutting. “Who else has placed a gun in your pretty little palm?”

“Does it matter? If I wanted you dead, I would’ve aimed better.”

“Then why do I have a sneaking suspicion you missed on purpose?”

His thumb brushed the underside of your thigh, a lazy stroke that made your abdomen tighten in spite of your better judgment. Your hips shifted fractionally, and his release began seeping lower with every movement.

Shameful.

“Are you mad I hit you?”

He chuckled. “Barely.”

“Still closer than anyone else had got.”

“Mmm,” he mused, fingers gliding up your ribs to brush the torn edges of your blouse. “Did hurting me feel good?”

You felt his cock swell inside you once more. He was truly sick — but if this is what got him going, you’d run along with it to the very end.

You wanted to break his jaw. You wanted him to touch you again.

“Killing you would’ve made me feel better,” you murmured.

He grinned like you’d just confessed your love. His hands slipped into your hair again, cupping the back of your skull.

“Want a rematch?” He asked.

“Rather confident for a man currently bleeding out.”

“It’s just a scratch, darling.” He rolled his shoulder, winced, then smiled wider. “Besides, I’ve had worse. Women try to kill me all the time.”

“Do you bury your dick in all your assailants?”

He barked out a laugh, bright and delighted, then dipped his head to your neck and placed a light kiss against your pulse point. “Jealous already?”

You were already imagining several forms of torture to use against him, each one more inventive than the last.

“Satoru,” you began, but he cut you off with a soft bite at your throat.

“I still want my answer.” His hand slid down to your lower back, holding you flush against him, his cock a warm, throbbing weight inside you. “I’d love to thank whoever it is for sending you my way.”

The image of his pupils dilating, full of deranged desire — it was enough to make you wet all over again.

You had to force yourself off before you lost even more your dignity. His cock slid out of you with a slick, humiliating sound that pulled a broken breath from his mouth.

You already crumbled once tonight, you weren’t going to allow him a second win. So you stood, straightened your ruined blouse, buttoned what fabric remained and wiped his cum from your inner thigh with the back of your hand, unbothered and elegant in your desecration.

And when you turned to leave, he called out softly:

“You know I’ll find out.”

You paused at the doorway, not bothering to look back.

“You can try.”

And then, with the revolver tucked into your waistband and your thighs still trembling from the taste of him, you slipped into the hallway.

Behind you, Satoru Gojo laughed, ruined and thrilled. “God,” he whispered to himself, wincing as he clutched his bleeding shoulder. “She’ll be the death of me.”

The polished marble under your heels was far too honest.

It reflected everything you didn’t want to acknowledge: the missing button on your blouse, the shaky set of your knees, the unmistakable white mark down the inside of your thigh — traces that belonged to a man who should’ve been dead by now, the man whose cock had just split you open.

You pressed the revolver against your sternum. The metal had cooled by now, but your pulse hadn’t quite caught up.

You gathered your pride with both hands—a fragile thing tonight—and managed all of ten steps before your phone buzzed. The vibration sliced through you more effectively than any bullet ever could.

You didn’t need to check the caller ID. Sukuna always had impeccable timing.

You ducked into a shadowed alcove, the kind used by junior officers to hide their fear and by senior ones to hide their affairs. It was silent save for the murmur of distant guards and the reverberation of Satoru’s ragged moans that still clung to your ears, sticky as sap. You swallowed it down before sliding your thumb across the screen.

“Tell me you made progress.”

No greeting. No patience.

“I’m working on it.”

You’ve came to known that the silence that followed meant he was displeased.

“Working on it,” Sukuna repeated flatly, as if tasting the words and finding them offensively bland.

Your grip on the phone tightened until your knuckles paled. A bead of sweat slid down your spine. You hated that your body still responded to him like this, like a loyal dog trembling under its master’s wrath.

Old instincts crawled out of hiding: shoulders tightened, breath caged in your throat, body poised for punishment that would never come from a phone line but felt imminent all the same.

He took you under your wing after you were left alone in ruins. He gave you a new family, a new home, but you weren’t so foolish to consider it love. No — he did it for a reason, as he did everything else. You shared a common goal, and he used it as leverage.

He couldn’t smell the sex on you, nor the gunpowder. He couldn’t possibly know you had failed, but Sukuna had a sixth sense for hesitation; and your hesitation was still wet between your thighs.

“His guard is high,” you said, forcing steel into your tone. “I need more time.”

Another pause.

“Funny,” Sukuna finally murmured. “One of my crows told me that Gojo dismissed some whores earlier.” A rustle of fabric, the creak of a leather chair. “But that he was… occupied with another plaything.”

Your heart stopped.

No.

His spies couldn’t have known that quickly, could they? It was too fast. Too soon —

“My little blade wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” His tone smoothed into conversational, as intimate as it was cruel.

The cold wall at your back gave you something to lean on, but it didn’t stop the memory from rising. Your skin ached where Satoru’s hand had bruised them.

Shame should’ve been beneath you. It belonged to weaker creatures. Yet you felt so small.

“If I act too recklessly, I lose everything,” you said, lifting your chin.

“And if you act too slowly, you’ll be the one on the chopping block,” he countered.

Your mouth went dry.

Sukuna rarely stated threats outright; he preferred to let the meaning go unspoken. This time, something in his tone suggested he was growing tired of your pace, tired of waiting.

Your teeth clicked together. You refused to let him gain the upper hand on you, even across distance. “He made the first move,” you said. “I followed along to keep suspicion low.”

Sukuna exhaled, a sound like a blade leaving its sheath. “When I send a woman to kill a man, I expect her legs to open only if his throat does.”

“My purpose is intact —”

“Did you enjoy it?”

Your glare at the wall could’ve cracked stone. Satoru’s fingers had been inside you only ten minutes ago, but Sukuna’s words now curled around the same places they’d been.

“That isn’t relevant.”

Silence stretched.

“He’s only toying with you, my blade. He wants you pliant and eager, wants you grovelling at his feet, begging for an inch,” Sukuna said. “He’s only survived this long because that’s how he controls everyone.”

Images you didn’t consent to flooded your mind uninvited — Satoru’s fingers digging into your hips, the way he’d groaned when the bullet kissed him, the absolute sight on his face as he spilled inside you, aching for more.

“I am no one’s puppet,” you reminded him, reminded yourself.

Sukuna laughed. A slow, indulgent slice of sound. “Everyone kneels for someone. Even you.”

“I’ll get the job done.”

“Good. Finish it.” A breath. “Or you’re of no use to me.”

The line went dead.

Two monsters lived in your veins. Two shadows stalked your steps. Both would kill you without a second thought if you misstepped.

You vowed to survive them both.

“You’ll be accompanying me to the diplomatic conference in Aoyama.”

His announcement carried customary discipline, but the way he passed the day’s itinerary to you, imperceptibly calm, told you that you were being maneuvered into a new position on the board.

The summit in Aoyama was the single, most important meeting that occurred mid-winter every year, where negotiations were held between the yakuza and the official hands that controlled Japan.

To accompany him was a privilege reserved for the men who carried Satoru’s empire on their spines, not the woman who took his calls and reorganized his life into neat little folders.

Suguru paused mid-stride when he heard it. He didn’t comment but the crease between his brows tightened by a hair’s breadth — a subtle response, but in a house that lived and died by subtext, it felt like a warning.

Only Satoru Gojo could dictate the state of gravity, and today, he’d shifted its pull.

The drive to Aoyama passed in a cultivated quiet. Satoru lounged beside you, one hand draped over the seat-back, indifferent and sprawling.

Weeks had passed since the night you’d straddled him with a gun at his temple—weeks since he’d bled under you and still pulled pleasure out of your name—yet he made no mention of it.

No wry comments, no smug smile, not even the satisfaction of a shared secret. The memory lived richly in your body, unwanted and stubborn, yet he gave it no air.

He behaved as though it had been a minor indulgence, as if he’d never touched you at all. That restraint lodged under your skin more effectively than any taunt.

The car rolled through the old district, past stone torii gates and pines. The compound awaited behind wooden doors marked with diplomatic crests older than most bloodlines in the city.

A man in formal robes bowed at the gate. “Gojo-kaichō. We’re honoured.”

His reverence evaporated, souring at the sight of you stepping out: a woman in a position reserved for power-brokers. And not three paces behind him, but beside.

It was a disruption so brazen it might as well have been an open-handed slap across the old guard’s sensibilities. His face rearranged itself into polite confusion, then morphed into a strained smile.

Excellent. You did enjoy a good societal inconvenience.

Inside the meeting chamber, cushions arranged by rank circled a low table. Suguru’s seat—traditionally to Gojo’s immediate right—remained conspicuously empty, until Satoru gestured you toward it with a slight incline of his head.

It dropped political grenades in the center of the room.

There was no mistaking the action. No plausible alternative explanation. He wanted every man in that room to feel the shift. He was making a point, and you were the punctuation.

A few of politicians darted glances at one another, all equally unwilling to voice the insult. If they were scandalized, they hid it poorly.

Satoru, perfectly at ease, settled at the head of the table — a reigning deity on his altar.

“Shall we begin?”

The meeting progressed in a delicate dance of polite euphemisms and hidden meanings: officials offering gifts disguised as requests, Satoru offering requests disguised as threats.

You listened to every word with the attentiveness of someone born into duplicity. You translated half-truths, tracked who avoided which topics, caught every subtext, every sidelong glance.

If you had been anyone else, you might have enjoyed the theater. But Satoru’s presence at your side unsettled the performance.

He did not behave as he usually did with subordinates. His attention drifted toward you at intervals you couldn’t predict — in small ways at first, then gradually bolder, as though he wanted to catch your reactions mid-thought.

When one official presented a district proposal, he brushed the small of your back as he reached for the territorial map. It was brief, barely the impression of warmth through the silk of your blouse, yet it made you feel treacherous things.

Then came the second transgression, the one that truly fractured the room’s composure. A sever arrived to pour tea. He bowed low, reached for the pot, then froze mid-air when Satoru lifted a hand to stop him.

“No,” Satoru said. “I’ll do it.”

Chaos did not always announce itself loudly. This time it arrived in a small gesture.

He reached for the pot, and without any trace of ceremony, poured your cup first.

It rearranged the hierarchy so violently you could physically feel the reorganization of power.

The officials sat in perfect silence, their eyes flickering between the two of you, witnessing the crime of customs being broken.

“See if it suits you.”

You lifted the cup with a serene nod. “Yes, Satoru.”

The single use of his name made him pleased. Only after that did he allow the server to proceed with the remaining guests.

Not one man dared object.

Throughout the negotiation, Satoru invited your opinion. When he disagreed with someone, he’d glanced at you first — your reaction would decide how sharp his blade should be. When a politician attempted to manipulate the conversation, his attention turned to you, a silent question:

Did you see that too?

And when the meeting concluded, the officials bowed deeply once more, though several avoided your eyes entirely.

Cowards? Perhaps. But in this world, they lived longer than the brave.

Night deepened around the House by the time you returned to your desk. Most of the staff had already retired; only the tall and solemn shadows the lamps cast remained.

Which was why the envelope startled you.

Brown manila, waiting dead center on your desk — unsealed, unmarked. As someone accustomed to poison in many forms, its contents paralyzed you in ways no chemical could.

Inside lay a black and white photograph, weathered at the corners, drawn from a life you no longer spoke of. You had received a thousand threats, a hundred bribes, half a dozen coded warnings in your life — none made your hands feel quite like this.

A girl stared back at you — younger than innocence, older than safety. Her hair was tied loosely in clumsy ribbons, eyes already learning the language of loss. You remembered the day it was taken. You remembered who took the photo. You remembered you took everything afterward.

Footsteps.

“Still working?”

You turned too quickly.

Satoru stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his forearms, face softened by the late hour. The ruthless oyabun looked almost harmless like this, but the photograph served as a reminder that you knew better.

“No plans for the holiday?” he asked lightly. “Most people visit family around Christmas.”

Family was an interesting choice of word. Your fingers slid the photo back into the envelope with the smallest movement possible, controlled down to your cuticles.

“Work doesn’t pause for the calendar.”

“I suppose not.” He said, hands in his pockets, gaze sweeping lazily across your desk. “Even so,” he continued, “it’s hard missing home.”

Your lungs tightened. “Some get by without one.”

A humorless smile touched his mouth. His eyes flicked to the envelope — not accusatory, not even curious.

“Not a fan of this season?”

“Winter’s never been kind to me,” you said.

“Yeah, I know the feeling.”

His expression wavered. A shadow of guilt, quickly hidden. You almost thought you’d imagined it.

“Well,” he said, turning back on his heel toward the door, “don’t stay up too late. Fatigue makes people careless. And around here…” his gaze held yours, “… mistakes could be fatal.”

He slid the shoji door open.

“Good night.”

When the last of his presence dissolved down the hall, you slipped into the storage room and closed the door with the sort of care employed for sealing a crypt.

The light sputtered once, as if offended by your intrusion, then flooded the cramped space in a weary glow. Dusty binders leaned drunkenly against rusted filing cabinets. Forgotten crates sat lodged in corners. And you—all sweat and panic—stood in the center awaiting judgment.

You opened the envelope again.

The photograph was still there. It hadn’t fled like you hoped. It had no right to exist, and even less right to find you in the House.

No one should have had access to that image. No one except the dead.

But there was only one man who could explain how. He answered on the first ring. This alone felt like an omen.

“What did you do this time?” Sukuna asked. The absence of mockery in his tone was more jarring than any threat he’d ever made.

“I received something,” you said. You hated the thinness of your voice, so you cleared it and tried again “A old photograph. Of me.”

His exhale was nearly soundless, but you felt it. “How young?”

The photograph lay open in your palm. The girl you used to be, once upon a time — if one could call traumatic childhood arson “once upon a time.” She was as much as a ghost as your family was.

“Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Thereabouts.”

The quiet that followed unraveled slowly. The man had the emotional landscape of a whetstone, yet you heard his breath catch. The last time he’d made that sound was the night he found you standing barefoot in the ruins of your home, staring at the embers as if they might give you answers.

“That picture doesn’t exist,” he said carefully. “I burned the negatives. I burned everything.”

“Well,” you replied, irritation coiling sharply in your chest, “it seems fire wasn’t thorough enough.”

“I silenced everyone,” he insisted. “Every neighbour, informant, and rat from that district.”

“And yet,” you said, holding the picture between two fingers like a venomous insect, “here we are.”

“Where did you find it?”

“On my desk.”

“You mean it was inside the House?”

“Yes.”

A raw, unfilled, “Fuck,” tore out of him.

Sukuna prided himself on being unshakable. People told bedtime stories about his self-control, most ending with someone losing a finger. It might have been flattering to hear him rattled on your behalf, if the circumstances weren’t catastrophic.

“Does he know?” Sukuna asked.

You didn’t answer fast enough. Hesitated for the tiniest, incriminating second.

“And don’t lie to me,” He pressed.

“He came in a minute later,” you said. “Asked about holidays. Family. That sort of sentimental stuff.”

“Fuck.” The second curse of the night — that can’t be good. “He was baiting you.”

You bristled. “Don’t you have any faith in the girl you raised?”

“Oh, I have plenty of faith,” he said dryly. “Just not in your ability to resist getting down on your knees when you were supposed to incapacitate him.”

“I told you, that’s—”

“Listen to me, and listen well,” Sukuna interrupted, “if he started looking into you, you’re already in danger.”

“He suspects everyone, it’s in his nature,” you answered, though you didn’t even believe your own words as you spoke them.

“No,” Sukuna said sharply. “You’re not as sharp as when you first went in. You’ve been playing secretary for too long, and time is running out.”

The insult landed because it was annoyingly accurate.

“I’m handling it,” you assured. “I just need an opening.”

“Get it together,” he snapped. “You’ve wasted enough opportunities. Do it. If not today, then tomorrow.”

Your throat tightened. “It—it’s not that simple, I—”

He cut you off. “It is that simple. Grow a spine and finish what you were sent you to do.”

You stared at the storage room wall, its peeling paint suddenly fascinating.

Satoru Gojo and Ryomen Sukuna had been carving pieces off each other since long before you could remember. You grew up with those tales — ugly, private history buried beneath years of casualties and grudges.

Satoru had the bloodline, the wealth, the pedigree. The Gojo family ruled the old world with its stiff rituals and polished traditions, passed it down through immaculate lines of succession. They were the face of order in a city built on corruption. To cross them was to disappear without a word.

Sukuna came from the other side of the city; from scrap metal and slums, from roofs with holes and children who learned to steal before they learned to speak. He had built his reputation from blood and defiance, piercing together an empire of outcasts.

Their feud predated your existence, their hatred shaped the underworld. And you, inconveniently, were a piece carved by one man to destroy the other.

“Kill Satoru Gojo before he finds out. And if you fail me, I’ll make sure there’ll be nothing left of you to bury.” The line went dead.

The war between them had built you. Now it threatened to destroy you.

Someone had gone digging. Excavated the grave of your past and resurrected bones that should’ve been dust.

One of Gojo’s men? Satoru himself?

You didn’t know yet.

But you knew this: The truth was tightening around you like a noose. Your mask was slipping. And the next act would be bloody.

You were going to kill Satoru Gojo today.

You told yourself this while fastening your blouse, while pining your hair. It made you feel competent, which was generous considering your recent track record. You tucked your conscience somewhere inconvenient to take back out.

Motivation looked flattering on you. Determination even more so.

But your newfound conviction had the lifespan of a soap bubble, because the moment you stepped into the main hall, Satoru was there — leaning against the banister, making you feel oh-so-guilty of wanting to rid the world of one of its natural wonders.

“Morning,” he said. “We’re heading out.”

You scanned the hall for traces of another body.

“Just us?” you asked.

Not because you hadn’t heard him, but because the universe rarely offered you anything this easily without charging a painful fee afterward.

“Yes, you and I,” he said, throwing a coat over his shoulder. “Do try to contain your excitement.”

“Where are we going?”

“A shrine outside the city.” He started walking. “Come on.”

There was no command in his voice, just expectation.

You hated how naturally your feet followed, and instead started compiling a shortlist of creative ways to stab a man in a moving vehicle while simultaneously berating yourself for noticing, yet again, how indecently good his shoulders looked from this angle.

There you go again.

The drive carved through the mountains, winding along hairpin curves and cliffs where trees stood tall enough to blot out the sky.

Satoru looked unbothered by the terrain; he lounged with one arm thrown over the seat, tapping a syncopated rhythm on the leather of the steering wheel with one finger.

Meanwhile, your lungs were shrinking.

He might as well have been ferrying you through memory itself. Each curve in the asphalt made a different scar burn.

You knew this route.

You had traveled it once, as a child, when your world was busy falling apart. It didn’t matter how many years passed; certain roads remembered what they had witnessed.

This one remembered your parents’ deaths all too well.

You stared dead ahead, no interest in revisiting the version of yourself who had memorized it, but questions gnawed at the back of your mind:

Was Satoru truly responsible for the photograph? And if he had… Was he bringing you here out of cruelty? Mocking you with this little field trip?

Now, as the car turned its final bend, the shrine came in to view. It perched at the crest of a hill, framed by old stone steps and cedar woods. Shrine bells tinkled from the eaves. The illusion was peaceful — insulting so.

Your parents’ ashes were interred not far from here. You remembered staring at the freshly turned soil all those years ago, overwhelmed by a grief that felt too large and too shapeless to fit inside your tiny body.

A priest approached quickly, robes swishing over the ground as he bowed the moment Satoru stepped out of the car — a gesture normally reserved for either divine beings or corrupt men with deep pockets. In Satoru’s case, both were applicable.

“Gojo-kaichō,” the priest greeted warmly.

Satoru returned a smirk. “Good to see you, old man.”

“It has been some time. You’ve grown taller.”

“And your hair’s gotten grayer,” Satoru replied, patting his shoulder. “Now rise, unless you want your spine to stay that way.”

The priest chuckled, shaking his head before looking over to you with courteous uncertainty.

“And who might you be, my dear?”

“She’s with me,” Satoru said easily, naming you like something that belonged to him.

You had to pretend not to be affected by the ownership in the pronoun.

The priest bowed kindly. “A pleasure. Please — walk with us.”

You followed from a distance, watching the unlikely pair walk alongside each other in strange harmony. The cedars forming a natural cathedral overhead through the narrow stone path behind the shrine.

“You haven’t visited in awhile. What brings you here today?”

“I’ve been busy,” Satoru said. “And it’s that time of the year again.”

“I see, so it is,” the priest said, turning away with a somber knowingness. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Your steps faltered long before you allowed them to. A single look at the small cemetery behind the shrine was all it took for the old and dormant feeling to come alive again. Rows of weathered stone markers rose from moss. Incense sticks soldered in a nearby urn, scattering prayers in smoke.

They stopped at three gravestones, set slightly apart from the others.

“You’re here for them, aren’t you?” the priest asked, turning to him with a somber knowingness. “Their deaths were senseless. They deserved more years than the gods allotted.”

Satoru didn’t answer with words. Instead, he approached the stones in an uncharacteristically careful gait.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” the priest said before wandering off to tend incense.

Satoru barely registered his sudden absence, simply knelt before the graves, brushing fallen needles away with a care that broke you open in slow, terrible increments. An unexpected act of solemnity you didn’t expect from the man whose name you had been rehearsing like a death sentence for a decade.

One gravestone stood unmarked, the other two bore inscriptions with names eroded by years of rain and winter, illegible to anyone without the misfortune of having memorized them.

Kohaku and Shiranui

Aliases. The identities you’d buried along with their bodies. Your parents.

The oyabun fell away, peeled back to a man kneeling in the dirt before the ghosts he couldn’t outrun.

“I was too young then. Too stupid, too brash.” Satoru exhaled, the sentence punched through him. “I couldn’t save them,” he confessed.

Save them. Save them?

The ground shifted, then shifted again, refusing to settle.

“They paid the price for my inexperience,” he continued. “And I’ll carry that guilt with me for the rest of my life. Every winter, I come back here and ask how to make it right.” His throat tightened. “They never answer, but I’ll keep asking.”

The coat over your skin was suddenly too thin for the cold. Too flimsy against the weight of your unraveling. The truth did not arrive gently.

Sukuna had found you broken. He had given you a name, a new purpose. Weaponized your grief for his own war.

Your gospel had been wrong.

Your throat constricted painfully, and you turned your face away in fear he’d see your eyes water; it’d give away too much. You couldn’t afford even a hairline crack. The smallest truth leaking from you now would unravel every deception you’d built.

Every thought in your mind warred with the next:

If Satoru mourned them— If he regretted— If he wasn’t the monster— If Sukuna lied—

Then whose revenge had you been living?

The ground beneath you felt suddenly untrustworthy, as if it, too, had learned something equally unpalatable.

Satoru looked over his shoulder then — and your heart had the audacity to ache.

“Sometimes I feel like a fraud. What use is it to have so much power, yet not being able to use it to protect the people closest to me?”

You’d trained in suffocation, in pain tolerance, in emotional austerity. Yet none of it prepared you for the unbearable sight of Satoru Gojo, the monster you were raised to kill, speaking regrets to the ghosts of your parents.

“Sorry,” he said quietly as he stood, brushing pine needles from his knees. “I know, cemeteries aren’t everyone’s cup of tea. I shouldn’t have dragged you here.”

A ridiculous thing to apologize for, given the scale of your collapse.

“But the truth is…” He inhaled. Exhaled. “I didn’t want to be alone again this year.”

“It’s fine,” you managed, but the lie was off-center, cracked down the middle.

He eyed your hands — white-knuckled in the folds of your coat, fingers pressed so hard it nearly numbed inside the fabric.

“You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

How dare he see you. How dare he look past your defences, to mourn the dead you thought he’d slain, to voice his regrets so freely while you stood just inches from their graves.

He was supposed to be the monster. Your entire upbringing—every bruise, lesson, and night spent weeping into your pillow—depended on that certainty.

You had spent your life grieving a version of events that never existed.

Your voice grew brittle from the pressure of holding yourself together. “I’m fine,” you repeated.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Before you could retreat, he shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around your shoulders. His presence eclipsed the winter, warm in a way you did not deserve.

“You can tell me.”

No, you couldn’t — if he knew who you really were, who you’d been sent by, the graves behind him would not remain symbolic.

“I can’t,” you said, landing close to a plea.

The wind lifted a strand of your hair against his cheek. His eyes dipped, briefly, to your lips before you tore your gaze aside. You couldn’t afford softness. Not from him; not when you wanted to kill him just moments ago.

But Satoru had never been patient with evasions. He cupped your jaw with one hand and brought you back to his face.

“Look at me.”

His eyes were the worst part.

The piercing blue cut deep into your armor, more earnest than they’ve ever been deadly. A single tear slipped loose despite your command. He caught it with the pad of his thumb, brushing it away before it could fall, a touch so delicate it shrank the world around you.

“Satoru…”

You wanted—needed—to ask, to know the truth of that winter night straight from his mouth. Your throat burned with the question: Did you kill them?

But the words tangled, tangled, tangled, tightening around your neck, choking you.

He leaned in, forehead to forehead, breath to breath. He lowered his face like he feared his own touch might break you.

“I don’t know what’s troubling you,” he said. “But I’m here, and I have no intention of letting you go.”

The vulnerability in his voice tore through you like shrapnel.

“I know I’ve failed to protect people in the past before,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “but please place your trust in me, just as I’ve come to put mine in you.”

You closed your eyes, feeling his breath skim your mouth. Your fingers curled into fists to stop yourself from reaching for him. This was wrong — you shouldn’t want this; shouldn’t want him. But you did. Desperately.

“And I know I shouldn’t,” he admitted, trembling against your lips. “God, I really shouldn’t. Every logical part of me tells me you’re trouble—”

Your nearly laughed, nearly confessed that ‘trouble’ wasn’t even the half of it.

“—but then you look at me, and I forget every reason to be cautious. Tell me, my hishō…”

His nose brushed yours, slow and impossibly gentle. You felt the shadow of his impending kiss, and allowed your body to forget restraint.

“… do you feel the same?”

A single inch — and you would’ve kissed the man you were meant to murder. A single inch — and you would’ve betrayed your life’s mission. A single inch—

Your phone buzzed.

Satoru felt it the same instant you did; the way your breath went rigid, the way your hand jerked backward as if the sound seared.

You fumbled for the device, dread already rising like bile.

From: Sukuna You’ve run out of time.

Your stomach dropped clean through the earth.

Satoru’s eyes flicked from your face to your phone. Then to your face. Then back again. He drew back half an inch, confusion melting into concern, color draining from his face.

There was no room for suspicion in his expression. What remained was only a slow, terrible comprehension, spreading like a crack. His eyes no longer held sincerity.

“Satoru—”

Your lips parted, the beginning of a denial or a confession, you didn’t even know, but the universe, in it’s impeccable cruelty, decided you didn’t get either.

A sound split the quiet. His head snapped toward the distant roar of an engine barreling far too fast, its snarl cutting through the gravel path. It was coming closer.

His voice dropped to a register, cold and clear. “Get behind me.”

He didn’t wait for compliance, hauling you backward with a hand around your waist as the car exploded around the bend, moving too fast for the curve. Sleek, black, headlights flaring and bearing down, aimed straight at the both of you.

Sukuna was trying to silence you.

The sedan tore toward you both, tyres grinding asphalt. Satoru pivoted, one arm locking you tight against his chest as he twisted his body to shield yours.

He moved before the car could kiss the dirt beneath your feet. The warmth of him vanished as he thrust you aside. His hand dipped beneath his coat, flashing metal.

First shot.

The front tire burst, shredding rubber into ribbons. The sedan fishtailed wildly but kept coming, momentum carrying its malice further than physics should allow.

Second shot.

Rear tire gone— The vehicle jerked sideways, chassis screaming across the ground, gravel ricocheting off the guardrail as it veered.

The windshield aligned with you both for a split, perfect second.

Third shot.

The bullet shattered the glass, a crystalline burst, drilling cleanly through the driver’s skull. His head snapped back, life seeping down in red.

The sedan skidded into the embankment and died with a pathetic hiss of its engine.

Satoru lowered his gun, slowly, delicately, at odds with the ruin smoking ten meters away.

Then, without so much as a breath, turned to the limp body slumped behind the fractured glass. He stepped forward with a terrible calm, boots crunching the pavement, reaching through the broken wreckage to tug the corpse upright by its collar.

Satoru didn’t look away when he saw the tattoo peeking through the blood on the man’s face. A bone-deep understanding he didn’t need to speak.

You both knew the distinct markings well. You’d trained beside men who bore it. Bled under the same crest of Sukuna’s clan.

He let the body drop with a hollow thud. Turned. And found you.

You had seen him when he was angry. When he was amused. Faced him aroused, playful, bored. But you had never—not once—faced him wounded. It was the worst thing he’d ever worn.

His eyes weren’t that of rage; they bore only betrayal.

You expected him to shoot you. Or to shout. Even just to drag you into confession. But what he did next left a gaping hole in you, bigger than any bullet ever could.

“So that’s the truth then,” he murmured, impossibly quiet. “You’ve been his from the beginning.”

He approached you in small steps, crossing the shrinking distance between you, each footfall hopeful that you might say something to prove him wrong.

His gun hung loosely at his side, as soulless as the life it took. It balanced on a scale between mercy and obliteration.

“And here I thought…” He huffed, shaking his head once. “No. Doesn’t matter what I thought.”

He reached up, thumb brushing your lower lip. The usual comfort and warmth now replaced by an icy frost. He caressed your cheek in an early apology, gentle in its irony.

You didn’t see his hand shift. Didn’t register the flash of motion. The gun he’d used to save you just a minute before was now pressed cold on your temple.

“What did I say about second chances?”

“Please—Satoru, I—”

The butt of the gun struck behind your ear.

The last thing you registered before darkness was his hand catching your fall. Letting you hit the ground would have been too cruel, even for a man who’d just had his heart shot out of his chest.

Consciousness returned the way guilt does — slowly, then all at once.

The first thing you felt was pain: the ache in your skull where the butt of his gun had kissed you goodnight.

The second thing was cold metal: a heavy collar locked tight at your throat, a chain running from the back of it to a steel ring embedded in the pillar behind you. Your wrists were free, but the illusion of freedom was the cruelest restraint of all.

And the third thing: the most dangerous thing— was Satoru.

He stood a few paces away, sleeves rolled, hair mussed, bandages winding down one strong arm. His shirt hung open at the collar, exposing the long line of his throat — the one you swore to slit.

“Comfortable?” he asked. It was enough to be mistaken for gentle if not for the hurt crawling beneath it. “I know you enjoy being on your knees.”

The chain rattled as you instinctively shifted back. It was a pointless act. Fear only whetted his appetite.

He crouched in front of you and hooked a thumb under your chin; the collar tugged your throat upward in a humiliating angle.

“Let’s start simple,” he said. “Who are you?”

You lifted your chin as far as the metal allowed. “You know who I am.”

He smiled without warmth. “If I did, sweetheart, I wouldn’t be asking.”

You caught the sight of fresh blood on the ground beside you out of the corner of your eye. He answered the question you hadn’t yet asked.

“Another one of Sukuna’s little spies,” he said. “He wasn’t very talkative. Only said something about a photo.”

Fuck.

Sukuna planted it all along. He’d wanted you to panic. To act quickly.

You barely had time to react before Satoru’s fingers curled in the chain and yanked. Your breath stuttered painfully as the collar lurched you forward.

“Did you enjoy it?” he asked, laughing softly. “Making me your little play thing?”

The amusement in his voice was worse than yelling. Worse than violence. Your pulse pounded against the collar, and you hated—hated—that he could feel each tiny jump of your fear.

“It’s my turn now,” he said, standing up without warning, dragging your spine upward until you were forced into a kneeling arch. Your hands flew to the metal instinctively, nails scraping uselessly against it.

“Tell me why he sent you.”

“Satoru, it’s not what you think. You got it all wrong—”

He clicked his tongue, disappointed but unsurprised. The chain jerked again, and you leaned forward involuntarily, on your hands and knees.

He reached down, unbuckling his belt. Your jerked back, or tried to — the collar choked the motion into a humiliating gasp. The leather hissed out of the loops.

He doubled the belt in his hand, testing the weight. The snap of leather folding echoed in the room as he knelt down behind you.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?”

CRACK.

The first belt strike landed across your ass, sharp and bright, staining your skin pink beneath the fabric of your skirt.

You gasped, reaching for the collar. “Satoru, please—you have to believe me—”

“Believe you? How could I ever do that again?”

“I—I misunderstood—please—”

He smiled. “Lying to me again?”

CRACK.

The second landed lower, kissing the curve where thigh met cheek. Your breath spilled out in a ragged hiss.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, almost tender, “you had plenty of time to rehearse this story. Don’t insult me with a sloppy performance.”

“I thought—Sukuna—he told me you killed them.”

“Them?”

“Kohaku and Shiranui—”

Satoru moved so quickly the chain snapped taut with a metallic shriek. He drove both fists into the stone wall behind you, the impact so hard it thundered through the chamber and sent dust raining down from the ceiling.

He didn’t even register the injury. His shoulders were shaking, breath tearing in and out of him.

“You—you’re cruel, you know that? Out of all the lies you could feed me, you picked the one thing I already torture myself for.”

“Satoru, please—listen—“

“Don’t.” He grabbed the chain again, forcing your back arched, your throat exposed. His face hovered inches away from yours, heartbreak dripping from every word. “Don’t say my name like you’re allowed to.”

“But it’s the truth—“

“The truth,” he spat, “is that you walked into my life, tried to seduce me, tried to kill me. And now — now you dare use them—” his voice cracked on the word “—as a shield? How could you possibly even know them?”

“No, no — listen, I didn’t know—how could I not think—?”

CRACK.

“You’re going to tell me everything,” he murmured, dragging his fingers over the welt rising on your skin, “even if I have to pry the truth from your throat with my tongue.”

It was no use. He simply wouldn’t believe you. And honestly, why should he?

You had failed him the moment you chose to believe Sukuna. If you wanted even a sliver of his trust back, you’d have to earn it the way he understood best.

You inhaled, slow and sharp, then snapped back against him, grinding the welt into his palm, daring him to feel how much you could take.

“Don’t take your time. I hate waiting.”

Two could play at this game, but only one of you understood the rules well enough to cheat. He’d never believe you if you started at the end, so you’d have to convince him with your actions.

“Mm,” he hummed, groaning in satisfaction. “There’s my eager hishō. You finally ready to confess?”

“You want answers?” You met his eyes, your own raw and daring. “Take them. Whatever you think I did, whatever you think I am… drag it out of me and hear it for yourself.”

Silence dropped. His fingers flexed around the chain.

“Do you know what you’re asking of me?” he asked slowly. “Because if I start.. I won’t be able to stop.”

“I know,” you replied. “That’s why I’m offering.”

His hand slid between your thighs, but you moved first, rolling your hips into his fingers, slick heat coating them before he could tease you with it.

“Ahck—!” you choked on the sound.

“God,” he breathed, lips brushing your shoulder. “That’s pretty. Your first honest reaction.”

His hand pulled the chain back while two fingers plunged inside you. Your body arched, chain clinking desperately as you clawed air for balance.

“You’re soaked from this? From being whipped? From being chained up like a dog?”

His fingers thrust hard, deep, curling mercilessly. You cried out, hands scrambling for purchase on the pillar.

“Look at you, already shaking. I haven’t even started.”

He kept his fingers seated deep in your cunt, stretching you indecently around him while your back was forced into a helpless bow.

“How many times did you sleep under my roof imagining the kill, hm? Did you get yourself off on the thought of ending me?”

Your breath stuttered on the edge of a moan, body instinctively trying to twist free, but all that did was make the collar bite deeper and Satoru sink harder inside you.

“How could you possibly think you could kill me…” he said, lips dragging along your neck, “…when you’re clenching like this around me?”

Your body squeezed his fingers on cue.

“Fuck — if this is what betrayal feels like, I guess it’s not so bad.”

His hand moved faster, thrusting inside you with slow, grinding strokes that scraped pleasure down your body like a serrated blade. It made your forehead hit the pillar, and a sob strangle behind your teeth.

He hooked an arm around your waist as he shoved deeper, sending flashes of vicious pleasure through you. Your thighs started shaking uncontrollably, spitting slick everywhere with each thrust.

“Ahh—”

“Sweetheart, you’re dripping down my wrist. Isn’t this exactly what you wanted? Isn’t this how you planned to get close to me?”

He thrust again, hitting that spot that made your vision flicker. “Please—c-can’t take it—”

“Still want me to keep going?”

“Yes—god, yes—don’t you fucking stop—” you gasped before your pride could stop you.

He laughed, breath shaking. “For a traitor, you can be so demanding.”

