Seeing Double - Chapter 5

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨

pairing: gojo x fem!reader

part two of the arrangement

summary: life was going well. better than you could have ever imagined. the whirlwind marriage between you and gojo satoru that started as an arrangement blossomed into something sweeter and more tender after you both fell in love. but that storybook life you've been living soon shatters when you're told that a bitter king wants you two to separate so gojo could marry his daughter. either that, or he promises a war to follow. you live between selfishness and sacrifice as the fate of the kingdoms rests in your, and your husband's hands.

warnings: 18+ mdni, angst with no comfort for a while, near-death experiences, gojo sometimes struggling to be reasonable, small panic attack, heavy making out, heavy smut, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, (reader's first time), creampie, (happy ending)

word count: 38k+ (sorry again)

note: act two is finally done! (nearly lost my fingers writing it) art credit: _3aem

jjk masterlist + series masterlist

One year ago you were told about an arrangement. The arrangement. 

It offered you a chance of freedom, a lick of life. You didn’t have time to question why the most sought-after bachelor of the six kingdoms was asking for you to be his bride, and only a daft, bumbling idiot would seek out the answer when time was given. Gojo Satoru was the man you soon called husband, but the true act of having an actual husband didn’t come around till months later. 

At first, the dinners you spent alone were now spent together. Albeit in silence, but sometimes you’d catch his stare from the other side of the long, mahogany table, and the two of you would quickly look away. On other days you’d walk around the estate only to catch him when he was training with his men, his loud voice booming around the walls as he commanded them. You’d watch them from the balcony, leaning over the railing as you rested your chin in your palm. Sometimes he’d look up and see you, not doing anything to hide his surprised expression, other times he tried puffing his chest out so he’d seem even bigger.

All of the unspoken feelings, lingering touches, and longing glances morphed into the two of you spurring out your thoughts to one another, elated and relieved to find that the other felt the same.

Months would pass and a part of you wondered if perhaps what he felt was only momentary. But those worries quickly seemed to pass the more you surveyed him. Because the most esteemed man, the most worshiped warrior destined to lead his lands to greatness, could not seem to survive apart from you for longer than five minutes. 

“Love, we have to go.” 

It’s your fifth time telling your husband about the urgency of getting out of bed, and the fifth time he’s tugged your squirming body closer to his bare chest to get you to stay in bed. His arms, which are the size of tree trunks, prove to work more than your pathetic flails, chuckling when you let out a deafening, annoyed whine. 

Months ago you never entertained the idea of the two of you sharing a bed, let alone the man you married turning into such a leech. Seeing how you were first sleeping on separate sides of the estate, you always assumed you had ended up in one of those marriages in which the only time you two ever saw each other was during meal time (if that) and at gatherings. 

But things took a turn, and after a while, that turn never stopped. And you found yourself here. With no complaints, of course. 

The days when the two of you weren’t burdened with the life of being the Lord and Lady of the North, Gojo would whisk you away to wherever you pleased. Sometimes you settled to bake some sweets in the kitchen, other times you requested to go into town and look through the bustling markets. He would always oblige, taking you down to the epicenter of Northern life, watching as you carded your fingers through the fabrics and stocked up on your spices. And though you enjoyed prancing around with your husband attached to your side, most days, these were the moments you loved the most. 

Other days you’d find yourself with newly made friends, women you had slowly gotten closer to the more you socialized. It took a while for you to move away from the quietness you had been accustomed to for so long, but you preferred walking around the town or the estate with them, arm in arm as you laughed about something minuscule. 

Nights were spent with each other, skin to skin, sharing the warmth. Mornings like this would come and he’d awake before you, pulling you closer to his chest as he nudged his nose against your ears. He’d whisper how much he loved you, how pretty you were when you slept. It proved to be a nice and easy way to wake up, but on the days where you were particularly stubborn and wanted to sleep more, he’d bite your ear, chuckling when you would let out a fake whine. Afterward, you’d grumble about it, like now, but other times you’d laugh softly when you’d turn and see his blushing face. 

“People might gossip if they hear you,” your husband muttered against your head, his lips pulled back into a large grin, “They might say I’m torturing you, leaving you unsatisfied.” 

Your cheeks heat up at his implications and you wrangle a hand out of his hold to slap at his torso, rolling your eyes as you give up, going slack in his arms as you relax against him. You might’ve put up a tougher fight if this wasn’t a daily occurrence and your overall zest to equal the strongest man ever known was decreasing.

“You’re so lude,” you comment, and he just shrugs in response, knowing that you weren’t lying. If anything, this was him being more than tame. Sometimes he’d corner you in a hallway that had heavy foot traffic and kiss you senseless, his plush lips growing into a sly grin when somebody caught the two of you.

“You make me lude,” Gojo remarks and you sigh, pretending to find him annoying instead of endearing as you look away. In reality, you loved your mornings together. With how busy the two of you got throughout the day, these little blips of being alone together were heavily enjoyed.

You rub at your eyes, yawning a little bit as you stretch your legs out. You find yourself sleeping better than you ever have in this bed, and whether it be the fact that your husband was asleep next to you or that the bed was constructed of goose feathers, you didn’t care much to question it. 

“We should go into town today,” Gojo says suddenly, and you turn your neck slightly over to him as you raise a brow. He mirrors your expression as if he isn’t riddled with duties that need to be taken care of.

“A ride into town alone takes an hour,” you argue, bringing his hand closer to yours so that you can fidget with his slender fingers. 

“I’m well aware,” he says, “But you were saying last night that you need more cinnamon sticks and that your honeycomb stash is nearly gone.” 

You try to hide your smile, try not to let him know how pleased you are that he remembers the little things you mention to him on a whim.

When you don’t say anything in excitement to his plan, he pours slightly, nudging at your shoulder with his nose. 

“Have you grown tired of me?” His voice is slightly muffled against your skin and you laugh a little bit, the sound making him smile slightly, hiding it against your collarbones, “Do you wish to cast me aside and take on a different lover?”

Your mouth drops open in a loud laugh, shoving your shoulder upwards so that his chin would fall off and you look at him in shock. 

But there’s a teasing grin on his face, one that truly just wanted to see you smile. 

“I’m just trying to be sensible,” you say with a pout, craning your neck as you glance up at him, your legs sprawling out on his, “You have that meeting with your advisors and I have to pretend I’m not listening to your meeting with your advisors.” 

Gojo’s eyes crinkle upwards, soft and gentle as he looks at you like you raised the moon, and pinches your arm slightly. 

“I’ve told you if you want to join us you’re welcome to,” he says against the skin of your neck, his lips moving fast and you try to hide your bursts of giggles at the ticklish feeling, “I’d much prefer having you inside with me than standing alone outside.” You also try to hide the way you burn up wherever his fingers are, which at the moment are gripping at your hips.

“But it’s more fun when it feels like I’m learning state secrets,” you murmur teasingly, turning around a bit so that the two of you are face to face. So close that you could count the amount of eyelashes he had and the little dust of barely visible freckles on his cheeks. He was training more than usual now, spending more time in the sun. His pink lips pull into a wide smile when he finally sees you, all of you, and runs a hand under your calf and up to your thigh to hike it up over his waist. 

Gojo’s eyes trail over your features for a silent second, admiring your appearance early in the morning, disheveled from a good night's rest. You feel like hiding, but admire the endless attention you receive from him at the same time. You feel foolish when you note how his features soften, his smile genuine and bright when his thumb traces over the hairs of your eyebrow.

A part of you never thought you would have a husband who looked at you the way he does. When you were younger you always assumed you’d end up a spinster or married off to an old man in need of an heir. This is why you so eagerly accepted the Gojo family’s initial proposal, but you never expected much to come from it. Never in your dreams did you envision the Gojo Satoru holding you close to him with such tender care, or that he’d gingerly run his fingers across the slope of your nose just to memorize your bone structure.

Never this.

Gojo Satoru was somebody who you had grown up with but observed from a distance. You always assumed that he and his family would prefer for him to marry a girl with a more…favorable background than you, but by a force of fate, you were the lucky girl they picked. You found yourself immensely lucky seeing that it was either him or evil incarnate himself, but some mornings you wake up and expect to blink yourself out of this dream. That you’ll turn around to find some other man than him, somebody with an oily smile and evil eyes. But just like this morning you woke up to fluttering kisses on the exposed skin of your shoulder and slender fingers trailing up your arm. 