He loosened the chain, then dragged his fingers out of your mess, achingly slow, making you whine at the emptiness, but he didn’t give you time to mourn the loss.

He grabbed your hips and pulled you backward, caging you between his legs. “Now we do it my way.”

His hands roamed, one wrapping around your waist, the other sliding down to undo his zip with a single flick.

His cock pressed hot and heavy through your folds, letting you feel how easily he could take you. And just how much you wanted him to.

“You’re going to tell me everything, one way or another,” he murmured, lining himself up, “and I’m going to enjoy every fucking second until you do.”

His cock slid against your throbbing entrance, coating himself with you, teasing pressure where you needed him most, enough to make your pussy sob for it.

“Ngh—Satoru—”

“Hm?” His hips drew back, poised, angling the head of his cock exactly where you were throbbing, pressing in just a fraction — so small it felt like madness. “Does that feel good?”

“More—I need more—”

“Want me that bad, do you?”

Your hips jerked to feel him, but he didn’t give in, instead drawing his cock back and slapped it lightly against your swollen clit.

“Beg for it properly, sweetheart.”

“I need you inside me—Satoru—fuck me, please—”

He pushed in. You cried out, nails scraping the floorboards.

He sank into you inch by merciless inch, filling you until your breath splintered into broken sounds.

“God—fuck—so tight—” he grunted, hands trembling on your hips.

Your cry echoed off the walls, and when he bottomed out, your mind white-noised, filled to the brim with the feeling of all his inches

“Again,” he snarled, fucking into you, sharp, brutal strokes that punched air out of your lungs. “Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?”

He spanked you once more—with his hand this time—the strike landing loud. Your body writhed against the chain, pleasure and pain culminating together.

“Were you enjoying yourself a little too much?” he rasped, rhythm growing savage, hips slamming against you with the fury of betrayal and the hunger of revenge. “What’s your motive?”

“Answer me,” he said, thrusting aggressively, “or I swear to God, I won’t stop. I will fuck you senseless, ruin you, keep you on this damn chain until your legs give out—”

Tears spilled out, overwhelmed by the sensation. You tried to wrench away, but the chain cut a warning into your throat.

“Ah-ah,” he scolded softly. “Be good.”

He flipped you over, your back meeting the cold ground, and pinned your wrist above your head, stretching your body. You hissed his name through clenched teeth, equal parts arousal and indignation.

He drove himself in again, angling upward until spots danced in your vision, making you tremble so violently you had to brace yourself against him.

“You like it rough like this, don’t you?”

The chain clinked with each thrust, metal biting your throat with every surge of his hips. You screamed, a raw, desperate buildup you couldn’t fight.

He pressed his lips to your ear, the sounds spilling from him so filthy you bit down hard on your lip. The chain rattled in frantic applause while your body tried, valiant and foolishly, to take him, withstand him.

“Tell me why Sukuna chose you,” he growled against your throat. “Say it while you come for me.”

“Satoru—ahh—he—”

But he slammed deeper, and you began to unravel further, jerking helplessly as your world began to shatter, everything in you fraying at the edges.

“—he told me you killed my parents!”

He stilled as your words came undone against him, the confession ripped free, delivered without any dignity.

He searched your eyes, hunting for the line between truth and performance. You let him see it. Let him see the feral, wounded thing that had been living inside you.

He caught your jaw, not rough this time, just terribly, terribly precise.

“Say that again,” he said. “All of it. Exactly.”

Your voice shook but didn’t falter. “He found me the night they died. In the ruins. He told me you ordered the hit. That you watched them burn. He took me in, and promised me justice.”

You watched the change happen in him: disbelief, fury, denial, then the worst of them all — recognition. Slowly, carefully, he eased himself out of you and gathered you in, pressing a kiss to your throat. Another to your jaw. One to your lips, tender where everything before had been brutal. A litany of apologies in touch.

You tried to speak. He kissed you again instead, slow and sweet and devastating in its sincerity, a complete contradiction to the way he’d just taken you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You should hate me. You really, really should.”

He held you tight against him, forehead pressed to yours. His hands framed your face, gentle where his grip had once been punishing, soothing where he’d been wild.

“He told me that you were the one who left me with nothing,” you said.

The flinch that crossed his features gutted you, and he pulled you impossibly closer, as if proximity alone could refute a decade of suffering. “The only thing I did was fail them.”

“What do you mean?”

“They didn’t want this life. They wanted you safe. Away from all of this.” His thumb brushed the corner of your eye. “I couldn’t find you in the fire. I thought you had perished along with them.”

Your chest constricted so sharply you tasted iron. All these years, your life was shaped by someone else’s narrative. Years of belief, twisted around a lie.

“The night they died,” Satoru continued, “I was too young, too slow. I showed up too late.” He swallowed, a bare, human sound. “Sukuna got to them first.”

Satoru lifted his hands slowly, giving you every chance to flinch away. When you didn’t he cupped your face. Your tears began blurring the edges of him, and he thumbed each one as it fell, but erasing their tracks did nothing to absolve him.

“Every winter I go back and ask for forgiveness that will never come. If I’d known you survived, I would’ve searched the ends of the earth for you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head, a cry catching in your chest that scraped your ribs raw. “Sukuna… he used me.”

His fingers slid into your hair, cradling the back of your skull. His expression hardened, not at you, but around the thought that the man responsible for your suffering was still walking freely on both legs.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled into your hair. “I’m sorry for every year you spent believing you were alone. For not being there.”

He held you against his chest as you wept, then reached behind you. Metal clinked, and the lock clicked open. The collar loosened and slid from your throat, leaving a faint, ghostly ring in its place.

Your neck felt naked without it.

He tossed the collar aside. Hated himself for ever needing it.

He drew back just enough to see you.

“You deserved everything he took away from you. Safety, a home, a family.” His voice turned small to the point of breaking. “Let me make it right.”

He tilted your chin up.

“Look at me.”

You did. You couldn’t not.

“Listen,” he said, the words that followed were a vow, deadly, sacred and intimate in the same breath:

“I swear I’ll make him pay for the childhood he stole. For what he did to them. For what he did to you. I’ll bring you his head on a platter and let you decide what to do with it. And after that, if you’ll let me, I’ll put you back together.”

You stared at him, throat thick. “You’d do all that?”

“And more.”

The promise he made was everything you thought you wanted. Someone was finally standing beside you. But you couldn’t reach for the vengeance he offered.

Your hand rose instead, finding the bandage on his shoulder. A wound you put there, one that he hadn’t once blamed you for.

“Satoru, I lost too many lives to war. I don’t want revenge anymore.”

He froze — a halt so absolute his own heart paused between one beat and the next. “I don’t understand. Don’t you want to see him suffer?”

“I want more than that,” you said. “More than blood, I want a life my parents would’ve wanted me to have. I want to try living. Will you help me?”

His answer was immediate.

“Sweetheart, I’d rebuild the whole damn world if it meant you finally got to live in it. I’m with you, wherever you go next.”

For the first time in your life, your future wasn’t a tomb; and for once, you weren’t alone anymore. Your purpose sat in your chest, reborn from the ashes. For the first time in a decade, hatred wasn’t the only thing you felt.

Domesticity suited neither of you. But you were giving it the old underworld try.

There was tea steeping in porcelain mugs. There was a vase of flowers you hadn’t bought, something fluffy and yellow you still hadn’t identified, arranged with the unmistakable chaos of a man who could dismantle a human spine but could not, apparently, tell a rose from a weed.

It was deceptively peaceful, until you remembered who you were.

Something crashed in the alley outside—a single metallic clang that made you, Satoru and the illusion freeze mid-sip.

Your hands slipped automatically beneath your robe, reaching for a knife that wasn’t there. Satoru’s fingers twitched toward the waistband of pants he wasn’t even wearing.

Two predators in a kitchen at seven in the morning,

A shape darted past the window. The neighbor’s cat strut past it, looking visibly unimpressed that it was one misunderstanding away from a massacre.

“Oh,” he said, lowering his empty hand. “False alarm.”

“Was it?” you muttered. “Could be a decoy. I wouldn’t put it past Sukuna.”

“It was a cat. It’s harmless.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He grinned, the delighted smile of a man who loved seeing your instincts flare. “You’re right, I was fooled once.”

You set your mug down with the resignation of someone realizing normalcy may be a myth invented by optimists. “We’re terrible at this, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know,” he mused, sipping his tea. “I could get used to having a morning routine.”

You elbowed him, but he caught your wrist easily, brought your knuckles to his lips, kissed them in a way entirely too soft for a man who chained you to a pillar only weeks ago.

“What? Wake up and watch your hishō threaten a cat?”

“Yes,” he conceded, leaning against the counter. “And speaking of that…”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. Your mission,” he said, pushing off the counter with theatrical gravitas, “should you choose to accept it—”

His fingers found your waist, brushing the silk of your robe aside.

“—is to take your place beside me again.”

“You’re rehiring me?”

He shrugged. “Well, my operations have been distressingly boring lately. I missed when my secretary was trying to kill me.”

You nudged him, smiling with the affection he’d earned inch by blood-soaked inch. “So,” you murmured, “is this a formal job offer?”

Something wicked sparked in his eyes, familiar and brand new all at once. “Of course, you’ll have to pass an interview first,” he said simply.

You snorted. “Excuse me?”

He retreated into the living room, easing himself into the low armchair with that same indolent authority. One leg folded over the other, head tipped, watching you with patient hunger, eyes bright with unmistakable invitation.

“If you want the position, you’ll have to show me just how far your ambition goes.”

So that was where this was going.

The silk belt of your robe slid loose beneath your fingers. Satoru tracked every step as you crossed the room, hips swaying with deliberate sin.

When you reached him, you let the robe fall. The fabric whispered down your skin in a slow, teasing cascade and pooled on the floor.

“Oops,” you said, with a smile that was not sorry at all.

You sank to your knees before him.

And above you sat Satoru Gojo — oyabun of the largest syndicate in Tokyo, unofficial minister of the underworld, kingpin on his unshakable throne,

yours.

“Welcome back, my hishō.”

So now, while planning to go back home for Christmas break, you really wanted to introduce her to your family. You knew Satoru's family wasn't around much, leaving her alone with a substantial amount of money, which she loved to spoil you with.

However, her parents not paying her attention also meant her spending Christmas alone, in your overly big, sometimes a bit too cold apartment. And you absolutely hated this idea.

"They will love you!" you said, looking at Satoru's frowning face.

She bit her lip, checking the messages your relatives sent to the group chat.

And, well, they were more than happy to finally meet their dear daughter's date!

Satoru, what a nice name!

Oh, bring him home!

Don't forget to take plates, darling! We're going to have so many people!

Should I already think about the wedding gifts?

But there was something weird about these messages, which Satoru noticed just after a while.

"Do they know you're dating a woman?" she asked.

And then looked at you, with your suddenly widening eyes and mouth forming in a small o, telling her everything she needed to know.

Satoru sighed, getting up from your soft couch and going to the kitchen. She started preparing the second portion of hot chocolate, with small marshmallows and whipped cream on top. She glanced at you with amusement, following the changing expressions on your face. Shock, disbelief, disappointment, irritation, then shock again, and finally calmness.

"They're going to be fine with it," you waved your hand.

She smiled, decorating her cup with additional small chocolates shaped like a Christmas tree.

"Will they?" she murmured. "They won't make a scene or, I don't know, disown you? We can always just go back and have Christmas here, you know..."

"Satoru! My parents aren't homophobic! They were always telling me that I can bring home whoever I want," you said, already writing back that your date is truly excited to meet them too!

Satoru came back and sat on a couch, giving you a Santa-shaped cup. It was pleasantly warm in your hand, with a sweet smell, slowly soothing your nerves.

"If you're sure of it," she sighed, looking back at the Christmas movie you were watching. "I just... don't want to make everyone uncomfortable. I'm okay with spending Christmas alone, you know? As I always d–"

You quickly shut her up with a kiss, leaving a chocolately aftertaste on her plump lips. She looked at you through these beautiful, wavy eyes, with a bit of worry in her gaze. You brushed back her snowy hair, kissing her cheek.

"Stop, dumbass. How could I allow you to spend Christmas alone? I already have a present, you know?" you smiled.

And then she grinned, looking at you with this foxy gaze and biting a fresh piercing in her lip.

"Oh yeah, I also have something for you," she murmured, putting a small peck on your lips. Then she came down to your neck, slowly kissing her way down, right till your cleavage. "I think you'll be very, very satisfied."

"Mmm, really?" you gasped, putting your hands into her white locks.

"Yeah, baby, trust me."

You both forgot about the movie playing in the background and the hot chocolate cooling down your coffee table. You forgot about everything when Satoru's tongue finally finds a way down to your wet pussy, lapping sweetly through your folds.

And, oh, you could just wonder what it was that made her so happy.

❅‧₊❆₊⋆

Your hometown wasn't that far, only a two-hour ride away from your apartment. In the early morning, you packed your bags into Satoru's car and, after a quick stop for a morning coffee, chocolate for me, double whipped cream, add some marshmallows if you have, and oh, these gingerbread cookies if you still have them for Satoru, you got out on the road.

You texted your parents that you're on your way, once again nervously checking the family chat. You bit your lip, staring at the screen for a short time, before you felt a strong hand on your thigh.

"We can always turn back," Satoru hummed, looking at the road.

"No, it's fine. I guess I'm just a bit nervous. They never met any of my partners," you said, looking at the snowy road ahead of you. "And my family can be... intense."

Satoru took a sip of her definitely too-sweet chocolate, giving you a quick look.

Something was definitely bothering you, and she hated to see you nervous like this, tapping fingers on your locked phone and looking at groupchat with a frown.

"Babyyyy," she signed, getting your attention. "So, we're going to fuck with your parents next door?"

You snorted, laughing softly and relaxing a bit. She smiled back, finally seeing the shine coming back to your eyes.

"You'll need to be quiet tho," you turned at her.

You were too nervous to notice it before, but she looked handsome, in a suit, elegant trousers and a white shirt, with sleeves rolled up to her elbows, presenting deliciously strong forearms, with long fingers tightly gripping the wheel. Silver shone brightly in her eyebrow and lip, with snowy hair slightly brushed back. Your family would never know she was a woman without looking into her soft eyes and hearing this bewitching voice.

She laughed deeply, leaving you with a fluttering heart.

"Baby, I think you need to be quiet. I'm doing all the work anyway, my mouth's always bus–"

She didn't finish when you slightly punched her arm.

"Hey! Don't call me pillow princess. It makes me feel bad," you murmured. "Makes me think I don't satisfy you."

Satoru looked at you quickly, with a sly grin. She tightened her grip on the wheel, seeing your doleful eyes and small pout glancing at you from a frowning forehead.

"But I love you as a pillow princess. Actually, you don't even have to pay me attention, ma'am. You could strangle me with these thighs, and I would thank you."

She received another punch from you, reacting with an even louder laugh and leaving you flushed from ears to toes, with a cute redness spreading on your cheeks.

"Just shut up and drive," you murmured, looking back through the window.

You arrived right after two hours, with the gate of your two-floored house appearing right on the horizon, and a small parking space right outside the building already packed with other cars. You came out to open the gate, seeing all the decorations your parents put out this year.

Colourful lights hanging from the roof, an inflatable Santa Claus welcoming guests right near the door, icicles forming right above the windows, just waiting for someone to walk under to drop and split on their head. But well, just don't walk there, your mother loves how they look, your father would say, always avoiding the path right under them.

Satoru drove inside and parked her car right next to six others.

"Baby, how big did you say your family is?" she asked, taking your luggage from the trunk.

You laughed nervously, looking at her knitted eyebrows and eyes slowly scanning the winter wonderland your house was always turning into during Christmas.

"Well," you started, walking with her right to the front door. "It's all the aunts and uncles, cousins and oh, also some mom's friends"

Satoru looked at you with a scowl, your two suitcases held tightly in her arms. She laughed nervously when you knocked on the door, hearing the loud noises quieting down.

"What do you mean?" she asked, looking at how you bit your lips and gave her a reassuring smile.

"Don't stress, it'll be fin–"

And then the doors opened, someone's thin arms closing you in a warm embrace.

"Oh dear!" you heard your mother's voice.

She smelled like milk and sugar, probably spending all day in the kitchen, preparing everything for the upcoming party. Although she could probably use some of your help, now that you were here, as you still had two days till Christmas Eve.

"Hi, Mom," you said, hugging her back, feeling her kiss your temple. "I missed you so much."

She rushed you inside, glancing shortly at Satoru, although not giving her full attention. You knew the introduction would happen with all the family members, probably in the most uncomfortable setting you could think of, with both of you exposed to the prying eyes of your aunts and cousins.

You stepped inside first, shrugging off your coat, the familiar warmth of your childhood home wrapping around you instantly. Christmas decorations crowded every surface – garlands on the bannister, blinking lights framing family photos that hadn’t been updated in years.

Satoru followed right behind you, suitcases still in hand, pausing for half a second like she was bracing herself before crossing a battlefield.

Your dad appeared almost immediately, as if summoned by instinct alone. Before either of you could react, he pulled Satoru into a firm hug, laughing warmly as he ruffled her hair.

"Well, look at you," he said with approval. "Strong arms. Good posture."

Satoru stiffened a bit, then laughed it off, returning the hug politely. You leaned in to kiss your dad's cheek.

You felt your mother watching from behind, like a hawk, curiously looking between you and Satoru.

"What a handsome young man you brought,” she whispered, looking with a smile at Satoru. "So sturdy, almost reminds me of your father when he was young. I bet they could have some man-to-man talks, don't you think?"

You laughed – too loudly, too nervously – and shot Satoru a look that screamed please don’t panic.

Oh, Satoru thought, this is it.

"Good morning, ma'am," she said, shaking her hand. "My name's Gojo Satoru, your daughter's girlfriend."

The quietness suddenly was so sharp, you could almost hear it cutting through your nerves. And of course, all the cousins, aunties and grandparents gathered in a hallway to meet your new "boyfriend". All of them suddenly stopped in place, maybe even stopped breathing, looking at both you and Satoru, almost sweating in winter jackets you still had on.

Somewhere in the background, you heard your cousins whispering you owe me ten and your aunt commenting that I always knew. Oh, you were not beating lesbian allegations, weren’t you?

"Should I warm up the car?" Satoru whispered, and you jabbed her side with an elbow.

But then, suddenly, your mom clapped her hands and put them on Satoru's face.

"Of course, just look at her eyes! No man ever could have such beautiful eyes. And these long lashes!" she chittered, looking at Satoru's surprised face.

She froze, blue eyes wide as your mom examined her like a prized porcelain doll.

Your dad hummed in agreement. “Yeah, no son-in-law of mine could look like that.”

Laughter rippled through the hallway, the tension dissolving all at once. Satoru relaxed visibly, shoulders dropping as she laughed.

You released a deep breath, you didn't know was stuck in your lungs. Your thoughts cleared a bit when you saw Satoru's red cheeks, her shy eyes following all the greetings from your aunts, cousins and grandparents, all of them complementing her height, do you play basketball?, looks, are you a model perhaps?, even her hair, looks like we have a person who'll dress up as Santa Claus!

"That's surprising," you heard a sarcastic voice next to you.

Utahime, your mom's best friend's daughter, who always somehow spent Christmas with you, was leaning against the living room's doorframe.

You hugged her warmly and laughed, looking at Satoru already squirming in her place.

"Yeah, well," you whispered. "You're not surprised?"

"Nah," Utahime shook her head. "You were not beating lesbian allegations. I just won twenty from brats," she pointed at Nobara, Yuji and Megumi, your three cousins, sitting in the living room. "Anyways, I hope she won't get tired of us. You know how your family is..."

Intense, she didn't manage to finish, when your grandma asked Satoru who the man in your relationship was and your poor girlfriend looked at you helplessly.

"Okay, okay, let us unpack, and we'll join you soon," you interrupted, showing Satoru to take your suitcases upstairs. "We'll change and come back down."

"We're decorating gingerbreads today, come quickly!" said your grandma, going back to the kitchen.

"Are they allowed to share a room?" you heard your father whispering to your mom, receiving a nasty look from her.

"It's not like she'll get pregnant, let them be," she scolded him, pushing back to the kitchen.

You shook your head, taking Satoru right to your childhood room. Home looked as warm as you remembered, always full of life with people coming and going, constantly hanging around your living room and kitchen. You loved it and sometimes, sitting alone in your dorm, you would miss the smell of the fresh cake every weekend, your aunts and uncles visiting you every few days, cousins dropping by for dinner as they lived quite close, and grandparents always watching TV in the living room.

And Christmas, oh, they were the best! You were so excited for the next few days, even Satoru laughed at you, seeing how happily you took the Christmas sweaters you bought for both of you.

"There's so cute! Don't you think?" you asked her, while Satoru looked around your old room.

The posters of your favourite actors, some high school photos, a shelf full of teenage books, and even a diary lying on your desk.

"Your room is so... teenagey," she said, looking at your DVD collection. She started looking through them, laughing at all your emo-era collection. "You must have had a great childhood."

You took off your shirt to wear a new sweater.

"Yeah, it was wonderful," you said. "And yours was...?"

A second later, cold hands wrapped around your bra, with slim fingers digging under it, to wrap softly around your tits.

"I live through my childhood dream right now," she whispered, squeezing her hands.

"Toru! Your hands are so cold!" you squeaked, trying to push her off.

She laughed, and you felt her warm breath on your neck, with breast pressing against your back.

"So warm them up, pretty girl," she murmured, peppering your neck with kisses, going right from your jaw to the collarbone.

You moaned softly when she pinched your nipples and turned you to face her. Her piercing blue eyes stared at your flushed cheeks and soft breasts, already spilling over the bra cups.

"We don't have time," you whispered, putting your hands into her white locks.

She looked at you with a sly smile, bending down to your ear.

"You underestimate me," she whispered, and you felt a shiver running down your spine.

The strong smell of her perfume was cooing your senses, warm and woody, spreading the scent of a winter cottage and fireplace, pleasantly clinging to her skin. You felt her fingers slowly clipping off your bra, going down to your jeans, already uncomfortably sticking to your wet panties.

"We have five minutes at last, if you just wait till the eveni–"

And then you heard a knock on the door, someone struggling with a handle, and a weak voice.

"Auntie," you heard your sweet cousin, the youngest one, slowly opening the door.

Your eyes widened, comprehending the dishevelled state you were in, with your tits out and half taken off jeans.

Satoru, however, reacted quicker, coming to the door, while you put a Christmas sweater over your head.

She opened them, just a bit, only to see a small girl standing outside, dressed in another sweater. Oh, your family must've been obsessed with them.

"Hey sweetie," she said calmly, crouching to level her height. "Your auntie changes her clothes. Do you need anything?"

Your cousin was shyly eyeing Satoru, her gaze going back and forth between her unnaturally white hair and intense blue eyes, checking her up and down with a weak blush. And then, she extended her small hand and touched Satoru's soft locks, smiling widely, with one of her front teeth out.

"Are you Santa Claus?" she asked sweetly, melting Satoru's heart.

Satoru took her small hands into hers and squeezed them slightly.

"Do you think I look like an old man?" she asked with a chuckle, receiving a giggle from your cousin.

You listened to their conversation with a smile while freshening up in the bathroom. You had no idea that Satoru was good with children, although you knew she could be quite childish herself, making up for the bad childhood she experienced with her own family. You didn't know exactly what happened, but pieces of the story she shared with you, about attempts to put her into an arranged marriage, internal homophobia of her relatives and rigorous bringing up among clan members, were enough for you to understand that there was a reason for her cutting off contact with her parents.

"Aren't you old? You have white hair," your cousin said unceremoniously, and you needed to hold to the bathroom counter to contain a loud snort.

Satoru pouted, looking at your oblivious cousin with a sad puppy face.

"I may not be Santa Claus, but I know the guy. If you'll be a naughty girl, I'll tell him to send Grinch instead," she said and started to tickle your cousin, receiving an ear-piercing squeak from her.

"I'll be good, I'll be good! Auntie, you're not old!" Satoru took her hands off her ribs and ruffled her hair.

"That's what I thought."

And then you opened the door fully, looking down at your two pretty girls.

"Auntie, your girlfriend is mean!" said your cousin, pointing out with a smile at Satoru.

You glanced at your offended girlfriend, pressing her hand to her chest.

"Well, I guess she doesn't deserve a present then, right?" you asked, picking your cousin up.

She nodded her small head, showing pinkish tongue at Satoru.

"You brat," Satoru whispered, coming at her again with her dangerous, tickling fingers and getting yet another squeak.

"Satoru, go change into the sweater I prepared for you! And go down to us," you said, taking your cousin back to the kitchen.

"Yes, ma'am," she said, placing one last kiss on your cheek. "We'll finish what we started later," she whispered, her warm breath tickling your skin.

You felt a warmth spreading on your cheeks, and with a scoff, you left with a cousin in your hands.

"Auntie, what will you finish later? Can I join?" she asked innocently, looking at you with her big, brown eyes.

Your face became even warmer when you uncomfortably cleared your throat.

"No, honey, it was a game for adults only," you muffled, coming into the kitchen filled with the smell of sugar and laughter.

❅‧₊❆₊⋆

It was already late evening. Your entire family was gathered in the living room, carols humming softly from the speakers, the crackling fireplace filling the space with warmth and the comforting scent of burning wood. You and Satoru shared an armchair – she sat back against soft cushions, relaxed and unbothered, while you occupied her lap as if it were the most natural place in the world.

A mug of mulled wine rested in your hand, its heat seeping into your fingers and its sweetness making your head pleasantly light. You found yourself giggling more than usual, your laughter spilling out before you could stop it.

But Satoru didn't mind, listening to you with a soft smile, rather amused. Her arm was safely secured around your waist, thumb brushing slow circles against your side whenever you laughed loudly.

What made your chest feel even warmer was how much your family adored her.

She'd spent the entire day helping with Christmas preparations, effortlessly slipping into the rhythm of your home. Your relatives eagerly pulled her into every task, marvelling at her strength while she kneaded dough or carried heavy boxes with decorations.

"Maybe I should get myself a girlfriend," Nobara murmured at some point, looking the way Satoru wooed all women in your house.

"Oh, you must train a lot," added one of your aunts, giggling like a teenage girl.

Satoru just laughed, scratching the back of her neck with that boyish grin of hers, glancing at you like she found the whole thing particularly entertaining.

She'd charmed everyone – your mom, aunts, even your usually reserved uncle – somehow balancing her unbreakable confidence with gentleness, warmth and attention. Every now and then, she would check on you, quietly making sure you weren't overworking yourself, guiding you away from chores, knowing how stressful last semester was for you.

At one point, your mom had shooed you out of the kitchen entirely, as you're supposed to decorate cookies, not eat half of them. Strangely enough, she hadn't said a word when Satoru sampled some of them just to make sure they were ready, nodding seriously before stealing another one when she thought no one was looking.

So now, sitting in a cozy living room with your family, you felt her breath tickling your ear.

"Your family is wonderful," she said, hugging you tighter and placing a small kiss on your shoulder. "Now I know why you are the way you are."

You giggled, welcoming her discreet touch. 

Fireplace was crackling in the background. Soft voices were spreading around the room. Yuji changed a music, receiving a pat on a shoulder from your grandma, while Megumi was listening to Nobara and Utahime gossiping on the sofa. Once in a while he would nod his head, supporting Nobara’s statement, whether it was.

The mistletoe between hallway and living room was hanging from the door frame, lush green gaining your attention. 

And Satoru’s too.

Her eyes flicked up, a slow, dangerous smile tugging at her lips as her grip on your waist tightened just a little.

"Don’t even think about it," you whispered with a sly smile, receiving a chuckle from her.

She kissed your shoulder last time, pressing her lips maybe longer than she should have.

"Don’t worry," she murmured. "I'll behave. Mostly."

You weren't sure whether to believe her, but judging the way her thumb brushed the skin right under your bra, you expected quite interesting weekend.

But the Christmas Eve arrived far too early, with both of you waking up to the dishes clanking downstairs, screams of your youngest cousins and the smell of coffee drifting upstairs.

You shifted and immediately became painfully aware of Satoru beside you.

She was still asleep, hair a mess against the pillow, one arm thrown loosely over your waist like she’d claimed you sometime in the night and never let go. For a moment, you just lay there, breathing her in, remembering how close you’d come to forgetting yourselves the evening before.

She was, in fact, not behaving at all, with your stuttering breaths and soft moans flowing right to her open lips, kissing yours so sweetly. You usually weren't going at each other like rabbits, but the last few days away from the privacy you built up in your home made you wet like crazy around each other, one look from Satoru being enough to squeeze your thighs a bit harder than usual, with your panties sticking right to your pussy lips.

But there was always if.

If not for the walls.

If not for the people.

If not for the way your mother had nearly walked in twice.

Satoru stirred, slowly blinking. When she noticed you watching her, a lazy grin spread across her face.

"Morning to my pretty girl," she murmured. "Still disappointed?"

You snorted softly. "Extremely."

She laughed and pressed a sweet kiss to your forehead.

"Let's get ready, maybe today we're going to have some luck."

You watched her muscular back slowly disappear in a bathroom. But before she closed the door, you noticed a flash of white hair peeking out, and her perked nipples, looking at you so sweetly, you felt like going through a second puberty.

"Join me?" she asked with a grin, leaning against the doorframe.

Oh, the only thing you were dreaming about now was eating her out, looking at her strong forearms tensing up every time you sucked her clit and long fingers diving in your hair, pulling them lightly as if scared to give you more pain.

But before you could even stand up, your mom knocked on the door once, and Satoru quickly disappeared into the bathroom.

As you said, there were many ifs when it came to your sexual life in this house.

Before you noticed, Christmas Eve passed in a blur of warmth and noise.

The living room was chaos in the best way – wrapping paper everywhere, mugs of hot chocolate being passed around, someone always talking too loudly. The table was heavy with all the food, and you noticed how everything was slowly landing on Satoru's plate because you need to try it, or it's my speciality, and this is our family's traditional dish.

She was trying each one by one, humming softly and nodding her head. You smiled, looking at how happy she was, surrounded by people who loved and appreciated her. You knew she needed it, this type of love, she never got from her own parents. And you also knew how difficult it was for her to show emotions honestly, trying to have a healthy relationship based on trust and love, not a forceful arrangement.

At some point, your uncle clapped his hands together.

“Well,” he said, eyes twinkling, “I guess Santa is coming soon. Kids, can you hear him?”

And when all the smallest cousins ran up to the window, Satoru silently left the room.

The Santa costume was ridiculous. Far too tight in places it shouldn’t be, the hat sitting crooked in her white hair. She played the role with dramatic seriousness, lowering her voice, handing out gifts with exaggerated ceremony, pulling children – and then adults – into brief hugs.

You laughed so heartily, seeing happiness just radiating from her.

When it was your turn, she leaned in close, voice low.

"Were you a good girl this year?" she asked, winking at you.

You could just pray that none of your family members saw the blush spreading across your cheeks.

You giggled. "The best one."

She hummed in agreement, giving you a small box, wrapped in a cute, red paper.

You looked at her, surprised, because, well, giving presents was one of her love languages, and you had already explicitly told her that you didn't want anything for Christmas.

But nevertheless, you peeled back the paper carefully, lifting the lid and immediately sucked in a quiet breath. Nestled inside was a pair of delicate earrings, catching the warm glow of the lights, elegant but unmistakably you.

"Oh," you whispered. "Satoru…"

"They made me think of you," she said lightly, but her gaze softened, watching your reaction closely. "They look like my pretty girl."

You looked up at her, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. "I love them."

She leaned closer then, voice dropping again so only you could hear.

"Good," she said. "Because that’s just something small."

Oh. You cleared your throat, checking if everyone was for sure busy with unpacking their own gifts.

You blinked. "Small?"

She straightened, grin turning wicked. "Mhm. The real present comes later."

Your heart skipped a beat, heat rushing right to your core, spreading pleasantly, and you, once again, found yourself needing to squeeze your thighs during the last few hours.

And then the words you were long awaiting finally spread across the room.

"We're to the neighbours", your mother said, announcing the yearly tradition your relatives had with a few close-by families. "You two stay home, make sure the fireplace won't burn it."

You almost started kissing her feet when you saw your family (all of them!) putting on jackets, saying goodbye so long that one could think it was the last time you were seeing each other, and finally leaving the house.

Suddenly, it was quiet. The carols hummed in the background, the fire crackled warmly, and the Christmas tree shone brightly, bathing the room in colourful lights.

"So," the air shifted when Satoru came closer, standing right behind you, with her warm hands on your hips. "Were you a good girl this year?"

You turned around, eyeing her with a smirk, your eyes going up and down between her heavy, horny gaze and plump lips, already so wet you could only imagine them sucking your clit.

"I don't know, was I?" you asked, putting her hand on your soft breast, squeezing it slightly.

❅‧₊❆₊⋆

"Oh god, Toru," you gasped out, back arching, your wet folds rutting against Satoru's tongue, lapping around your bundle of nerves in slow circles, which made you absolutely crazy.

She was sloppy, and you loved it, eating you out like it was her first time on earth, whimpering and delighting herself in your sweet juices, dripping down her chin right on the carpet.

That's right – carpet. You didn't even make it to the hallway when Satoru tore your clothes off right in the middle of the living room, leaving you in a red set. And, oh, it was a good choice, because it worked on her so easily, making her pupils dilate and breath quicken, before she manhandled you and spread right on the carpet, next to the fireplace.

You could feel the warmth of the fire, its tongue sweetly licking your skin. You looked like an angel in its orange light, with parted lips and a delicate frown, eyes locked directly on Satoru, who had been looking up at you for a whole time.

And then she put in the first finger, and then the second one, which made you absolutely go feral, riding her hand with teary eyes. She was still sucking your clit, pinching and kissing her softly, with fingers curling right at your sweet spot, she already knew the location by heart.

"Tell Santa, was my pretty girl good this year?" she teased, kissing you up, through your belly, then your breast, her lip closing around your pink nipple, and then going right to your throat.

Her fingers were still inside, absolutely drenched in your juices, your cunt squeezing around them as if it wanted to milk her dry.

"I–nghh Toru–I w-was soooo good," you whimpered, running your fingers through her white locks, her neck already sweating from the fire licking your two naked bodies.

"Does my pretty, good girl want to come?"

And you couldn't even form the words, just rolling your hips against her palm, absolutely lost in pleasure.

"P-plea–"

But she took out her fingers before you could finish, sliding them down her body, strong core, and narrow hips, right to her glistening pussy, spreading her own lips wide and mixing your juices together.

Oh dear god, she couldn't get you worked up even more, hearing her almost silent moan and a long strip forming between her fingers.

You saw her clit, peeking out of puffy lips, just waiting to be sucked and licked. And you couldn't wait to bury your nose inside her.

But then she turned around, taking a box placed right behind her that you hadn't even noticed before.

"This is your actual present," she said, her eyes already glistening with excitement.

You noticed the "actual" part as if she hadn't already spent half her fortune on you.

The box she gave you was quite long, wrapped in similar red paper and decorated with golden ribbon. You tore the paper off, and the first thing you saw was... oh.

"Toru!" you whispered as if your family could hear you.

But she just smiled cunningly, glancing at the elegant, black strap-on, with almost luxuriously carved silver details, lying in your hand so heavy that all the confidence from before suddenly disappeared.

"You said you wanted to try," she hummed, her nose snuzzling against your cheek, receiving a single sharp moan from you. "Now I can actually fuck you."

Oh, you could feel yourself drooling when Satoru put an inner dildo inside her obscenely drenched pussy, giving you a load moan you ate right away with a kiss. She put the belt around her waist, the black leather straps fitting perfectly to her toned muscles.

And then you saw it. She, kneeling in front of you with a dildo attached to her hips, imitating her real cock, and this masculine body, toned arms and wide back, she really started to remind a man. But her eyes were still so sweet, touch so gentle and kind. Although now, when she put you in all fours, with your ass up and her heavy hand pressing your neck against the pillows, she was definitely not kind and neither gentle.

"Fuck baby, you look so fucking hot," she panted, brushing the dildo against your pussy lips, gathering your juice around its silicone skin.

Your brain was fuzzy, back arched so much it almost hurt, head spinning from the delayed orgasm and a new one already building up, just at the thought of your Satoru railing you on this fucking carpet, in your parents' house, none of you knowing when your family is coming back.

"T-toru," you sobbed, pushing yourself against the wet tip of her "cock", feeling the biiiiig stretch when it pressed against your tight muscles. "I need y-you, please, fuck, Satoru."

She quietly whined, another dildo shifting inside her, brushing right against the G-spot.

And she finally forced it fully inside you, her thick "cock" kissing your cervix, and her hand gently going up and down your spine, pushing your bare chest against the carpet.

"B-baby," she whimpered, her hands ramming you on her hips so strongly, fingers clenching on your skin. "Your pussy looks so good around me, mhmm."

Your eyes rolled back, breath caught in your throat, fingers tightly holding the carpet, when you heard another moan coming from Satoru and felt her fingers on your clit. She was strong, thick and mind-blowing, filling you so good you wish she could cum inside you, spill her thick juices right to your cervix.

She pinched your clit, a shudder went through your body, and you started moaning like an actress in cheap porn. You even look similar, with eyes crossing, perked nipples brushing against the carpet and fat hips just pushing themselves back on Satour's cock.

You didn't know it was possible, but she went even deeper, the dildo's skin brushing your clenching walls, soaked in sweet juices.

"Fuck–baby–I c-can't."

She put both her hands on your hips, tilting her head back, strands of her short, white hair sticking to her sweating forehead.

You looked back at her, with glassy eyes and swollen lips, looking so fucked out, something flickered in her eyes. Neediness, hunger, something with so much force, you could feel it in your lungs when she gave you a strong push.

"Don't look at me like that–fuck," she pulled back and slammed into you again, even harder. "I'm gonna cum soon–mmmm baby god–my pretty pretty good girl," and then her hand went back to your swollen clit, brushing smooth circles around her, pinching and rolling between her fingers so softly, your vision almost went out. "If only I could cum inside you–fuckkk–baby, you have no idea ahhhh."

And with the next three thrusts, both of you shuddered, going almost still on both dildos, absolutely lost in your own pleasure, Satoru gripping your thighs so hard you could already feel small bruises forming under her fingers. Everything inside you tightened, and you moaned right into the carpet, to not let your whole neighbourhood hear the end of your Christmas Eve.

Satoru pulled out, collapsing on your back and quickly rolling to the side on the soft carpet.

Neither of you talked for a moment, trying to calm down your breaths, listening to the fire crackling in the back.

And then Satoru put her head on your chest, nose buried right between your soft breast, breathing you hard as if you could disappear any second.

"Do you think we can repeat it one day?" she asked softly, purring when you run your fingers through her hair. "I love fucking you. Maybe I am the man in this relationship, hm? It's a pity I can't get you pregnant."

You snorted, receiving a soft chuckle.

"Merry Christmas, baby," she whispered, raising her head and kissing you softly, so sweetly you felt your stomach turn.

"Merry Christmas, Toru."

But the best part?

He was definitely a student at your new university.

You saw it by chance, truly, a few days ago while attending matriculation and receiving a bunch of flyers from different university clubs. You've never planned to join one, but their members begged you too politely to reject a piece of paper pushed by them into your hands, so you came back home with a full bag and a headache.

But, oh, luck must've been on your side that day!

When the evening came, and you plunged under the bedsheets, lowering your screen light to a minimum, you noticed it.

An English club flyer – the same one sitting crumpled in your trashbin.

You've never got out of your bed faster, rummaging through all the flyers you've just thrown away and finding one with a huge head of Shakespeare and a quote from Hamlet on the cover.

But the minute you realised that meeting your online crush wasn't just a lewd fantasy anymore, something clenched in your heart.

You started to ponder, going over the videos you saw ten thousand times. He never showed his face, but with this body and style, he couldn’t be that ugly, right? Again, it was just a simple crush, nothing more, so honestly, it didn’t even matter whether you would meet him at university or not. After all, he could just exist in your own small world, never leaving the screen of your phone.

Although the next morning, you put on your best outfit anyway. Something pretty, maybe slightly slutty, but not pushing you into whore tag on the first day, simply hugging your body in all the right places. Plush lips smelled sweetly with lip gloss, just in case someone would truly want to kiss you today. But only in case!

You knew the first day of university would be exciting, with all the students pushing through one another, corridors slightly more complicated than you'd thought and– wait, where's class 2F?

But it looked fun. Genuinely fun, especially considering that the English club had its first meeting exactly the same day!

Waiting for your first class, the room gradually filling with new students, you discreetly glanced around, checking all the men coming in. But none of them looked like him. None had white hair and broad backs, this sense of fashion and laugh that would charm you right away. Because something in your gut told you that it would!

Although it's not like you expected him to be in the same major. Oh no, it would be the worst! The sheer thought of having your crush sitting so closely made you almost sick. You would suddenly get clumsy, surely, and embarrass yourself in front of everyone, saying or doing something so stupid you wouldn’t be able to sleep in peace. 

A chair moved next to you, with someone's low chuckle and their body slowly sitting down. Your eyes turned away from watching the door like a hawk, glancing at a small brunette with a lollipop between her lips.

"Oh, sorry, is this seat taken?" she asked, voice low and smooth, clothes smelling slightly of smoke.

You shook your head, making space for her on a desk. "It's not, no worries."

"I'm Shoko," she said warmly with a bare nod, and you answered with your name.

Her short hair moved as she placed her chin on her hands, and eyes wandered towards the door.

"So," Shoko murmured, seeing how quickly your eyes turned to the entrance. "Who are we looking for?"

Too perceptive!

You coughed nervously, trying to hide your flushed ears. "I’m sorry?"

"A crush or something? Are they on our major?" she asked, still looking at the entrance. 

"I don’t know. I don’t think so," you murmured, peeking at the next students coming to the classroom.

"Any clues?"

"Tall, lean, white hair, nice outfits," you said.

She laughed, rolling her tongue on a sweet lollipop and taking it out from between her lips with a pop. "What about the face?"

"Well..." you started, but words somehow stuck in your throat.

Because how would you even start this conversation? Well, there's this guy online, and his long fingers really turn me on.

Before you could've tried to explain yourself, another voice joined you from Shoko's side. "Who are we looking for?"

You quickly turned your head, and suddenly your heart skipped a beat.

All women are gorgeous, that's what you were always saying. But now you started debating whether you’ve actually ever seen a gorgeous woman, because the tall, raven-haired girl sitting next to Shoko, with black lipstick and violet almond eyes, was a definition of a gorgeous woman. She looked at you curiously, with a small smile dancing in the corner of her lips and plump breasts hugged with a black long-sleeve, a few undone buttons showing a bit of her milky cleavage.

"Suguru, by the way," she extended her slim hand with long, red tips.

Oh, you were so not worthy of touching this velvety skin.

Your name somehow bubbled from your throat, barely, sounding more like a grumpy murmur rather than a flushed confession.

"We’re looking for her crush," said Shoko casually, not even gracing the other woman with a single glance. 

"We’re friends from high school," Suguru murmured, smiling softly. Then her eyes moved to the entrance. "So, what do they look like?"

And once again, you became a centre of attention, with both women, as if synchronised, looking your way.

You really didn’t want to show it, confirming your dirty thoughts about a random guy, but if we’re supposed to be friends anyway, you thought, it’s better to reveal your true self now.

"Okay, so firstly, you both don’t laugh," you said seriously, taking your phone out and opening the app. "Secondly, I know how it looks, but don't laugh. A girl can dream, okay?"

And then you showed them a video. Then the second one and third, pointing at the English club flyer and trying to justify yourself with I know you can’t see his face, but… or I just really like how he looks, you–.

"Wait," Suguru stopped you midsentence. "He?"

"Oh boy," Shoko tried to suppress a laugh, while Suguru’s mouth corners went slightly up.

"Hey!" You laughed, hitting Shoko’s shoulder lightly. "You promised! Anyway, you need to go with me to the English club meeting today. I can’t do it alone. What if I see him and–"

"And do what?" Suguru wondered, too delighted, while Shoko continued to pretend like she didn't find the whole situation worth dying from a laugh.

Suguru was right.

And what would you do, aside from creaming your pants at the sight of his tightly fitting shirt?

What would you do if he were right in front of you?

Would you talk to him? Ask for a number? Maybe–

But then the professor came in, and class suddenly fell quiet.

Shoko whispered something to Suguru, she smiled, and then you felt the brunette's warm breath near your ear. 

"We’ll help you find him, don’t worry," she said softly, but you could still hear a hint of amusement in her voice. 

And they kept their words indeed, as a few hours later, you were twirling in front of your room's mirror, long, black dress cluching on your plush body tightly.

"How is it?" You asked, turning once again in front of your two new friends.

Shoko and Suguru were sitting on your bed and glancing at your way a mix of sympathy and pity. The English club meeting was planned for the evening in one of the bars close to the university, where students could get drunk for the lowest price on the most disgusting drinks humanity has ever seen. According to members, however, gathering in a bar was supposed to help new members warm up and break the ice, which, you thought, was a wonderful idea considering that getting blacked out drunk was your plan B in case the conversation with your crush went terribly.

"Babe, you really look magnificent," Shoko said, moving near the balcony to light a cigarette.

"Your thighs look fantastic in it," Suguru add, playing with a lock of her hair.

But looking at her with nothing but pure jealousy – you wanted to be her or with her? – words, your thighs look fantastic, clenched in your throat. As indeed they looked, hugged by a long, black skirt, with a few open buttons of her dark shirt showing a lace bra. And, oh, how big were her tits truly? Because for a whole evening your eyes couldn't leave her red-kissed lips and low, low cut in her shirt.

"Well, it doesn’t matter, what if he’s a tits guy?" you sighed, looking at yourself in the mirror. 

"Trust me, he isn't," grey smoke twirled from Shoko's mouth, when Suguru sent her a glance.

"Anyways, I think we should go if we want to find a good spot," she added, and both you and Shoko finally followed her out.

The bar was right around the corner, although it turned out to be a rather small restaurant, all reserved for today’s university clubs meeting. It was already full when you came in, with laughter and drunk voices flowing in the air. Most of the English club members were already there, but you still managed to find some empty spots, immediately filled by the three of you. You noticed, however, how big the space between you and Shoko was, as if a whole person could sit there.

"I don’t bite, you know?" you laughed, but she only sent you this cunning smile, the same one you noticed after revealing your secret.

"You don't, but–" she started, but then you heard another voice.

"Yo! Sugu, Shoko!"

So, you knew you had a thing for women.

Never dated one, but since middle school, you've known there was something about them. Desirable, you would say, exciting, even bizarre, with the way your heart was always mysteriously beating faster for your female friends, but never boys who constantly tried to flirt with your ignorant self. And the sheer fact of you never really being in a proper relationship, maybe even never enjoying sex with a man to the fullest, should give you a bit of thinking.

So you indeed loved women.

Masculine women, to be specific.

Masculine but not in a still a bit feminine, long hair and big boobs way – rather short haircut, wide back and almost manly physique. People laughed at that, because why be attracted to women if they look like men anyway? But you couldn’t explain it, and now that she appeared on your horizon, you truly couldn't explain why your cheeks suddenly started to burn, sizzle maybe, red like cherry pie and thighs clenching under the table.

What was even worse, you recognised her.

No, him.

At least that’s what you’ve been thinking from the beginning. It was supposed to be him, for God's sake. Not her, with long legs wrapped in loose black pants, a flowing blue shirt gripping her shoulders, two opened buttons, and sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She was so close, you could almost see her standing right in front of you, with white hair curling at the end of her neck and bangs loosely falling on her eyes. You could almost see her piercing ocean eyes and long white lashes, fluttering under the silver eyebrow piercing.

Why have you never considered it could be a woman? It’s not like you didn’t notice how clothes fit differently around her breasts or how feminine her fingers looked. She was muscular, of course, but there were small things you just should've noticed! 

You weren’t disappointed, though.

Oh no, you definitely weren’t disappointed. 

"And you?" she suddenly asked, as if looking at you. Wait, she was looking at you.

"I–um–what was the–"

"She’s a new friend from our major," Suguru answered, saving you from the first embarrassment.

Your name slipped through with a sudden warmth hitting your cheeks.

"Pretty," she smirked, and Shoko let her right sit next to you. Oh god, you’re not making it out alive today. "Gojo Satoru, but just call me Satoru."

Satoru, you whispered, looking at her slim, extended hand, with long fingers hugged by multiple rings.

Just yesterday, you were taking out your toy to relieve yourself with the same hand in mind, and now you were supposed to touch it?

But you simply nodded, and her hand closed around yours in a tight, electrifying grip.

Then more people came, alcohol started to flow, and you were getting warmer and warmer. And Satoru was there. The centre of attention, joking so effortlessly that everyone was almost crying, smiling at other women at your table, and definitely taking more space than she should have. Her low voice was stimulating your senses, and already wet lingerie, sticking to your cunt.

You were no better than a pervert, oh god.

"What about you?" Her head suddenly turned, and you almost choked on your drink.

"I–I’m–"

She laughed and moved her body fully towards you, resting her hand on the back of your chair. You could feel her warmth and strong perfume clinging to her blue shirt, fingers mere millimetres away from the burning skin of your shoulder and thighs, definitely, definitely too close to yours. The shirt matched her ocean eyes so beautifully that you thought you would truly love to swim with her.

"Am I really that boring?" she smirked, small wrinkles appearing in the corners of her eyes.

You are honestly anything but boring! But instead, looked down on your fingers and smiled softly. "I’m sorry, I guess I’m a bit distracted today," she chuckled. "What did you just say?"

"You have fun?" she asked again, thumb slightly, barely, skimming your shoulder.

Did she just get closer to you, or you really drunk a bit too much?

"Oh, yes, although I don’t usually come to places like this," you said truthfully, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Yeah? Then what convinced you tonight?" Satoru grinned, leaning back with confidence.

You, you wanted to say, but just ended up biting your lips.

"I heard the drinks are good. Also, there was supposed to be some good company," you smiled, and Satoru’s eyes flickered, body leaning even closer.

The air was hot and stuffy, almost choking you under the sweater you decided to wear in case of a colder evening.

You took it off.

And noticed it.

Her eyes quickly fell down to your breast spilling from a tight dress, perked nipples hugged by black material and thin straps pressing on your shoulders. A faint sigh slipped past her lips when your thigh accidentally touched hers.

"And how is it?" She whispered.

"Drinks or company?"

"Both," she replied quickly.

You laughed softly, spinning straw in your drink. Satoru watched you patiently, but you could feel the tension hanging in the air.

"Not bad," you replied, and before she could answer, you heard drunk Shoko.

"Satoruuuu, you should know thaaat y/n mistakenly took you for a guy," she laughed, and you felt your blush creeping up to your ears.

"Shoko!" you shouted, covering her mouth.

Something flickered in Satoru's eye. Curiosity? Amusement? "Oh, really?"

"Yeah, she saw your videos! You should really start adding the hashtags, women fall for you thinking you’re a ma–," this time even Suguru helped you close Shoko’s mouth, but the milk was already spilled.

"So you fell for me?" Satoru asked with a low voice, thumb fully pressing against your bare shoulder, almost burning a print on your skin.

Breath caught in your throat, eyes skimmed nervously between Suguru's frown and Shoko's low, drunk chuckle. Satoru's thigh touching yours, trying to keep composure and not think about the intensity of Satoru's eyes and the pressure they puts on your fast-beating heart.

"I–sorry–I need to use the bathroom," you murmured faintly, standing up and excusing yourself with embarrassment.

You weren’t drunk, maybe a bit tipsy, but your head was hot and spinning, with cheeks so red even cold water couldn’t calm them. 

And the worst part was that she looked so good. So handsome, even thinking about it made you wet again. With a lovely smile and strong arms, accidentally rubbing against yours, with glimmering, piercing eyes and curious glances thrown your way. You pressed your thighs together, at this point, even considering taking your pants off because what was their use if slick material was already glued to your pussy.

"Are you okay?" A low voice abruptly broke the silent bathroom filled only with your heavy breath.

You looked up at the mirror, seeing Satoru behind you. She was so tall, at least a head taller than you, and you suddenly remembered people talking about her being a part of the university’s athletic team. Just look at her legs, of course, she was a part of the athletic team!

"Um, sorry, I think I’m just drunk," you lied, looking at how she closed the distance between you two.

Her tall body stopped right behind you, just inches away, her lips lowering to your ear.

"Yeah? Let me take you back then," she whispered, gently placing hands on your waist. 

You froze as her chest pressed to your back, pushing you against the sink, while you watched her in the mirror for a whole time. With breath stuck in your throat, her lips brushed your warm neck, inhaling your perfumes, sweet and sticky like cotton candy. She gripped your waist tighter and put a knee between your plush thighs.

"Let me take you," she murmured, placing a delicate kiss behind your ear. "Oh, you smell so good, baby. Let me take care of you, hm?"

You felt so weak, and if not for her muscular thigh under your core and warm hands around you, your knees would give up. And it was so easy to just nod your head and let her take you out of the bathroom.

"Hey, are you okay?" Shoko asked with a worried frown, but her gaze was still a bit hazy. "I’m sorry, I didn’t–"

"She’s a bit drunk, I’ll take her home," Satoru stopped her midsentence, taking your bag in her left hand, with right never leaving your waist.

"Oh, don’t worry, we can–" Shoko started, but Suguru pinched her waist. "Sugu!" she wailed pitifully.

"Thank you, Satoru, I’m sure she needs an escort," she smiled slyly, winking your way.

But as it turned out, you didn’t go back to your dorm.

No, instead, Satoru took your hand and led you to her private apartment just around the corner, definitely too big and expensive to afford for a normal student. Her hands didn’t leave your waist even for a minute, and the peaceful quietness didn’t bother you at all when you waited for the elevator to open and enter her home.

But it began faster than you expected, because the moment your foot crossed the threshold, she pushed you against the front door and kissed like a woman starved.

Her lips were soft with a sweet aftertaste of all these fancy cocktails she just drank. With your arms around her neck, you brought her closer, and the slick noise of your tongues filled the corridor.

"You taste so fucking good," she whispered, going down to your neck and breasts, quickly taking off the dress’s straps from your shoulders. It wasn’t a bra-type dress, so your tits slipped from overly tight material, right into her big hands. You felt her hitched breath and soft lips around your nipple.

"Oh god," you sighed, putting your palms in her white, soft hair.

"Just Satoru," she winked, and you couldn’t contain a snort.

She sucked, licked and left a trail of pinkish kisses all over your tits, with the other hand going up and up your soft thigh.

Then (with one arm, for gods' sake) she picked you up and took to her bedroom. You recognised it immediately: these wooden doors, a mirror right next to it, warm yellow light and a neat desk. She placed you gently on a soft bed, and you melted under her touch, when the dress left your body completely, leaving you only in cute pink panties. 

"Looks familiar, hm?" she murmured, but you just blushed and halfly covered your face.

Of course, the room looked familiar – you've seen it a hundred times, and held onto this knowledge with amusement!

"Oh, baby," Satoru suddenly gasped, looking at you from a height. Well, maybe not at you, but your velvety thighs, slightly opened and tightly pressed to your belly, showing your drenched pussy. Her breath was heavy as she started unbuttoning her shirt and showed a simple white bra, covering her pretty, milky tits. You raised to touch her, but her hand quickly stopped yours.

"You first, baby, I can’t wait to taste you."

You don’t even know how and when, but you quickly found yourself hovering over her warm mouth, with your pants off and slick dripping right on her tongue. 

"Sit down, baby," her warm hands gently touched your hips and pulled you down. "You know I can handle your heat."

But you hesitated, because her face looked so weak next to your thighs, with an ability to easily cut off her access to oxygen if you actually sat. 

"Don’t underestimate me, sit properly and let me take care of you," she cooed, ocean eyes stuck in your glistering folds, drenched in your honeyed juices already dripping down her starved mouth.

And as if she wanted to prove it, her tongue lapped through your sensitive pussy, leaving you with a small gasp.

"S-Satoru, ngh–" you stuttered, feeling her sucking your swollen clit, with soft moans escaping her own lips.

"That’s it," she murmured, and you finally fully sat on her warm lips, feeling a trembling cry going right to your pudgy clit. She almost manhandled you, pulling you even more onto her starved mouth, with long fingers caressing your nipples and skimming through your whole body. 

She wasn’t slowing down, not even breathing at this point, just burying his nose in your pussylips, sucking your clit over and over again, and playing with a sweet bundle of nerves. The sound of her wet tongue going through your folds was so filthy, you couldn’t contain yourself from moving your hips back and forth, riding her face like a madwoman, until you felt her long fingers finally finding your spongy spot.

"Ah Toru, yes yes yes please," you moaned softly, tightening your grip on her white locks. "It feels so good, oh god"

"Come on, baby, give it to me. You look so fucking pretty on top, my pretty pretty girl," Satoru groaned, glancing at you with glittering eyes, completely and totally hazed by adoration and desire. Droplets of sweat covered her forehead, and a few strands of soft hair stuck to her furrowed brows. You gently brushed them off, feeling her tongue going even faster.

Your thighs trembled when she put her third finger in and pressed your gummy walls over and over, until you felt heat coiling in your belly. Your thighs clenched on her head even tighter, until you heard her stuttered breath. "B-Baby, ngh, I could fucking marry y-you right now mmm." And she looked so hot with these teary blue eyes, furrowed brows, lips stuck to your clit, and one hand still clenched on your thighs, helping you ride her mouth with only squelching filling the room.

Because she was sooo pussydrunk oh, lapping your folds in the most obscene way, eyeing your sweet reactions and moaning with creamy cum going down her throat. You were clenching her fingers as if you wanted to milk them fully, and maybe she was disappointed that the strap-on she recently ordered still hadn't been delivered. She didn't have anyone to use it with, but who would know that a cutie with such a sweet pussy would cross her path?

"Satoru mmm!"

She knew you were cumming, with your back arched so slutty and hips riding the hell out of her mouth, as she was ruining your soft walls and overstimulated clit. A heatwave came, and a moment later, you felt a heavenly relief, squirting all over her mouth with her eyes fluttering from the pressure your weight put on her. 

And before she could take a breath and still enjoy the smell of your cunt, you got off, immediately reaching for the button of her trousers, taking them off in one quick motion. She leaned on her elbows, looking down at you with a drenched face and completly lost gaze.

"I don’t think I can handle it now," she murmured, but you already put your tongue on drenched panties, sucking her clit through white material. "Baby ngh–"

But same as her, your mind was still hazy when your fingers hooked on the lace and pulled it from her long legs. Your eyes locked on oh so pretty pussy and puffy lips glistening under your soft fingers.

But then you started nervously fidgeting in your place because, well, it just hit you.

"I, um, I’ve never been with a woman," you admitted, looking at her shyly.

She just smiled back, tilting her head, "Me too."

"Well, I never slept with a woman," you repeated yourself, but she just sat there, sly like a fox with slightly squinted ocean eyes. 

"Yeah," she added, slowly leaning towards you. She placed a soft kiss on your lips, and you could feel your creamy cum. "Me too."

You looked at her dumbstruck.

"No way. You just gave me the best orgasms I’ll probably even experience, so you will not give me a crap about never sleeping with a woman," you said, but once again lowered down to her warmth, giving her first shy, kitty lick.

Satoru moaned, her hand brushing through your hair, slightly pushing you towards her cunt.

"I ngh never had a time–ah baby," her head lolled back, and you could see muscles on her forearms tensing when she clenched her fingers on your head.

You slurped, sucked, and messily kissed her pink cunt, with a taste so heavenly you felt yourself getting soaked again. Then you added one finger and felt how tight her hole was, clenching around it and sucking you in. She was still in her white bra and half-unbuttoned shirt, but you could see, fucking god, her abs tensing when you moaned right on her clit. A tremble went through her body, thighs clenched around your head as more of her honeyed juices landed on your tongue, so sweet and messy, drenching your face right down to your chin.

"Baby, look at me," she panted, and you gave her your best doe eyes, a slutty, whorish gaze, the one that made her clench around your fingers and gush even more of her slick, as you drank everything she gave you with a soft moan. "Ah fuck, so pretty pretty pretty, I’m gonna cum mmm. I’m so close, keep looking at me, baby please"

And then you felt her cunt squeezing in absolute spasms, drenching your fingers while pushing her gummy spot and lips devoured her puffy clit, trembling sweetly under your lapping tongue. She looked so pretty, with her strong, masc physique, trembling and whimpering while you were giving her the first orgasm in her life. You gave her a looong lick last time, while she was going down from her high. 

You both slumped onto the bed, drenched in your cums and with heavy breaths filling the room.

"It was–" you started, but she quickly interrupted. 

"I was serious."

You turned your head, looking at her soft gaze.

"About?"

She turned her body towards you, leaning on her elbow.

"Well, firstly, I have never eaten a woman out. I never even properly dated anyone. Secondly, you should marry me, because I think I just got addicted to your pus–" You quickly shut her up with your hand and a rosy flush spilling on your cheeks, as she laughed quietly.

"I’ll see what I can do," you whispered, while she leaned to place a soft kiss on your lips.

And a few days later, you were once again lying in your bed, scrolling through the videos of your favourite content creator.

"Oh fuck me,' you whispered, looking at her, in this handsome red long-sleeve she just bought and, as usual, black pants hugging her lean legs. She turned around, showed her slim fingers full of rings and a black bag with a cute Digimon pin you bought for her. You checked the comments, all of them creaming over the hot guy in the video and his muscular forearms. 

Rock, paper, DEFINITELY scissors, you wrote, scrolling to the next video.

I was thinking about making more one-shots with fem gojo so lemme know if you want it!

Sukuna.

"Well–" you started, trying to take your daughter back to her bedroom and have a one-to-one conversation alone. Without Sukuna or–

"Sorry, baby, but you have only your mother to blame."

Higuruma.

Dear God! There was nothing you wished for more than murder your insensitive husbands right this second.

Because the truth was that, yeah, you did have a type.

A big-nose type. The one you could ride for hours and never have enough, with a bump brushing your clit just right and tongue swirling between your folds. The fact that you somehow managed to find not just one but two husbands with the most deliciously big and rideable noses during your university days was just pure luck.

What's more, their noses were the first thing you noticed about them. Right there, during your law course, when Higuruma and Sukuna sat right next to you, in the first row, with muscular backs and sharp tongues, always fighting about the way a certain case could be solved.

You gave zero fucks about the classes, only needing the passing score to fill the graduate requirements, but they did care. And you started caring too, after you spent all the time during the classes looking at nothing but their noses and wondering how they would feel deep in your cunt. And then you needed to take the tool of your sins, because the final exam turned out to cover everything you (somehow) failed to note.

But you knew who had notes. Well, you knew who had everything neatly remembered in their heads and could, in fact, help you pass this fuckass exam.

"I'm sorry?" Higuruma asked, looking down at your sweetly pouted lips and cute dress that showed a bit too much cleavage.

Sukuna didn't say anything, but you saw his slightly raised brows and crimson eyes glued to your flushed cheeks. You really went crazy with a blush today, just to look like a doll.

"I said, let's make a deal. You'll help me study for the finals, and I'll gladly ride your faces."

Bold!

Higuruma thought for a minute, head tilted, brows furrowed. "And what's in it for us?"

Mean!

You scoffed, but noticed a hint of playfulness dancing in his eyes, a smirk curving his lips.

And on the same evening, you rode them tiringly, madly, not just one nose but two, with a sweet bonus of having your drenched cunt stuffed fully. Your hips on Higuruma's face, Sukuna standing right in front with a pulsing cock and hand gripping your hair fully. You babbled, cried, feeling the bump of Higuruma's nose pushing against your clit, his long fingers thrusting deep till more creamy cum went down his throat.

And then? Switch.

Sukuna under you, growling straight into your cunt when your thighs hugged his face, big hands moving your hips back and forth as you rode him franzily. Your lips wrapped around Higuruma's cock, his head tilted back, deep growls escaping his throat as you sucked your cheeks in.

And the fact was, that while your attention was sliding towards their noses, they thought about nothing else than having your thighs wrapped around their heads, strangling, gripping, locking them close to your sweet cunt. So, well, your offer did in fact make them happy, and at some point, after seeing your falling grades, they would probably beg you to ride them with your plush hips in exchange for the notes. Good that you were much, much bolder!

Win-win situation! So that's how you ended up finishing your law exam with a B+ and two lovely boyfriends.

And years later, a teenage daughter who had no idea how hard her mother worked to end up with not one but two devoted and obsessed big-nosed husbands!

Taglist: @mellyrally @1cckedheart @ham-star @indom-itus @satorupied @msheds0519 @a-dizzle777 @man1cslut @naxinomi @getopilleds @shittypunkbarbeque @urgirl-jijiiii

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ want to join permanent taglist? sign up here ꨄ︎

I genuinely think that big-nosed Sukuna is underrated.

such a joke that could only be achieved by gojo satoru himself, but little did he know that people would begin to ship him with you. resulting in his fans migrating to your page to raid your comments with, ‘collab’, ‘are you and goat dating?’, ‘is there a joint account?’, and millions more. you could honestly say that his audience was yours, and your audience was his.

you’d be lying if you said that you’ve never thought of satoru in such an inappropriate manner, to be honest who wouldn’t? he’s got the ideal body you’ve daydreamed about, the charismatic personality and a gorgeous fucking face to match it. it’s almost annoying really.

but what’s really annoying is the fact that he lives overseas in japan — meaning that if you two ever did want to collaborate you’d be traveling miles away from home just to have sex.

“i could always fly out to you.” satoru suggests over face-time, his camera constantly moving because he can’t stand still as he walks around with his phone. “i mean, logically yeah but it’s not that deep.” you respond with your eyes fixated on the screen before satoru’s rapidly pulling his phone towards his face. “what do you mean it’s not that deep?!” he softly pouts, as if this situation was something serious.

you let out an unbelievable laugh. “i’m saying that it’s not worth you flying over here just for sex.” you specify as his pout deepens even more. “i don’t have to travel there just for sex, what if i just wanted to hang out with you.” he says, blue eyes peering at you through the screen.

there’s a brief pause as you think on it. “then yeah, i guess that’s fine as long as you bring me a souvenir since i’ve never been to japan.” you raise up a hand, holding your pointer finger up with a bright smile.

“a souvenir you say?” satoru repeats slowly, as his childish pout disappears once he hears the words he wants to hear. “a souvenir from japan??!” he grins mischievously, as he watches you nod. “i’ve got a perfect souvenir for you!”

little did you know that two weeks from now you’d be getting a package with a japanese address on it, and there’s only one person it could be sent from — gojo satoru. you open the box carefully, pulling the folds apart before seeing another box, though much smaller with a letter on top of it.

“message me when you’ve received it. it’s a souvenir homemade authentically from japan — love toru ( ^ω^ ).”

you’re reaching for the smaller box, tearing it apart as styrofoam wraps around the edges. you’re pulling the safety cover off to be met with a translucent, pink siliconed dildo. roughly thick in girth, there’s a prominent vein running down the bottom of the shaft and a gorgeous mushroom-shaped tip which looks awfully similar to his.

there’s absolutely no way satoru sent you a replicated mold of his dick. you’re speed-dialing his phone as you hold the shape of his dick in your hand as he answers the phone almost instantly.

“moshi moshiiii.” you could hear his stupid grin through the phone. “satoru what kinda souvenir is this?” you ask stunned and in disbelief as he cracks a laugh. “it’s the souvenir you ask for— personally made by yours truly.” he replies proud of himself.

you’re truly at a loss for words. “i don’t know what possessed you to send this, but you should’ve saved your money.” you said, fully taking in the size of the dildo.

“no, it’s for you.” he replies, “to y’know, prepare yourself for whenever we hang out and… do it.” his voice quiets towards the end of his sentence. “plus! i wanna see you use it, if you don’t mind.” he says softly, hoping that you’d say yes, before he’s frowning at your answer.

“absolutely not.” you reply blatantly.

When he laughs, his puckered hole quivers and the sight entrances you out of your fears. The fake cockhead kisses the hole, circling and pushing in slightly just to test the waters. Still a little cold, your boyfriend jolts at the odd sensation of the strawberry-flavoured lube aiding the mouth-watering rubbing of the fake cock against every sensitive nerve ending in his most vulnerable area. 

Satoru lets out a breathy moan. Then, inch by inch, he’s taking it all in like a pro — he’s even got a perfect arch you can’t help but run your nails down, teasing him. 

“Woah,” he says, feeling insanely full when you bottom out with no problems. “This is what you feel every time? I just gained a n-new —hngh, ooh that’s in deep, baby—newfound respect for you.”

Admittedly, you’re enjoying this more than you thought you would. There’s something about bringing the strongest sorcerer to his knees, watching his adorable, pink hole flutter around a cock, albeit a fake one, and seeing a blush erupt all over his pristine, pale skin. He’s moaning like crazy, pushing back ever so slightly like he can’t help it. 

“Feel good, Toru?”

He groans and squeezes down. Hard. “D-don’t. Ha, don’t talk like that.”

“Like what, baby?”

“Like that. It’s got my dick leaking l-like crazy. Ah, I don’t think I’ll —oh, damnnn— l-last very long. Not when you’re fucking me so good, baby. K-knew you’d be a natural at -ngh!- this. I love you so so soooo much. You're a champ.”

And he’s right: he doesn’t last very long at all. Satoru shoots out ropes and ropes of pearlescent cum all over his stomach and the satin sheets, body shaking from the heavenly sparks of delectable lightning emanating from deep inside of him, and you swear he even whimpers in the midst of his fierce orgasm. 

Giggling, you wrap your hand around his super sensitive cock, loving the way it pulses in your grip. Like a reflex, he thrusts forward, keen to milk himself for all he's worth. He can't get enough of the feel of you, and darn it if he doesn't wish he could feel your real cock inside of him instead of a silicon one. "Oh, fuuuuck, that was a good one."

Slumped on the bed in front of you, you let him reorient himself — he gets mean when he doesn't get a break in between orgasms. You're mulling the last ten minutes, thinking that the blue dildo looked great against his pale skin, that it did somehow come naturally to you, and that it was oddly enjoyable. There was a notch in the strap that was rubbing your clit just right, and if he had lasted longer, despite the aching in your hips from the unusual movements, you totally would have orgasmed. 

"Would it be too," he breathes out, sentence fragmented by a sudden shudder, "t-too much to call you mommy? 'Cause it kinda feels right."

"Shut up, you dork."

It takes only mere seconds for him to ask for another round once the wave of pleasure subsides, the dildo still lodged deep, held tight by his gummy walls. And you're not hesistant either to oblige. After all, he's worked so hard; he deserves this. 

“H-hey, do me against a mirror. I wanna see how pretty you look.”

You roll your eyes. “You mean, you want to see yourself.”

A grin creeps its way onto his face, which you feel more than you see. “I can multitask — that’s what the Six Eyes are for, baby.”

𝚂𝚞𝚔𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚜.

𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚆𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜.

𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝙹𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚈𝚞𝚓𝚒 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚂𝚞𝚔𝚞𝚗𝚊.

𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 – 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚗.

𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖 – 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠.

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 – 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚔 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝.

𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝. 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍. 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝. 𝚂𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠? 𝚆𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚙?

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎.

𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜. 𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍. 𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 – 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚢, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙’𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍?

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎. 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝.

𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

𝙷𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔. 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚝 – 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠? 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚙 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢.

𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜.

“𝙷𝚎𝚢 [𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎]?”

𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

“𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚢’𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠? 𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚜.”

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, “𝙼𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘! 𝚆𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚏𝚎́ 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗.”

𝙶𝚘𝚍, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝. 𝙸𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍.

“𝙽𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚕,” 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔, 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, “𝙼𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍…𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔…𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚞𝚙.”

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚝, 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛.

“𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖? 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍…𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍! 𝚆𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝?”

𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍.

𝚂𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎 – 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘?

𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚔𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

𝙷𝚎’𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚙. 𝙷𝚎’𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚣 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍’𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠. 𝙷𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚔𝚘 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚔𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍’𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 – 𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖?

𝙷𝚎’𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏.

𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚜.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚛𝚝. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚖.

“𝙷𝚎𝚢 𝚂𝚞𝚔𝚞𝚗𝚊…𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎,” 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚙.

𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚕𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜, 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚢𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢.

𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚏𝚏.

𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚠𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍, “𝙽𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗’ 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜,” 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚛 (𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚢) 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

𝙱𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎. 𝙸𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚐𝚘 – 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚍.

𝙸𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 ‘𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐,’ 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚞𝚙 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚛.

𝚆𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌?

𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 – 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

𝚈𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

𝙱𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚠𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜.

𝙷𝚎’𝚍 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎.

𝙾𝚔𝚊𝚢, 𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗.

𝙾𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚂𝚞𝚔𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢, “𝙲’𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚐𝚞𝚢, 𝚕𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚙.” “𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝…𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍𝚘.”

𝙰𝚜 𝚂𝚞𝚔𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚞𝚙, 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚂𝚞𝚔𝚞𝚗𝚊, “𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.”

𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙷𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚛𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛.

“𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞.”

𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚙 – 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜… 𝚊𝚌𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝.

“𝙾𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝙸 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚜. 𝙳𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛.”

“𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠?” 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢.

“𝙻𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 – 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚖 𝙸 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛? 𝚂𝚑𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠.”

𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔, “𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛.”

𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚂𝚞𝚔𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚍𝚞𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚖𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, “𝙳𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠? 𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜-”

“𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚔𝚘’𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚝, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐’𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜.”

“𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚔𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜?”

“𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑…𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜.”

“…𝚂𝚘 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎?”

“𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚂𝚞𝚔𝚞𝚗𝚊-”

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞’𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙, 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 ‘𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎’ 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚟𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚢 – 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜.

𝙾𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚛 – 𝚠𝚑𝚘’𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 – 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛.

“𝚆𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚒- 𝙾𝚑. 𝙺𝚞𝚗𝚊?”

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜.

𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎.

𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎’𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚘𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚘 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘.

𝙷𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘… 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎? 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗!

“𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕 – 𝚢’𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚒 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞-”

“𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕…𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎?”

𝙸𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜.

“𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸’𝚖 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸’𝚖 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝, 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝. 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚞𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚞𝚝𝚜…𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢. 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕, 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎.”

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑.

“𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗…𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸’𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.”

𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎.

“𝙲’𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝙺𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞.”

𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎.

“𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍’𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙, 𝚜𝚘 𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝.”

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚞𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎.

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢.

“…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?”

“The Oni’s fighting again.” “You sure? I thought he got banned. Didn't he almost kill the kid yesterday?”

“Yeah, three motherfucking circuit of excessive brutality. That kid just might be a murderer rather than a boxer, he doesn't give a flying shit about the rules, man.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s here. They brought him back for the money, dipshit.”

Sukuna. No—The Red King. The Four-Armed Devil. The Oni. Names spat like prayers or curses, depending on who said them. When he rolled his shoulders, the crowd roared.

“ONI! ONI! ONI! ONI!”

It started as a murmur, then became a chant that shook the walls. He didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t need to. Their faith was irrelevant. All that mattered was the fight. The money. He stepped into the ring, bare feet scraping against concrete smeared with dried crimson. Across the ring, his opponent—a mountain of a man, bigger, heavier, veins throbbing under his skin, mouth guard glinting. A brick of a man named Vega cracked his knuckles.

“Heard you’re a myth,” Vega sneered, voice gritty. “Time to see if myths bleed.”

Sukuna’s lips twitched—a faint smirk.

The ref, if you could call him that, barked something about “rules,” but they both knew there were none here. The bell cracked through the air. Sukuna rolled his shoulders, inhaled slowly. His heartbeat pounded in his skull. His muscles twitched, restless.

Somewhere behind the roar of the crowd, his manager shouted across the chaos.

“You want that damn cut, you win this clean! None of that mercy shit, Sukuna!!! Don't make me clean your shit again!!”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He’d already taken the pill fifteen minutes ago—the little white capsule that burned like hellfire down his throat, making his pulse explode. His veins high alert, muscles tight, eyes sharp as razors. The drug hit like lightning.

DING!

As hell broke loose.

The first hit landed like thunder. Vega’s fist slammed into Sukuna’s ribs, forcing the air from his lungs. He grunted, barely budging. Vega was good—fast, technical—but Sukuna's not a sportsman.

He let him hit. Let the man feel like a winner. His opponent charged again, throwing a right hook that cracked against Sukuna’s thick jaw. Pain bloomed. He grinned, teeth flashing through the blood in his mouth, and retaliated with a brutal left uppercut that sent the man stumbling back.

The crowd went feral.

“ONI! ONI! ONI!”

He swung low, body twisting with the weight of a man built for violence. His knuckles connected with Vega’s jaw. The sound was sickening—a crack, followed by the splatter of blood onto the mat. Vega staggered back, spitting teeth. Sukuna didn’t pause. Hook. Uppercut. Elbow. Every blow spat blood everywhere.

He didn’t fight for them. Didn’t fight for fame.

He fought for the money, the money that would secure his life back—a life, a moment, a piece of himself long buried.

Sukuna advanced like a devil. Every punch was a war drum — fists slamming into flesh, ribs crunching, breath hitching. He didn’t fight to score points. He fought to hurt. To erase. To feel the impact reverberate through his bones like proof he was still alive.

His opponent swung again, wild, desperate. Sukuna didn’t dodge — he took it, cheek splitting open. Blood spattered across the mat, copper on his tongue.

He spat it out as he struck—a knee to the gut. Vega doubled over. Sukuna grabbed him by the neck, forcing him upright before slamming a fist into his stomach so deep it made the crowd flinch.

“FUCKING KILL HIM, MAN!” someone screamed. “MAKE MY MONEY WORTH!”

Then he drove his fist into the man’s gut once, twice — a third time, until he heard the retch, the gasp. The man crumpled, clutching his stomach. Sukuna grabbed him by the scruff, yanked him upright, as heavy hot breath left from his bloodied mouth, exhaling, and rammed a knee into his face. Bone cracked. The crowd screamed.

One. Two. Three.

Each strike is like punctuation. His vision pulsed red, the pill thrumming through his blood, adrenaline flooding every nerve. He could hear the ring — the deafening voice of his bitchass manager, the pulse — the rhythm of bodies, the chant of his name.

Sukuna’s eyes flicked up. The crowd blurred. For a second, he saw something else—

A flicker of memory.

A small room. A little boy sitting beside a hospital bed. Hand cold in his. The machines had gone silent hours ago. He’d been twelve.

“No coverage. No transplant. I’m sorry, kid.”

He’d sworn, then, he’d never beg again. Never be helpless. Never be poor. Never be weak.

Another hit—Vega’s desperate hook. It connected with Sukuna’s cheek, snapping his head sideways. Pain bloomed. He stumbled a step back, tongue brushing his bleeding lip. Vega’s eyes went wide—hope flickering for a heartbeat.

Sukuna smiled. A feral, teeth-bared grin.

“THAT ALL YOU GOT!?”

He surged forward, unhinged. The next thirty seconds were carnage. Sukuna absorbed punches that would have ended lesser men.

His body swayed, his muscles screaming—but his fists never slowed. He drove Vega to the corner, one, two, three blows splitting the man’s eyebrow open, blood cascading down his face. A right cross. A left hook. A knee.

The man staggered back, face a ruin, eyes glassy. Sukuna followed, relentless. A hook to the jaw. Another to the ribs. He ducked a counterpunch, felt it graze his temple, saw stars — then answered with a cross that dropped his opponent like dead weight.

The ref hesitated — the man wasn’t moving.

But the crowd wanted blood.

The finishing strike—an uppercut that sent Vega sprawling. The man hit the mat with a sickening thud that silenced the crowd for a breath. Sukuna’s chest heaved. His hands shook — not from mercy, but from the aftershock. He lifted his fist, hesitated just long enough to prove he could’ve killed him — then lowered it. Turned his back, his feet stained from Vega's blood-pooled form.

The bell rang. A roar so loud it shook the rafters.

Sukuna stood above the body, Hot steam emitting from his overheating body, chest heaving. The audience's sure they have just seen the devil as blood drips from his crooked nose, his jaw, his fists.

His eye is swollen. He didn’t raise his arms. Didn’t smile. Didn’t celebrate. He just spat on the floor. Body drenched in sweat, heaving. Stepping over the ropes, every muscle screaming, heart thundering.

As walked off, leaving the medics to scrape Vega off the mat.

The shower ran cold, an icy cascade sluicing over his bruised, battered body, stripping away the sweat and grime of the fight. His teeth chattered involuntarily, his arm pressed against the wall for support, the muscles trembling under the shock of cold. And yet… he welcomed it. Every drop seemed to claw at the tension coiled tight in his body, every jet of water dragging the painful adrenaline from his veins.

The room echoed with the slap of water against tile, the hiss of steam curling in the corners like smoke from a dying fire. The cold seeped into every joint, numbing the aches that throbbed insistently. He pressed his palm against a split rib, grimacing as the sting of contact flared, then slowly traced the jagged cut along his forearm.

Blood bled into the torrent, streaking down the drain, a grim red lace mingling with the water. Fingers flexed slowly, testing joints and tendons, feeling the betrayals his body had endured in the ring. Every bruise, every abrasion, whispered reminders of his mortality and his persistence. He tilted his head back, letting the water sluice through his pink hair, washing away the black dye, sweat, and grime, sending it into the tiled abyss. The burn of each bruise, each cut, pressed like tiny warnings—but he welcomed it, a silent acknowledgment that he was alive, still fighting, still himself.

Then the door slammed open.

“You really fucking think you can just—” Rin’s voice cracked, sharp as a whip. High heels clicked over wet tile as she stormed in, hands flailing like she might tear him apart with words alone.

“That was—why the fuck did you fucking knee him! You almost got fucking disqualified! Do you even care what this does to your—YOU CURSE FUCK OF A MAN,”

Before he could react, she grabbed the nearest object—a metal hairbrush from the counter and hurled it across the room. It clattered against the tile, ricocheting off the wall mere inches from his head. Water sprayed from the shower in tiny droplets as he flinched but remained rooted, eyes half-closed, letting the icy stream mask the sting of her anger. Her chest heaved, cigarette smoke curling around her face as she glared, trembling with fury.

“Do you even fucking hear me? Or are you too busy playing with death like it’s a game?”

Sukuna didn’t respond. Not a word. The water shielded him, the icy rush masking her voice, isolating him in a bubble of pain and focus. He didn’t even open his eyes; instead, he worked methodically to clean the coagulated blood from a deep gash on his shoulder. Fingers pressed, massaged, scrubbed—not violently, but with the precise, deliberate patience of a ritual. The drug still throbbed through his veins, amplifying the sensation of every pulse, every micro-muscle spasm.

“You’re supposed to be precise! Controlled! Use your fucking fist! Not—this!” Rin’s face twisted, pointed, accusatory. She stepped closer, breath sharp with cigarette smoke, but Sukuna remained still, letting the ice seep deeper into his skin, letting the water burn its lessons in.

“You’ll get yourself killed one day, you fuck!!”

Her words ricocheted off him like empty glass. He didn’t need approval. Didn’t need warnings. Didn’t need anyone. She groaned in frustration, dragging a hand through her hair, the cigarette between her fingers trembling, and finally backed away, muttering threats under her breath, the door slamming shut behind her. Sukuna let the water carve along his body, every drop a silent promise: he fought for no one but himself. And for the first time in hours, everything quieted—just a little.

When the water finally stopped, he lingered under the dripping silence, wrapping a towel around his waist. Steam clung to him, fogging the mirror, and he studied the reflection of a man who looked more ghost than human: blood streaked his face, bruises shadowed his jaw and collarbone, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Yet he stood unbroken. Hollow, but unbroken.

He flexed his hands again, tracing the cuts along his arms, lingering on each, memorizing each imperfection. A small, bitter smile tugged at his lips. The world demanded more. He would oblige. The locker room was dim, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent light that cast long, jagged shadows. His reflection in the cracked mirror looked cadaverous as he stepped out, water dripping from every scar, bruised shoulders trembling.

“Fifty grand,” Rin said, tossing a thick envelope to Sukuna, who caught it midair without counting, bills smudging under his damp fingers before he shoved it into his bag.

Her eyes were sharp, calculating. “You’re lucky the crowd went crazy tonight. You made the house—and me—a fortune. You’ll get your cut once I settle the bets.”

“You took too many hits tonight,” Rin muttered, voice low, dangerous. “You’re gettin’ sloppy.”

Sukuna’s eyes flicked up, cold. “Still won.”

“Barely. You’d be dead without the drugs.”

Her hand delved into her coat, retrieving a small bottle. Pills rattled inside as she shook them, as Sukuna’s eyes followed, unblinking. The drugs. Not steroids. Worse. Something that burned through nerves like acid, amplifying endurance at a terrifying cost. He’d been taking them for two years. Each fight lasted longer. Each crash left him more hollow.

“Can’t afford to have you pass out mid-match,” Rin said, tossing it casually. Sukuna caught it, thumb brushing the glass, contemplating the poison.

“Next fight’s next week,” she continued, cigarette smoke curling around her words. “Big crowd. Big bets. And keep your head down—no cops. The syndicate wants money, not paperwork.”

Sukuna didn’t respond. Rin smirked, tapping her cigarette. “You’re a goldmine, Red King. Don’t go soft on me now.” He walks toward his locker, gathering his duffel bag, towering over the fluorescent-lit room. The bruises along his shoulders and collarbone caught the harsh light as he methodically began dressing, sliding on his damp shirt over the scratches and dark welts on his chest.

Laced up his worn shoes slowly, deliberately, each movement precise, controlled—a predator preparing to leave the cage.

Rin watched, leaning casually against the wall, cigarette smoke curling lazily around her face. Her eyes traced the arc of his muscles as they flexed under the taut skin, the subtle quiver in his fingers as he tugged on his sleeves. She saw the remnants of the fight in the bruises, the blood smeared along his torso, and yet she didn’t look away. The tension in the room thickened as she studied him like a hunter marking prey—and prey that refused to be tamed.

“I don’t fight for you,” he said finally, voice low, controlled, as he slung the duffel bag over one shoulder, his damp hair sticking to the sweat and water running down his neck.

“Yeah?” Her smirk widened, sharp as a blade, and her eyes glimmered with something sharper than amusement. “Then what do you fight for?”

She stayed quiet for a beat longer, letting her gaze linger on him as he zipped up his bag, wiped the remaining water from his hair with a towel, and adjusted his shirt over the cuts and bruises. Every flick of movement, every motion, was deliberate, and Rin felt a flicker of something she didn’t expect—admiration, maybe, or something closer to fascination.

Sukuna caught her watching only with a slight tilt of his head, acknowledging her presence without conceding anything. Then, without a word, he stepped toward the door, the fluorescent light flickering over the sharp planes of his bruised, battered body. And left.

The chilly wind cut through your face like a knife, slicing through the ushanka you had sworn would keep your face warm, as the snow fell in delicate, wet flakes, settling quickly into the slush that already coated the busy, noisy streets.

Your arms were full — medical files stacked precariously against your chest, a cardboard tray of lab samples propped up on top as your glasses threatened to slip off your nose, along with your bag hanging from one shoulder, its strap digging into your flesh, threatening to slide off at any moment. Winter had betrayed you today; it's almost humorous. It wasn’t the first time you’d walked home in the dark from the campus, but it was the first time the city felt actively against you, slicked in ice and hostility.

Every step was a gamble as your boots hit a patch of frozen puddle, slid out from under you, and you grabbed at the nearest railing — which proved too thin and flimsy — barely catching yourself. Papers fluttered from your tray, landing in wet, unreadable messes, along with your glasses. God, you really need that retainer for your glasses.

“Shit!” you cursed under your breath, crouching to pick them up as passerbys gave you wary looks, some startled enough to jump back. You flushed hotly, muttering apologies to no one in particular, shoving stray papers back into place, fumbling with the project.

By the time you managed to get everything back in order, your gloved fingers were numb, the ends of your hair damp from the snow, your back aching under the weight of responsibilities that seemed to be nonstop just because the world had frozen. Your bag had shifted again; the strap caught on your coat, and you stumbled once more.

A voice of reason — yours — screamed inside your head, Take a shortcut, the alley, less traffic, less chance of humiliation. You turned sharply into the narrow alleyway between two brick buildings. The streetlights were few and flickering, casting long shadows that seemed to twist and creep with the wind as the alley smelled faintly of mold, old smoke, and something metallic you couldn’t identify. The kind of scent that made you wrinkle your nose and double-check your belongings still with you.

Your boots crunched on ice and broken concrete, each step unstable. You muttered curses under your breath at the world for being too cruel, at the campus for giving you too much to carry, at the alley for being both a shortcut and a trap. And out of nowhere in your peripheral vision, you saw him.

He appeared like some sort of shadow carved out of muscle and menace: broad shoulders, towering height, pink hair plastered against his face by the sweat and snow. For a moment, you froze, heart lurching. He was big. Bigger than anyone you had ever seen in person. Not just tall — imposing, dangerous. Your mind raced with every warning you’d been taught about judging strangers at first sight, but you couldn’t shake the primal instinct to panic.

Heart hammered against your ribcage as you forced yourself to take a step back.

Don’t judge too quickly, you told yourself, but your brain screamed RUN. You adjusted your grip on your pile of hospital things and began to sidestep around him, careful to avoid contact, but your boots betrayed you. A slick patch of ice caught your shoe, and you stumbled. You cursed, arms flailing, and in a desperate attempt to catch yourself, you collided directly with his duffel bag. The world tilted. There was a thud, a grunt, and then — your belongings scattered in every direction like wet confetti. Papers rolled across the concrete. Papers stuck to icy patches. Your tray flipped halfway, samples sliding across the floor with a sickening rattle.

He cursed — deep, guttural, and sharp — a sound that made your stomach lurch. He bent over, steadying himself against the wall with one hand, while his other hand twitched toward his duffel bag as if he could physically erase the impact of your collision.

“I—oh God, I’m so sorry!” you stammered, bending frantically to gather your scattered items. Every instinct screamed that this was his fault too, that if he hadn't been standing like a looming threat in a dark alley, this would never have happened, but your entire being was a textbook case of embarrassment and panic. As he straightened slowly, a sneer cut across his face. “Watch where the fuck you’re—” His words cut off as he staggered slightly. His hand went to his chest, his knees buckling.

You froze. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. You looked at him, really looked. His face was pale beneath the snow and shadow, lips cracked, bruises still dark and angry along his jaw and cheekbones. His knuckles were raw, and his shoulders slumped forward as if the act of standing upright alone was an achievement. You reached out instinctively, then thought better of it. You’re not supposed to touch strangers — but he’s not just a stranger.

He’s… something, and something must have happened. But before you could think any further, he collapsed, hitting the ground with a dull thunk. Your heart dropped. He fainted.

You froze in panic. Thoughts collided in your brain. Is he dead? He’s dead. He’s… someone else will come… but no, you couldn’t leave. Couldn’t. You're a med student. A healer. A person who spent nights memorizing anatomy and pharmacology, and emergency procedures. You wouldn’t walk away. Not now. Quickly dropping to your knees beside him, carefully brushing snow from his pink hair, you checked his pulse. It was weak, thready — but there. Relief mixed with fear, forming a bitter taste in your mouth. You checked for breathing, listened for signs of life. His chest rose in uneven rhythms.

Your hands trembled as you adjusted his position slightly, careful to avoid jostling his battered body. And noted every detail, a swelling along the jaw, a black eye, and lifting his jacket only to see a bruised shoulder, raw knuckles, and dark purple streaks along his arms as you lifted the sleeves. He had been fighting, or at least had gotten in a nasty fight. You could see it in the way his body responded to gravity, how his posture screamed exhaustion, trauma, and how he smelled of something… something chemical.

It hit you then—A withdrawal. Whatever he had taken, possibly his blood pressure had dropped, or his brain wasn't getting enough oxygen; his body was rejecting it now. That would explain the fainting. The agitation. The sheer exhaustion made standing impossible.

You swallowed hard, eyes scanning for anything in your surroundings that could help: nearby trash bins for stabilization, a wall to lean him against, a piece of cardboard for insulation from the ice. And his big ass duffle bag to elevate his legs about 12 inches (30 cm) to help his blood flow to the brain. Your hands hovered over him, unsure, until logic took over panic. Check for any injuries, stabilize the patient, keep him warm, and do not leave.

You started gathering his arms gently, sliding the icy concrete from his jacket where possible as his head lolled slightly, and you instinctively cupped it, making sure his airway remained clear. “You’re okay… you’re okay,” you whispered, more to convince yourself than him. His body was still trembling. Bruises and cuts were clear under your gloves. You traced your gloved hand along his jawline, checking for fractures. Nothing that couldn’t be stabilized in the short term, but he’d need care. A hospital, yes. Tonight, he's your patient, and you are all he has now.

Your breath came in shallow bursts, fogging the air. Then, without hesitation, you pulled off your ushanka and placed it gently over his head, adjusting the flaps to cover his ears.

It looked absurdly small on him — the fur-lined cap barely containing the mess of pink hair — but the thought of leaving him bare in the cold made your chest ache. You pressed it down carefully, brushing the snow from his brow, muttering under your breath as your glasses slid down your nose again.

You pushed them back up with your wrist, squinting through the fog of your own breath, only to realize you were still fussing over the hat like an obsessive mother hen who refused to stop adjusting it until it looked “just right.” He stirred faintly, lids fluttering, eyes hazy and unfocused. Through the blur of snow and pain, his gaze found you — your trembling hands still readjusting the flaps, the slip of your glasses catching the dull light.

His cracked lips parted, the faintest rasp escaping him. You didn’t catch the word, but the look said enough. Confused. Disoriented. Maybe wondering why some stranger was tucking him in like a stubborn nurse from hell.

“Don’t even think about moving,” you muttered, fingers brushing his temple as you adjusted the hat again. “You’ll thank me later.”

Your glasses slipped once more; you shoved them back with your wrist, smudged, fogged, but you didn’t care. You didn’t stop. He blinked slowly — sluggishly — watching the movement of your hands, the care in every adjustment, and then, as his consciousness slipped again, his head tilted slightly toward the warmth you’d given him.

To anyone else, you probably looked ridiculous — a soaked, shivering med student with crooked glasses and no hat, kneeling in the snow — but to him, through fading awareness, you looked almost unreal.

A blur of breath and warmth and concern that didn’t belong in this frozen alley.

You pushed your glasses up again, hands trembling. “You’re fine now,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

The wind tore at you, sharp as a blade, cutting through your uniform's winter coat and straight into your bones. His weight pressed into you like a stone, heavy, unyielding. Quickly shoving your scattered papers and throwing the broken test tubes in the nearby trash bin, rattling them into a pile, your hands feel numb from the cold. Your own bag, half-open, was shoved over your shoulder, straps biting into your shoulder blades, as you tried to steady your trembling arms.

Your mind raced. Carry him? Impossible—his weight pressed into your back and arms like molten lead. Drag him? Ice everywhere, too dangerous. Call for help? He was already slipping into exhaustion, body half-collapsed. You couldn’t leave him. You couldn’t. Years of study, of memorizing every artery, every tendon, every method of saving lives—all of it demanded you keep moving.

That's when your eyes landed on the duffel bag. And suddenly your chest plunged into panic-soaked dread. You really going to do this—his rigid, bloodied, nearly unconscious body—and now this massive, ridiculous bag? Your stomach knotted, your lungs caught in a spasm. He groaned, low and ragged, and you flinched. His eyelids flickered, gaze distant, unfocused. He tried to speak, a hoarse whisper lost in the icy air.

“You’re not dying on me, okay? I don't want to drag a dead man.” His hand twitched weakly, almost pushing you away, and you caught it, holding it firmly. No letting go, not until he was safe.Gripping beneath his shoulders, bracing your knees, you lifted him. Every muscle screamed. Your forearms burned as they bore his weight; your shoulders screamed under the strain, back arching in protest. Cold bit through your gloves, snow and ice crunching beneath your knees. But you didn’t care. You couldn’t.

“Just… hang on,” you whispered through gritted teeth. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay. Okay?”

He groaned again, faint and low, and you tightened your grip. Then the duffel. Bending your knees slightly as your free hand grips the strap, muscles tensing painfully. The bag was a solid weight, as if a freaking boulder was inside the bag. Both straps of your bag and his massive duffel bag were digging into your shoulder as you lifted. Your arms shook violently; elbows and forearms burned as if on fire.

Back muscles screamed in protest. You stumbled slightly on the icy ground, each step a battle to keep balance.

Every shift of the bag threw off your center of gravity. Your knees wobbled. Snow clung to your boots. You were grateful that you decided to switch your heels earlier in the train as every muscle in your body burned, screaming that you were over your limit.

Panic clawed your chest. You’re going to drop him. You’re going to fall. You can’t do this. Stop. Stop now!

But you didn’t stop. You tightened your grip on him, pressed him closer to you, and forced your legs to move. The ice threatened to betray you, but you shuffled step by painstaking step, heart hammering in your ears, lungs screaming for air. Each breath came ragged. Arms quaked violently. Back arched painfully with every tilt of his weight. Fingers dug into fabric to keep him from slipping.

Your mind raced, a jumble of instructions, warnings, panic, and determination: Just get to the street. Just get him to safety. Don’t think about the bag. Don’t think about the snow. Don’t fall. Don’t fall. The snow muffled the city around you. Lights flickered palely over the alley. Every crunch beneath your boots, every groan from him, every shiver of effort sent adrenaline snapping through your veins.

You were a taut wire under impossible strain, each step a battle between body and gravity. And yet, somehow, impossibly, you kept moving, even if you looked like a walking tilted tower.

Step after painstaking step, muscle burning, lungs burning, heart hammering like a war drum, you carried him. Each second a torment, each second a victory. You were collapsing inward, yet moving forward, every fiber of you devoted to keeping him safe. In that flickering, snow-covered alley, you carried him like he was everything—the first life outside classrooms and simulations that truly depended on you.

The first life whose weight pressed on your soul so heavily that it almost broke you.

You finally stumbled out of the alley, snow crunching under your boots as you half-dragged and half-carried him forward. The streetlight ahead glowed like salvation. A small convenience store appeared through the snowfall, its flickering sign buzzing faintly — warmth, light, safety. Your breath came in ragged gasps, each exhale burning your throat raw. His weight slumped heavier against you with every step, muscles under your hands twitching and tightening. The duffel bag — God, this damn duffel bag — bit into your shoulder, straps cutting through your coat, bruising the skin beneath. Your arms felt like fire, your back screaming for mercy. Every step was a war against gravity.

You staggered as the alley opening came to view, knees nearly buckling. “Just—just a little more,” you hissed to yourself, gripping him tighter, the duffel dragging against your side. His shoes scraped the ground, heavy and uncooperative. You could feel his faint breath against your neck — uneven, hot, too shallow. Finally, the narrow space widened, giving you enough room to rest. His weight shifted suddenly, his body tensing under your hands. He groaned and stirred, eyelids fluttering under the ushanka in his head.

You flinched, tightening your grip before he could fall again. He tried to push himself upright, muscles straining under your palms. You caught him instantly, your hand flat against his chest, steady but firm.

“No,” you said sharply, breath still uneven. “You’re not getting up.”

His gaze flicked to you — sharp, fiery, defiant even through exhaustion. That look that said I don’t need saving. Like he was trying to convince you, or maybe himself, that he was untouchable. “You badly need help,” you pressed, voice firm but calm. “You could pass out again. You’re dizzy, your body’s wrecked, and I’m not letting you ignore it.”

He blinked, jaw tight, muscles trembling as he held your stare. His lips parted, a stubborn growl forming — but something in your voice stopped him. Maybe it was the authority, maybe the tremor of fear hidden beneath it.

“…Fine,” he muttered finally, the word grudging and quiet. “…Do your thing, doc.”

Relief flooded your chest, dizzying and sharp. Carefully, you guided his weight toward a nearby bench outside the store. Every motion hurts—your spine protesting, your arms trembling like frayed cords. As you quickly lowered him onto the outdoor chairs just outside the convenience store, the canopy roof shielding the patio tables from the snow, steadying him as he hunched forward.

The duffel and your bag slipped from your shoulder and hit the ground with a dull thud. You exhaled shakily, your arms tingling from the loss of weight.

“Sit. Don’t move,” you instructed softly, brushing the snow from his shoulders with trembling hands, adjusting your hat that's on his head as you pushed his hair inside the ushanka. “You need water and warmth. You’ll feel better.”

He scowled, breath steaming in the cold. “You’re… just fuck off, lady,” he rasped, voice low, suspicious. “I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do,” you cut him off, already fishing your wallet from your uniform pocket. “Trust me. I’m a med student. I know what I’m doing.”

He made a low sound — half scoff, half groan — but didn’t move. His chest rose and fell unevenly, shoulders rigid with leftover adrenaline. You turned toward the convenience store, boots crunching through snow, headlight from exhaustion. The blast of fluorescent light as you pushed open the door felt almost blinding, a harsh contrast to the dark, cold behind you. Inside, you moved quickly through the aisles — a bottle of water, a heating pad, something, anything that could help. Your breath fogged your glasses, hands shook as you paid.

For a few seconds, the store’s hum felt like a mercy, a brief reprieve from the biting air and the sound of his labored breathing echoing in your head. You stayed just a little inside the store; the warmth of the place creates a sharp contrast to the icy alley you were in minutes ago. The fluorescent lights flickered slightly overhead, casting a pale glow over the snow-dusted street outside. Your breath fogged in little clouds as you leaned forward, gripping the cashier's counter for support.

He sat there, shoulders hunched. The snow clung stubbornly to your ushanka, protecting his head, eyelashes dusted with white. For a moment, he looked almost small, not the untouchable, fiery man from moments ago, but fragile, human, caught in the aftermath of something that had scarred him. The scowl remained, just out of habit, but his eyes softened slightly when he blinked slowly, exhaustion smoothing the sharp edges of defiance. You studied him from the store's glass, heart still pounding, adrenaline still raw.

You caught yourself shivering — from cold, yes, but also from relief. Relief that he hadn’t fallen again, relief that he was finally letting himself rest, relief that somehow, against the chaos of the night, he trusted you enough to pause.

You noticed the small things — the tremor in his fingers as they gripped your shoulders earlier, the way his chest rose unevenly, the slight tilt of his head, as if he was listening to something only he could hear. It struck you sharply: for all his bluster, he was human. He was exhausted. He was vulnerable. A faint pang of protectiveness curled through your chest. You weren’t sure if it was fear, responsibility, or something sharper, more insistent. Either way, it made your limbs tense, ready to move, ready to carry him again if necessary. He might be a stranger, a force of chaos, someone who seemed impossible to handle—but right now, in the quiet between wind and snowfall, he was yours to keep steady.

Watching as he shifted slightly on the bench, eyes drifting toward the alley like he might be ready to bolt at any moment. But he didn’t. He stayed. And that small act — that refusal to move, that tiny surrender to warmth and care — felt monumental.

When you returned outside, he was still hunched over, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. Snow dotted his hair and lashes. Your heart twisted at the sight. “Here,” you said, kneeling beside him, handing over the bottle. “Drink. Slowly.” He took it from you, suspicious but silent, fingers brushing yours — still cold, still trembling. He sipped carefully, eyes narrowing like he didn’t want to admit it helped. You offered him the heating pad next as you took it out of the paper bag. “And this — for warmth.” He frowned at it, like it might explode in his hands. “You’re… really nosy.”

“Sit. Drink. Warm up,” you said firmly, dropping onto the bench beside him, the cold metal biting through your uniform's slacks. “You just fainted in an alley. I don’t care if you’re stubborn or curse me out. You need this.” Finally, with a grunt, he pressed the pad to his neck. The heat began to spread, faint but steady. You watched as the stiffness in his shoulders eased, his breathing steadied, the tension bleeding away in quiet increments.

“You always this nosy?” he muttered, voice softer now, almost teasing — but edged with exhaustion.

“You always this dramatic?” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. It made him snort— The first time anyone had made him laugh after a fight. “When it’s life or death. I'm nosy, that’s basically my job.”

He huffed out a dry, humorless sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Life or death… yeah, fucking see that now.”

You leaned closer, meeting his tired eyes. “Good. Now keep drinking that water. Don’t worry about anything else. I’ve got you.” He didn’t argue this time. Just drank. Slowly.

The bench creaked under his weight as he leaned back, the water bottle clutched loosely in his hands. He sat, you watched his chest rise and fall, noted the dark bruising along his jaw, the swelling under his eye, and the thin cut along his lip. Your own belongings, still scattered messily inside your bag, beckoned. Papers were wet and smeared, test tubes cracked, tray bent. You sighed and muttered under your breath as you sorted what could be salvaged. Each slip of your fingers reminded you that his presence here made even this mundane task tense.

“y'know what, let's go to the hospital,” you said, more to yourself than him, straightening as you stuffed damp papers into a spare paper bag.

“You’re a mess.”He didn’t respond. Just shifted slightly, scowling, irritation clear in the tight set of his jaw.

“The hell ya talking bout?” he finally muttered, voice low and rough, “…I’m fine. You’re the one wasting your damn time here.”

“No,” you said flatly, snapping your bag closed. “Your face alone says otherwise. And those cuts along your knuckles, the swelling—do you want me to start listing the rest?”

He gritted his teeth. “fuck off, woman.”

“No, I won't. That lip? Needs attention. That eyebrow cut? I don't know, might need a few stitches. The swelling on your cheek? A goddamn hematoma is forming. And your knuckles… tch, those will be bruised for weeks if you don’t ice them properly.”

He leaned back further, glaring. “…You’re fucking obsessive.”

“Medically accurate obsession,” you retorted, standing. “Now get up. We’re moving.”

“No.”

You crossed your arms, tilting your head. “…You’re not going anywhere like this. I’m taking you to the hospital, and that's final. You need stitches.”

“…I’m not fucking going,” he said flatly, voice clipped, irritation boiling in every syllable.

“Don’t need me?!” you barked, tone sharper than intended. His head jerked, the faint glint of surprise in his eyes.

“…You just got out from god knows what and drug.. Whatever you took, you withdrew and nearly passed out in an alley. And now you think you can waltz into the night like nothing happened?”

The argument had him narrowing his eyes in frustration, lips twitching as if he might explode. “…fuck off, lady—”

“You’re not going to continue arguing with me right now. Not with me. Not now. You’re getting medical attention whether you like it or not.”

He sputtered, muttering curses under his breath, face red — not from exertion, but from sheer irritation. He pushed at your arms. “…Bitcha—”

Your patience snapped. You raised your palm sharply and gave him a firm slap across his bruised jaw, the sting resonating on top of the existing ache. “STOP PUSHING ME.” He froze, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide in shock, pain flashing across his features, and something else — grudging acknowledgment. “…You—”

“Yes, me,” you said, voice low but controlled. “I’m the one who’s going to make sure you don’t ruin yourself further. Now stand.”

The argument didn’t stop. He barked sarcastic comments, muttered about “wasting time” and “med students thinking they know everything,” and growled every time you readjusted your grip. You barked back, sharp, correcting posture, keeping his head stable, and shoving him gently but firmly forward when he attempted to veer off. After nearly an hour of bickering, slipping on ice patches, almost toppling over, and wrestling a man clearly stronger than you into submission, you reached the hospital entrance.

The automatic doors swished open. Fluorescent lights cut through the winter haze, and the scent of antiseptic assaulted your senses. Sukuna, still tense, still growling under his breath, allowed you to guide him toward the triage desk. The lights of the emergency room had that sterile, almost cruel brightness that made every bruise and cut stand out like neon

The nurse blinked, eyebrows raised, taking in his bruised, battered form. “Name?” she asked cautiously. “Stitches to his face, his lip, maybe in his brow area. And he’s exhausted — possibly high blood pressure. He’s in withdrawal from… something, possibly stimulants. And he just looks like he fought someone from hell; he’s sustained multiple contusions, lacerations, and I suspect he needs sutures.

His vitals are weak, pulse slightly irregular.” You rattled off in rapid succession, no hesitation, med student efficiency cutting through the tension. Sukuna scowled

The nurse’s eyes widened slightly. “Alright…A doctor’s on the way. Let’s get him assessed.” For the first time, he made no sound, just let himself be guided. His shoulders slumped, exhaustion and irritation warring across his face. And you? You silently noted every bruise, every cut, every shadow under his eyes, already planning how to prioritize stitches, cleaning, and pain management.

Moments later, the nurse guided you both toward the nearest medical bed. You half-carried, half-steered Sukuna across the room, his weight heavy against your side as he stumbled. Every step made his body tense, his breath uneven, pride wrestling with exhaustion. You carefully helped him shrug off his jacket, then reached for your ushanka to take it off him — even if you knew he’d bark at you for it. “Quit acting like you’re my goddamn mother,” he muttered, voice rough.

You ignored him, tugging the ushanka free anyway, your movements steady but gentle. Beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, the extent of his injuries came into full view. Bruises bloomed across his jaw and cheek, purple and swollen, while small cuts traced over his knuckles. You mentally cataloged each one, the way your professors drilled into you during training. The antiseptic sting of the air bit through the faint metallic tang of blood that still clung to him. The doctor arrived shortly after — clipboard in hand, posture calm and professional, though his sharp eyes missed nothing. His gaze landed on Sukuna first before flicking briefly to you.

“Patient in withdrawal?” the doctor asked, voice even but alert.

“Yes,” you answered immediately, your tone clipped but steady. “He’s barely conscious, lethargic, and unable to provide reliable information. Multiple bruises along the jaw, cheek, and knuckles. Two open lacerations — one on the lip, one above the eyebrow — both need sutures. He’s dehydrated, and his vitals are borderline stable. I recommend immediate wound cleaning, pain control, and monitoring.” Sukuna’s head turned slightly toward you, his eyes half-lidded, heavy with fatigue and irritation. His glare said enough.

The doctor raised a brow, intrigued. “Are you a medical student?”