“You have that look,” Gojo murmurs gently, his eyes tracing the way your lips part, the way they do when you’re in your world, “The one where you’re deep in thought,” he says, his voice a little softer as your gaze settles back onto him.

You think a little longer, eyes squinting as you smile. 

It’s been a while since the two of you have had a decent amount of time alone together. Mornings together, dinners, and then nights climbing into bed seemed to be the only blips of time when he wasn’t riddled with counsels and you with overseeing and trying to take care of problems the people of the neighboring towns were dealing with (last week you had to carefully settle a dispute with two farmers arguing over a goat, claiming it was their own.)

“I'm thinking….” you chew on your bottom lip a little bit, “I’m thinking I want to go away,” you say with a sigh, resting your back upon the headboard behind you as Gojo leans upwards, resting his weight on his arms. 

His white brow cocks up, not confused, just curious. 

“Where to?” He asks, and you know he could’ve asked something more extensive, but he’s gotten to know you and your strange requests, knowing you preferred simple questions instead. 

You hum, crossing your legs across the bed as you bring his hand back to yours and play with the wedding ring on his finger. He lets you do it, his fingers curling a bit so that they can hold onto yours, limiting your movements just a little bit. 

“Your summer home,” you say, tilting your head towards him, a gleam in your eyes, “The one near the ocean. Do you remember? The one where we all used to go when we were younger?”

Gojo nods a little bit, his pink lips and pink cheeks pulling upwards in a little grin. This was something he would very much be willing to fulfill. 

“I think that’s doable,” he says and your smile widens, “We can invite-”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head, eyes flitting to his momentarily before they dropped back down to his large hands, which were freckles slightly as well, “Just us.”

Gojo nods a little bit, swaying his head from side to side as he thinks about how quickly he can put all of this together. Maybe if it were any other man he’d be taken aback by the strange and unexpected request, but he was your husband and was used to your nature by now. 

“I’ll tell my men, I’m sure we’ll be able to pull some strings and be there by next week,” Gojo tells you after a minute of thinking and you grin, going to say something but get interrupted by a steady knock on the door.

“My lady?” One of the girls, Alina, calls out, and you look back at Gojo with a smile, knowing the slight angry pout that’s going to be taking over his face. 

“Coming!” you respond after a beat, pressing a soft kiss to your husband's forehead as you brush the white strands of hair away from his face before pushing the blanket off of both you and your husband as you swivel your legs around the bed, sitting up as you stretch your arms above your head and yawn. 

You hear the bed squeak as Gojo does the same, the wooden floor creaking as he stands up, walking over to your side as he leans his back on one of the pillars of the bed, waiting for you to stand. 

When you finally do he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your lips, knowing how much you were averse to his breath in the morning, and another one to the tip of your nose. His hand rests at the back of your head, gentle and soft.

“I’ll bring up the trip to my advisors today,” he starts, and your eyes twinkle, “And I’ll see you at dinner,” he tells you, and you nod, running your hand up and down his sturdy arm. You pinch at the muscles and he yelps a little bit, looking down to where your fingers are and you can’t help but laugh, soothing over the spot.

“I’ll see you then,” you say with a smile. There’s a little silent beat before he speaks.

“I love you,” Gojo’s voice lowers slightly, knowing that the women outside can’t hear him, but still wanting his words to only grace your ears. 

You giggle, your cheeks pulling upwards as you smile brightly, your hands trailing upwards to tangle in the hairs at the nape of his neck. 

“I love you more,” you reply giddily. 

---

Once your maids came in and got you ready for the day, you bid farewell to Gojo, knowing that with how long his meetings with the advisors and counselors went you most likely weren’t going to be seeing him till later in the night. 

You don’t miss the way the younger girls blush when they see him kiss you farewell on the side of your forehead or the way they stare longingly at his musculature figure as he leaves the room, but you don’t care much. They can stare as much as they’d like. You’ll stare at them. You know you’re the only one he looks at anyway. Especially when you catch the wink he sends your way before closing the door shut. 

The five girls come bustling in as usual, helping you out of your sleeping garments, although you’ve told them countless times that you don’t need help to undress yourself. They help lace you up in your corset and bodice, helping you with your chosen outfit of the day. As usual, you find yourself in the plush chair as they dote over your appearance, swiping honey over your lips and dusting powder over your cheeks.

It was a routine you had slowly gotten used to. A far cry from your old life where you’d turn out of bed, get dressed in your sister's old clothes, and walk through the pantry and into the kitchens to find something to eat. But this was better, far better than that.  

But despite those younger girls and their bubbly personalities, there was something off with the way your usual maids were acting. Alina, who usually was the most talkative out of the group, only met your eyes in the mirror a couple of times, her lips pressed into a thin line as she quickly looked away. 

Two of the other girls, Maryam and Lilly, seemed to be whispering together in hushed tones. It was ineligible from where you were sitting, and you tried to make yourself seem as discreet as possible as you slightly angled your head towards them, but to no avail. Sometimes, when you could look up for them to clasp the gold necklace around your neck, courtesy of Gojo, you saw the way they glanced at each other and then down to you with pursed lips and downcast eyes. 

When Alina went to dot some lavender oil on your wrists you saw how her hands were slightly shaking, her fingers cold and clammy. 

“Alina?” You said with a little laugh, eyebrows pulled together in confusion, “Are you alright?” You pressed the backs of your fingers to her cheek and then her forehead. A couple of months ago she would’ve pulled away in shock, telling you how unorderly it was for a lady to get this close to her maid, but she’s gotten used to it, and she only pulled away after a few seconds.

The other girls around you pause as you speak, but you don’t notice how they seem to mirror Alina’s expression. 

You watch as she swallows thickly, nodding her head down low as she places the glass bottle of oil down on the vanity. Her brown curls bounce a little bit with her movements, her large brown eyes wavering, as if she couldn’t bear to look at you. 

A look of perplexity takes over your face. Had you said something?

“Is something wrong?” You press again, turning around in your chair as you look at the other girls who have now fallen silent. None of them seem to be looking at you. 

You let out a curt laugh, arms resting on the back of the chair as your head tilts slightly. 

“Alina?” You ask one more time, your voice dropping a bit out of genuine worry. But you can only watch as she takes a deep, shuddering breath, her head still facing downwards as if there was a weight on her shoulders. 

You go to stand up but she quickly ushers for you to sit back down, though you see the way she brings her palms up to her eyes, trying to wipe something away. 

Was she crying? 

“What…?” You reach your hands out, trying to see what is wrong, but she looks up quickly and you’re taken slightly aback by the way her eyes seem bloodshot and wet cheeks, stained with tears. 

She shakes her head again, lips trembling as she quickly bows her head to you.

“I’m s-sorry my lady,” she says in a choked voice, “We’re done. I’ll see you tonight.” And before you can ask what was going on, to see if she was okay, you watch as she almost runs out of the room, leaving your other maids standing in a heavy, awkward silence. You look around to see what the other maids are looking like, surely as startled as you were, but if anything, they seemed to be struggling as equally as Alina was. 

“What’s….what’s wrong? Do you know-” “We have to leave, my lady,” Maryam quickly says, cutting you off unintentionally as the other girls mirror her movements and bow their heads down in respect, “I apologize.”

You sputter, trying to find something to say, but fall silent as you watch them file out in your room in the same hurry as Alina. 

You stand still, staring at the large wooden door.

What was that? 

—-

You try going about your day like normal. 

You asked around, trying to see if anybody had seen where Alina or the rest of your maids had run off to, but nobody seemed to find an answer. 

Not only that, but it seemed like the girl's strange behavior was reciprocated around the entire estate. Wherever you went, people would look at you for a second longer. You try not to make it obvious, and after years of being surveyed, you’ve gotten rather good at discretely listening in on what others are doing and saying. 

Walking around the halls alone, you keep your head down and ears open. You don’t miss the way some of the servants murmur things to each other behind their hands, their stares never leaving your frame. You’re grateful that today was one of the days Shoko, who you had become good friends with, wasn’t able to join you. With her rapid talking you doubt you would be able to hear any of the gossip even if it was shouted in your left ear.

You felt like you had been transported back to your old home, with your father's wife and your sisters. The constant whispers wherever you went, the eyes trained on your back. It was benign and odd, something that had never, ever happened until today. 

Something was wrong, and nobody was telling you what it was.

You had initially wanted to eavesdrop on the meeting Gojo was having with his advisors, but with the pit in your stomach and the dizzying feeling you were having everywhere you went, you decided to hide the rest of the day in the library, finding a little alcove where you could nestle away from everybody else. 

Truth be told, you had known something was wrong for the past week. Although today was the first physical evidence of this hunch you’ve had, there’s been something off in the air and you didn’t have the heart to voice this insanity to your husband. You tried brushing it off after the first couple of days. 

As somebody who grew up around maids and servants, cooks and cleaners, you were aware of how they were often the first to learn of any news. Words traveled fast with those who worked, and it didn’t take long to settle. You had been the subject of whispers and subjected others to being the victim of it, but either way, you saw firsthand how quickly gossip would and could spread. Especially when it was good. Even more so when it was bad. 

You could only wonder what it was that was plaguing the mouths of everybody around you. Has somebody passed? Somebody you knew? Your palm grew sweaty at the thought. There were only so many people you were close to and one of them you saw alive this morning. It couldn’t have been your father, they wouldn’t drag it out like this. You chew your lips raw, thinking. If it wasn’t a death, then it must be regarding the social circle sphere that you’ve recently found yourself a part of. 

You stare at the walls lined with books, blankly blinking as you rake your mind. 

It had to be serious and it had to be important. But as much as you tried to think, you kept drawing blanks. 

And so, as much as you tried telling yourself it was nothing, you knew deep down it was something. Today you had seen the people around you exhibit what you were more fearful of, but this past week you could pick up on hushed and worried voices. You could barely even read the first page of the book you had blindly selected from one of the many shelves, and when the sun set in the large window behind you, you had to remind yourself that there was still dinner to be had. 

You begrudgingly made your way to the dining hall, knowing you could barely stomach a block of cheese let alone a full meal. You had spent the last couple of hours letting your mind run over all the horrible things that could be coming your way, and having to mull over all those horrible things over food might cause you to become sick.

The guards open the large double doors for you as you begin to enter, and you feel a part of you deflate seeing that Gojo isn’t already there. 

You slowly make your way to your seat, moving in a trance as you pull your chair in, looking around to get a sense of the mood in the room. Heavy, from what you could tell. Perfect, you think to yourself.

The servants bring in different assortments of food prepared tonight, and had you had a better appetite you might’ve finished them the second they had arrived. But it felt like there was cotton shoved in your ears, barely hearing anything they were telling you. 

You swallow your bile down, your head ringing as you look up from your plate and to the man in front of you, your forehead dotted with sweat. You like your chapped lips, fidgeting with the ring on your finger. 

“Where,” your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, “Where is my husband?” 

The servant blinks once, then twice. 

He rubs the back of his head apprehensively, looking behind him to the closed doors, and then back to you. You could feel the way he was taking in your sick appearance, the way you seemed to be swaying side to side in your set as a means to help your queasy self. 

“Lord Gojo won’t be joining dinner tonight, my lady.” The man tells you. You know his name and have seen him countless times, but you can’t think about what the first letter of his name even starts with. 

“Did he say why?” You think your hands are shaking, and you grip the fabric of your dress to calm them down. 

In all honesty, you don’t know exactly why you’re freaking out the way you are. It could be something simple that’s happened and Gojo’s only stalling to tell you because he doesn’t find it to be important. But in all the time you’ve lived at this estate, have become the Lady of the North, you’ve seen things going right and things going wrong. You’ve observed the way the maids and servants act with one another and how they act with you when things aren’t going well. They’ve taken a deep liking to you, and respect you and your title. They care about you, which you still have trouble accepting given your past life, but they do things out of the goodness of their hearts. So if they were talking behind your back, it couldn’t be because they no longer care about you. It’s worse, and you can’t fathom what it must be.

“No…my lady, I apologize.”

You glance up at the man again and nod slowly. 

“Thank you,” you chew on the inside of your cheek, “That, that’s all.” 

He bows down, giving you a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and exits. 

You look down at your plate and heave out a breath.

—-

Dinner was spent in total silence, but that was a given seeing that Gojo never showed up. 

You don’t know how long it took for you to walk up the stairs that led to your shared bedroom, but you know it took longer than usual with the way it seemed like your legs were weighing you down.

When you entered the room, all you were reminded of was this morning with Alina and the other maids, and it only worsened your already raving heart. You tried to sit at the edge of your bed and calm your breathing, but slowly you realized that you needed to be moving. Sitting was only going to worsen your condition.  

You paced around the expansive room, fidgeting with your ring, moving it up and down your finger as you tried to busy yourself with taking off your other pieces of jewelry. 

You had also requested for the girls to not come in tonight. You needed to be alone, not knowing what you’d do if you were to see their pale, fear-stricken faces again. 

With shaky hands and multiple efforts, you were finally able to unclamp your necklace and take off your earrings. You tried to wet some cloth and drag it across your face, hoping the cool water would help. It didn’t. 

A part of you tried to force yourself to think that you were simply overreacting. There was nothing to worry about. But deep inside, you knew that that was a lie. You felt this same way when you were a little girl and your father's men raided you and your mother's little home to take you away from here. This was the same feeling you had when you were informed of your marriage with Naoya Zenin. It was the same, deafening and nauseating feeling whenever you’d walk into a room and know that everybody there knew your secrets before you even knew them. 

There was a moment in which you thought perhaps that part of your life was left behind, but it seemed like with every creeping shadow, it was still following you around. 

Still, you did what you could to distract yourself. You were able to unlace the back of your bodice and corset, pulling your shaky legs out of your petticoat and skirt. You ringed around your wardrobe and found a shift that was suitable for the summer breeze. 

There seemed to be only a few seconds where you wouldn’t look at the door, but you couldn’t help yourself. You’d glance at the old grandfather clock in the corner, feeling your blood roar in your ears as the hands ticked away later into the night. It was unusual for a meeting to take this long. And if it did, Gojo would’ve warned you ahead of time so that you wouldn’t worry the way you’re doing now. 

It took nearly another two hours of your frantic effort to stay awake when your bedroom door creaked open and Gojo walked in. His white hair was messy, eyes sunken in. When he saw that you were awake his glare softened slightly. 

You could only blink when you saw him, your nails digging into your palm, surely leaving little crescent moons indented into your skin. 

There was an unwelcome silence that followed afterward. You watched as he shut the door, rubbing his tired eyes, and looked back up at you through furrowed brows. 

“You’re not asleep?” He groggily asked as he began to take off his boots, his back rippling with muscles from under his tunic as you gnawed on your lips and he stood up from his position on the floor.  

“I couldn’t,” you simply said, moving forward a couple of steps and slowly leaning into his outstretched arms as he pulled you into his chest, planting a tender, heavy kiss on the side of your head. One of his hands pressed tightly against your back, not moving.  

There was another moment of silence, one heavy and unknown as you listened to the sound of his heartbeat. 

“Is everything alright?” Your voice was muffled, but still audible, as you finally asked the question that was searing into your head. 

There was another beat of silence, but this one was uncomfortable. Gojo hadn’t let go of you yet.

“Yes,” he finally said, but you had heard better lies from your sisters after they ate your pastures and said they didn’t than this. 

Your brows furrowed as you looked up to him. 

“What took so long?” You pressed, pulling away slightly as his lips formed into a thin line, and he dragged a hand down his face. 

“Just…state affairs,” he turned away from you, against eye contact as he ran another hand through his hair. 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you crossed your arms over your chest. You thought that he had at least begun to trust you enough not to lie this blatantly. 

“Have one of the states suddenly terminated their subject's existence?” You tried to tease, but your voice was flat and you couldn’t hide the curiosity and hurt behind it. Gojo didn’t laugh, which hurt even more. You leaned back on one of the pillars of your bed and watched as he stood with his back to you, contemplating something in utter silence. 