“Yes,” you said, straightening unconsciously before faltering a little. “First-year… actually.”Sukuna huffed under his breath, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a curse. “Fuckin’ overachiever,” he muttered hoarsely. You ignored him, but the doctor’s mouth twitched, an amused glint in his eyes. “Good. Let’s get him cleaned up and sutured.” You nodded, then turned to Sukuna.

“They’re going to clean your cuts now. It’s going to sting, but you need to stay still. Infection isn’t something you can just walk off.”

“I said I don’t—” he started, voice low and edged with warning, but you cut him off with a firm slap to his arm — not hard, just enough to make him flinch and meet your gaze.

“No,” you said quietly but firmly. “You’re not leaving me to guess what’s safe. Just trust me for five minutes.”

For a moment, he looked like he might snap again, his jaw working as he weighed his pride against his exhaustion. But then he exhaled sharply through his nose, resigned, and looked away. The nurse moved in, dabbing antiseptic over his eyebrow and lip. Each touch made him hiss softly, his muscles twitching beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. The sharp scent of iodine filled the air, mingling with the sterile hum of fluorescent lights and the quiet rustle of gauze.

You stood near the foot of the bed, arms behind your back, but eyes observant. “Laceration on the lip’s about three centimeters — irregular edges. The one above the eyebrow is around two and a half, linear. It’ll need two, maybe three sutures. Contusions along the zygomatic arch, swelling’s setting in. Recommend local anesthetic before suturing, and post-care for pain management.”

It wasn’t until the words were already out that you realized what you’d done. Heat crept up your neck as you clamped a hand over your mouth. “I— I’m sorry, doctor,” you mumbled, mortified. The doctor’s smile was faint but approving. “No need to apologize. I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

Sukuna’s glare burned into you, but he didn’t say a word as the nurse injected the anesthetic. You saw the tension ripple through him, his fists curling, knuckles white, but he stayed still. The doctor scribbled something onto the chart, his tone even. “As she said. You’ll be needing stitches, hydration, and follow-up imaging to assess any further sustaining injuries.” Before excusing himself, thanking him as he left.

The nurses worked quickly. Each stitch was deliberate and neat, threading through the swollen skin under the stark white light. Before they began, He peeled off his shirt without a word — the fabric sticking briefly to his side before falling to the floor with a dull, wet sound. Despite the bruises mottling his ribs and shoulders, his body was undeniably defined — every line of muscle carved deep beneath the harsh light. You froze for a second, heat creeping to your face before you could stop it. The sight of him, battered but still impossibly built, stirred something you quickly tried to smother. God, focus, you told yourself, as one of the nurses reached for the suture tray. You tried not to look, tried to focus on the medical aspect of it — the discoloration along his ribs, the shallow rise and fall of his chest — but your face burned all the same. The air felt suddenly too warm, and you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to catalogue the injuries instead of the way the light carved shadows over his torso.

Focus, you told yourself. You’re a student. This is anatomy, not admiration. But your thoughts betrayed you anyway, heat crawling higher at the faint curve of his smirk as if he could sense it. Sukuna didn’t flinch this time; he sat rigid, jaw tight, his eyes fixed on an invisible point on the ceiling. You took a step back, slipping off your snow-dusted coat and folding the ushanka neatly in your hands. Your eyes followed every motion — every pull of the needle, every faint tug of the thread — until the last suture closed the wound neatly. Only then did your shoulders loosen.

“For someone who got this hurt…” You murmured after a while, your voice softer, curiosity slipping through. “How did this even happen? Car accident? What happened to you anyway?” He glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable, lip twitching as if the question amused him. But instead of answering, he turned his gaze away. The silence that followed was heavy, deliberate, full of unspoken things.

The nurse tending to him caught your lingering concern and smiled faintly. “You’re very dedicated,” she said warmly. “Most first-years don’t stay through the entire procedure. You clearly care.” You let out a small, awkward laugh. “I just… wanted to make sure he’s alright.” At that, Sukuna looked at you again — just for a second — something flickering in his bloodshot eyes. It wasn’t gratitude, not quite, but something that sat close to it, raw and quiet.

Once the final stitch was tied and the antiseptic reapplied, the nurse pressed a cold pack gently against his bruised jaw. The bleeding had stopped, and the swelling was controlled. Some color had even started to return to his skin. Flipping through the chart, the nurse gave a final nod. “We’ll schedule an X-ray — the doctor suspects a minor fracture. You,” she said, pointing at Sukuna, “should stay seated until we’re sure.” You nodded quickly, maybe a little too eagerly, earning an amused look from her before she left the room.

Silence settled again. The only sound was the low, constant hum of the fluorescent lights. You stood at the foot of the bed, your arms tucked loosely around your middle, unsure what to say. He sat still, cold compress pressed against his jaw, eyes distant. The air between you felt heavy — full of frustration, stubbornness, and something else neither of you dared to name. And as you looked at him — stitched up, bruised, but finally still — you realized it wasn’t just pity or duty that made you stay. It was something far more dangerous, something you weren’t ready to understand yet.

The sterile hum of the ER filled the silence—soft beeps, the distant echo of shoes against linoleum, the low murmur of nurses exchanging updates. Sukuna sat propped against the inclined hospital bed, one arm cradled against his ribs, knuckles wrapped in white gauze. The fight from earlier still burned across his body—skin blooming purple under the lights, jaw tense, eyes half-lidded as fatigue began to settle. You sat beside him, quiet. Your hands rested on your folded coat and hat, your eyes flicking between the chart on your lap and the way his chest rose and fell under the paper-thin blanket. He hadn’t said much since—only grunts, short answers, and one sharp look that told the nurse to stop talking so damn loud. For someone like that, he seemed… at peace now.

“Still waiting for the X-ray,” you murmured after glancing at the wall clock. “Shouldn’t take long.” He gave a low hum, the kind that barely counted as acknowledgment. His head tilted slightly toward you, crimson eyes meeting yours for a moment—long enough to register that you were watching him, longer still to make you look away.

You sighed softly, looking at your hands. “You haven’t eaten anything, have you?”

“No,” he muttered.

The word fell between you like a stone. You hesitated, fingers brushing the strap of your bag that's beside his. “Do you… Want me to get you something? Rice meal, maybe?”

“I’m fine.” His voice was rough, clipped, as if the offer itself irritated him.

But there was something in the way his jaw flexed—half stubbornness, half pride. You’d seen it before in people who’d rather grit their teeth through pain than admit weakness. You tilted your head slightly, smiling despite the exhaustion tugging at your cheeks.

“It’s on me,” you said gently. “And if you say no again, I’m just going to assume you like hospital air for lunch.” He let out a low grunt, almost like a laugh, though his eyes stayed downcast. Then came the hesitation—his tongue pressed against his cheek, his shoulders stiffened, and finally, he muttered, “…Rice. With egg. Maybe meat, if they have it.”

You smiled, a little triumphant but mostly relieved. “Got it. I’ll be right back.” When you left, the air changed. Sukuna’s gaze followed you until the door clicked shut. His body relaxed a fraction. The faint scent of antiseptic filled the room again, and for a few moments, he stared blankly at the ceiling—thinking of the fight, the crowd, the blood. But what lingered more vividly was the image of you fussing over his IV line earlier, your brows knitted in focus, your hands careful, voice calm. You were too gentle for a place like this. Too gentle for someone like him.

By the time you returned, a light sheen of snow had gathered on your shoulders. You were carrying two styrofoam containers and a small bottle of water balanced under your arm. “I got pork katsudon,” you said as you entered, slightly breathless. “It was the last one. The food vendor outside thought it would not be enough for you, so she served the whole tray." That made him glance up. The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, more of an amused twitch.

You laid the food out on the small rolling table between you. The smell hit immediately—soy, vinegar, garlic—and Sukuna’s stomach twisted in betrayal. You caught the sound, a small growl, and raised an eyebrow. “Still not hungry?”

He didn’t answer this time. Just took the container when you passed it over. The first few bites were ravenous—sharp movements, spoon clinking, rice and sauce gone too fast. You blinked, startled by how quickly he devoured it.

“I—oh,” you said softly, lips parting as you watched. He paused, glancing at you from under his lashes. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head quickly. “Just… you looked like you haven’t eaten in days.”

“I haven’t,” he said between bites.

The honesty caught you off guard. You looked down at your own container, picking up your spoon. “You shouldn’t do that to yourself.”

“Part of the job,” he replied, tone flat but not unkind. You didn’t argue, just ate quietly beside him. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable anymore—it was warm, heavy with exhaustion but softened by the shared meal. The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly, and every so often, you caught his gaze darting to you between bites. There was something unspoken there. Something wary, curious. “You really shouldn’t be this nice,” he said suddenly. You blinked. “Sorry?”

He scooped another bite of rice, his eyes still fixed on you. “To people like me.” You tilted your head. “You mean patients?”

He didn’t answer right away. He looked down at his bandaged hands, the veins snaking along his arms, the faint tremor in his fingers from the painkillers finally kicking in. “No,” he said after a long moment. “People who choose violence for a living.” You studied him quietly, your spoon halfway to your lips. “Maybe I’m not nice,” you said softly. “Maybe I just see someone who deserves to eat.”

He looked at you for a long time, then—so long that the hum of the hospital seemed to fade out. Then, finally, he smirked faintly. “You’re strange.”

“Medical students usually are.” That made him let out a quiet huff of laughter, the sound low and rough, but genuine. For the first time since you’d met him, his shoulders seemed to drop—just a little. When the nurse finally came in to wheel him to the X-ray room, he didn’t complain. You followed close behind, holding the tray with the half-finished meal. His hand brushed the edge of yours when you took the blanket off the bed rail. Later, when the X-ray results came in, the translucent image of Sukuna’s ribs was glowing against the sterile white of the wall. You stood beside the radiologist, eyes tracing the faint lines. There were cracks, yes, but clean ones—no displacement, no puncture risk. He was lucky.

“Minor fractures,” you said quietly, half to yourself, half to him as he stood behind you. “Two ribs. You’ll be sore for a while, but you’ll live.” minor fractures along the rib, some soft tissue damage, nothing life-threatening—you could see the relief flicker across his face. He didn’t say it, but you could tell. Meeting his gaze. There was a faint smirk there, but under it—a kind of weariness you hadn’t seen before. He rolled his shoulders experimentally and winced when the motion tugged at his side. You stepped closer, instinctively, and pressed a hand to his arm to stop him.

“Don’t push it,” you said softly. “You’ll make it worse.”

He froze at the contact. Your hand was small against the muscle of his arm, cool from the air conditioning, firm with the confidence of someone used to patching wounds. His crimson eyes darted down to your fingers, then back to your face. “Doc,” he murmured, a ghost of a smirk returning. “You really like tellin’ people what to do, huh?”

You blinked, caught off guard, but smiled faintly. “Only when they’re terrible at taking care of themselves.” When you helped him sit back on the bed, placing his meal back on the tray, he looked at you with something close to gratitude. “Next time,” you said, almost teasingly, “try not to get hit so much.”

He let out a low hum, the corner of his mouth curving faintly. “No promises, doc.” His gaze lingered on you—your gentle hands, your steady posture, your kind voice cutting through the static haze of his world—and something in him shifted quietly. For the first time in a long while, he thought, maybe kindness didn’t always have to be a weakness. The nurse returned with a clipboard, explaining his release papers and the hospital payment. You nodded, thanking her, stepping towards the nurses’ station. Sukuna watched from afar, silent, arms crossed, as the fluorescent light cut sharp lines across his bruised face. You pulled out your wallet, fishing through the few bills you had. You were tired, your brain running on caffeine and instinct, but still—he’d been your patient, even unofficially. It only felt right.

But before you could hand the payment over, something heavy dropped onto the counter with a dull thud. A thick stack of bills appeared in front of you, clearly new.

“Don’t,” Sukuna’s voice rumbled behind you.

You turned sharply. “What—” He didn’t even look at you. Just shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, as his duffel slightly swayed from his shoulder, bandaged knuckles flexing. “Use that. ” You stared at the stack of cash. It was easily five grand—maybe more. Shiningly new. You looked from it to him, stunned. “You can’t—”

“I can,” he cut in flatly. “I made it. You helped patch what that money broke.” For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Around you, the nurses tried not to stare. The man standing before you looked like a contradiction—bruised, battered, eyes sharp with defiance but laced with something almost… respectful. You swallowed. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he said, already turning away. “But I wanted to.”And just like that, he walked out. The sliding doors opened with a hiss, letting in the humid night air. You blinked, heart stuttering, watching his figure disappear into the dim parking lot light.

“Wait—!”

You didn’t even think. You grabbed your belongings, nearly tripping over as you sprinted after him. The cold, snowy night air hit your lungs as you ran through the doors, scanning the snow-covered street. He was already halfway down the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in his jacket, moving like a man who didn’t belong to any place long enough to stay. You caught up just as he reached the curb. “Hey—hey, wait!”He slowed, just a little, enough for you to fall into step beside him. “You forgot your discharge papers,” you said breathlessly, holding them up. “And—your change—” He stopped walking. Turned slightly. His gaze landed on you under the flickering hospital light, the faint shimmer of exhaustion on your face, the paper's still clutched stubbornly in your hand. For a long moment, he just looked at you, jaw tightening.

“You don’t gotta chase after me,” he said quietly. “Not your job.” You looked up at him, catching your breath. “Maybe not. But you didn’t have to throw that money like that.” He gave a soft snort. “That money’s got blood on it. The hospital’s better off with it than me.”

You blinked, thrown off by the blunt honesty. “That’s not—”

“Yeah, it is.” His voice softened slightly. “You got good hands, doc. Don’t waste ‘em tryin’ to fix violent people.” Something in your chest tightened at that. His tone wasn’t harsh—it was tired. Defeated in a way that made the streetlamp shadows look heavier on his face. You stepped closer, your voice gentle. “You say that like you’re not worth saving.” He looked at you then, really looked—eyes tracing your features, the faint crease between your brows, the way your fingers still clutched his paperwork like it meant something. And for the briefest second, his expression softened, raw and unguarded, as tiny snowflakes dropped onto your hair.

“Don’t make me start believing it,” he muttered, feeling his thumb wipe a snowflake that fell on your cheek. Then he turned, walking off into the night. You stood there for a while, the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance, the city swallowing him whole again. Your hand touching where his thumb had been mere seconds ago, the street smelled like faint gasoline, and something metallic—like the echo of everything he’d been through. Looking down at the discharge papers in your hand, and sighed. The edges were crinkled, his name scrawled in messy handwriting across the top: R. Sukuna.

And as you exhaled, a soft chill swept through the air. Slightly fogging your glasses, as snow falls—slow, fragile flakes drifting through the dim glow of the hospital lights. They landed on your hair, on the papers, melting almost instantly against your skin. The season had shifted quietly, unnoticed until now—winter settling over the city like a hush, cold and endless. You watched the snow trail after him, the white specks vanishing against his dark figure until he was gone completely, swallowed by the storm.

The night had that heavy stillness only winter in the city could hold — where everything hummed but nothing truly moved. Cold air clung to the streets, thick with smoke and frost. Sukuna’s steps hit the pavement in slow, uneven steps, his breath curling like pale ghosts beneath the flickering neon of a convenience store sign a block away. The stitches above his brow tugged when he squinted against the streetlight. His lip throbbed with every inhale, and the dull ache in his ribs made him hunch even as he refused to admit it — not to anyone, not even to himself.

He’d felt worse. He told himself that.

But something about tonight had stayed under his skin, the way blood did when you didn’t clean it right. Reaching into his pocket, he found his cigarette pack crushed, muttered a curse, and fished one out anyway. The lighter’s flame flared against the wind, its reflection burning briefly in his tired eyes. Leaning against a graffiti-stained wall, exhaling smoke that drifted up and disappeared into the brittle cold. The sting in his chest steadied him — until the silence gave way to memory. Until he remembered you.

Your voice — steady, even when you were nervous.

He cursed softly, dragging a hand down his face. The city’s hum faded behind the echo of your voice. He could still taste the rice you’d given him. Warm, simple — human. The kind of meal he hadn’t had since before the fights had eaten his life whole. He’d devoured it like an animal until he caught the small curve of your lips — a quiet, amused smile. You’d looked at him like he was something to understand, not fear.

And it pissed him off. Because it felt good. He exhaled smoke through his nose and tossed the cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his heel. Somewhere nearby, a moped sputtered down the street, laughter trailed from a bar, but none of it touched him. His ribs ached, his stitches burned — yet what hurt most was the sound of you in his head.

“You say that like you’re not worth saving.”

His throat tightened. He tilted his head back against the wall, muttering under his breath, “Too damn kind for her own good.” The wind bit at his face, sharp and cold, carrying faint snowflakes that clung to his hair. Kindness like that didn’t survive in his world. People like you got crushed by it. And people like him were the ones who did the crushing.

Still, when he finally pushed himself off the wall and started walking again, his steps slowed. The city didn’t feel as empty as it had an hour ago. It felt like it was watching him — waiting to see what he’d do next. His apartment wasn’t much — cracked ceiling, mold biting at the corners, one flickering bulb humming with static. The air was stale with smoke and sweat. He dropped his duffel by the door and slumped against the sink, towel around his neck, knuckles bandaged and raw. The mirror above him was split down the middle, slicing his reflection in two — one half cold and unreadable, the other faintly human under the buzzing light. He traced a finger along the line of stitches on his brow, the purple bloom along his jaw, the swollen lip.

The Nurse had done clean work. You had done clean work.

He could still hear your voice — calm, precise, scolding him like he was a reckless kid. He huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Snapped at me like she had the right to.” And maybe you did. He remembered how your hand had struck his cheek — hard, and sharp enough to cut through his temper. The sound had cracked through the cold air like a warning shot. It didn't hurt — not compared to the things he was used to. But it had stunned him. Not because of the slap. Because of you— flushed from the old and adrenaline, eyes burning with frustration, breath misting in the freezing air. He remembered how close you’d been, how your lips trembled, but your voice didn’t. The heat that rose in his chest— he’d blamed it on pain, on anger, on the fight still buzzing through his veins. But sitting here now, alone, he knew better.

You’d rattled him. Too new to medicine to be that confident. Too gentle to be that fearless.

“Tch.”

You’d warned him about infection, told him to rest, to take care of himself. He didn’t listen. But your voice lingered now, steadier than the flickering bulb above his head. He stared at the faint steam rising from the sink, his reflection split by the crack. He found himself touching his jaw where your hand had landed — the faint burn of your slap still there, the echo of warmth beneath it. He almost smiled.

“Damn near made me blush,” he murmured, a laugh rumbling low in his throat — rare, soft, human. The apartment felt a little less empty then.

In the corner of the room, an envelope of cash was sitting by the counter — the rest of what Rin owed him. He should’ve cared, but it barely meant anything now. The only thing that lingered was the image of you standing under the streetlight, calling his name, snow catching in your hair. Maybe he’d see you again. Maybe not.

But as the winter wind howled faintly through the cracked window, he knew this — For the first time in a long time, the thought of someone had made him hesitate. He smirked faintly at his reflection. His breath fogged the glass, blurring the line down the middle.

“Shit,” he whispered, dragging the towel over his face. “You got under my skin.” And somewhere across the city — in your small apartment, the faint scent of antiseptic still clinging to your fingers — you thought of him too. Neither of you knew it yet.

You woke up to the hiss of your old radiator, sputtering like it was trying to breathe for you. The first thing that hit you was the smell — a sterile ghost of antiseptic that clung to your coat, your hair, your hands. The faint perfume of hospitals never really left easily. Eyes fluttered open to the soft gray of the morning light bleeding through the window. The cold had crept into your apartment overnight, numbing your fingers where they gripped the blanket. You lay still for a while, eyes fixed on the cracks in the ceiling of your apartment, trying to piece together what was a dream and what wasn’t.

That man. Sukuna.

The image hit you all at once — the flash of his teeth when he sneered, the guttural sound of him hitting the ground, your trembling hands pressed to his skin as you checked his pulse. The way he’d scowled even in pain. You sat up sharply, the blanket slipping off your shoulders. The folded bills and his discharge papers from last night were still on the chair where you’d left them — the change from that five grand he’d thrown last night at the nurse's desk, like it was just some spare change. You picked them up, the crisp paper feeling too heavy, too warm from your own touch.

“What kind of man does that?” you muttered.

You didn’t know him, not really. You didn’t know why he fought, or what he was trying to prove, or what kind of people threw money at someone who tried to help them. But the memory of his bruised jaw and the faint tremor in his hands stuck with you like a splinter. You rubbed at your temple. “He’s probably fine now.” But you didn’t sound convinced.

Not wanting to waste your time thinking about him, you started to dress up for your lecture today, the motions mechanical — warm slacks, your uniform pressed from last night. The fabric hugged your shape before flaring slightly at the hips, and the mirror betrayed how put-together you looked despite feeling like you hadn’t slept at all. You sighed, tightened your bun. Outside, the world was bone-cold. The pavement was slick with thin sheets of ice, and every step felt like a gamble. The sun hadn’t broken through the clouds yet — just that dim, bluish light that painted everything like a half-forgotten dream. You stopped at a small bakery, grabbed a hot bread and a coffee, and tried not to think. But every time you blinked, you saw him again — sitting on that hospital bed, eyes half-lidded, chest rising and falling heavily. You hated that your stomach twisted with concern instead of just forgetting about him.

When you reached the campus building, the smell of cigarette smoke greeted you before anything else. You didn’t even need to look to know who it was. Shoko leaned against the wall near the entrance, smoke curling lazily from her lips, eyes half-lidded as if she hadn’t slept in days either. Her breath fogged in the cold, her hair messy in a bun.

“You look like a corpse,” she said with a smirk as you approached. You exhaled a small laugh. “You’re one to talk. It’s six in the morning.”

She shrugged, the cigarette glowing between her fingers. “That’s called coping. What’s your excuse?” You hesitated before replying. “I, uh… had a weird night.”

Shoko raised an eyebrow, her interest piqued. “Weird how?” So, you told her. You told her everything — how you’d slipped on the icy street, how your things had gone flying, how you’d crashed into a man twice your size who looked like he could break someone with a glance. You told her about his collapse, the fight you had, the slap that left your palm throbbing, and how you ended up in the hospital with him. When you finally finished, Shoko just stared at you, cigarette burning low.

“You slapped him?” she asked, incredulous.

You crossed your arms defensively. “He was being an ass.”

Her lips curled into a grin. “And you’re alive to tell the tale. That’s impressive.”

“I didn’t have much choice. He wouldn’t listen.”

“Sounds like a guy who’s used to not listening,” she said, flicking ash into the snow. “You sure he wasn’t, like, a mobster or something?” You frowned. “He said nothing about himself. Just… glared.”

Shoko hummed thoughtfully, taking another drag. “So he’s dangerous and mysterious. Classic recipe for your type.”

“He is not my type,” you said quickly.

“Mhm. Sure.” You rolled your eyes, tugging your coat tighter around you. “It’s not like that. He was… hurt. Someone had to help him.” Her voice softened. “Yeah, I get that.” She glanced up at the pale sky. “But don’t lose sleep over some stranger who doesn’t want to be saved.” You didn’t answer. Because she was right — and yet, for some reason, her words felt heavier than you expected.

“Shokooooo!” Gojo’s voice echoed through the courtyard, obnoxiously cheerful. He bounded up the steps, scarf flying behind him like a cape, sunglasses perched even though the sky was cloudy. “Gojo,” Shoko muttered, exhaling a long sigh, “it’s literally freezing. What are you doing with that much energy outside in the goddamn early morning?”

“Enjoying the weather,” he declared dramatically. “And keeping my two favorite girls company.”

“Make that one,” you said dryly.

“Ouch.” He grinned, unbothered. “What’s wrong with you? Didn’t get your morning coffee?”

“I did. It just didn’t come with patience.” Before you could step past him, Geto emerged from behind — quieter, calmer, his dark hair falling over his face. His gaze lingered on you briefly, perceptive in that way that made you feel seen. “What’s going on?” he asked Shoko.

“She met someone,” she replied, smirking. Gojo gasped dramatically. “You what?!” You groaned. “It’s not like that. He fainted.”

“He fainted? So romantic,” Gojo teased. “Did he fall for you literally?”

Shoko burst out laughing, smoke escaping through her grin. “You’re impossible.”

“He was injured,” you cut in, glaring. “Oh, even better,” Gojo said. “The Florence Nightingale fantasy.” You slapped your notebook lightly against his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

He only laughed harder. “You like the bad ones, huh?” You turned to Geto instead, exasperated. “He’s hopeless.” Geto smiled faintly. “You’ll get used to it.” Then, after a beat, “You never got his name?” You hesitated. “I did, well, only from his medical Bill. Sukuna.”

For a moment, they all went quiet — even Gojo, who tilted his head slightly, studying you. Shoko exhaled the last of her cigarette, crushing it under her boot. “Sounds like trouble.” You looked down. “Maybe.”

“Or maybe,” she said, voice lighter, “you just met someone who’s been fighting his own kind of war.”

By 9 AM, you were in the Anatomy lab.

The air was cold and sharp, tinged with the distinct, metallic-bitter tang of formalin — a smell that clung to your clothes and hair no matter how long you scrubbed after lab. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across rows of stainless-steel dissection tables, each covered in crisp white sheets. Beneath them lay the silent teachers — preserved cadavers whose waxy, grayish skin stretched taut over structures you had spent months memorizing. You tied your apron a little tighter, the vinyl squeaking faintly, and pulled on your powder-free nitrile gloves. The thin material hugged your fingers, cool and slightly tacky against your palms. When you peeled back the white sheet from your group’s assigned cadaver, the faint mist of formaldehyde hit stronger — chemical, sweet, and nauseating.

Your professor, Dr. Ramírez, walked to the center of the lab, snapping her gloves once for emphasis.

“Today,” she announced, “we’ll be reviewing the superficial muscles of the face and neck. Focus on their origins and insertions. These are often mixed up in exams, and I won’t be merciful.”

A few students chuckled nervously.

You nodded, but your mind wasn’t fully in the room. The names and diagrams you’d studied blurred into one image — Sukuna’s face. You remembered the plane of his zygomatic arch, the ridge your fingertips had traced while checking for swelling, the laceration that cut diagonally over his orbicularis oculi, and the deep bruise that had spread beneath the skin of his masseter, dark and inflamed. His expression, even unconscious, had been one of tension — jaw clenched, veins visible beneath the surface.

“Let’s begin,” Dr. Ramírez said, nodding toward the dissection guide. “Identify the zygomaticus major.”

You picked up your forceps, brushed aside a thin flap of preserved tissue, and whispered under your breath, almost like a prayer: “Zygomaticus major… levator labii superioris… orbicularis oris.”

You traced the fibers lightly — from the zygomatic bone down to the angle of the mouth, noting the direction of each muscle’s striation.

You could almost see his smirk, the faint twitch that appeared when he tried to hide pain. “Hey,” your lab partner, Mira, said softly beside you. “You okay? You’re spacing out.”

You blinked, forcing your focus back to the cadaver. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… memorizing.”

By 11:30, you were in Pathophysiology. By mid-morning, the air in the lecture hall was thick with the scent of old coffee and tired concentration. The projector hummed softly, displaying a slide titled “Acute Stress Response and Systemic Inflammation.”

Your pen tapped rhythmically against your notebook until the professor’s voice cut through.

“The catecholamine surge during acute stress — primarily epinephrine and norepinephrine — leads to increased heart rate, elevated blood pressure, and glucose mobilization,” he said, pacing as he spoke. “Think: fight or flight. The sympathetic nervous system hijacks homeostasis.”

You remembered Sukuna’s pulse pounding beneath your fingers that night — rapid, thready, tachycardic. His skin had been hot, slick with sweat, pupils dilated yet sluggish to react. Adrenaline storm. His body was fighting even as consciousness slipped away.

Your pen trembled slightly as you jotted down notes:

Increased HR, BP

Peripheral vasoconstriction

Cortisol release — long-term effects

“Now,” the professor continued, flipping to the next slide, “if stress becomes chronic, the physiological response turns maladaptive. Cortisol remains elevated, leading to immune suppression, insulin resistance, hypertension, and eventual tissue damage.”

The bullet points blurred together, heavy and personal.

At 2 PM, you moved to Clinical Skills.

By afternoon, your head throbbed with caffeine and exhaustion. You walked into the simulation ward — bright, organized, too clean to feel real. The walls smelled faintly of disinfectant and latex gloves. A row of hospital beds lined one side, each with a mock patient or classmate practicing basic assessment skills.

“Alright,” said your instructor, Ms. Lewis, flipping through her clipboard. “You’ll be performing a basic patient interview and physical exam. Vital signs, neurological check, and a preliminary assessment. Work in pairs.”

You sat across from your partner, Kira, who gave you a mock groan and clutched her forehead. “Chief complaint: dizziness and fatigue,” she said, pretending to sway a little. You smiled faintly and slipped into your clinical tone, professional and measured.

You froze.

You remembered Sukuna’s tremor — the fine, rapid oscillations in his fingers. His pupils are sluggish under light. Skin pallid. Lips are cracked and dry. His body reacts to absence, not excess. Whatever he’d been taking, his body was starving for it.

Kira blinked at you. “You good?”

You nodded quickly, clearing your throat. “Sorry. Just thinking about phrasing.”

You finished the assessment mechanically, listening to her “heart” with your stethoscope, noting “vitals,” pressing fingers to her “radial pulse.” The checklist blurred together in muscle memory. Temperature, pulse, respiration, and blood pressure. All numbers — all detached from meaning.

When Ms. Lewis passed by, she gently adjusted your hand position on Kira’s arm. “You’re too tense,” she said kindly. “Relax your grip. You’ll bruise the poor thing.”

You exhaled, a soft laugh escaping before you could stop it. “Sorry, long night.” She smiled, patted your shoulder, and moved on. But your chest stayed tight, your breath shallow. You knew the truth — it wasn’t the long night making you tense. It was the lingering echo of a pulse that wasn’t there anymore.

By the time evening rolled in, your brain felt swollen, like it was trying to hold too much—every Latin muscle name, every biochemical pathway, every faint echo of Gojo’s laughter still bouncing off the walls of the cafeteria. You’d spent the entire day surrounded by the low hum of conversation, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, and the rhythmic scratch of pens against paper. Anatomy lab had blurred into physiology, and by the last lecture, even the diagrams of skeletal muscles had started to look like meaningless webs of red and blue lines.

Still, your notes were immaculate—highlighted margins, neat annotations, the kind of precision that came from equal parts anxiety and ambition. Shoko had joked that you studied like the apocalypse was scheduled for finals week. You laughed, but even as you did, your thoughts kept drifting.

Gojo had stopped by your table during lunch, sunglasses pushed up in his messy hair, grin too wide for someone who’d just come from a four-hour training session.

You didn’t even have the energy to glare at him properly. “Gojo, the only thing keeping me up is your voice echoing in my head when I’m trying to study.”

Shoko, chewing on her straw, flicked a balled-up napkin at him. “Leave her alone, Satoru. Some of us actually have to pass exams to survive.”

He gasped, hand to his chest. “Ouch. You wound me.”

Geto sat beside them, sipping his coffee with quiet amusement. His eyes—steady, unreadable—flicked to you once or twice. He didn’t tease, didn’t say anything, just watched the way your fingers worried at the edge of your lunch container. Sometimes, that silence felt louder than Gojo’s entire existence.

You tried to join in, to laugh when they did, to let their energy fill the space where your thoughts threatened to unravel. But in the quiet moments, between Gojo’s jokes and Shoko’s dry comments, your gaze found its way to the window.

Outside, the sky was a bruised gray, snow falling in steady, soft sheets. The world beyond campus looked cold, almost lifeless. And for reasons you didn’t want to name, you found yourself wondering if he was out there somewhere—walking through that same snow, shoulders hunched against the wind, bruised and bleeding but still refusing to ask for help.

You shook the thought away, forced yourself to focus on the conversation again. But it lingered, stubbornly, like the ache that comes after pressing on a wound.

By the time you finally returned to your apartment that night, your body felt like it was moving on autopilot. The elevator ride up was slow, the air stale with the faint scent of detergent and cold metal. When you stepped inside your unit, the familiar warmth of the radiator greeted you, accompanied by the soft hiss that always filled the quiet.

You set your bag down on the couch and stood for a long moment in the half-light, letting your eyes adjust. The city stretched out below your window—alive but weary, wrapped in the muffled silence that snow always brings. Cars crawled along the slushed roads, headlights glowing like distant stars. Someone laughed faintly in the next building over. A siren wailed somewhere far away, swallowed by the wind.

You walked to the window, fingers absently tugging at the sleeves of your sweater. The glass was cold against your palm when you leaned closer, your breath fogging faintly on the surface. That’s when you noticed it again—the folded bills sitting on your desk, right where you’d left them. You picked them up. The paper was rough at the edges, one corner faintly stained a rusty brown that you knew wasn’t dirt.

Blood. His.

Your thumb brushed over it before you realized what you were doing. His words echoed in your mind again, low and rough like gravel—

“Don’t need your help.”

You exhaled through your nose, a sound halfway between a scoff and a sigh. “You’re impossible,” you whispered to no one. Setting the money down gently, as if it were something fragile.

The radiator hissed again, louder this time, the steady rhythm of it filling the silence. Outside, the snow continued to fall—soft, unending, merciless. You watched it gather on the ledge, on the branches, on the streetlights below until the whole world seemed wrapped in white.

You pressed your forehead to the glass, the chill seeping into your skin. Your reflection stared back at you, tired eyes and all. You told yourself he was just another patient—one of many, one whose chart you’d filed, whose injuries you’d patched, whose heartbeat you’d listened to just long enough to confirm he was alive.

You told yourself you didn’t care. But the truth slipped through anyway, quiet and steady as falling snow. You didn’t believe it.

And when you finally turned away from the window, the folded bills still sat on your desk, untouched—like proof that somewhere out there, under the same gray sky, the man who swore he didn’t need anyone still had a piece of you.

The following weeks had been mercilessly long. Thank god it's Friday.

The kind that blurred the hours between coffee and exhaustion, where your body ached from standing too long and your brain felt bruised from absorbing too much. You’d spent the morning deep in trauma and emergency medicine, a lecture so dense it could’ve suffocated you if not for your focus.

“Remember,” your professor had said, voice echoing through the auditorium, “fracture patterns tell you stories. The angle, the splintering — they reveal the violence that caused them. It’s your job to listen to what the bone is saying.”

Your pen had scribbled, ‘bone tells story of force.’

Fighting you, fighting the idea of help.

By the time the class ended, your chest was buzzing with restlessness. The memory of that night — of him — stuck like static in your head. You sighed, deciding that caffeine might be the only cure. Outside, the winter wind cut through your uniform coat like a blade. You pulled your scarf tighter, your breath ghosting in front of you as you made your way to the subway. It was nearly dusk now — the kind of grey hour that makes the city look colder, lonelier. You passed through the turnstile, descended the steps, and waited at the platform, your bag hanging off one shoulder. The train screeched into view, lights blinding in the tunnel’s darkness. You stepped in.

Immediately, heat and movement swallowed you. Packed car. No seats. Just a mess of coats, and the faint hum of someone’s cheap headphones. You found a metal pole and clutched it, your knuckles white, the cold ache in your fingers pulsing.

The train jerked forward, sending everyone swaying. Your head dipped, exhaustion taking hold for just a second. Then—

“You again?”

The voice was unmistakable. Deep. Rough. Familiar enough to freeze your chest. You turned around. Sukuna.

He sat in the seat right behind you, rough hands on his knees, hood half-pulled up. His bruises had yellowed, fading into sick shades of green and brown. The corner of his lip was split but healed. Still, even with the exhaustion carved into his face, he looked strong — too strong for the world he was sitting in.

Your throat went dry. “You—” Before you could even finish, he stood up. His movement made the crowd shuffle, people instinctively moving aside. He towered over you, his expression unreadable as his gaze dragged from your scarf to your tired eyes.

“Sit.”

You blinked. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t listen. He just took your bag from your hand, gently but firmly, and nodded toward the now-empty seat.

“Sit,” he repeated.

You hesitated, then sighed, sinking as he took your spot — standing, one large hand gripping the overhead bar, his other hand clutching your bag. He stood in front of you like a shield, his body forming a barrier between you and the crowd pressing in. It was strangely protective — intimate, even — though his expression stayed cold.

“You shouldn’t be standing,” you murmured. “Your ribs—”

“Ain’t broken,” he grunted, not looking at you. “Doc said it’s just bruised.”

You glanced up, unimpressed. “Bruised ribs can still puncture the lung if you push too hard.”

“You sure talk a lot for someone who slapped me that day.”