How you loathed silence. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask again, your tone heavy, not leaving any room for him to stay quiet. 

Your brows furrowed even more, arms tighter around your middle as he heaved a heavy breath, and when he finally turned you wished he would’ve just stayed hidden from you. Because there were spots of red in the whites of his shimmering eyes, and that was more fearful than the quiet. 

You tilt your head, not knowing what to do, and see his breath in shakily. The only time you had seen him break was that night he confessed to you in the field. Never again. Not until now. 

You take a tentative step forward, eyes searching his but he can’t bear to look at you. 

“I know there’s something wrong,” you say shakily, taking a deep breath as you pinch the bridge of your nose, “Alina nearly broke down in front of me today and everyone around the house seems to be walking on glass. So…so please just tell me what it is.” You’re pleading with him at this point, and you don’t care if you’re losing a shred of dignity. 

Gojo takes a deep breath, his hand searching for yours as you oblige. It’s warm, comforting. His thumb rubs up and down your wrist apologetically. 

His nose picks up on the smell of lavender oil, one he’s come to associate with you. It’s calming, a gentle reminder of his home, the one thing he fights for. When he looks at you and sees the worried crease of your brow, it only tugs on his heart more. 

“You’re…aware of how there’s been some conflict with the South for a while, right?” Gojo finally asks, though it seems like speaking is physically hurting him, “And how tensions worsened when my father stepped down?”

You nod slowly, knowing of this. After all, you might’ve been kept in the shadows in your old life, but you weren’t daft. You tried to keep up with the relations of the state as much as possible. Your father also did what he could to inform you of the North’s relations with the other tribes and nations before your wedding. Given its sudden nature, there were some things you weren’t able to fully learn until you got here, but it was common knowledge that the north and south were always teetering on an edge. 

It was centuries of conflicts that dated well before your time. Bloody disputes over land, women, and coin often seemed to be the root cause of all the troubles, and however petty they might seem, they’ve mended themselves deep in the current rulers of the country. Gojo’s father, the previous Lord of the North, was a peaceful man, but there were tensions even he couldn’t solve. The Southern King often ruled with an ironclad fist that only grew more spiteful when the old lord stepped down and Gojo took his place. 

You remember your father sitting in front of you with an ancient book spread out in your old home's library, a candle flickering in the background as he told you all this. And the final thing that you couldn’t forget he said regarding the current relations between the north and south were embedded in your mind. 

“I know the king isn’t happy with this arrangement at all,” your father had said as you flipped through the crinkly pages, smoothing over the wrinkles on his forehead as you glanced upwards. 

“Because of the Princess?” You asked, looking down briefly to read a passage on one of the northern wars that happened nearly three centuries ago. 

“Partially because of that,” your father agreed, his eyes glancing over your features. 

In the candlelight, when it was dim and nobody was around, he was allowed to look at you and see his daughter, not a bastard child everybody swore you were. Sometimes when you looked at him, he saw your mother. And when that happened, he had to look away. 

“But because of you. Because of who you are. Never forget the blood that runs in your veins is the blood that old lords and kings fought over.”

Your eyes narrowed, trying to think back to your sister's history lessons you listened to behind closed doors. 

“Me?” You parrot, confused. Your father nodded, his fingers scratching at the slight stubble on his chin. 

“There are greater enemies than ones gained from lost land, and the South would never forget those who allied with the North to get them where they are now.”

So you knew that it certainly didn’t help that Gojo married a daughter of the Western ruler, a union that in its nature was egregious to the South. 

“And before I married you, my,” he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deeply, “My father had agreed for me to marry the Southern princess to mend our relationship.” 

You knew of the women Gojo had lined up, some in his favor and some not. The Southern princess was one of them. You had seen her a handful of times at the old gatherings you were forced to go to when you were younger. There was always a circle of girls circling around her, their voices chirpy and pitched like canaries, and whenever she said something, loud laughter (faux) would fall comedically from their lips. Your sisters always tried to befriend her, but you knew it wasn’t your place. You’d observe them from afar, taking note of the ridiculous amount of jewels and stones that decorated her bodice, her neck, her wrists, her hair. The boys would stare at her from a distance, talking to each other, trying to decide who should approach her first. The princess was indeed a true beauty, perhaps the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen, but that was the last bit of knowledge you had regarding her.

Much like you who was initially supposed to marry another man, Gojo was close to accepting the South’s proposal to marry him off with their only daughter. But something happened, and the former Lady of the North proposed for you to marry her son instead. 

“So?” You shake your head in confusion, your stomach churning, “You’re married to me now,” you state the obvious, but you see the way he smiles softly at that, nodding. 

“The Southern King wasn’t fond of our marriage,” you watch as he twirls his ring around, “They’ve been holding off on trade with the North and anybody who’s pledged allegiance to us. They’ve formed naval blockades around parts of our ocean that stop us from reaching our traders across the sea.” Gojo jams his palms into his eyes. For a moment he doesn’t look like the ruler he is or the warrior he’s always been but a scared boy who doesn’t know what to do. 

You take another step forward, leaning into him as he deflates into you, one hand protectively going around your shoulders and the other around your waist. 

“Well, surely there are ways to figure this out,” you say as confidently as you can, “We’ll ask for a smaller cut of their exports than usual….or offer another northerner of higher ranking for their princess,” you offer, looking up at him only to see his eyes wavering, the tip of his nose pink. 

He swallows thickly. 

“We did,” he mutters, “We did all of those things. All of those things and more. but…”

He trails off and you shake your head, eyes wide. 

“But what?” You press and he rubs at his eyes, at his stray tears. 

He goes to open his mouth but he can’t. You’ve never seen him like this. 

“The Southern King, he-” your husband's voice cracks and you pull away in shock, in fear, in terror as he tries to control a sob. The most feared man of all the land fighting down a sob, and all you could do was watch in fear. 

“He’s promised war if we don’t abide by his terms.”

Your tears have stung in your eyes, maybe because you were terrified of the response because a part of you knew that something good like this could only last for so long. That your moments of bliss were only to be cherished at an arm’s length, good, but not eternal. Perhaps you should’ve known from the start, should have braced yourself for something as terminal as this. 

But war? You never could have prepared yourself for this. It had been years since the land had seen war of any kind. Minor battles and conflicts were impossible to avoid, but a declaration of war from a king was beyond what you could have comprehended. 

Your eyes blink rapidly, your fingers twitching as they reach upwards to cover your mouth. There were only so many routes Gojo could decide to go down on. Depending on the conditions of the statement the king had set forth, there might be a way to avoid any senseless bloodshed. But you knew your husband, knew how much he cared for his land, for his people, for you, and if any one of those things were at stake…

“And,” your lips tremble, and how Gojo longs to kiss it away, if only his hands weren’t shaking and heart pounding, “And what are his terms?”

A grim look takes over his face, one that looks like a knife has been dug into his stomach and has begun to twist. He opens his mouth once, twice, and fails. He can’t speak. He can’t say the wretched words out loud. 

“That,” Gojo’s voice is wavering, and it’s a strange, unnerving thing to hear, “That I uphold by the initial promise. That I marry his daughter. That I separate from…” he blinks slowly, his mouth closing and then opening, a little gasp of horror leaving your lips as you piece together what he was saying.

You’re shaking your head, lips trembling, moving away from him as you walk around the room until you’re standing near your vanity, your chest shaking with quivering breaths as you try desperately to keep your stinging tears at bay.

You can hear him shuffling, but with your back to him, you can only feel his presence come up from behind you as his hands try to grasp at your elbows, trying to move your hands away from your face. But it’s no use. It’s as if you’ve been petrified, turned into a stone statue. The only sign of movement was the way your chest heaved up and down with each gulp of air you were taking.

He’s calling your name, but you feel like a fish underwater. You can’t hear anything correctly, can only hear the pounding, shuddering beat of your dying heart. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hold on to the cries that are threatening to spill from your lips. You realize now what it was that the maids were talking about, why Alina was crying. It was no surprise to you that they were able to get word of them before you did. And you were no longer confused by their sullen responses.

Because there truly was no answer. No good answer, at least. 

You couldn’t justify a war over a marriage that didn’t work out. You couldn’t find it in yourself to allow Gojo to go through with it, despite knowing that was most likely what he was planning to do. An image of marching men, heading straight through a firey unknown, swords raised, and arrows drawn. You think of bloodstained letters finding their way home, wives crumbling upon finding the news of their husbands dead. Children left abandoned by their fathers and siblings. All of it in the name of a marriage. One marriage to survive while others withered away. Your eyes widened at the horrifying thought, trying to humor the other one. 

The one that included your separation.

Separating from the only man you’ve ever loved, who you consider to be your other half seemed…barbaric. You couldn’t imagine a life where you wouldn’t wake up next to him, couldn’t think of a day where he wouldn’t sneak through hallways and corridors just to surprise you with some flowers he had picked from the garden. Your mind flashed, thinking of what separation truly meant. Banishment, for you. Your old life wouldn’t accept you, his new wife wouldn’t want you near. There was nowhere you could go that you had any familiarity with.

You felt your knees give out from beneath you, falling to the floor as you hunch over, cradling your thighs to your chest. You feel stupid, knowing how childish you must’ve looked to him. But you felt like you had been plagued by every sort of emotion, and it was tethering you downwards, down where you felt more safe. 

Somewhere in the midst of this you could feel his guiding hands sprawl on your back, one slowly circling your shoulders. Gojo must’ve come down to meet you where you were, and you felt like a shell of a person as he gingerly pulled you toward his chest. 

One of his hands moved upwards to cradle the side of your head, his thumb rubbing up and down your forehead, as he shakily tried to wipe your watery tears away. If only you knew how much it pained him to see you cry. He wished you knew that he’d rather be shot with a thousand arrows than see you cry tears of sorrow.

He was talking, you knew he was because you could hear muffeled noises from above you that mirrored his tone and voice. But you couldn’t hear anything, trying your best to focus on the pieces of woven threads of the carpet beneath you.

“...alright,” you think he says, making out some words, “...will figure…out…alright?”

You can only nod. 

Alright?

—-

Nothing was alright. 

You’ve barely slept ever since you got the news. 

The people around you seem to have pieced together why you’re acting the way you are, and thankfully, they don’t push it. Alina doesn’t ask why you’ve suddenly grown so silent, none of your other maids jest stupidly when they feel you’re especially down, and even the younger girls don’t pretend to fawn over Gojo, gently applying rose water to your hair as they give you soft smiles. 

Everybody in the estate knows what’s happening, and nobody dares to bring it up. Wherever you go there seems to be a darkness that follows you. People go quiet when you walk past them, and looks of pity and solemness are clear on their faces. You feel like a ghost that’s wading through the halls with nowhere to go. You feel like a dead body roaming the land of the living. 

There were several of these meetings you went to, knowing that these ones should not be heard behind a closed door. You were told to come to more of them, but you slowly realized that the more you heard, the more sick you felt. 

A part of you was screaming at yourself, begging to see what was truly at stake. A simple marriage was not worth the countless lives at stake. No matter how long this feud was going on between the North and South, you knew that using your marriage was just another scheme to worsen it. 

The more you allowed yourself to think about the situation at hand, the more you felt yourself going mad. You knew that war wasn’t the right answer, and it wasn’t the one you wanted. You couldn't even begin to think about the piles of bodies, the smoke rising into the ashen sky as they were set on fire in Northern tradition. You think with a shudder about the homes raided, the women assaulted, just how much men turn to animals when war turns lawless. You think about the years to come, when there’s nothing left of you but bones. How you’d be remembered in the stories, as the selfish whore wife that wouldn’t separate from her husband and would rather watch lands be torn apart instead. So no, war wasn’t the option. 

But separating from your husband? How on earth was the better choice?

Perhaps a while ago you wouldn’t have wanted to separate from him because you refused to go back to your old life. You didn’t want to go back to your old room that could only be accessed through the dingy pantry and a dimly lit corridor.

You didn’t want the constant reminder of your untrue blood, how much of a bastard reminder you were to your fathers life. Months ago you would’ve tied yourself to a tree and let a bear feast off of you then become the social outcast again because you had lived through it once and would rather wind up dead. 

But now, you’d chain yourself to that tree because leaving Gojo might be the other thing that would tear you apart. 

You never thought it would be possible to be loved by another person who you love just as much. You had forced yourself into believing that tender care and pure adoration wasn’t something you would ever receive in this lifetime. In all honesty, you didn’t expect to receive it from Gojo Satoru either. But you did, and living a life without it would be more than empty. You knew you could never have him the way you do now, casted aside as another woman takes your place. And perhaps he might come to love her just as much, even more. But another part of you, the part that’s been trying to claw its way out ever since you were a little girl is screeching. Screeching that you deserved that shot of happiness, of joy, that those moments you shared with your husband should’ve only been shared by you two alone. 

A part of you wilts when you even begin trying to think of mornings without him. Without him pulling you into his chest, murmuring words of nonsense into your ear as you pretend to sleep. Your heart burns when you begin to think of him kissing another girl the way he kisses you, bringing her to parties and balls tied around his elbow. You know the ton would appreciate a princess with the lord of the north far more than you, and you can’t begin to imagine what would happen if Gojo began to prefer another union. One that benefited him more than it benefited his partner. 

You weren’t a jealous person by any means. Sometimes you got snippy, and sometimes you glared when women looked too long at your husband. But this was more than simple jealousy. It was biting away at you, taking away from the brightness that once bloomed across your entire body. 

Maybe deep down you thought you deserved that chance of a better life, and maybe that part of you was just too optimistic knowing the hand you’ve been dealt with up until now. 

But gods would sooner fall out of the sky than you tell all this to Gojo. Not the latter, at least. But regardless, it seemed to brew more and more arguments between the two of you as of late. 

“I don’t understand why this is something that still needs to be discussed,” Gojo bit out one night as he was undressing to sleep, taking off his uniform as he angrily hung it up. 

You had one hand wrapped around the bedpost, fidgeting with your necklace, the singular pearl moving back and forth as you shook your head. 

You knew it was a bad idea bringing up the war plans right now. It was one of the first nights where Gojo was actually free from his meetings, earlier than what had become the norm. But it was also the first time you had properly seen him in almost a week, and your mind was nothing if not still. 

“I’m not saying we terminate the marriage,” you pause when he snaps his neck over to you, his eyes darkening with a glare, “But surely we can’t be thinking of war. ‘Toru there has-”

“There is no other way,” his voice is deep, his back to you as he takes off his bottoms, kicking his heavy boots off as the thud against the wall, “I’ve told you this countless times I’m not separating from our marriage.”

Your chest is heavy, your heart churning, and he can’t tell. You know there are thousands of other things that are riddling his mind right now, but you wish he could see what you’re begging him to see. If there was one thing you’ve grown to know about Gojo is that his stubborn nature was unbridled and steady. 

You wanted him to take a second and understand, or perhaps he did understand but chose to see this as a black and white matter, the gravity of what he was suggesting. It had been years since an actual war had been fought. Years since men were sent in blind with only their swords and their wits to keep them alive. None of you had seen the true calamity of war, the sheer destruction that followed from it. Gojo was thinking as the cold hearted warrior he had been trained to be, but not like the man you had fallen in love with.

“What if you…gods,” you groan, exasperated and tired, “What if you take the princess on as another wife?” The suggestion itself tastes like poison, bitter poison on your tongue, and maybe it soothes you just a little bit when Gojo lets out a bitter chuckle, his hands gripping the table as his knuckles turn white. 

“Do you want me to do that? Truly?” He spits it out and you let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you shrug helplessly. 

“No, fuck. No, I don't want you to do that! But what else can-”

He raises his hand upwards, something he does when he wants to interrupt you, and you clamp your mouth shut. 

“We’ve declared war today,” he glances at you from over his shoulder and your eyes widen, “It’s final.”

You crumble against the wooden pole, fingers curling into the bed sheets as you choke on air. Final? Your fingers are trembling, your lips quivering as it feels like you’re struggling to breathe. No, you know you are. You feel lightheaded, the little bits of dinner you had surging upwards, bile filling your mouth.

He hadn’t told you about any of this, had silently refused to tell you the status of this situation because he knew how loudly and adamantly you would protest it. But it was done now. There was nothing else you could do. 