You nearly choked on air. “You deserved it. You pushed me!” You instinctively shut your mouth with your hands as the people inside looked at you; some snickered as you silently apologized, bowing slightly. Making Sukuna, who was watching it all unfold, smirked.

“I said I didn’t want to go,” he replied after you bowed, tired eyes looking at you with amusement.

“And I said you needed stitches,” you whispered, still embarrassed as you lowered your head. His lips twitched — the closest thing to a smile you’d seen on him.

“You got guts, doc.”

“Medical student,” you corrected sharply. “And you’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, voice softening slightly. “Guess I am.”

The words hung there, suspended in the clatter of the train.

You both fell silent, your eyes dropping to your gloved hands. The train rattled, lights flickering against his face — and you caught a glimpse of something different. Not arrogance. Not aggression. Just… weariness. The kind that comes from being hit one too many times. “I owe you,” he muttered suddenly.

You frowned, head looking up. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Don’t lie,” he said, eyes flicking to yours. “You dragged a stranger into a hospital. Sat there ‘til they patched me up. You even tried to pay my bill.”

You blinked. “I couldn’t just leave you—”

“Why not?” His question wasn’t mocking. It was quiet. Honest. The kind that made your throat tighten because you realized — maybe no one had ever not left him before.

“Because I’m not built like that,” you said softly. Something flickered in his gaze — like confusion, maybe even respect. He exhaled slowly, shifting his stance as he adjusted your bag that's on his shoulders. An imposing and scary man on a train with a bag that's clearly for a woman made the scene comedic as the train slowed. “Then let me pay you back.”

“For what? Doing my job?”

“For giving a damn.”

You stared at him, at the sincerity buried under that gravel tone. He looked away first. “Food,” he said. “On me.”

“That’s not necessary—”

“Didn’t ask if it was.”

Your lips twitched into a small, unwilling smile. “You're always this stubborn?”

“Only when I mean it.” The announcement chimed for the next station. He looked down at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “There’s a café two blocks from there.” You told him. Handing you your bag. His hand brushing against yours, warm, calloused, and steady, and for a fleeting second, your pulse jumped.

The train doors sigh open into winter air. Steam rises from vents along the street, mixing with the smell of exhaust and fried batter. You blink at the sudden light of lanterns strung between buildings — rows of them, red and gold, swaying above narrow alleys. As he took your hands in his, he guided you out of the train as the people patiently waited for their turn to exit the station.

“A café?” Sukuna mutters, side-eyeing you as he adjusts your scarf once out of the station. “You were really about to waste money on foam and sugar?”

You blink, amused and slightly defensive. “It’s coffee, not foam—”

“It’s fake food.” He jerks his chin toward a side street pulsing with voices. “You ever eaten real food? C’mon.” Before you can protest, his hand ghosts against your elbow, steering you down the west exit of Shinjuku's station and to the crowded Omoide Yokocho street. The smell hits first — soy glaze, grilled meat, ginger, and oil sizzling. Stalls line the path like glowing ribs of a dragon: yakitori skewers, gyoza pans, bubbling oden pots. Steam hisses as cooks shout orders, and the winter chill dissolves into warmth and a cacophony of noise.

He moves through the crowd easily, tall enough to see over the heads, parting people without even brushing against them. You follow closely, clutching your bag to your chest. He glances back once, noticing. His hands are intertwined with yours, firmly. metacarpals flexing, tendons shifting beneath warm dermis as his fingers intertwine firmly with yours. You can feel the rhythmic contraction of his flexor digitorum, the steady pulse of his radial artery brushing your palm.

Heat blossomed on your face whenever he stopped, pulling you close behind his back. broad scapulae moving beneath his jacket as he shields you from the press of bodies. Your fingertips graze the prominent veins tracing along the dorsal surface of his hand, the faint vibration of blood coursing through them. You swear you can feel his systolic pressure rise every time your skin touches his.

“Stay near,” he says, voice low enough that it disappears under the clang of ladles. His breath ghosts close to your ear — warm, rough — and you nod, trying to hide the smile tugging at your lips.

At the first stall, he stops. Charcoal smoke curls up from the grill; chicken skewers glisten with tare sauce under the red lantern glow. Sukuna folds a bill between his fingers and slides it toward the cook without looking away from you.

“Two yakitori sets,” he says. Then, with a sideways glance, “You like spicy?”

“Maybe not too—”

“She’ll take the spicy,” he interrupts.

You give him a look, but he only smirks — that faint, knowing curve that always makes your stomach twist. When the skewers arrive, he hands you one first, holding it out by the end like an offering. His fingers brush yours — just barely — and you swear the contact lingers longer than it should.

The sauce drips onto the paper tray, sweet and peppery. You take a bite, almost burning your tongue, the heat blooming across your lips.

“Okay… that’s good,” you mumble, cheeks puffed with rice and meat.

“Told ya.” His voice drops, half amused, half husky. The corner of his mouth lifts, a shadow of pride flickering there.

You eat side by side, standing close enough that your coat sleeves keep brushing. The hiss of grills and bursts of laughter fade into a softer hum between you. Lantern light flickers across his scarred knuckles as he grips the skewer, his thumb absently rubbing over the edge of the stick. He keeps his body turned, subtly shielding you from the crowd — the kind of protectiveness he’d never admit to.

From the corner of his eye, Sukuna watches you — the way your breath fogs your glasses when you laugh, how you tilt your head to catch his words through the noise. Not afraid anymore, he thinks. Crazy girl.

He buys more. Takoyaki this time — the smell of batter and bonito flakes filling the air. Before you can even reach for your wallet, he’s already paid, a lazy flick of his wrist dismissing the cook’s change.

“I said I’d treat you,” he murmurs, leaning down so you hear him clearly. Smoke curls through his hair, catching on the faint scent of soap and steel. “So stop reachin’ for your wallet.”

You laugh into your hand, and for a heartbeat, he forgets to hide it — that soft, unguarded look in his eyes that makes the night feel a little warmer.

“Cafés are fake,” he muttered beside you, his hood finally off, the drizzle catching in his pink hair. “You eat air and pay for it.”

You blinked up at him, clutching your bag close as your breath curled in the cold air. “You mean… pastries?”

“I mean, whatever that green sludge you were talking about,” he scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked a step ahead. “Didn’t think you’d be a goat for melted grass.”

“Matcha latte,” you corrected, half laughing, catching up to him. “It’s good for your heart.”

“My heart’s fine,” he said flatly — but the corner of his mouth twitched. When he glanced at you, his eyes softened for a second, catching the little smile you tried to hide.

Your gaze flicked to his hair — strands damp and clinging to his forehead, glowing faintly pink under the streetlight. “Is that color even real?” you asked, teasing, but your voice came out quieter than you meant.

He turned to you fully this time, the hint of a grin pulling at his lip. “Yeah. Real as it gets.” His tone dipped, lazy and warm. “Why? You like it?”

Your throat went a little dry. You looked away quickly, pretending to study the line of food stalls, the steam rising from them. “I didn’t say that.”

He chuckled low — the sound deep and unguarded — and you felt it more than you heard it, brushing close like heat under your skin. When you risked a glance, he was already watching you again, head tilted, eyes tracing your expression like it was his new favorite thing.

stopping before a stall where smoke curled up from skewers of chicken hearts and beef tongue. “Now this—” he pointed with the tilt of his chin. You followed him reluctantly, the soles of your white heels clacking against the wet pavement. He didn’t ask what you wanted—just ordered a spread of everything: yakitori, karaage, okonomiyaki, even bowls of steaming udon. The stall owner grinned knowingly, eyes darting between the two of you.

“You two on a date?”

Before you could stammer out a denial, Sukuna just shrugged. “She’s paying next time.”

“I'm not,” you shot back.

His mouth curved, faint and dangerous. “We’ll see.”

He carried the tray to a small table under a flickering paper lantern, where the light softened the sharp planes of his face. You hadn’t seen him like this before—not in blood, not under fluorescent hospital lights, but here… where his jaw unclenched, his shoulders relaxed, and for once, he wasn’t running from pain.

You watched him eat first. He didn’t use chopsticks delicately like you expected; he tore into the food like someone who’d been starving all his life. You tried not to stare at the way his hands—rough, calloused, still wrapped from the last fight—moved with quiet precision.

When you finally took a bite, he looked up, smirking. “Not bad, huh?” he said, leaning back with that infuriating confidence. You hummed, savoring the sweet-salty glaze.

“Okay… fine. You win. It’s better than café food.”

“Told you,” he said, leaning back. “You look too high-class to be eating this, though. Thought you’d run the moment you saw smoke.”

“I’m not that delicate,” you said, rolling your eyes. poking at him with your chopsticks.

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “You slapped me yesterday. So yeah, I noticed.”

Your chopsticks froze midair. “That was— you were being rude!”

“Still hit like you meant it,” he said, chuckling under his breath. “Didn’t expect it from someone who wears white shoes and talks like a nurse.”

“I am a nurse,” you said, crossing your arms. " Soon to be."

He blinked, pretending to look impressed.“Right,” he said. “You patch up idiots like me.”

“Exactly,” you said, leaning closer with a mock glare. “And I can also sedate them if they get too cocky.” His grin faltered just a bit before returning, sharper. “...You threatening me with medical equipment now?”

“Depends,” you said sweetly, taking another bite. “You planning to keep talking?”

He chuckled, eyes glinting. “Guess I’ll shut up. Don’t want the pretty nurse to euthanize me mid-dinner.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out—small, soft, and dangerously close to fond.

You exhaled a soft laugh, watching him through the warm haze of lantern light. “Honestly, I didn’t expect you to be like this.”

“Like what?” he asked, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth as he leaned back in his chair.

“Not…” You hesitated, twirling your chopsticks, trying to find the right word. “Not cold. Not cruel. Not a gang member who bites people for breakfast.”

That made him laugh—really laugh loud, sudden, and unrestrained. Heads turned from nearby stalls. a few vendors peeking over their steaming pots. You couldn’t help smiling, even as he dragged a hand down his face to muffle it. “You thought I was a mobster?” he grinned, voice deep and raspy with amusement.

“You kinda look like one,” you admitted. “Tattoos, scars, attitude. You even have that… scary resting face thing going on.”

He leaned forward then, elbows on the rickety table, voice dropping low enough to make your pulse skip. “You been staring at my tattoos, nurse?”

Your cheeks flared hot. “That’s not what I—! I was just— medically observing.”

He chuckled again, softer this time, a slow rumble that vibrated between you. “Medically observing, huh? Should I take my shirt off so you can… observe properly?”

“Don’t you dare,” you hissed, swatting at his hand when he made a show of tugging at his collar.

He laughed, leaning back again, smug and satisfied. “Relax. You’re too easy to tease.” Something shifted then—between the noise of frying pans and the hum of conversation, there was a pause.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too, the corners of your mouth betraying you. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, gaze flicking to your lips for just a second too long. “But you like impossible things, don’t you?”

The air between you went still—soft, charged, and sweet with the scent of grilled meat and night jasmine. Somewhere nearby, someone shouted an order, a pan clattered—but it all faded beneath the quiet thrum of his laughter and the way his knee brushed yours under the table, just once, like a dare.

His laughter faded, but the warmth didn’t. It clung to the night air like smoke, softening the edges between you. He leaned back, head tilted toward the dark sky, breath curling in the cold. “Not a mobster,” he said finally, voice quieter now. “Just a guy who fights for rent money.”

You gave him a look. Studying the scar under his eye.“You don’t have to sound so proud of that.”

He huffed a laugh, lips quirking. “Not proud. Just honest.”

The honesty hung there—bare, unguarded. It softened something in your chest that had been tight since yesterday, maybe longer. The city noise dulled to a hum around you, leaving just the faint crackle of the food stall behind and the way the light caught the scar under his eye. He wasn’t the monster people thought he was. He was just a man who’d been fighting too long—against fists, against hunger, maybe even against the silence in his own head.

“Why fights?” you asked quietly. “You’re good. You could work without meeting yourself at death’s gate.”

He shrugged, chopsticks still in hand. “Legit means contracts. Means people wanna own me. Tell me how to do shit, when to stop.” He took another bite of the noodles, chewing lazily. “I already did that once. Not again.”

You smirked. “So you’d rather get beaten up to the pulp for free will?”

He gave you a side-eye. “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“It is stupid,” you teased. “You could at least get dental insurance.”

That earned a real laugh out of him—low and rough, the kind that made your stomach do something inconvenient. He leaned back, grin still lingering. “You talk too much for a nurse.”

“And you bleed too much for a man.” His grin widened, teeth flashing. “Match made in hell, huh?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it was thick, charged, the kind that made you hyper-aware of how close your knees were to touching.

You stayed quiet. You understood more than he realized—what it meant to have people dictate your worth, your limits, your place. After a moment, you exhaled and said softly, “Guess we’re both working ourselves to death, huh?”

He turned to you, the humor dimming a little, replaced by something quieter. “Difference is, you save people. I don’t.”

You looked at him then—really looked. The bruises under the streetlight, the faint tremor in his hand from exhaustion, the strange calm in his eyes.

“Maybe you’re not as different as you think,” you said.

For a second, he looked like he might say something. But he didn’t. He just watched you—eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes, longer than it should have been. Like he couldn’t decide which was safer to look at.

Then he smirked, barely. “Careful, doc. Say shit like that, and I might start believing I’m a good guy.”

You smiled faintly. “Would that be so bad?”

He leaned in just a little, the warmth of his breath brushing your cheek. “Yeah,” he whispered, something sad curling under the grin. “’Cause then I’d have to stop fighting.”

You ended up walking through the food park for another hour. He insisted on buying you everything you pointed at: takoyaki, taiyaki, even roasted chestnuts. Every time you protested, he’d wave you off with that half-lidded look and mutter, “You patched me up, didn’t you? Let me pay.” Somewhere between bites, you found yourself laughing too easily as your voice blended into the night air, echoing off the lanterns.

And when it was time to leave, he didn’t ask where you lived; he just knew how to walk you there.

The streets were quieter now, the hum of the city softened into something almost intimate. Neon light bled through the mist, pooling over the slick asphalt where snow still shimmered in broken reflections. Every sound was distant — a car door slamming, a siren somewhere far away — muffled by the damp hush of midnight. The glow of vending machines spilled over the snowy asphalt.

You walked beside Sukuna, you walked beside Sukuna, close enough that your sleeve brushed his knuckles now and then. He didn’t move his hand away, but he didn’t reach for you either. The air between you hummed with the smell of snow still clinging to your hair.

To anyone passing by, he looked at ease — lazy, maybe even bored — but you could see the quiet alertness beneath it. His eyes flicked to every reflection in the puddles, every shadow that lingered too long, every echo of footsteps that didn’t belong, of footsteps across the street, the glint of headlights from a turning car, a group of guys laughing too loud on the corner.

“The streets aren’t safe,” he muttered finally, his voice low and hoarse, like the words had been scraped out of him. “Soft hearts like you shouldn’t walk alone.”

You tried to laugh it off, your voice catching somewhere between fondness and ache. “You make it sound like a movie.”

He turned his head then — really looked at you — and for a second, the snowlight caught his eyes just right. There was something in them that shouldn’t have been there. Something too gentle for a man who knew how to break bones with his bare hands.

He held your gaze a beat too long before murmuring, almost to himself, “You make it look like one.”

You smiled faintly, but his didn’t reach his eyes. He tore his gaze away, jaw tightening like he was holding something back — something dangerous. Because he’d already decided: he could bleed for you, fight for you, walk beside you through every dark street in this goddamn city… But he couldn’t love you. Not when love was the only thing that ever made him weak.

And just like that, the space between you felt smaller — the world quieter. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. Because under that flickering glow, with the snowflakes still clinging to your hair and his heartbeat pulsing faintly beside you, you both knew what neither of you dared to reach for.

You both caught the last bus. The vehicle rattled through the sleeping city, the hum of the engine weaving through the silence like a lullaby. Neon light spilling in through the windows fractured colors—red, gold, violet— painting shifting colors across your faces. You sat by the window, exhaustion softening your posture, your shoulder brushing his with every turn, and began to settle in.

By the third stop, your head tilted—slow, unguarded—until it came to rest against his shoulder.

He froze. For a man who could throw punches without flinching, it was ridiculous how this made him still. It shouldn’t have mattered, shouldn’t have felt like this. But it did.

The weight of your head against him—light, trusting—made something heavy settle in his chest. Somewhere, he didn’t let anyone touch. The steady warmth of you seeped through the fabric of his jacket, and suddenly, every bruise, every scar he carried seemed to ache differently. A quieter pain. The kind that whispered, don’t ruin this.

He glanced down at you.

Your lashes cast faint shadows across your cheeks, your lips parted slightly as you breathed. The rhythm of your chest rose and fell in time with the motion of the bus. You looked soft. Too soft for the kind of world he lived in. Peaceful—dangerously so. Like something he had no right to look at, let alone want.

His fingers twitched before he even realized it. The rough calloused tips from fights and blood hovered midair, trembling in hesitation, before barely brushing your cheek. Just a ghost of contact. Just the lightest touch—but it was enough to burn. He traced the curve of your jaw with the back of his knuckle, feeling the warmth of your skin. Delicate. Unreal. He withdrew almost instantly, fingers curling back into his palm like he’d touched something sacred. Terrified of what it meant that he even wanted to.

Your warmth lingered on his skin long after he pulled away. He clenched his fist around it, as if trying to hide the proof of how much he’d started to care.

He stared out the window, but he didn’t see the city. He saw the reflection of you instead—resting against him, trusting him without knowing the kind of man he really was.

And that’s what broke him most.

Because for the first time in a long, brutal while… he didn’t want to be the man who would have to let go.

When the bus jolted over a pothole, his arm instinctively tightened around you. Your head tipped against his shoulder again, the weight of it warm, familiar. He adjusted your glasses carefully, fingertips ghosting over your temple — protective, gentle — like he was afraid you’d break if he moved too fast.

You murmured something in your sleep then, his name maybe, or a sound that felt like it. And just like that, something twisted deep in his chest. His lips almost curved into a smile — a quiet, startled thing — before he caught himself.

He shouldn’t feel this. Not this soft, aching warmth that spread through him every time you breathed against his skin. He’d spent years hardening himself against that kind of weakness. But you made it too damn easy.

By the time lurched to your stop, he almost didn’t move. He just sat there for a second, watching you — lashes brushing your cheeks, mouth parted slightly, peaceful in a way he didn’t think peace existed anymore.

Then he forced himself to shake you awake, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

“Hey,” he murmured. “We’re here.” You blinked up at him, disoriented, eyes heavy with sleep, and something inside him pulled. Hard. The sight of your sleepy confusion pulled another small grin from him.

“You drooled on my shoulder, nurse,” he said, forcing a crooked grin to hide the tremor in his voice.

Your face went pink instantly. “I did not!” you huffed, wiping at your mouth in panic.

He let out a low laugh, one that cracked a little around the edges. “Sure you didn’t.”

You didn’t notice the way his hand lingered a second too long when he helped you stand. Or the way his eyes followed you as you stepped off the bus — like he was afraid that if he blinked, you’d disappear with the night.

Outside, the air was cool again, carrying that damp, metallic scent of snowfall that always came before a downpour. He walked beside you the whole way to your apartment gate, boots dragging just enough to slow his pace, as if each step forward meant leaving something behind. The silence between you wasn’t awkward this time — it felt heavy instead, threaded with all the words neither of you could say.

Your breath fogged faintly in the air when you turned to face him, ready to thank him, to fill the quiet with something small and safe. But before you could speak, he shook his head once, that familiar guardedness flickering back into place.

“Go on,” he said, low and even.

It should’ve sounded casual. It didn’t. It sounded like don’t make me worry, like I don’t know what to do with this feeling.

Then he turned, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. The streetlight above hummed, throwing pale gold across his shoulders — broad, scarred, impossibly solid — before the shadows swallowed him piece by piece. You stood there long after he disappeared, the faint scent of smoke and snow still clinging to the air, the image of him burned behind your eyes.

He didn’t look back. But if he had, you might’ve seen it — the tightness in his jaw, the way his hand flexed once in his pocket, like he was fighting the urge to turn around.

The days after that night blurred into something hazy and tender, like the lingering ache of a half-healed bruise. You started taking the same routes without meaning to — the same streets, the same train, the same stops. And somehow, he was always there.

Not always on purpose. But never by accident.

Sometimes he’d “bump” into you at a corner too narrow for it to be a coincidence, his hand brushing your arm as if testing if you were real. Other times, you’d look up at a café and find him already there — elbows on the table, eyes fixed on you over the rim of his coffee cup, a ghost of a smirk threatening to break.

And more often than not, you’d spot him first — leaning against a wall like he owned the air around him, that sharp gaze following you with something between hunger and restraint.

Neither of you said much when it happened. You didn’t have to. The silence between you buzzed like static — heavy with the things neither dared name. Each glance was a pull; each accidental touch felt like remembering something you hadn’t lived yet.

It wasn’t just a coincidence anymore. It was yearning dressed as chance.

The first time it happened after the hospital incident, you nearly tripped over your own feet again—arms full of books, notes, and exhaustion. The world tilted for a split second before a familiar hand caught your arm, steady and sure, pulling you back against something solid.

“…Careful,” his voice came low, rasped from disuse and sleepless nights.

You blinked up, heart lurching. His face was too close, close enough to see the faint scar above his brow, the one that's stitched, the one that made something in your chest ache.

“I—thanks,” you breathed, the word catching somewhere between your throat and the space between you. His lips curved, that half-smirk you’d learned to read too well. “Yeah?” His thumb brushed the inside of your elbow before he let go, slow, reluctant. “Try not to kill yourself before med school crushes you.”

You laughed, but it came out soft—nervous, trembling. You could feel his warmth lingering against your sleeve long after he stepped back, both of you pretending it didn’t mean anything. Both of you knew it did.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. There was something about the way he watched—not intrusive, not possessive—just there. Like he was guarding a space he didn’t even know he’d claimed. In some way, that quiet presence had become its own kind of comfort.

Before long, he started helping with your studies—or at least, that’s what he liked to call it. Your apartment's desk was chaos: textbooks stacked, anatomy diagrams spread wide, pens scattered like confetti from another sleepless night. He sat across from you, slouched in the chair, forearms resting on the table as you watched him, with your glasses perched up in your nose, Hair tied up with your claw clip as he scanned through your color-coded notes like they held some secret language.

“Ster… masto… steroid?” he guessed when you quizzed him on sternocleidomastoid. His brow furrowed, lips twitching. You broke into laughter, head falling forward. “You’re impossible.”

“I am,” he said, smug, though the faint twitch at his mouth betrayed him. He liked making you laugh. Probably more than he should’ve.

Over time, the rhythm became familiar. Him leaning over your notes, frowning in concentration. You correcting him, sometimes swatting his arm when he mispronounces pharyngeal. Laughter fills the small space, mingling with the soft rustle of papers and late-night outside your window. There was teasing, sure—but under it, something warmer. Quieter. A closeness that lived in the little pauses between words.

You started noticing things. The way his eyes lingered on you when you were focused. The small huff of amusement when you chewed the end of your pen. The way his rough hands hesitated near yours whenever you passed him a flashcard—close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Evenings were the hardest. He insisted on walking you home every time from campus, grumbling about the streets being too dangerous for “soft hearts” like yours. You’d roll your eyes, tug your scarf higher, pretending you didn’t secretly love it. His footsteps always matched yours—steady, deliberate. His body between you and the world.

Sometimes, under the hum of streetlights, you’d catch him looking. That usual sharpness in his eyes is gone, replaced by something… unguarded. Soft. And then, like clockwork, he’d look away, muttering something rude to cover the crack in his armor.

It was easy to pretend it was nothing—until nights when the bus ride home grew quiet and heavy. Your head would dip, exhaustion tugging you sideways until it brushed his shoulder. He’d go completely still, as if afraid to breathe. Then, slowly—hesitantly—he’d tilt his head ever so slightly toward yours, his shoulder steady beneath your cheek.

Neither of you spoke. But in that fragile stillness, the air between you pulsed with everything unspoken—the warmth, the ache, the quiet kind of yearning that asked for nothing yet meant everything.

He didn’t sleep in his own apartment that night—not because of anything you’d said or done, but because of the silence that followed after. The memory of your head against his shoulder played on a loop: the quiet rhythm of your breathing, the ghost of your hair against his arm, the way your body had unconsciously leaned toward his like you trusted him. That was the part that haunted him most—the trust.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, every muscle still remembering the weight of you, the warmth that seeped through his skin. And somewhere between midnight and dawn, when the city outside had gone still, he wondered—just once—if someone like him was even allowed to want someone like you.

Days bled into weeks, and your meetings stopped being coincidences. You’d find him waiting at the Shinjuku train station, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a convenience store coffee. He never said he was waiting for you, but his eyes always flicked up the moment you appeared.

At first, your conversations were easy, surface-level things—classes, assignments, the endless grind of med school. But then came the jokes, the teasing, the little confessions slipped in between. You’d complain about memorizing muscle origins, and he’d grin and say, “You patched me up once. That’s enough to graduate, doesn't it?” You’d roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest would linger long after.

He never said what he felt. Not directly. The quiet way he would show up was enough. How he’d wordlessly take your bag when your arms were full. How he remembered your exact matcha latte order—two pumps of syrup, extra ice. How his fingers always brushed yours when he passed you your notes, deliberate yet pretending not to be.

And you felt it too. The pull. The way your pulse betrayed you whenever he leaned too close, or when his laughter filled the narrow space between you. Sometimes, you’d look at him and feel the air thicken, like there was something fragile balanced between you—something that could shatter or bloom with a single word.

But neither of you spoke it. Not yet. Because whatever this was, it was too delicate to name and too precious to risk losing before either of you was ready.

One evening, when the sky outside the ramen house window had deepened into violet, the quiet between you stretched long enough for something real to slip through. Your notes lay forgotten on the table, your voice softer than usual.

“I chose med school because of my great-grandmother,” you said, tracing absent circles on your cup. “She was already in maintenance when I was born. There wasn’t anyone else, so I just—learned. How to take care of her. How to be calm when she wasn’t.” You laughed faintly, though it trembled at the edges. “Also used to work part-time through high school, too—small things, just to save up for tuition. It’s not much left now, so I’ll probably need another job soon. Semester’s been… heavier than I expected.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you—the way your eyes fell to your bowl, the quiet determination tucked beneath your exhaustion. Then he exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair.

“You,” he said finally, voice low and rough, “are terrible at taking breaks.”

You glanced up, ready to roll your eyes, but he continued before you could.

“Working since high school, taking care of people, saving up for this—” He shook his head, smirking faintly, though his tone had softened. “You’re out here trying to patch up the whole damn world, and you can’t even sit still long enough to breathe.”

You let out a small laugh. “That’s your version of cheering me up?”

He grunted. “You want confetti or something?”

You laughed again, properly this time, and he looked almost proud of himself for it. Then his expression shifted—less teasing, more earnest.

“You’re strong,” he said quietly, almost like it slipped out. His gaze flicked toward the floor before returning to you. Your chest tightened, warmth rising to your throat before you could speak. He shrugged, trying to make light of it, though his voice stayed soft.

“Just don’t forget to let someone take care of you every once in a while.”

And when he said it—when his eyes lingered on you like he meant it—it wasn’t just concern. It was something deeper. Something like admiration. Something dangerously close to love.

After he dropped you off at your home, Sukuna lingered outside your gate, staring into the darkened streets. His smile, usually cocky and teasing, faded slowly. Hands shoved into pockets, jaw clenched, he let himself think of you—of how kind you were, of how selfless, of how easily you made him forget the underworld of fists and blood he came from.

He didn’t deserve you. Not someone bright, soft, and healing. Not someone who saved people without question. He's scarred, violent, and dangerous. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—be the kind of man who belonged with you. So he stayed silent. He let the warmth linger, let the teasing continue, let himself be near you, but never let himself hope.

And yet, behind Sukuna’s guarded exterior, behind his quiet grudges and fleeting grumbles, something shifted. Slowly, surely. He was falling. And every night, as he walked away from your dorm, that realization weighed heavier than any punch he’d ever taken in the ring.

The air bit at your cheeks as you stepped out of the lecture hall, scarf pulled tight and gloves gripping your hands. Winter had settled over the city like an unshakable fever—streets glistening with frost, railings slick with ice, breath turning to fog the moment it left your lips. You shivered, pulling your coat closer, but even the thought of the campus festival tonight was enough to spark a little warmth inside you—lanterns, laughter, snow drifting in lazy spirals from the sky.

You hadn’t really expected Sukuna to come. It was a half-joking invitation sent between classes, your fingers hesitating over send before you finally hit it.

"You should come tonight. I’ll save you a spot😋."

Hours later, miles away under the hum of flickering fluorescent lights, Sukuna stood in the locker room of the underground arena—sweat still clinging to his skin and his black dyed hair, blood trickling from the split on his lip. The crowd’s roars had faded to a low buzz behind the metal doors. He’d won again, though the bruises blooming along his ribs told a different story. Rin was shouting in his ear about numbers, her voice sharp and elated—something about how much he’d made her money worth tonight, how the crowd was eating him alive. He barely heard her.

His phone buzzed in his hand. A single message lighting up the cracked screen—your name.

The corner of his mouth twitched into something between a smirk and a sigh. For a moment, he just stared at it, thumb hovering above the glass, heartbeat still pounding from the fight. You—clean, warm, far from this blood-soaked place—had thought of him. Invited him.

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and tired. Rin rolled her eyes, muttering something about him losing his edge if he kept getting distracted by “that girl.” But Sukuna only leaned back against the locker, the metal cold against his skin, and typed his reply with bruised fingers—

🤷‍♂️

Simple. Careless on the surface. But his chest ached with something restless and alive.

Now, hours later, you lay on your bed as you doomed scrolled through social media, your phone buzzed. One new message.

Just that emoji. But quickly followed by another message.

“I’ll go. Don’t make it boring,”

You had grinned, teasing him in reply.

Now, seeing him waiting near the train station, hands stuffed in his pockets, hood up, posture relaxed as ever, you couldn’t help but notice the sodium light overhead caught the faint bruises along his jaw and the swelling above his lip—Old ghosts of violence clung to him like smoke. But tonight… There was something softer. Something dangerously close to human.

“Hey,” you greeted, your breath misting in the cold.

“…Hey,” he replied, voice low, clipped, but lighter than usual. There was a quiet curiosity in his dark crimson eyes that made your stomach flutter.

You stepped closer, your gaze tracing the bruises more carefully this time. A fresh one shadowed his cheekbone, faint but new, and the corner of his lip was split again—just barely healed over. You frowned. “You’ve got new ones.”

He grunted, glancing aside as if that might hide the evidence. “Yeah. Training.”

“Training?” you echoed, brow furrowing. “That bad?”

He huffed, clearly irritated by the question—or maybe by whoever had landed those hits. “Tch. My trainee got carried away.”

“Carried away?” you pressed, incredulous. “You mean he hit you this hard during sparring?” Sukuna’s jaw ticked as his lips twitched, caught somewhere between annoyance and reluctant amusement. “He’s heavy-handed,” he muttered. “Didn’t think he’d actually land one.”

You blinked, a laugh escaping despite yourself. “So you’re saying your student bruised the great Ryoumen Sukuna ?”

He shot you a sideways look that could’ve cut glass—but the faintest smirk tugged at his lip, betraying the irritation he tried to fake. “Keep laughing. I’ll make you hold mitts next time.”

You smiled, the sound of his voice melting something in your chest. The space between you felt fragile, heavy with things unspoken. The walk to campus was mostly silent, the crunch of snow underfoot filling the air between you. Every so often, you’d glance at him, noticing how his gaze flicked toward you again—measured, deliberate, as if checking to make sure you were still there. It made your stomach tighten, your heart fluttering in quiet rhythm with his heavy steps.

Finally, the festival grounds appeared. Lanterns strung between poles glowed warmly, casting everything in soft golden light. Music floated through the air, mingling with laughter and the scent of roasted chestnuts. It was magic. For a moment, it almost felt impossible that he was here—Sukuna, the man who existed in the shadows of bloodied arenas—standing under the gentle snowfall like he belonged in this soft, glowing world.

“Go on,” you urged softly, gesturing toward a food stall lit with red paper lanterns. “Let's try some yakitori. Don’t tell me you've changed your mind now.”

He huffed a low laugh, the sound almost disbelieving. “… Just don’t make me look weak.” You chuckled, shaking your head. There was something disarmingly normal about this moment. Something that shouldn’t exist between the bruises and the blood, yet somehow did.

You wandered together through the stalls—sharing bites of sweet mochi, sipping hot tea that steamed against the cold, laughing as he complained about the sweetness, only to reach for another piece anyway. Every time your eyes met, there was a quiet pull, a spark that lingered just a little too long before either of you looked away.

Then, over the sound of music and laughter, a familiar voice pierced through the air.

“No way.”

You froze. Sukuna’s brow arched, his chewing slowing as he turned his head with deliberate calm. Standing a few meters away, bundled in scarves and coats, were Shoko, Gojo, and Geto—your friends, your classmates—and they looked like they’d just stumbled into a crime scene.

“Hey,” you greeted, tone a little too bright, a little too nervous. “You guys made it.”

“You brought him?” Gojo asked, half-whisper, half-screech, his white hair already dusted with snow. “You actually brought your mystery man?!”

Shoko gave you a look that said we’ll talk later, then turned her calm, assessing eyes toward Sukuna. “So you’re the guy who’s been keeping her from our study sessions.”

Sukuna didn’t blink. “She’s the one who keeps dragging me,” he said dryly, voice low and smooth as smoke.

Gojo let out a laugh, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Ohhh, he talks. And he’s got bite, too. I like him.” He leaned forward, that signature grin flashing. “So tell me, tough guy—what’s your major, man? Violence?”

You could feel Sukuna’s glare from beside you, sharp enough to slice through the snow. “You talk too much.”

“That's my specialty,” Gojo chirped, completely unbothered. “You’re a big guy, man, relax. I’m not gonna fight you—unless it’s for her attention.” He winked.

“Gojo,” you hissed, mortified.

Sukuna’s lip curled in something between amusement and annoyance. “Try it. See what happens.”

Gojo’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second, blue eyes narrowing just slightly before Gojo howled, laughing, clapping him on the shoulder—but the impact lingered like a test. “Oh, I like you even more now. She’s in trouble with this one.”

“Gojo,” Shoko warned, voice edged with annoyance. “One more word and I’m calling the med tent for you now.”

While the two of them exchanged verbal jabs, your gaze flicked toward Geto—quiet, calm, his eyes lingering on Sukuna in a way that wasn’t curiosity. It was something sharper. Measuring. His dark eyes flicked from you to Sukuna, then to the faint bruises shadowing Sukuna’s jaw.

“Ryoumen Sukuna, right?” Geto finally said. His tone was polite, his voice low. Too calm. even, but there was a weight behind it. “You’ve been around the neighborhood a lot lately.”

Sukuna’s smirk vanished. He straightened, shoulders subtly squaring. “That a problem?”

“Not unless you make it one,” Geto said, smiling still there, though it didn’t reach his eyes—but there was no warmth behind it.

The shift was instant. no longer light or teasing. It was the kind of silence that hummed with unspoken tension. Gojo went still beside you, his grin tightening. His eyes flicked between them like he was watching a live bomb ticking. The crowd noise seemed to fade. Sukuna’s crimson eyes darkened, assessing, predatory. Two predators sizing each other up. One in Uniform, the other in shadows.

“Alright, testosterone festival’s over,” Shoko muttered, stepping in as heavy enough to slice through the tension. Tugging on your sleeve. “Let’s get food before someone before one of you decides to test a theory.”

You exhaled shakily, cheeks hot. “Sorry—they can be… a lot.”

Sukuna grunted, still watching Geto with narrowed eyes. “Yeah. I noticed.”

Even as you tugged his sleeve and moved ahead, he didn’t look away. Neither did Geto.

It wasn’t open hostility yet. But it wasn’t peace either.

And even as the night continued—Sukuna muttering about the cold, even while Sukuna stood beside you, laughing softly at something Gojo said or muttering about the cold, you caught the way his eyes occasionally flicked to where Geto stood—watchful, guarded. You could feel Shoko pretending not to watch. That invisible line drawn between the three of them.

By the time the lanterns began to dim and the laughter faded into the cold, the festival’s warmth dissolved into something quieter—something that hummed beneath the snow and the heartbeat still echoing in your chest. Fellow students drifted toward the station in small, glowing clusters. The air smelled faintly of smoke and sweetness, like a dream slowly burning out.

Shoko and Gojo had split off to grab one last snack run—Gojo calling something over his shoulder about “don’t kill each other!”—leaving you and Sukuna standing at the edge of the quad. The snow underfoot shimmered faintly in the lantern light, turning every breath into mist.