Gojo looked over at you, his face that was once cold and unmoving shifting to one of worry. Moving away from the warrior he was forced to be this past month and back to your husband. 

He moves to where you were, but you shake your head, not bearing to look him in the eyes as you shakily make your way over to your side of the bed, climb in without a word and watch as your shoulders shake with silent sobs. 

His mouth opens and closes. He shuts his eyes, jamming his palms into his eyes as he clenches his fists. 

“I love you,” he whispers finally, and the words seem to carry slowly between your two bodies that to him seem oceans apart, “So much,” he feels like he’s choking on your silence, it’s thick and settles deep in his throat. He’s been punched, hit, kicked, beat and thrown before, but none of them have knocked the air from his lungs much like you staying utterly quiet. 

“I’m doing this for us,” his voice is wavering, why can’t you understand that he wants to yell, but won’t, he’d never raise his voice at you, “When this is all over we’ll go to the house near the ocean,” your heart cracks, “Remember how you wanted to go?”

Gojo watches as your shoulders stop shaking, the only sound in the room becoming your labored breaths. 

“Please, darling, please say something. Anything.”

You’re the only person Gojo would beg to. The only human who could hear his desperate pleas, the way his commanding voice would crack and crumble and shatter all at your mercy. You sniffle quietly, pulling the blanket closer to your chest. You love him, gods above you love him. You don't know yourself how much you love him. Sometimes it frightens you how much you do.

But in this moment, the man behind you was the Lord of the North and not your husband, and so you stayed quiet, letting the only sound that he heard of you be your cries.

—-

You can’t seem to find reasons to leave bed most of these days. 

Every time you look in the mirror, you feel like you’re staring back at a stranger. There are dark circles beneath your eyes, your lips chapped and cracking. Your cheeks have fallen, sullen and flat. Smiling has become a chore, laughing a rare occurrence. As the North was beginning to prepare and brace for the oncoming war, your home was starting to look more like housing quarters for troops rather than the place you used to adore.

You haven’t seen Gojo in a while, and each day it seems like he’s pulling away from you. At night, you barely see each other. He comes to sleep far later than you do and wakes up earlier and earlier with each passing day. Sometimes you’re awoken to the bed dipping when he climbs in, other times you pretend to be asleep even when he presses a lingering kiss to the side of your forehead, your fists balling up when he whispers a quiet I love you in your ear before he sleeps.

It’s not that you don’t love him. And you don’t fear him, you never have. Sometimes you curse yourself when you don’t mutter the words back, but you’re suddenly and crudely reminded that outside your bedroom walls, there were people actively preparing for a war being fought in your names, and it stills you from moving. 

It was becoming rare sharing a meal with your husband, even rarer to see him anywhere but the counseling chambers, and it no longer felt like it did months ago. Every time you walked past him, you two were so busy and wrapped in your own minds that you didn’t even acknowledge each other until it was too late, your neck twisting as he walked on by, and his body turning when you rounded the corner to another hallway. 

You wonder if this was truly the love that was fated to emerge from this marriage ever since the beginning. That the feelings you felt were mirrored in an act that Gojo was putting up with until this point, if this war was bound to happen and using the arrangement between you and Gojo as a catalyst for the chaos that was to follow. 

The idea that was slowly planted in your head began to flower, and it caused you to see things for what they weren’t. Eventually leading to looking blankly at the wall when he walked into your bedroom one night, hours earlier than when he usually comes, and you don’t even spare a glance to him.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” 

Your head slowly turns to where he was standing at the door, eyes gradually making their way upwards to his face, lips parted. You were leaning on the headrest behind you, twisting and turning the ring around your finger. 

In this moment, you allow yourself to look at Gojo. You take in his disheveled appearance, the white stubble that was dotting across his jaw. A couple months ago you might’ve felt your cheeks heat up at the sight, never expecting for him to look so ruggedly handsome looking like this, but now, all you’re able to think about was how much this cursed war was taking away from time he cherished being able to shave himself clean. He looks worn down, aged, no longer the youthful and cheerful man you remembered. How was this happening? How was any of this real?

You blink, shaking your head a bit as you come back to reality, biting your tongue for a few seconds before you speak. 

“Leaving?” You finally ask, watching ashe nods, nearing where you were sitting on the bed, leaning down the untie the straps and leather clasps of his boots, letting out a sigh of finally being able to relax as he shrugs his coat off, running a hand through his white strands that seemed to be longer than from the last time you saw him. 

He nods dimly, his lips pressed into a thin line as he looks you over, his eyes falling when he takes notice of your crestfallen state, the way the light that was in your eyes has seemed to die out. 

“I have to go rally more allies across the West,” he explains, slowly making his way over to the bed as he drops down on the corner of it, his hand reaching out for yours but you don’t move, “Your father has promised us his troops but there are smaller cities scattered across that still need some convincing.”

Your fingers curl around your blanket, eyes pulled together in a furrow. 

“Let me come,” you tell him but he stares at you for a few seconds, trying to see if you were joking. 

When he realizes you're being serious he shakes his head, his blue eyes a dark color as he looks away for a second to stare at the wall. 

“It’s dangerous-“”

“But I know the cities!” You cry out, the first time you’ve heard your voice be this loud in a while, and it takes him by surprise as well, “I can help! I’ve been sitting here feeling like a duck waiting to be shot! I…” you stop for a second, the stupid tears that have seemed to become a common occurrence burning your eyes. 

You look away, biting your lip to keep it from shivering, hoping he doesn’t come near you. 

“This is my fault,” you whisper, “Everything that’s to come, it’s all my fault. If only I didn’t…” your voice cracks, your chin falling to your chest as your eyes wring shut, wanting to keep everything and everyone away. 

But Gojo, like always does, is drawn to you like a moth to a flame. You hear the sheets rustle as he moves across the bed and settles in beside you, his tall and lean frame shadowing over your body as you refuse to look at him, not wanting him to see how weak you’ve become. 

You feel one of his hands reach for your jaw, his fingers curling around your ear and holding the back of your head as he gently turns you to face him.  

You try desperately to keep your eyes somewhere else, focusing on his knees rather than him, but when you feel a tear escape and roll down your cheek, being wiped away by his thumb, you break, barreling yourself into his chest as you cry. 

His hands circle your body, caging you to him as you feel your chest shake. It’s painful and it burns, but you can’t seem to stop. You can feel his heartbeat ratting against his chest, a faint smell of smoke clinging to his skin. 

“None of this is your fault,” he murmurs against your head, “You’re not to blame for anything.” 

“Satoru, I,” your hands curl as they rest on your thigh, a tear catching on the tip of your nose, “I’m s-scared,” you choke, the words slurring on your tongue, “I’m so terrified all the time. This…this war, these plans, the strategies e-everyone keeps talking about,” your hand curls against his tunic, gripping into the fabric as if it was tethering you to the earth. 

Gojo takes in a deep breath, and you feel his lips pressing to the crown of your head, soft and warm. Oh, how you missed his lips. 

“There’s nothing to be scared about,” his voice is slightly muffled, but it’s steady and sure, “Everything will be alright.”

But you shake your head, a fresh wave of tears sprouting. 

“How do you know?” you’ve been asking yourself the same question over and over, “None of us have even lived through a war, l-let alone fight in one.”

“I,” Gojo sighs, and you imagine the pensive look on his face, “I don’t know. I have no idea how any of this is going to go. And,” he pauses, thinking briefly, “I’m scared too. I’m scared that all of our plans will go to shit and we’ll encounter a force we never expected. Everyday I examine different escape routes we should go through, creating different maps that might save us. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time,” he admitted with a solemn laugh, “But…but no matter what, I’ll still come back to you when all of this is over.”

Your breathing shudders, and you raise your head to look at him. You’re sure you look like an absolute mess, with tears staining your face, you’re constant sniffles to keep your nose under control, the reds of your eyes. But Gojo still smiles, his hands moving to either side of your face, his thumb moving back and forth across your cheeks. 

“There’s my girl,” his voice is barely above a whisper, but he sounds proud, his blue eyes lightening up a little bit. You let out a little cry when you see his tender smile, the way he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. 