You could still feel the aftershock of everything—the way his hand brushed yours earlier, the small, rare curve of his mouth when you made him laugh. But beneath it all, there was that same weight dragging through your chest: the memory of his stare-down with Geto.

And as if summoned by your thoughts, Geto emerged from the thinning crowd—hands in his pockets, eyes sharp beneath the calm. He didn’t look angry, exactly. Just aware. Like a man who’d already drawn his conclusions.

“Guess that’s my cue,” Shoko murmured, waving lazily before heading off. Gojo trailed behind her, laughing, still half-shouting, “Behave, lovebirds!” That left only you and the two towering men, standing between what felt like two storms.

“I’ll… go ahead,” you said quietly, glancing between them. “See you at the gates?” Sukuna’s gaze flicked to you, softened for the briefest heartbeat before turning back to Geto. His voice was low. “…Yeah.”

You hesitated, sensing the shift in the air—the kind of stillness that came right before something snapped. Then you turned and walked off, boots crunching through the thin layer of snow. You didn’t look back, but you didn’t have to. You could feel it—two gazes locked behind you, heavy and unmoving.

When your footsteps had faded, Geto exhaled slowly. The silence between them was brittle. “You know,” he began, voice calm but cutting, “I don’t think she knows what kind of place you come from.” Sukuna’s jaw tightened. He didn’t turn, but the shift in his posture was immediate—scenting threat. “You don’t either.”

“I know enough,” Geto replied, stepping closer until the lamplight cast the faintest glint in his eyes. “You show up out of nowhere. Always bruised. Always watching her door after dark.” His tone stayed soft, but the precision in his words made it worse. “It’s not hard to notice.”

Sukuna finally looked at him, the faintest curl of his lip ghosting across his face. “You think you’re her protector?”

“I think she deserves to know when someone’s hiding the truth on their hands,” Geto said evenly. The words hit hard—sharp enough to slice the space between them open. Sukuna’s shoulders squared, breath steady but slow. The faint wind picked up, stirring the snow.

He stepped forward once. Then again. “You think you scare me?” Geto didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “No,” he said quietly. “I think you scare yourself.” The silence that followed was suffocating—thick enough to feel. The festival lights flickered in the distance, but here, the world had narrowed to two figures standing in the half-dark, the snow catching between them like static. Two men who understood violence in different languages.

Sukuna leaned in. “You don’t know anything about me. And trust me—” his gaze sharpened, crimson eyes burning through the half-light, “—you don’t want to.”

Geto’s reply came like a whisper, steady and sure. “Maybe not. But it’ll show anyway.”

They stood there, neither backing down, their shadows cutting across the snow like twin scars. For a long, pulsing moment, it felt like something might finally break—like one wrong breath could ignite everything.

Then Sukuna turned. Shoulders tense, steps deliberate. His breath fogged the air as he walked toward the station without looking back, the faint hum of the city swallowing his figure whole. Geto stayed where he was, watching the retreating silhouette. The quiet around him seemed to grow colder.

You were waiting near the gates when he finally caught up. The wind had painted your cheeks a soft pink, scarf was pulled high, hiding the tremble in your breath. He said nothing—just fell into step beside you, his shadow stretching long beside yours in the glow of the streetlights.

“You okay?” you asked quietly. The question felt too small for everything hanging between you. He glanced down, eyes unreadable beneath the hood. “…Yeah.”

But his hand twitched once at his side, that small, human movement betraying the restraint it took not to reach for you—or to look back. You didn’t notice the figure still lingering behind, half-hidden by the falling snow. Geto’s gaze followed you both, quiet and unreadable, a faint frown pulling at his lips as Sukuna’s shadow folded into yours.

Whatever had started between those two—it wasn’t ending tonight.

The snow thickened, falling heavier now, soft flakes clinging to your hair. You pulled your scarf higher, voice muffled when you murmured, “I should probably head now…”

He didn’t answer immediately. You felt him hesitate, saw his hand lift—halfway, almost touching the space between you—but he stopped himself. His jaw flexed once before he exhaled through his nose. “…Yeah. You should.” It hung there. That was quiet, painful, almost. The words neither of you knew how to say pressed at the back of your throats, heavy and fragile. You shifted your weight, trying to smile, but your chest ached. He cleared his throat, voice low, rough with something unspoken.

“…Not tonight.”

Your brows knit. “Not tonight?”

He looked away, eyes fixed somewhere distant, somewhere safe. “…Just go home.”

You nodded, though your heart thudded like it wanted to stay. “Alright. And… thank you. For coming.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His eyes traced your face as though trying to memorize it—the curve of your mouth, the way your lashes caught snow, the quiet tremor of your breath. You couldn’t hold his gaze for long; it felt too much, too deep, like standing too close to something that could burn you alive. You turned toward the train. The world narrowed to the sound of your boots crunching snow and the low hum of the platform. “Goodbye,” you whispered, barely audible.

He didn’t answer. He just watched you go, the amber light of the station catching in your hair before you vanished into the crowd—a silhouette dissolving into snowfall.

The space you left behind felt hollow. The warmth of your presence lingered like an echo, an ache that settled deep in his chest. His jaw clenched. Hands buried in his pockets, he muttered under his breath, voice rough with frustration, “…Damn it.”

He turned away sharply, breath fogging the cold air, walking fast—like he could outrun the feeling clawing at his ribs. He wasn’t angry at you. He was angry at himself—at the words he couldn’t say, the impulse he had to choke down every time you looked at him like that.

Under the drifting lantern light, he paused once, just once, his breath catching. He could still see it—your faint smile, your eyes, the way your voice softened when you said his name. The snow kept falling. The crowd thinned. And somewhere beneath his bruised ribs, a restless fire burned—wanting, aching, waiting for the next time he’d see you.

Neither of you said it. But both of you felt it. And that was almost worse.

Hours later, deep beneath the city where the scent of sweat and iron bled into the air, Sukuna sat in the gym—this time, all alone with his own thoughts. His knuckles were already taped, bruised, his expression distant as Rin paced in front of him, cigarette glowing between her fingers.

“So,” she started, exhaling smoke through her grin. “That the girl?”

Sukuna didn’t look up. “What girl.”

Rin smirked. “Don’t play dumb with me, pretty boy. Your precious little med student. The one who keeps stitching your sorry ass together. Word gets around.”

He said nothing. Just adjusted his wrist wraps, movements slow and precise, but his silence was answer enough. Rin crouched in front of him, a grin softening just enough to show she almost cared.

“You know, you could actually make her part of your life. She’s clean, smart, sweet—all that sunshine you don’t deserve. But,” she added, tone dipping low, sharp as a knife, “don’t forget. You still owe me.” Sukuna’s eyes flicked to hers, that dangerous gleam back in them.

“You’ve got money to make,” Rin continued, dragging the cigarette against the floor, ember dying in the dust. “Blood to spill. Until your debts are cleared, you belong to me. You want freedom? You fight for it.”

He finally spoke, voice flat, low, but laced with warning. “You done?” Rin arched a brow, still smirking. “Not quite. I’m saying this because I like you, Ryoumen. But if that girl gets too close? If she starts poking around my business, or if she gets in the way of yours…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. The air went still.

Sukuna’s hands slowly uncurled from the wraps. His head lifted, eyes catching hers—no amusement this time, no bluff, no feigned calm. Just that quiet, razor-sharp stillness before the kill.

“You touch her,” he said quietly, “and I’ll forget you ever helped me in the first place.” Rin blinked, taken aback. For a second, something flickered across her face—surprise? Respect? Maybe both.

Then she smiled again, lazy and dangerous. “See, that’s the problem with you, "Oni". You only fight like that when someone gives you something to lose.” He stared her down. The locker room light flickered above them, throwing his shadow across the cracked tile.

“Don’t test me,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said sweetly, standing and dusting off her coat. “But remember—love won’t save you down here. Money will. And until you buy your way out, she’s nothing but a risk.” Rin turned on her heel and left, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind her. The sound echoed through the room, hollow and final.

Sukuna stayed seated, unmoving, staring at the floor. The ghost of your laughter flickered through his mind like a half-remembered dream—so soft it hurt. Then he stood, rolling his wrists, eyes cold again.

The days after felt unbearably long, like a frozen river of nothing stretching endlessly before you. No messages. No sightings. No accidental bumps at the train station. As if he had disappeared from the face of the Earth.

You’ve been searching every place he’d ever casually mentioned—the convenience store bench where you’d patched him up, the alleyway shortcuts he never complained about, even the quiet corner café he’d mocked—but there was no trace. It was as if he had been swallowed by the city itself. Your heart ached with a mix of worry and frustration, the absence of him twisting in your chest until it hurt to breathe. Why would he disappear? Why wouldn’t he tell me?

Every corner seemed to whisper his name, every empty space made the ache sharper. Your thoughts tangled endlessly between worry and anger—between the memory of his smirk and the echo of his silence. And then, one night, as you sat in your dimly lit room, replaying every moment of the festival.

Whatever he’d said that night—whatever had passed between them—it had gotten to Sukuna. You’d seen the change, the way his shoulders tensed, the coldness that took root in his eyes after that quiet confrontation. Whatever Geto had told him… it had driven him away. And now, he was gone.

Rin had always seen people chase after him — the desperate kind, the greedy kind — but you weren’t either. You looked like you were about to snap. From her place across the street, Rin leaned against her car, arms folded as she watched you scan the back alleys of Kabukichō for the third night in a row.

The city around you pulsed with life — laughter spilling from bars, the buzz of neon signs, the shuffling of feet on dirty pavement, and yet you looked like you were standing outside of it all. Like someone who’d lost the map back to herself.

Rin had been there the night Sukuna vanished — the night the underground ring had gone silent. The night he’d told her, voice low and eyes distant, not to follow, not to call, not to say a word.

And now, here you were, bundled in that same oversized coat he once teased you for wearing, clutching your phone like a compass that had lost its north.

Rin took a drag, smoke curling from her lips as she muttered under her breath, “That bastard’s gone and got himself attached.” Her tone was a blend of bitterness and reluctant admiration. “Didn’t think he had it in him.”

The great Ryoumen Sukuna — underground champion, the man who moved like a weapon and spoke like a wound — bleeding his heart out for a girl who patched him up with trembling hands and told him he still owed her. Rin didn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified. Maybe both.

You kept walking. Past the shuttered ramen stalls and blinking streetlights, past the puddles that mirrored the cold glow of vending machines. Your breath fogged in the air, your gloved fingers shaking as you typed and deleted the same message over and over:

“Where are you?” “Are you alive?” “Are you just really gonna ignore me?”

But the screen stayed empty. Always empty.

You wandered to the places that had quietly become his.

Everywhere you went, there was a trace of him — and yet not him.

The air was brutal that night, biting against your cheeks and seeping through your clothes. By the time you boarded the last train home, filled with people all tired from their day. Your legs ached from walking, your throat burned from the wind, and your reflection in the window looked hollow — a ghost staring back at itself.

The train swayed gently, the city lights flashing by like dying embers — red neon, pale blue, harsh white. Every flicker reminded you of him: the glow of a boxing sign on a billboard, the press of cold metal gloves against skin, the smirk that always preceded a threat or a tease.

When you reached your apartment, your hands shook as you fit the key into the lock. The moment you stepped inside, silence hit you like a blow.

No sound of his boots on the floor. No faint muttering under his breath. No cigarette smoke curling from the half-open window. Just a stale, awful quiet.

You dropped your bag and pressed your palms against your eyes, forcing back the burn that rose in your throat. “Why did you leave me, you asshole.”

The days that followed blurred into each other. You went through the motions — lectures, exams, late nights with your notes spread like open wounds across your desk — but it was like your body kept moving while your mind stayed behind somewhere in Kabukichō.

You started sleeping with your phone on your chest, waiting for a vibration that never came.

Until one afternoon, surrounded by the hum of cafeteria chatter, it all came undone.

Shoko was the first to notice. Her hand brushed over yours, soft and careful, grounding. “He’ll show up soon,” she murmured, trying for comfort. “You know how guys like him are — they disappear, then come back acting like nothing happened. You’ll probably get some dumb excuse about needing ‘space.’”

Gojo, ever the loudest, leaned back with his usual smirk. “Yeah, maybe he’s just brooding in an alley again. Probably writing haikus about you or something. What rhymes with ‘medical bills’? ‘Thrills’? ‘Feels’?—”

You laughed because that’s what you were supposed to do. But it came out wrong. Hollow. Like the sound of a glass cracking before it breaks. And then Geto spoke. His tone was too calm, steady in the way that meant danger. “You should accept it.”

The words barely reached you before the meaning hit. He looked at you across the table, eyes like quiet judgment. “Whatever he was, whatever he promised, it’s over. Guys like that don’t just disappear for no reason. He made his choice.”

Something inside you splintered.

Your hand slammed against the table, sharp enough to rattle the cutlery and choke the air out of the room. Gojo’s grin faltered. Shoko froze mid-breath.

“Suguru—”

Geto’s eyes hardened, his voice dropping low. “And you don’t know what he’s capable of.”

The silence that followed was a blade. No one breathed. No one moved.

You could feel your pulse hammering in your throat, your whole body shaking. “Maybe you said something,” you spat. “Maybe you ticked him off. You were always watching him like you wanted him to screw up—” Geto’s jaw tightened. “If he left, it wasn’t because of me. It was because he's the kind of man who always leaves.”

You pushed away from the table, the screech of the chair against tile cutting through the air. “You don’t get to talk about him like that,” you said, voice cracking. “Not when you just spout accusing words at a person you just met.”

You didn’t wait for anyone to respond. You walked out. Fast. Hard. The world outside hit you cold and colorless, snow falling in lazy spirals that stung when they touched your cheeks. The sound of laughter from inside faded behind you until it was just the whisper of winter and the pounding of your heart. Your emotions getting the better of you, so much so that you failed to feel the presence of someone already watching you. Half-hidden under the awning, a cigarette was burning down to the filter. She watched you go, eyes following your trembling hands, your uneven steps. The anger, the heartbreak — the same look Sukuna had.

Rin exhaled, the smoke curling up into the falling snow. “Guess he wasn’t the only one who fell too deep,” she muttered. And somewhere in the city — in a basement gym that reeked of sweat and blood — Sukuna sat on a stool, bruised knuckles resting on his knees, ribs wrapped tight with tape. He stared at the floor, the echo of your voice still carved into his skull.

The weight of your words. The moments you both had. The freedom he still owed.

He lit a cigarette with shaking hands, inhaled, and exhaled smoke like confession. For a moment, he almost reached for his phone. Almost. But he didn’t.

The café was nearly empty when you stepped in. A faint bell chimed overhead, warm air brushing against your cold cheeks. You were half-numb — not from the winter, but from the silence that had followed him since that night. You’d been coming here every day since Sukuna vanished, telling yourself it was just routine, that maybe he’d walk in one day with that lazy smirk.

“Told you I don’t like this place, but you make it tolerable.”

You stood at the counter, murmuring your usual order — “One matcha latte, please—”

“Make that two.”

You turned. A woman leaned casually against the counter beside you — tall, sharp-eyed, a long scar tracing down from her ear to her collarbone like an afterthought. Her hair was sleek and clean, and her smirk looked too knowing for comfort.

You blinked, thrown off by her sudden familiarity. “… do I know you?”

She tilted her head, looking you over as if weighing something. Then she extended a gloved hand. “Rin.” A pause, a faint glint in her eyes. “Sukuna’s… friend.”

Sukuna's friend? He never mentioned anything to you about a friend of his, not even his own family—

She chuckled low, eyes sharp as if she read the cogs turning in your mind. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Come on — sit.”

Before you could protest, she gestured toward a table by the window, guiding you with a casual but firm nudge. Warily, you obeyed. Heart pounding, unsure whether it was caution or curiosity that made you follow. Rin sat across from you, letting the noise of the café fade into the background.

Without preamble, she reached into her coat and placed a thick envelope on the table. “For you.” You frowned deeply, glancing down at the clean, gleaming stack of bills. The same ones that Sukuna did in the Hospital. Weeks ago.

“Tuition,” she said simply. “From him.”

Your stomach twisted, an unbelievable laugh escaped as your eyes glanced back to her. “Look….I don’t even know who you are, or how you know him. And second, how can I be so sure it's from him. Sukuna's friend”

Rin’s playful smirk vanished, replaced by a serious, almost dangerous gaze. “You really don’t know? huh..” Her voice was quiet, measured. “I know him well enough to know how dangerous it is to be involved with people like you. And if I were you, I’d be careful how much curiosity I let get in the way of your skin staying unbruised.”

You swallowed hard, every instinct screaming at you to leave, but you couldn’t. Sarcasm coating your words, “You… you just hand people money and threats. Do you? What a stupid occupation you have.”

Rin leaned back, folding her arms. The smoke from her cigarette lingered around her like a halo of warning. “You’re asking the wrong questions, pretty girl.” Her eyes bored into yours. “The right question is, can you survive knowing even a fraction of what he’s been through?”

You looked down at the money again. Raising an eyebrow “…Is this… Really, the money he makes as a gym trainer?”

Rin laughed — low, amused, dangerous. “Gym trainer? Sweetheart, do you know him at all? He earns that money of his in ways your little textbook couldn’t even cover.”

You blinked, feeling a mix of disrespect and disbelief.

“Good,” Rin said, leaning forward. Her expression sharpened, serious now. “You don’t accept handouts from people you don’t understand. And you certainly don’t throw away your pride for promises you can’t keep.”

Your chest tightened. “Then… tell me. What are you really here for? How did you know about me?”

Rin’s gaze softened just slightly — ever so little — but her warning remained. “I’m here to make sure curiosity doesn’t get you hurt. That’s all. The envelope? Think of it as a lifeline. Keep your pride. Keep your questions. Keep yourself alive.”

You stared at her, frustrated and cautious, barely speaking, barely moving. “… I want to know why he left, and why you’re here instead of him.”

Rin gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “He left because he had to. I’m here because storms like him don’t wait for anyone — especially not for people who aren’t ready. That’s the truth, sweetheart. And if it ever comes… You better be ready to bleed for it.”

She stood, her chair screeching back. Placing her coat over her shoulders as she extinguished the cigarette, and giving a two-fingered salute. “He doesn’t do promises — but if he ever breaks yours, he’ll come back to make it right. That’s all you get from me.”

The door chimed as she left, snow swirling behind her like a curtain. You sat frozen, the envelope untouched, heart racing, hands clenching together in frustration. Even more when the server serves two steaming cups of matcha latte at your table, confused as to only find you alone at the table and a stack of an absurd amount of money in front of you. Outside, the snow kept falling.

The ring smelled of iron and sweat. Concrete walls, buzzing fluorescent lights, the muffled roar of the crowd beyond the curtains — the underground arena felt like a heartbeat, steady and brutal. Rin stood just outside the ropes, arms folded, watching as Sukuna wrapped his hands in silence. The ritual was the same every night — tape, stretch, flex — except his jaw was tighter now, his movements a little sharper, like he was trying to bleed out something that words couldn’t touch.

“You know,” Rin started, her tone deceptively light, “I paid her a visit today.” Sukuna didn’t respond. He tugged the wrap tighter around his knuckles.

Rin smirked. “Your little nurse girl. She was at that café again — the one that smells like sugar and regret. Ordered her matcha latte, sat by the window, looking like she’d been hit by a truck made of heartache.”

“I went to her. Gave her the money,” letting the words hang. “She didn’t take it.”

Rin chuckled, shaking her head. “And the look on her face — priceless. Completely confused and sarcastic. You should’ve seen it…Her confused how much money a ‘gym trainer’ supposedly makes. Though she spat it back at me.”

Her grin widened. “Cute, isn’t it? The way her tired eyes glared at me, her words sharp and stinging. Like she didn’t know whether to laugh or crash out. I couldn’t stop thinking how adorable it was that you were lying to her about your life.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Maybe,” Rin said, voice light but sharp. “But you? You shouldn't be paying attention to her. That little nurse girl… she’s got guts. Didn’t flinch when I told her who I was. Didn’t blink at the stack of cash — cautious, careful… keeps her pride. I like that.”

Sukuna shook his head, frustration flickering in his dark eyes. “Jesus Christ, Rin.”

Rin reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, translucent pill. She held it between her fingers for a moment, letting the light catch it. “Your little edge,” she said casually. Sukuna hesitated, a flash of reluctance crossing his face. Rin raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You’re not here to play house. You’re here to make gamblers empty their pockets for me.”

He took the pill, jaw tight, tossing it into his mouth without a word, swallowing dryly. Rin’s grin returned, sharp and satisfied. “That’s my boy.”

He exhaled sharply, pulling the wraps tighter around his knuckles. “Do me a favor,” he muttered, standing up, cracking his neck once. “Fuck off, Rin.”

The bell rang.

Sukuna stepped into the center of the ring, eyes dark and unreadable. The crowd leaned forward instinctively, sensing the storm about to break. His opponent barely had time to raise his guard before Sukuna lunged, fist snapping like a piston. Bone met bone — the first punch landed with a sickening crack.

“ONI! ONI! ONI! ONI!”

The man staggered, dazed. Sukuna didn’t pause. He pressed forward, elbows and knees, fists raining down in a brutal symphony of motion. Each hit precise, yet merciless — calculated. Blood sprayed, and sweat mingled with the iron tang in the air. His muscles cramp, heart pounding, adrenaline flooding his battered body, making every movement sharper, faster, terrifyingly beautiful.

Rin’s grin stretched wide. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets and leaned forward, shouting toward the crowd. “Bet on him! Bet everything you’ve got! You’ve never seen anyone fight like this!”

“ONI! ONI! ONI! ONI!”

The crowd roared in response, feeding the frenzy. People scrambled to place wagers as Sukuna’s fists became a blur, his opponent barely able to defend. A spinning hook sent the man crashing into the ropes, then a fist to the gut doubled him over. Another strike — jaw shattered, and he hit the canvas like a rag doll. Rin laughed, sharp and wild, leaning back against the ropes. “Look at him go! That’s my boy!”

“ONI! ONI! ONI! ONI!”

Sukuna’s vision blurred from the exertion and pain, but all he saw in his mind was her — that stubborn, cautious girl who refused the money, whose pride and carefulness cut deeper than any punch he could throw. That thought fueled him further. Every hit, every swing, was a release of frustration, longing, and fury, all wrapped into bone-crushing precision. The referee tried to intervene, but Sukuna’s fists were relentless — strikes landing faster than the eye could follow. The opponent crumpled to the ground, unconscious before the final bell even rang. Sukuna stepped back, breathing hard, chest heaving, sweat and blood dripping, his knuckles raw and bleeding.

'Fucking money'

“ONI! ONI! ONI! ONI!”

Rin clapped slowly, loudly, her sharp eyes gleaming. “Now that is how you fight! Someone get this man a medal — and the money, don’t forget the money! Bet on him, I said!”

'Fucking people'

“ONI! ONI! ONI! ONI!”

Sukuna didn’t answer. He grabbed his towel, wiped his bloodied knuckles, and walked off toward the dark corridor behind the ring — the roar of the crowd chasing him, but his thoughts already far away.

Back to her. Back to the one thing he couldn’t fight.

Months. Months of wandering streets that felt emptier than ever, months of chasing a man's ghost whose name you weren’t even sure belonged to a real man. Every night you’d replay that festival—and still, you had nothing. Nothing but his absence.

At the registrar’s office, you balanced folders and your wallet, your mind on autopilot, counting tuition, calculating deadlines, trying to think of anything besides him. But then the clerk looked up.

“Good news,” she said, her voice polite, detached, like delivering a gift to someone else’s life. “Your second semester tuition is fully paid.”

Your fingers faltered. “Paid? By…?”

“Ryoumen Sukuna?” she said, sliding the receipt forward. “That’s the name on the payment.”

The words clattered through your skull, ringing like a cruel joke. Ryoumen Sukuna. That impossible, infuriating, maddening name.

You stared at the receipt, and suddenly the walls of the office, the folders in your arms, the dull hum of fluorescent lights—they all felt like they were closing in. Why would he do this? Why reach out like this without a word, without a sign, without a trace? Was it kindness—or punishment? Did he even think of you at all, or were you just collateral in his fucking game?

And then came the worst, most unbearable question: Where was he now? Couldn’t see, couldn’t call, couldn’t touch. Just a name, like a cruel joke, reminding you that he existed somewhere in the world—and you didn’t.

Your chest ached with a cold, gnawing frustration. Every logical part of you screamed that this was impossible, that he was reckless and untouchable—but every irrational, desperate part of you wanted to drop everything and chase that name down. To find him. To shake him. To demand a reason.

And you knew, deep down, that no matter how far you searched, he might never let you close enough to understand. That the agony of waiting—and not knowing—was the only thing he could give you.

The library smelled of paper, faint coffee, and antiseptic from the old cleaning sprays that did little to mask the faint, lingering damp of winter. You hunched over your textbooks, pens scratching, diagrams of the human body spread across the table. You were memorizing the layers of the forearm, the path of the radial nerve, the exact points where muscle meets tendon, when you felt it—the subtle click of a chair being pulled out.

You didn’t need to look. Only one person could sit like that, careful yet unavoidable.

“Hey,” he said, low and measured, voice carrying that unmistakable timbre of tiredness and restraint.

“Hey,” you replied, flat, almost casual, as if he hadn’t disappeared for a month, as if he hadn’t secretly paid your tuition to make sure you stayed alive, as if it were normal for him to appear bruised and battered across the table from you.

He shifted in the chair, and your gaze flicked up just long enough to see it—just enough to make the pit of your stomach tighten. His face was a roadmap of trauma: the left zygomatic arch swollen and tender, a black eye already mottled with yellow, blue, and deep purple. The bridge of his nose was swollen under a white bandage, and faint dried blood crusted along his nostrils. A subtle hematoma puffed along his upper lip, and the masseter and temporalis muscles seemed slightly tense, almost rigid, from clenching.

His shoulders were hunched, trapezius taut, the deltoid fibers visible beneath his jacket like cords of strained rope. Even from here, you could see his pectoralis major contracting with each shallow inhale, ribs expanding unevenly under the intercostal muscles. You wondered briefly if the right 8th rib might be bruised too—he’d winced when he coughed.

“What are you learning?” His voice was soft, cautious, like he wasn’t sure he could handle your reply.

You leaned back, pen balanced between your fingers, and let your eyes roam over your medical book clinically, as though you were assessing a patient in the ER. “Did you know how painful it is to break the scaphoid?” Your voice was low, precise, almost conversational, yet it carried a sharp undertone, a warning hidden in its calmness.

He blinked, then smirked faintly. “Scaphoid? That specific?”

“Oh, very specific,” you said, deliberate, letting your words hang in the air, heavy. “If it fractures through the waist, the proximal fragment loses its blood supply. Avascular necrosis is possible. You’ll have chronic pain along the radial side of your wrist, grip strength diminishes, and don’t even get me started on the possibility of osteoarthritis later.”

He laughed softly, a low, strained sound that vibrated along his sternum, lifting the pectoral muscles in a reflexive motion. “You’d do it,” he said, a whisper against the library’s quiet.

“You’d let me,” you replied, tone flat, eyes sharp. “I could crush the proximal phalanx of your index finger, snap the metacarpal clean through. You wouldn’t even flinch—or maybe you’d beg me to. The extensor tendons would stretch painfully before tearing. The flexor tendons might rupture internally, unnoticed until swelling sets in. The pain would radiate along the radial nerve, shocking your forearm muscles—brachioradialis, supinator, pronator teres—every single fiber aware of its helplessness. The way you handle pain… you’re fascinating, really..”

He shifted again, careful not to press against the tender side of his face. The masseter tightened further, temporalis contracting. He swallowed, and the small action flexed the sternocleidomastoid, making the subtle veins along his neck pulse. He laughed again, low, almost brittle, a sound that carried disbelief, pain, and a strange, dark fondness.

“You scare me,” he muttered, voice rough, almost buried beneath the library’s hum.

“I’m supposed to,” you said, leaning slightly closer, eyes cold, clinical, dissecting him in a way no one else dared. “But look at you. Still alive. Still stupidly smiling.”

He caught your gaze, and in that instant, he felt every bruise, every contusion, every microtearing of soft tissue in his biceps and forearms, every slight pull along his trapezius, levator scapulae, and rhomboids, and yet… he was drawn to you. Your words cut with surgical precision, but the proximity, the attention, the danger—it was intoxicating.

“Let me guess,” you continued, softer now, almost dangerous, “the nasal fracture isn’t fully reduced. The septum probably deviates slightly. The left maxillary sinus might be bruised. Each inhale causes subtle pressure changes; every exhale draws pain along the orbital floor. Swelling over the infraorbital nerve is pressing—you feel tingling, don’t you?”

He exhaled slowly, chest rising unevenly. He couldn’t hide it; the subtle twinge along the right kidney from that uppercut, the lingering soreness in the rectus abdominis and external obliques from body blows, the strained quadriceps from running away after the last fight—all of it made him vulnerable under your gaze. And yet, vulnerability felt different with you. It felt… intimate.

“You’re insane,” he said finally, almost a laugh, almost a warning.

“And you’re not afraid enough,” you replied, voice sharp, deadly calm. “Or you would’ve left before I broke something that mattered. I know where your weak points are—the temporal fossa, the radial head, the patella. I know which ligaments are lax and which tendons could snap with just the right angle. I could incapacitate you entirely, and you’d thank me for it.”

He laughed again, soft, drawn-out, almost breathless. His left eye twitched, orbicularis oculi contracting in a reflexive tick. The right eye—a bruise darkening like spilled ink—followed every subtle shift of your body. Every syllable you spoke mapped onto his body, muscles flexing in anticipation or involuntary tension.

“You’re… terrifying,” he whispered, tone low, gravely.

“Good,” you murmured, pen tapping against your textbook like a heartbeat. “Because that’s how I know you’ll survive. You’re weak enough to feel it. Strong enough not to break.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you, bruised and bloodied, body aching in ways only someone trained in anatomy could pinpoint, and realized that the most dangerous thing wasn’t the fight he’d been in or the street he’d stumbled out of—it was her. Her hands, her knowledge, her gaze. Her quiet, terrifying precision.

And somehow, in the cold fluorescent light of the library, surrounded by textbooks and diagrams of bones and muscles and nerves, it almost felt… romantic.

You didn’t look up. Not even once. The pen in your hand hovered over the page, tapping lightly, a metronome against the silence. He could feel your gaze on him, sharp and cold, even though your eyes were fixed on the textbook, the diagrams of muscles and bones, the thin lines of veins and tendons. He could see that you were thinking, calculating, weighing the cost of a life you didn’t even have to save.

“You should’ve just minded your own business,” he said quietly, voice rough with leftover pain and exhaustion, each word a rasp against the back of his throat. He swallowed, and the movement flexed the tense muscles of his neck—sternocleidomastoid and trapezius twitching under the strain. “Let me die that day. It would’ve been… more favorable than this… than.....” Loving you….

The words hit the air like cold steel. Even in his weakened state, bruises swollen, nose still tender, orbital hematoma throbbing with every blink, and ribs aching with residual contusions, the weight of them pressed down harder than any physical injury. His diaphragm contracted sharply, breath catching—a subtle involuntary gasp that tightened his intercostals. You felt it too, though you didn’t look up: a brief shudder through his body, a skeletal response to emotional trauma layered atop the physical.

Your voice was quiet, even detached, but it carried the same clinical precision you’d used earlier. “I didn’t leave you because someone had to,” you said, pen tapping rhythmically. “Because you can’t handle the truth of your own fragility. Because if I didn’t, no one would have noticed. No one would have cared. You’d still be lying somewhere with crushed ribs, a torn intercostal, a hematoma forming over your liver from that uppercut, and no one would blink twice.”

He let out a bitter laugh, low and ragged. The sternocleidomastoid and splenius muscles along his neck pulsed with each movement, tension radiating into his upper trapezius and rhomboids. “Yeah, well, that would’ve been better than this,” he said, gesturing faintly toward you, though his left arm trembled slightly, the brachioradialis and flexor muscles aching from the fight and months of pent-up tension. “Better than…" loving you. "You—” His voice broke, almost imperceptibly, like a tendon fraying under strain. “You shouldn’t exist in the same world as me.”

You finally leaned back slightly, but still didn’t look at him. Your voice was low, sharp, and unforgiving. “Maybe. Or maybe I should’ve left you in the alley and walked away. Maybe it would’ve been easier for both of us if I didn’t care. But I can’t. I couldn’t. You were… too fragile, too reckless, and yes, maybe too alive to ignore.”

His chest rose unevenly, each inhale dragging against bruised ribs and inflamed intercostal muscles. You could feel the subtle tremor in his torso, a micro-response to pain compounded by fear, shame, and anger. He was physically weak, yes, but emotionally raw in ways that made his body betray him. The heart beneath his ribs hammered faster, pulse rising along carotid and radial arteries—an involuntary response to the mix of threat, attraction, and despair your words carried.

“You should’ve let me die,” he repeated, more insistently now, jaw tensed, masseter muscles flexing painfully. “Would’ve been cleaner. Easier. And maybe—maybe I wouldn’t feel… like this. Like…” His voice cracked, low, guttural. “…like I’d rather bleed for you than breathe without you.”

The words hung between you, lethal in honesty. Your hand, still holding the pen, froze for a heartbeat. And still, you didn’t look at him. You just murmured, “And yet, here you are. Breathing. Broken. Bruised. Swollen. Dying in pieces under fluorescent light. And still, you talk as if letting go is an option. But it isn’t.”

He swallowed again, lips pressed thin, eyes darting, dark against the bruising of his face. Orbicularis oculi twitched with every blink. The small, precise movement betrayed his tension: emotional strain radiating into every muscle, every fiber. The trapezius twitched, deltoids stiffened, forearms flexed involuntarily as if bracing against some invisible weight—your words.

“I hate that you care,” he admitted, voice barely audible, as though saying it louder might shatter him completely. “I hate that I want it anyway. That it’s… worse than." the punches. "Worse than." the blood. Worse than the… pain I feel when I see you and know I don’t deserve it.”

You finally let your pen tap once, twice, slowly. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped, soft as a scalpel sliding through skin. “Then maybe you should’ve died,” you said calmly, voice steady, almost clinical. “But since you didn’t… you’re stuck. And so am I. And every time you breathe through the pain you refuse to admit, every time I see you flinch at the slightest touch—” You tapped the page lightly, almost soothingly. “…I remember why I can’t leave.”

For a moment, the library seemed to shrink, the fluorescent hum fading beneath the weight of the two of you. Every bruise, every contusion, every torn muscle fiber, every tiny nerve strain, every ache and throb—physical and emotional—tangled between you. And though your eyes never met his, the connection burned hotter than any strike to the ribs, any fracture in the hand, any laceration of skin or tendon.

He exhaled, slow, deliberate, the intercostal muscles and diaphragm flexing painfully under the weight of his chest. “You shouldn’t exist in my world,” he repeated, voice low and ragged, “but I can’t… let go. I’d rather die with you than live without you.”

And still, you didn’t look up. You just kept tapping your pen against the textbook, letting him exist in his confession, letting the weight of your silence press into him harder than any punch ever could. Hot tears burn in your eyes as you savour every word that came out of his mouth. His own falling through his bruised skin, never wiping them. Not caring anymore….. Not anymore.

"Can you protect me?"

"It's a deal. You protect the world. I'll protect you.."

The familiar streets were quieter than usual, the neon signs casting fractured reflections onto the slick asphalt. Each puddle mirrored a distorted cityscape, flickering lights that reminded Sukuna of the broken pieces of himself. His body ached in ways he’d learned to ignore—the subtle tenderness along the zygomatic arch where swelling still pressed against his orbital bone, the dull throb of his rib contusions, and the slight stiffness in the trapezius and deltoids from the tension he’d carried all day. But tonight, pain didn’t matter; he was walking beside you, and that alone made the cold bite of winter feel almost inconsequential.

You walked with calm precision, bag hanging lightly from your shoulder, fingers flexing occasionally as though adjusting to the weight without effort. Your posture was rigid but effortless, the subtle engagement of your erector spinae and core muscles keeping you straight-backed as if nothing in the world could disturb your focus. Yet he could feel the energy radiating off you, the invisible pull drawing him in like gravity, and for once, he didn’t resist.

“You don’t have to walk me,” you said, voice neutral, like the air itself, but there was a sharpness there, a hint of teasing that made his chest tighten.

“I know,” he replied, low and rough, the rasp in his throat betraying both exhaustion and restraint. His diaphragm tightened with each exhale, intercostal muscles flexing against bruised ribs. “But I want to. Can’t have soft heart like you walking these streets alone again.”

You glanced at him briefly, a flicker of recognition at his exact words.

“The streets aren’t safe, soft hearts like you shouldn’t walk alone.”

Your heart, oh your poor heart. Skipped a beat at the memory before returning to the path ahead. Even from that slight turn, he could see the subtle tension along your forearms—the flexor and extensor groups engaged ever so slightly as you carried your bag. Every small motion was precise, measured, and alive. It was intoxicating, more so than the fight he’d survived that left his body battered and raw.

The walk was long, the silence punctuated by the occasional distant hum of traffic or the faint scrape of a boot against wet concrete. Sukuna could feel every bruise along his torso shift slightly as he moved—the contusions over his ribs and sternum aching with each step, the inflamed soft tissue along his deltoids and trapezius reminding him that his body was fragile, yet still moving. And yet, he didn’t care. Because beside him was you, alive, calm, untouchable in your own way.

By the time you both reached your door, the street was nearly empty, the neon glow reflecting weakly off the asphalt pavement. Sukuna paused, feeling the residual soreness in his pectorals and obliques as he shifted his weight to adjust for fatigue. Your hand brushed against his, tentative but deliberate, and something inside him tightened—muscles coiling, heart rate climbing, subtle vascular changes coursing through his veins.

Without warning, you leaned in, pressing your lips against his with sharp, demanding intensity. His body reacted immediately, muscles bracing and relaxing all at once—the trapezius tightening, deltoids contracting, fingers flexing reflexively to hold you closer. His Rough hands cupping your nape. His bruised ribs throbbed under the sudden press, but it didn’t matter. Pain became part of the sensation, grounding him, reminding him that he was alive and that you're here, tangible and real.

When the kiss broke, you both exhaled shallow breaths, your chest rising in delicate rhythm, your intercostal muscles flexing subtly as you both tried to regulate the sudden spike in heart rate. His left arm trembled faintly from tension, brachioradialis and flexor muscles aching with exertion, but every ache was secondary to the way your body pressed against him.

Inside your apartment, the door barely latched behind you before the restraint between you dissolved entirely. The dim light from a lone lamp painted your features in warm gold, highlighting the lines of your collarbone, the subtle curve of your shoulders, the tension in your arms and forearms that relaxed only as he leaned closer. He felt the flex of your biceps, the subtle engagement of your trapezius and serratus anterior as you moved against him, and his own muscles responded in kind, bruises and all. The night stretched around you, thick and heavy with need. Every touch mapped onto old injuries: the swelling along his left zygomatic arch, the tenderness in his masseter and temporalis, the dull ache in ribs four through seven from repeated blows. He felt every reaction in his body—muscles contracting reflexively, tendons straining slightly, minor aches flaring with proximity and touch. And still, it was nothing compared to the raw heat between you, the way your hands found the edges of bruised skin, traced the lines of his scars, and coaxed him into surrendering not just physically but emotionally.

Hours passed unnoticed. Your lips on his, teeth brushing against his, the soft exhale of breath against bruised skin—it was a slow unraveling, a merging of pain and pleasure, bruises and warmth. You explored each other’s vulnerabilities, learning the angles, the points of tension, the subtle reactions of muscle and tendon to touch. His deltoids, pectorals, trapezius, and serratus anterior all responded with awareness, subtle spasms betraying the aches he had tried to hide. And you… you reveled in it, tracing the fine line of pain with your fingers and lips, as if reading him like a textbook.

By dawn, the city outside had begun its quiet hum. The fight, the bruises, the blood—all of it faded into the background, replaced by the heat and intimacy of your shared space. You were curled against him, chest pressed to chest, hair spilling across your to his pillow, muscles finally slackening in surrender. He could feel the rise and fall of your chest in a calm rhythm, the subtle engagement of your diaphragm, intercostals, and core as you breathed. Even your fingers, resting lightly against his arm, flexed softly, sending tiny electrical pulses through his skin—a reminder that you were alive, and that you were real.

He was the first to wake, eyelids fluttering against the soft morning light. Every bruise, every contusion, every aching muscle fiber reminded him of the fight, but seeing you asleep, peaceful, undisturbed by the chaos of the world, made all the pain worth it. He traced a finger along your jawline, careful not to disturb you, feeling the slight tension in your masseter, the gentle rise of your collarbone with each breath.

The warmth of your body against his, the steady, shallow breathing, the quiet exhale of contentment—it was a reprieve he hadn’t known he needed. The adrenaline, the pain, the rage—all of it melted in the quiet of your presence. He allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile, heart rate slowing, intercostals relaxing, trapezius and deltoids softening for the first time in months.

Outside, the city moved on, indifferent to the world inside your apartment. But inside, there was calm. There was warmth. There was a fragile, delicate victory: two broken, bruised people finding a small sanctuary in each other. And for the first time in a long while, Sukuna allowed himself to believe that surviving the fight—and surviving her—was a reward in itself. He lay there a while longer, simply watching her, letting the quiet hum of the morning fill the room. Every ache and bruise in his body was still present, but now tempered by the soft certainty of your warmth. And in that moment, he realized that no fight, no blood, no pain had ever felt as necessary as this—holding you, breathing with you, simply being near you, until the world could intrude again.

The morning light crept through the blinds, soft and golden, spilling across the tangled sheets and warm bodies. He fell asleep back, chest rising and falling gently, an arm draped across the space where you had been before your alarm went off. You leaned over him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes, and he stirred slightly, muscles twitching under the gentle touch. His deltoids flexed subtly, his trapezius relaxing as your fingers wove through his soft strands. “You’re playing with my hair again,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, eyes half-lidded.

“You’re just lucky it’s not messy,” you teased, threading your fingers through the pink strands anyway. He shivered slightly under the touch, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the lingering stiffness in his neck and shoulders from old bruises. By the time he sat up, stretching slowly, his muscles rippled subtly beneath the surface, and you couldn’t resist running your hands down the ridges of his back, over the latissimus and erector spinae, noting how his body had healed, but how tension still lingered in small pockets. He blinked, almost startled, then smirked. “You’re lucky I like this,” he said, voice low, teasing, and you laughed softly.

By the kitchen counter waited a small note, written in his messy scrawl:

“Eat. Don’t forget your lunch. -Kuna.”

It made you smile, warmth spreading through your chest. He had memorized your matcha order, bought extra pens, and texted you constantly, even on days he was too tired from "training".

“u eat yet?”

“Get some rest. I got dinner.”

“Missed you today. Don’t tell nobody.”

You teased him endlessly. “You’re so romantic.”

“Shut up, I’m tryin’,” he muttered, voice gruff, though the blush on his ears betrayed him. Even his “friends” noticed.

“You bringin’ her lunch now?”

“Fuck off,” he muttered, but there was a small, secret pride in his tone.

Some mornings, things got silly. Brushing his hair turned into playful battles in the bathroom. One morning, you ended up leaning over him with a razor in hand. “Wait, what are you doing?” he asked, voice low, trying to sound serious but smiling despite himself.

“Shaving your beard,” you replied, pressing gently against his cheek. “You’re too scruffy. You’ll scare the patients.”

“Scruffy is intimidating,” he said, tone playful, chest rising and falling with laughter. The warmth of the water, the fog of the mirror, and your hands gliding along his jaw made him feel… home.

“You’re so annoying,” you laughed, flicking a stray drop of shaving cream at him.

“And you love it,” he teased, leaning forward for a soft kiss, warm and grounding.

Sukuna discovered he enjoyed domestic chaos more than he thought. Cooking breakfast or pasta became an event. Smoke filled the air, the fire alarm screamed, and he stood shirtless, muscles flexing under tension, waving a spatula dramatically.

“You can’t boil pasta without water, Ryo” you shouted, laughing.

“Don’t tell me how to live, woman,” he grumbled, smirk tugging at his lips, wiping a drop of sauce from his chest.

“You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you love it,” he said, shrugging like it explained everything.

Slowly, your spark returned—the laughter resurfacing as you relaxed into the rhythm of life with him. He noticed it, and every smile, every teasing remark made the tension in his chest loosen, old aches fade, and warmth flood where pain once lingered.

Nights were quiet, warm, intimate. eventually moving in with you after your second year. You’d come home from exhausting hospital shifts, and he was always there—sometimes asleep on the couch, meals ready, TV softly humming.

You’d find him, ruffle his hair, whisper, “Hey, big guy.” He’d blink sleepily, wrap an arm around you, and murmur, “You’re home.”

The small acts—carrying your bag when you were tired, buying extra pens, leaving little notes—wove a rhythm that became home. Pain, bruises, and chaos faded into comfort, laughter, and gentle touches. Slowly, the scars and bruises he carried began to fade. Your hands, playful and gentle, traced the outlines of muscle and bone with care, fingers brushing over healed bruises on his ribs and deltoids, over the slight ridge of a scar along his jaw. You teased, played, and laughed as his body relaxed under your care. He learned to let himself rest, to enjoy the soft chaos of home, and your spark shone brighter with each passing week.

The mornings continued to be a mix of chaos and love. You’d brush his hair before he left for “shifts”, fingers threading through the long strands as he leaned into your touch. Sometimes, it turned into a tug-of-war, laughing, teasing, pulling strands gently while he tried to hold his ground.

On days without fighting, the kitchen became

Your study sessions were full of gentle chaos. Textbooks sprawled across the table, highlighters scattered, coffee mugs teetering on the edge. He’d tease when you were too focused.

“You drool in your sleep,” he’d say, fingers brushing hair from your face as you blinked, annoyed but secretly smiling.

“At least I don’t snore,” you’d reply, tossing a pillow at him.

“Bullshit,” he’d laugh. “You sound like a broken humidifier.” And the two of you would collapse into laughter, the stress of your world dissolving in the warmth of shared moments.

And in that quiet, messy, perfect life, your both safe. Alive. Loved.

Rain tapped softly against the window as you leaned over the counter, finishing up a stack of patient files. The soft hum of the heater mixed with the quiet sound of coffee dripping from the pot, filling the apartment with warmth. You rubbed your temples, eyes tired from the day, and sighed. A shadow fell across the room, and before you even glanced up, you felt the familiar weight of Sukuna’s presence.

“You look like hell,” he said softly, leaning casually against the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. His hair was slightly damp from a quick shower, strands falling into his eyes, but the smirk tugging at his lips made your heart skip a beat. “Did you eat?”

“Yes,” you muttered, without looking up, though a small smile betrayed you. “I had leftover soup.”

He shook his head, moving closer, tugging a chair out to sit beside you. “Liar. I can smell the ramen you microwaved. And that doesn’t count as eating right. You need protein, not just broth.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but I’m helpful,” he countered, fingers brushing against yours as he nudged the stack of papers aside. “And I carry your backpack. And your textbooks. And—” He leaned back, smirk widening, “—basically everything that makes your life slightly easier.”

You laughed softly, finally looking up. His face was bruised faintly along the jawline, a tiny scar catching the light from a week-old. His hands, though rough, were careful as they rested near yours, large fingers brushing yours occasionally. The tenderness was so subtle it almost went unnoticed, but you felt it all the same. Chest tighten in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

And as you shifted slightly in your sleep that night, murmuring softly, he smiled. Months of chaos, laughter, playful teasing, burned pasta, spilled coffee, study sessions, hospital exhaustion, hair brushing, shaving, and whispered “I love you” had led to this:

messy, soft, chaotic, perfect, safe love.

One late morning, the apartment was quiet in that perfect, soft way—the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty but alive. You were sipping your coffee, hair tied messily, pajamas rumpled, when Sukuna appeared in the doorway, gloves in hand, smirk tugging at his bruised-but-healed lips. “Alright, doc,” he said casually, voice low, teasing. “You’ve been living with me long enough. Time to see if all those hours you spend patching me up translate into actual skill.”

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering across your face. “Skill at what exactly?”

“Boxing,” he said, tossing the gloves to you. They landed in your hands with a soft thud, the leather warm and slightly worn. “Come on. I can’t have you being defenseless if you’re going to keep following me around.”

You laughed softly, setting your coffee aside, but there was a thrill running under your ribs. He guided you to the living room, clearing the small table and couch out of the way. His stance was casual but precise, muscles coiled like springs under the skin of his arms and torso, each movement deliberate, a living lesson in anatomy and force.

“Hands up,” he instructed, demonstrating with ease. His biceps flexed, forearms taut, and you couldn’t help but notice how the light caught the faint scars and healed bruises along his chest and shoulders.

“Protect your face, don’t overextend your shoulders, rotate your hips, drive from your legs—not just your arms. Footwork, balance, posture.”

You listened, mimicking him as best as you could, laughing when your first few jabs barely grazed the air. He corrected your form gently, hands adjusting your wrists, shoulders, hips.

“No, no. Rotate more. Engage your core. The power comes from here,” he said, pressing a hand lightly against your abdomen, and you felt your breath catch at the closeness. Round after round, he taught you the rhythm—jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Each punch made your muscles hum with effort: biceps, triceps, deltoids, and the subtle engagement of your pectorals and latissimus as you followed his lead. He showed you how to pivot on your feet, weight shifting through your calves, quads, glutes, maintaining balance and core stability. And as your punches became sharper, faster, more precise, he let a quiet pride slip into his expression.

“You’re… actually good,” he said, stepping back, arms crossed. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Hey, I’ve been taking notes,” you teased, sweat beading along your hairline. Your forearms burned pleasantly, and your shoulders tingled with the exertion. “Besides, I’ve patched up enough bruises to know how a punch should land.”

He laughed softly, dark and low, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead. “Yeah, and now you can dish it back.”

As the lesson continued, it became less about skill and more about connection. Every jab, every pivot, every playful spar with him close enough that your shoulders brushed created a rhythm between you two. Laughter mixed with exertion, warm hands adjusted your form, and the small apartment felt alive with motion. You learned not just how to throw punches but how to anticipate movement, maintain balance, and respect the force behind each strike. And Sukuna—your bruised, chaotic, protective Sukuna—watched you with a mixture of pride, affection, and amusement.

By the end of the session, you were both panting, cheeks flushed, muscles pleasantly sore. You leaned against him, forehead resting against his shoulder, breath mingling with his. “You’re crazy,” you whispered.

“And you’re a natural,” he murmured back, tugging you close. “I might have to start sparring with you more often.”

And in that moment, bruised, sweaty, laughing, you realized: this wasn’t just about learning to fight. It was about trust, closeness, and care. Your hands had learned to move with intention, your body had remembered strength and balance, and your hearts had synced in that quiet, domestic chaos that had become your life together. As you sat there, tired and smiling, he pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head, brushing your damp hair back. “You’re amazing,” he said softly. And in the glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds, it felt like a promise: messy, chaotic, playful, tender, and entirely yours.

The apartment was quiet in the late afternoon, the warm light spilling through the blinds. You were both sweating, panting lightly, muscles humming from the session. Sukuna had shown you the basic footwork, the jab-cross-hook sequence, and by now, your punches had strength, speed, and precision. But you weren’t content to stop at the basics.

“You ready?” he asked, smirk tugging at his lips, muscles taut, a light sheen of sweat on his shoulders. You nodded, gloves up, heart racing not just from the exercise but from the thrill of sparring with him.

“Okay, don’t go easy on me,” you said, and he raised an eyebrow.

“You won’t like it if I don’t,” he replied, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, eyes locked on yours.

The first jab came fast. You ducked, twisting your hips, the pivot of your foot planting into the mat with just enough force. And then, instinctively, your knowledge took over. You aimed not just to hit, but to target specific points—the solar plexus, the soft tissue along the ribs, the jaw angle, the temple.

“Relax your shoulders more, engage your core, rotate the hips,” He instructed as you jabbed lightly at his ribs, feeling the subtle give under your gloves. “If you don’t exhale properly, the force won’t transfer. You’ve got to drive it from your legs, not your arms.”

He laughed, a deep, breathy sound, grunting as your jab connected with his solar plexus. “Okay, okay! that hurt” He doubled over slightly, hands brushing over his ribs.

“See?” you said, smirking under the gloves. “A well-placed strike makes all the difference.” You shifted your stance and threw a precise hook to the side of his torso, where the soft tissue around the lower ribs gave just enough. He staggered slightly, laughing, then caught himself, smirk widening. “You’re sneaky,” he said, hands up again, ready.

“You’re not listening,” you teased. “If you don’t protect the floating ribs, the liver, the kidney area—” you jabbed again, a quick, controlled strike—“you’ll pay for it.”

He groaned dramatically, falling back slightly, then shook his head, grinning. “I hate you. And I love you. But mostly hate you.”

You laughed, light and triumphant. “I’m just applying what I know.” Your fingers, tucked into the gloves, pressed with exact precision. “Strike the upper sternum to knock wind out—careful not to overdo it—and the jaw angle if you want to destabilize balance. The temples are delicate. You never forget a strike there.”

He staggered again under a playful jab to the ribs, but his grin never faltered. “You’re like… a nightmare in gloves,” he muttered.

“And you love it,” you countered, pivoting smoothly and delivering a soft cross to his chest, careful not to hurt him seriously. He exhaled sharply, muscles tensing, then relaxed as he realized he wasn’t in real danger.

“You’re… ridiculously smart,” he said, finally taking a step back, hands on his knees.

“I’m trying to keep up with someone who knows exactly where to hit me. And gives tips mid-fight.”

You chuckled, rolling your shoulders, feeling the warmth of exertion, the ache in your muscles, the rush of adrenaline tempered by the soft, familiar comfort of being here—with him, laughing, teaching, learning, teasing.

“Balance is everything,” you said, moving into a defensive stance. “If you overcommit, the leverage is gone. Rotate the hips, keep your core tight, and always exhale on impact. You want maximum efficiency, minimum energy wasted.”

He shook his head, mock groaning. “I’m officially scared of you now.”

“And I’m proud of you for surviving this long,” you replied, smirking. You jabbed again, this time to the soft tissue along his ribs, feeling the subtle shift as he adjusted his stance to compensate.

“There. That’s how you apply pressure without overextending yourself.”

He laughed, falling back onto the couch after the final round, chest heaving, a sweat-damp strand of pink hair sticking to his forehead. “I can’t believe I just got schooled by my nurse,” he said, voice rough and breathy, smirk lingering.

“Teaching me to box and hit me where it hurts?”

“And you let me,” you teased, tapping the gloves lightly against his chest. “You could’ve easily thrown me off the first time.”

“I know,” he said, a small grin tugging at his lips. “And I wanted to see what you were capable of.” His hand brushed yours briefly, lingering just enough that your heart fluttered. “Turns out, you’re terrifying. And brilliant.”

You laughed softly, the tension of the fight giving way to warmth, connection, the quiet intimacy that had grown between the two of you over months of shared mornings, chaotic kitchens, study nights, hair brushing, shaving, and gentle teasing.

He reached over, pulling you into a soft, sweaty hug, chest pressing against yours. “Okay,” he whispered, breath warm against your ear. “Maybe I’m okay with being your sparring partner. If it means I get to keep seeing you like this—alive, sharp, perfect—you teaching me, me groaning, us laughing—it’s worth it.”

And as you rested your forehead against his, laughing, feeling his heartbeat under your chest, you realized this was just another way to love each other. Playful, intense, chaotic, tender—every jab, every tip, every soft hit a part of the life you’d built together.

But….. It was all just fucking sick joke, huh…. Right, Sukuna?

There he was—bloodied, bruised, standing in the center of the ring. Ryomen Sukuna, the Oni, the Red king, four arm devil. the man who haunted your thoughts, now made flesh in front of you. His knuckles taped, the crimson stains seeping through the cloth. His jaw was swollen, a cut splitting his lip, his eyes sharp and glinting even under the dim lights.

The crowd erupted in a chant, primal and guttural:

“ONI! ONI! ONI!"

You froze. The echoes of their voices seemed to vibrate in your chest. Every chant punctuated by the rustle of bets, the hurried clink of money exchanged in the arena. He was more than a fighter; he was a force of nature, feared and revered.

Sukuna’s eyes scanned the crowd and froze the moment they landed on you. Recognition flickered, a subtle drop in his usual icy, unshakable demeanor. The drug faltered just a moment.

“FOCUS! EYES FORWARD!” Rin, his manager, yelled, exasperation cutting through the roar.

But he didn’t hear. All he could see was you. And that momentary distraction was enough. A fist collided with his jaw, hard, violent, and precise.

The world tilted. He staggered, blood spraying across the ring, body trembling under the force. The crowd sensed weakness and booed in unison. You couldn’t take it. The sight of him, exposed and bleeding, clawed at your insides.

You bolted, weaving through bodies, lungs burning, heart hammering. “Ryo!” you screamed.

And he snapped. That growl, low and primal, reverberated through the arena, cutting through the noise. His fists became a blur of motion, a storm of power and brutality that made even the seasoned crowd flinch.

The fight turned into a massacre:

left hook slammed into his opponent’s temple, sending their head snapping back, teeth rattling audibly. A spinning uppercut shattered the jaw, cracking against bone, spraying droplets of crimson across the mat. Body shots—punishing, precise, aimed at ribs, solar plexus, and kidneys—each blow elicited groans, gasps, and squeals of pain. He pivoted, knees braced, dodging retaliatory punches with animal-like reflexes, countering with elbows and rapid jabs that sent his opponent reeling. The mat became a canvas painted with sweat and blood, the ropes soaking with the remnants of the battle. The crowd was delirious, a chaotic mix of awe and fear. Rin’s shouts for focus went unheard, drowned by the brutal symphony of fists and the primal adrenaline of Sukuna himself.

And yet, amid the violence, he kept stealing glimpses of you. Each flicker of recognition made his movements sharper, fiercer, more reckless. The man who had always been untouchable now fought with a singular, terrifying purpose—you.

Finally, with one brutal combination, his opponent crumpled to the mat, barely conscious, gasping, broken. Sukuna stood over him, chest heaving, knuckles dripping, jaw split. He didn’t celebrate, didn’t raise a fist. The crowd’s roar seemed to fade, leaving only the metallic scent of blood and the heat of his gaze searching for you.

You couldn’t move, rooted to the spot, heart racing. The horror, the awe, and the undeniable pull of his presence all collided in your chest. Barely noticing sirens nearing the underground arena, too consumed by the man you’d come to care about, the one who had disappeared into this violent underworld without a trace. Rushing out of the bloody sight.

Sukuna finally noticed you rushing toward the exit. His expression faltered—irritation, panic, something almost human flashed across his bruised, bloodied features. Without a word, he turned, leaving the roaring crowd, ignoring Rin’s furious shouts. As police filled the scene, raiding every bettor's and associates. The crowd’s voices still echoed faintly in your ears as you pushed through the throng, the winter night biting at your cheeks, icy gusts sweeping down the alleyway. Your legs were unsteady, adrenaline still thrumming from the fight, but your mind was fixed on one thing: him. Ryomen Sukuna, bloody, bruised, and impossibly infuriating. Outside, the winter night hit you like ice. Your breath formed clouds, your chest heaving, yet your mind was full of him—the Oni, the Red king, four armed devil. The man, the mystery. The adrenaline of the fight, the terror of what could have happened, and the inexplicable pull of him left you trembling. Turning around to see his approaching silhouette.

Chest heaving, fists still wrapped in bloodied tape. His normally unshakable presence seemed… smaller somehow, vulnerable under the cold light of the streetlamp. And then the anger you’d been bottling up since his sudden disappearance finally boiled over.

You raised your hand, slapping him across the cheek with a force fueled by weeks of frustration and worry. His head snapped to the side, swelling already distorting his jaw, and he blinked at you, stunned. Hot tears already streaking down your cold face, winters chilling cold kissed your body as you're unable to grasp your mind at the truth in front of you.

“Why the hell—IS THIS WHY YOU DISAPPEAR?!” you shouted, voice trembling with cold and anger.

“All this time — SAYING YOU WERE COACHING?! THAT YOU WERE DOING PART- TIME SHIFTS!? You’ve been fighting? Getting hurt? Dying!?”

He clenched his jaw. “I didn’t want you to worry—”

“WORRY?! I SAW YOU ALMOST DIE IN THERE!”

He tried to reach for you — you stepped back. Hands raised to your head as you steeped back. Away from him. Shattered his heart.

“IS THIS WHY YOU PAYED MY TUITION WITHOUT EXPLAINING ANYTHING?! IS IT? Be honest, please — were you just using me? For patching you up? For free medical care?” His eyes widened, the world tilting.

“NO, what the fu-. Don’t— don’t say that shit. You think I’d ever—”

“Then why didn’t you tell me!?”

“Because I knew you’d fucking look at me like that!” he snapped, voice cracking. “Like I’m some fucking lowlife who ain’t worth your time!”

You flinched. He immediately softened, stepping forward, “I was tryin’ to help, okay? I wanted you to have everything I never could. I didn’t care if it kills me—”

“Then you should’ve trusted me enough to know I’d love you even if you had nothing!”

“If you don’t quit… we’re done.”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t respond—just stood there, battered, silent, bruised, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Your words seemed to ricochet off him, unheard. You shook your head, stepping closer, raising your voice.

Finally, irritation cracked through his usual calm. He shoved his hands into the air, voice raw and hoarse. “THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING?!”

You froze, realizing how hoarse and garbled he sounded—like the fight had shredded more than just muscle. You tried to repeat yourself, to speak louder, but he raised a hand to his ears.

Suddenly, panic overtook him. He violently banged his fists against the sides of his own head, screaming incomprehensible words, eyes wide and frantic. “WHY IS IT SO QUIET?! WHY THE FUCK CAN'T I HEAR YOU?!”

You stumbled back, heart hammering. “RYO! STOP! STOP HITTING YOURSELF!” you shouted, grabbing his wrists to prevent him from doing more damage, but his panic was relentless. His hands pushed against yours, muscles tense, jaw clenched, and he shook his head, unable to process anything beyond the deafening silence he felt.

“I—I CANT FUCKING HEAR YOU!” he yelled, voice breaking. “I can’t—WHY WONT YOU FUCKING SPEAK TO ME?!”

Your chest constricted as dread pooled in your stomach. “Oh my God, your ears!” you gasped, realizing what had happened. The blows he’d taken in the ring, the repeated hits to his skull, the trauma—it had probably affected his hearing.

“STOP! Please—Ryo, STOP HITTING YOURSELF!” you pleaded, trying to firmly restrain him, trembling with panic, fear radiating from every fiber of your body. “IM RIGHT HERE RYO!”

But his panic didn’t abate. His knuckles thudded against the side of his head, muffled curses escaping him as he continued, desperate, eyes wild with fear. “Why… why is it so quiet? Say SOMETHING!”

“I AM talking! I’m right here! Please… STOP!” you sobbed, tears freezing on your cheeks. Your chest constricted, lungs burning, as you tried to physically restrain him without hurting himself any further. His breathing was jagged, sharp, every inhale a painful reminder of the fight he had just survived.

Then, distant but growing, came the harsh sound of sirens. Flashing red and blue streaked across the snow, reflecting off the wet brick walls.

“Sir, step away! Step away from her!”

Sukuna’s head snapped toward the lights, disoriented, hands still pressed to his ears. He tried to move protectively toward you, grasping his bicep as he puts you behind his back. Stress at the events unfolding Infront of you, but the uniformed officers weren’t patient. Their shouts were sharp and commanding, their boots pounding in the snow, and his panic only magnified.

The first officer lunged, grabbing his arm. Sukuna twisted, flinched, and shouted, but he couldn’t hear himself over the silence that consumed him. He jerked again when another officer reached for you—instinctively, protectively—and that was all it took. They tackled him to the ground, heavy hands pressed to his nape. His battered face slamming to the snowy ground causing you to scream in the sudden, aggressive action. Cuffs snapping over his wrists. His body flailed violently, shoving against the concrete, a muffled scream escaping his lips. “Why… WHY THE CANT I HEAR ANYTHING?!” His voice was broken, desperate, incomprehensible to the officers.

“STOP, no PLEASE! He’s not hurting me!” you cried, lungs raw, trying to push them off. “HE CANT HEAR YOU PLEASE! HE'S HURT! PLEASE!”

But they didn’t listen. They weren’t trained to understand deaf panic born of trauma—they only saw a man thrashing over a woman. Sukuna’s strength was considerable even in his weakened state, and they had to use force to subdue him, each movement breaking something fragile in your chest.

You lunged past them, hands shaking, knees scraping against the cold snow. “Ryo!” you screamed, voice cracking, tears freezing in the wind. You fell to your knees beside him, cupping his bloodied head in your hands. He flinched at the touch, but your tears dripped onto his bruised skin, a silent apology for the world that had failed him. As a officer's hand tries to drag you away again. Hitting you in the face, knocking your glasses off and fall into the crimson stained snow.

Without thinking, you kissed him, desperate, trembling, pressing your lips to his in a silent plea. You whispered words you knew he couldn’t hear but might feel in the vibration, the warmth, the touch:

I’m here. You’re not alone. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.

For a heartbeat, he went still. His wild, frantic eyes softened. Recognition flickered through the terror—tiny, fragile, and beautiful. Your lips trembled against his, the snow whirling around you, the sirens roaring like distant thunder.

Then the officers pulled you back with harsh hands, separating you violently. His body jerked upward, screaming into the silence, arms thrashing, eyes searching for you. His head banged against the concrete in panic, voice broken and ragged, words lost in the cold.

“RYO!!” you cried, lunging forward again, but the officers’ grips were iron, unyielding. He was dragged away, still screaming, still unable to hear, still believing the world had abandoned him.

Your hands reached out, fingers grazing his forearm, nails scraping ice and concrete, but it was not enough. Snow mixed with blood on your palms, cold and sharp, but you clung anyway, whispering his name, trying to communicate across the barrier of sound and fear.

“Please… please be okay,” you sobbed, words swallowed by the night. “Please, Ryo… please come back to me…”

The police pulled him farther into the light, the sirens bright and blinding, and then he was gone, dragged down the alley, still thrashing, still screaming into deafness. You collapsed into the snow, chest heaving, tears freezing on your cheeks, the wind whipping through your hair like the echo of your broken heart.

You stayed there long after, whispering his name, pressing your hands to the snow where he had been, trying to feel him, trying to remind him that he wasn’t alone, even though the world had betrayed him in a single, terrible night.

The sirens faded slowly, leaving only the echo of your sobs, the taste of blood and snow, and the ache of a heart that refused to let go of someone who couldn’t yet hear your love.

After everything — the blood, the silence, the sirens — it took time. Months, even, before the sound fully returned to him. The doctors called it partial trauma-induced hearing loss. You called it luck.

Luck, because he was alive.

Luck, because the brain hemorrhage hadn’t spread.

Luck, because the ruptured eardrum hadn’t cost him everything.

Luck, because somehow, after the storm of that night, the two of you began again — though not in the same world, not as the same people.

Now, there was glass between you.

It was clean, sterile, institutional. A thin divide reflecting your face against his, two worlds pressed together but never touching. He sat on the other side of it in a gray uniform, wrists marked faintly by cuffs, bruises long faded into pale smudges of memory. His pink hair had grown out unevenly, his knuckles scarred from fights you didn’t ask about. The fluorescent lights overhead were merciless, bleaching out the warmth from his skin. When you entered the visitation room, the air seemed to thin. The hum of ventilation filled the silence — a dull, constant white noise that he both heard and didn’t. His right ear was nearly deaf; the left one still caught fragments, ghosted tones. Words came to him through layers of water, muffled, distorted, unpredictable.

You took your seat across from him and picked up the receiver. He hesitated before doing the same, his rough hands trembling slightly as his fingers brushed the cold plastic. For a long time, you said nothing. Just looked. The faint reflection of yourself shimmered against the glass where your eyes met his. You could see the pulse in his throat, the slight tremor in his jaw — signs of a man strung tight, held together by guilt and silence.

Finally, you spoke, voice soft but steady.

“Ryo.”

The sound hit him like a physical thing.

He froze. His breath caught halfway in his chest. The vibration of your voice through the receiver, faint and imperfect, cut through months of dull static that had filled his world. His fingers tightened around the phone until his knuckles whitened, and his eyes widened, unguarded for the first time in forever.

He heard you.

Not completely. Not perfectly. But enough. The cadence, the familiar tone — he could hear you.

The muscles in his face shifted, his mouth parting as though he didn’t trust his own voice. He’d spent months in near-silence, the world reduced to echoes, vibrations, and faint memories of sound. He’d forgotten the warmth of your tone, the way it dipped when you said his name like a sigh, like a promise.

You saw it happen — that moment his composure cracked. The realization bloomed across his features slowly, painfully. His eyes glistened, and his breathing hitched.

You pressed the phone closer to your lips. “Hey,” you whispered, almost a laugh, though your voice broke halfway through. “It’s been a while, huh?”

He tried to speak, but what came out wasn’t words. A hoarse sound, halfway between a sob and a broken exhale, echoed through the line. His hand came up to his face, dragging roughly over his mouth, trying to stifle the shaking. He turned his head away from the guards, jaw clenching, eyes shutting tight. The tears came anyway.

You’d never seen him cry before. Not when he was beaten bloody, not when they dragged him out in cuffs, not even when they said his hearing might never return. But now, hearing your voice again — your laugh trembling with tears — broke something unspoken in him.

He managed, barely audible, the words splintering under the weight of disbelief. “God… I can hear you.”

Your laughter came then — shaky, choked, wet with tears. You pressed your hand against the glass, as if touch could bridge the sterile divide. He mirrored the motion instantly, palm aligning with yours through the cold barrier. His skin looked rough, veins stark beneath the pale light, but his hand trembled like a child’s.

“You took your time,” you whispered, smiling through the tears that wouldn’t stop. “I thought you were ignoring me.”

He gave a shaky laugh — a sound more breath than joy. “Didn’t… didn’t think I’d ever hear you again,” he said, the consonants blurred, his tone uneven. He rubbed his ear absently, a habit formed from the constant ringing — tinnitus, they’d called it. Nerve damage from blunt trauma, possibly from the blow that fractured his zygomatic arch and ruptured his right eardrum. The otologist had explained it clinically: “Some frequencies may never return. The auditory nerve might have sustained secondary injury.”

But here, now, those words didn’t matter.

You were the first thing he’d truly heard in months.

“You sound…” he began, then stopped, swallowing hard. His throat worked around the words. “You sound so fucking real again.”

Your tears spilled faster. “You idiot,” you said, voice trembling. “You think I wasn’t real before?”

He laughed weakly, the sound catching in his chest. “No. I just—” He looked down, then back up, eyes glassy. “I forgot what it felt like. To hear something that didn’t hurt.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed with everything unspoken — the fights, the guilt, the things that shattered and could never be rebuilt the same way again.

You studied him through the glass, through the small reflections of movement, through the weight of months apart. “You don’t talk about fighting anymore,” you said softly.

“I don’t need to,” he replied, almost smiling. “It took enough.” He looked down at his bandaged hand — the remnants of an old wound, healed but stiff. “They said I’ll always have ringing,” he murmured. “And that I’ll never hear clearly on the right side again. Guess it’s fair.”

“Fair?” you echoed. “For what?”

“For the noise I made,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “All the people I hurt. Maybe this is what silence costs.”

You shook your head, tears catching on your smile. “You’re alive, Sukuna. That’s what matters.”

His eyes lifted again, meeting yours through the sterile pane, and for a heartbeat, the world softened. The hum of the lights, the murmurs of guards, the metallic clink of keys — it all faded beneath the quiet miracle of your voice. When visiting hours ended, neither of you moved immediately. He stayed with his hand against the glass, memorizing the faint outline of yours, trying to capture the warmth through the barrier. The guard’s voice was distant, almost irrelevant.

As they led him away, he turned one last time, his lips shaping your name silently — but this time, when you mouthed I’ll see you again, he heard it.

Ryomen Sukuna.両面 宿儺 Masterlist • Support my writing

AUTHOR'S NOTE • Heyy, finally made it to the end of the story. But before you go, if you enjoyed the story, I'd very much appreciate it if you leave a thought on how you think about the story. Honestly, the ending is supposed to be a sad one, but I'll spare the heartache and give it a bittersweet ending instead. Writing this story is an enjoyable experience, especially listening to Futile Devices on repeat, and watching Better Days gave birth to this story. Other than that, thank you so much for reading !! I hope you enjoyed the story. I just want a tough man who would yearn for me like this, wishing you all the best 🙈💗

If you'd like to be notified for future works, you can join my Sukuna Taglist.

TAGLIST • @wordsasweapons12 @pookiei-bookie @ghoulsupermarket @lillylovelace @kodzuchrissy @sukubusss @man1cslut @vehuzzzz @s1xeyes4em1ko @c43rr13s @haithamsbb @smoldorayaki @vegasbabyyyy @angelcake999 @honeybunny75 @muffinexplorer @totally-not-niyah @wcke6