“P-promise, promise you’ll come back to me,” you say through broken sobs, wiping messily at your cheeks, your palm rubbing harshly against your chin so that the tears don’t fall against the sheets, “Promise me that you will come here again.”  

He nods, his own eyes wavering when he understands just how much this has been tearing you apart. One of his hands moves to cradle your head, bring you closer to his and he rests his forehead against yours with a quiet thump. 

His nose nudges yours, and his lips inches away from your trembling ones. Your eyes close shut, hands refusing to move away from his sturdy chest. 

“I, Gojo Satoru, will come back to you,” his voice is clear but heavy as if he intended for his words to travel across the world and through different lifetimes to end up back here, “I promise this to you. As your husband, as your friend,” his voice slightly cracks, “And as the man who loves you most ardently.”

You don’t give him another second before you pull him a little bit closer by the collar of his tunic to slam your lips against his. You hear him groan instantly from underneath you, but you don’t care. Your teeth move cruising against each other, your tears mixing with your spit. 

It’s messy but needed, an anchor that you’ve so desperately been craving. 

Gojo’s large hands move from your back to under your ass, cupping the flesh as he grips your thighs, pulling you into his lap as his finger trails upwards to your waist, his favorite spot. His slight stubble scratches against your skin, but you’re surprised to find that you like the feel, like the way he feels. 

He bites your bottom lip, slipping his tongue past yours when your mouth opens slightly and you moan against him, fingers curling tightly in his white strands of hair, tugging them harshly. It earns a deep groan from him, his fingers digging into the skin of your waist in a desperate attempt to keep himself steady. 

Your back arches closer, nails raking his scalp as you tilt his head back upwards for your lips to capture his. He moves at your will, slotting himself against you, working in tandem as your chests rise and fall at the same pace. 

You feel starved, needing to taste him, to feel him. You can’t remember the last time you’ve kissed him this feverishly, as if you’d die within moments if you didn’t have your skin melting against his. 

The seconds seem to blur together, and before you know it, there was a loud knock at the door. You squeal, almost shoving yourself off of him as the two of you look back to see what it was. 

“My, my lord?” The voice behind the door squeaks, most likely a younger soldier, “There’s been a slight shift in tomorrow's plans. The general wants to speak to you.” He clears his throat, most likely having heard your moans and you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. 

You look back to Gojo, and see the way his head falls and his hands curl into fists on his thighs. 

Your hand traces the hot skin of his jaw, your thumb hooking underneath his chin to bring him back up to you. 

“Go,” you say quietly, a small smile on your face. You try to hide your disappointment, knowing this is more important.  

There’s a storm happening behind his eyes, swirls of blue and gray mixing together as his chest slightly heaves, his cheeks dusted with pink. One of his hands grips your waist, pulling you forward with no force as he kisses you once, twice more. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, kissing your cheeks softly, “I’ll come back tonight and I’ll wake you before I leave tomorrow.”

You nod, hoping he knows that you’ll be okay, and shift away slightly from his lap so that he can go. 

“I love you,” he mutters against the side of your head, looking deep into your eyes before he presses his last kiss against your forehead, “Sleep well, love.”

Your smile cracks slightly, and you swallow the lump in your throat as you cross out a measly love you most and watch silently as he puts his boats and coat back on and leaves within seconds. 

You stare at the messed up sheets and then to the door, accepting the fact that this would be your life from now on. 

—-

Gojo left the next morning, before the sun was in the sky. 

“It’ll only be three weeks at most,” Gojo assures you, and you look up to see his men preparing their horses, throwing saddles across them as they prepare their satchels of food and gear, “Two if I flatter my way through the cities.” 

You giggle a little bit, rolling your eyes, the most you could muster yourself to do and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to your body. 

“I’ll miss you,” you mutter, hoping nobody could hear the way your voice was barely surviving it’s need to break, “Come back as soon as you can.” 

Gojo sprawls a hand across your back, tipping you up by the chin to meet his lips in another kiss. A while ago you might have felt shameful and scandalous for kissing your husband like this out in the open, but everybody was so distracted with their own tasks that they wouldn't bother to look at you right now.

You pull away slightly, cheeks heating when his pupils grow slightly, and place a hand across his sternum, rubbing up and down the vigil of the North that was pinned to his coat. 

“I will,” he says, pulling you in for a tight embrace as you hug him with as much strength as you have, your cheeks pressed against his shoulder as his chin rests on the top of your head, “I’ll be back before you even realize I was gone.” 

That was a few days ago, but with how little you already saw him before he left, it felt a little bit true to his words. You were so busy trying to help the war efforts around the estate that missing your husband happened in the quiet moments when you were allowed to have some silence to yourself, or in the late hours of the night when you hugged his pillow close to your chest. 

When nights would come and you had had your dinner and were making your efforts to sleep, you requested to only have Alina help you get undressed and ready. She was the one you felt closest too, and the only one who never seemed to bombard you with sympathy. And after a grueling day, that was all you needed.

“Would you like some lavender oil?” 

You look up from the counter, putting your necklace back in its case as your eyes meet her brown ones in the mirror. 

“Not tonight, Alina, thank you,” you say and she nods, setting the glass bottle back down as she picks up some of the rose water, native to the North, and begins doting it across your neck, head and wrists.

There was a slight breeze that was wafting in through your open window. Fall was quickly approaching, but you were trying to hold on to the last bits of the cool summer air before the biting winds staked their spot until the next spring. 

“Would you like me to close the window?” Alina glanced over to the rustling curtains, flowing freely, and you shrugged, taking off your earrings as you placed them down gently on the little plate Gojo had given you as a gift a while ago. 

“I prefer the breeze,” you reply, wiping your face with a damp cloth, “Thank you, though,” you offer her a small smile, one that she reciprocates. 

Alina finishes up some things, and the two of you work in comfortable silence. She knows just how much you need these little things to help keep you sane, and as much as she’s been trained to help out her lady in any means possible, as your friend, she lets you do some things alone.

After a few more minutes pass Alina clasps her hands on her hips, and you let out a small giggle, knowing she was done. 

“I don’t see why you need me here,” she grumbles, pushing some hair away from her face and you snort, standing up from your chair as you flick her shoulder gently. 

“You’re good company,” you simply say, moving around your room as you go to the little corner where you keep some of your books. 

Alina pushes the chair back in and makes her way to the door, bidding you a good night before she pauses, looking back at the window. 

“My lady?” She says, and you look up from the shelf, glancing over to her. You raise a brow, waiting for her to continue. 

“I know it’s not my place, but my mother always told me to sleep with the windows closed. You never know how cold the night might get and I don’t want to see you waking up with a fever.”

You look back to the window and the rustling curtains and grin, nodding. 

“I’ll close them in a bit,” you tell her and note how her shoulders ease and a smile makes its way onto her face. 

“Goodnight my lady,” she tells you, and you say the same thing, making sure she’s all gone before you let the smile drop, your cheeks hurting, and look back to the bookshelf. 

You’ve seen how worried she’s gotten as of late regarding your nature, so you’ve tried being a little more cheerful around her even if it pains your soul to act like nothings wrong. 

Your fingers card through different books, reading the spines as you try to find something that might help put you to sleep. Finally you find a title of a book you’ve read before, maybe a few years ago, and pull it out, examining the cover. 

You move around to your bed and place it near your pillow. You fill the glass on your stand with some water from your pitcher, setting down as you go to the vanity to blow out the candles that were lit. 

There were only a few left, and you just wanted to save the one next to your bed so you could read. You move past the window, going to the corner of the room, blowing the third remaining candle out. 

You feel the hair on your arm prick up from the sudden rush of cold air, goosebumps trailing in their wake, and you walk back to the window, pushing aside the long drapes as you reach your arms out to find the knobs that would pull them in towards you. 

Until a sudden force knocks you down to the ground. 

It takes you half a second to realize that you hadn’t tripped on something, and that the reason why your head didn’t hit the floor causing a thud to be heard was because something, somebody, was on top of you. 

A man. There’s a man lying on top of you. 

This can’t be happening. 

You go to scream, but a hand flies to cover your mouth, pinning your legs and wrists down by a heavy leg and their other hand, effectively holding your writhing body still. 

Your eyes are squeezed shut as you try to move, biting the hand that’s over your mouth but it doesn’t budge. You feel your heartbeat as fast as it ever has against your ribcage, your fingers trying to grab something, anything, that could help you. 

“If you make any noise I’ll cut your tongue straight from your mouth, you hear me?”

Your eyes slam open, looking straight at the face hovering above yours. 

A brute of a man is looking down at you. You yell again, but he presses his hand down even harder, his rough skin meeting your teeth as your voice becomes muffled. 

He’s gigantic, looking more like an ogre than a man. His hooked nose and sly lips are pulled into a sleazy smile as he looks down at you, his greasy black hair pulled back behind his ears. His arms are the size of boulders, his legs looking like they were strong enough to push boulders. His teeth are yellow and crooked, and he lets you see them when he talks. 

You feel something sharp press to your side, and in your frantic state you’re able to wiggle a little bit to tilt your head down to see what it is. Your eyes widen when you see the glimmering dagger, its edge serrated. Its tip was so sharp that you could feel it cutting into your skin and you knew he wasn’t pressing as hard as he possibly could. 

“Stay. Still.” The man grunts again, licking his teeth as you shake, shaking your head as your hands open and unopened, not knowing what else to do. 

“I’m going to move my hands from your mouth,” he says next, slowly and quietly, “There’s a couple things I need you to do for me. But I swear that if you make a single squeak, any fucking noise, I’ll gut you like a fish, hm?” 

Your eyes are shaking, brows pulled taut as you try to move around but to no avail. The knee that was pressing down onto your thigh digs in deeper, his bone searing into your flesh as you whine in pain. 

“Do you understand?” He whispers in your ear, his hot breath fanning over your skin. The knife is still pointed at your hip, and he presses it just a bit deeper, and you’re sure if he goes any more he’ll draw blood. 

You look at the man, at the deep set scars that run all across his face. You take in the glint that shimmer in his eyes, the pure evil that drips from his grin. You can smell the blood drying on his clothes, and can almost taste iron the closer he gets to you. 

You want to fight back, but you can’t. 

Your mind races back to those days when you had asked Gojo to let you spar with him, wanting to know how to defend yourself. There were some moments when you felt like you could take him down, but he’d always find a weak spot of yours and bring you tum biking to the ground. But he would always help you up with a gentle smile, apologizing profusely as he kissed your cheeks. This man was far bigger than Gojo, and his smile wasn’t kind the way he was. You knew you couldn’t overpower him, not in the slightest. 

So you slowly nod, your tears falling freely from the corners of your eyes, rolling back onto the floors as the man grunts. 

Slowly and surely, he moves his hand away from your face, still keeping the rest of his body pinning yours. Your lips are trembling, your body almost convulsing as you wait for him to speak. 

He gives it a second, making sure you weren’t going to pull anything before he decides you’re compliant enough, or rather not willing to die, to listen to his orders. 

“Good job,” he mutters, his voice pricking at your skin like a thousand needles, his greasy smile making you want to hurl, “There’s three things I need you to do. Nod if you understand.”

You look back at him. He presses the knife into your hip, and your teeth dig into your lip, knowing that he for sure broke skin. 

Your eyes squeeze shut in pain as you slowly nod. 

“First, from here on out, be as quiet,” his voice is low, “Don’t let anybody outside think anything.”

He pushes himself slightly off of you, trying to get a feel of how loud the floorboards creaked. When he was satisfied that they wouldn’t make a sound, he moved his hulking body away from yours, carefully standing up. 

You feel your heart lurch when you see him at his true size, nearly three heads taller than Gojo, and even more packed with muscles. 

“Stand up,” he motions for you to do the same, not until he warns, “Slowly.” 

You’re frozen in place, your arms and legs losing all function. The man looks down at you through his dark stare, seeing that it’s taking you too long, and bends down to loop a hand around your elbow. 

He drags up upwards like you weigh nothing, your lungs refusing to work as you gasp for air. 

When you're on your feet, you feel like throwing up, your head dizzy, nose wrinkling at his strong odor that reeks of onions and ale. 

“Walk over to that table,” he nudges his chin over to the desk that is littered with Gojo’s maps and scrolls and your books, “And sit down at the chair.”

You can only stare at him, biting your tongue, hoping this was all a nightmare. 

But the man just stares back at you, waiting. He flashes you the dagger again, it’s too stained with your blood, and your legs, however weak, seem to work faster than your mind. You feel like a newborn lamb learning how to walk as you somehow make your way over to the table, his presence never leaving from behind your back. 

Your legs shake as you set yourself down on the wooden chair, tears biting at your cheeks as you wait for his next instructions. 

Behind you, you hear something rustle. You don’t want to look to see what he’s doing, but you’re able to pick out a bag being opened carefully, some papers scratching against each other. 

It takes a few more seconds but the sounds stop, and suddenly a piece of parchment falls down next to you. 

“Write down on a piece of sheet that repeats what is written there,” he tells you, and your eyes dart down to the parchment, tears blurring your vision. 

“W…” your words are slurring together, and you can’t hear your own voice, “What?”

You’re quiet, but the man hears you. 

He just shoves the parchment closer to your face, saying nothing. 

Your eyes fall down to the words scattered across the price, black ink staining its yellow color, and you blink your eyes a couple of times to read what it says. The handwriting is foreign to you, something you can’t recognize. You don’t know how, with everything your mind was going through, you were able to read properly, but you felt your stomach drop when your eyes scanned through the first couple of sentences. 

My love, with a heavy heart I write to you, but there is no other way to break my thoughts to you. I can no longer sit and watch what you plan to do in my name…your eyes skim a further but down, the blood you’re willing to spill is unlike what I thought you to be capable of. You’ve become cruel and inhuman, and I refuse to have myself tied to a man that desires death the way you do…

Your mouth drops a little, your jaw slacking when you realize what the note was saying. This was a goodbye letter. 

I have to leave. I could never, under any gods’ sky, pretend to keep loving a man as barbarous as you.

Your heart stops. 

“Write that down girl,” the man’s gruff voice interrupts, “Here.”

He scavenged through the piles of discarded plans and strategies, finding a clean sheet of parchment that was untouched by ink. 

You shake your head, looking over your shoulder as your tears drop from your chin. 

“I,” you swallow thickly, trying to force down the vomit that was at the back of your throat, “I can’t…write…”

The man snorts, his arms crossing over his large chest as he shrugs. 

“If you don’t write, I’ll gut that girl that you favor so much,” he twists the daggers handle in his large palm, “The only with the curls. Gods, it’d be a shame though. I might have a taste of her before…”

You tune him out, ears filling with water as you realize he’s talking about Alina, your fingers trembling against the wood of the table as you look down at the pre-written note and the blank parchment he had set in front of you. 

Your mind was blanking as you try to ration what’s happening. 

You look a little bit to your left at the pot of ink and the quill Gojo was always scratching away with. Before you can think any other thought, you feel cool metal pressing against your neck. 

The man is right behind your chair, his daggers blade a breath away from your skin. He’s holding your jaw in place, forcing your head down at the table. 

His fingers are rough and calloused, stained with blood and dirt, and you gasp slightly, eyes blurring once again as you turn still. 

“Write.” He whispers thickly in your ear. 

You don’t move, and the dagger presses down, your lips falling open in a silent cry as you feel it cut through some skin, blood beginning to stain your nightdress. 

Mindlessly, your hand moves to the ink and quill. You feel like you've left your body as your fingers grasp the quill, dipping it into the little pot, and set it down to the paper. 

You feel like you’ve left your own self as you look back to the note, chewing your lips raw as you write down the first word. The dagger is still against your throat, unrelenting as you begin to write. You don’t know how none of your tears have yet to stain the paper, but you don’t what the stranger would do if that were to happen. 

A part of you blacks out when you write, your eyes open but not understanding anything in front of you no matter how hard you try.

Your quill suddenly stops, and you feel the man leaning in behind your shoulder, the dagger loosening away from you as he lifts the two pieces of parchment up. 

You don’t know when you finished, or what you write, but in the silence that it takes for him to read yours through, you get the grasp that you must’ve done something correctly because he seems satisfied, setting your version down on the table. 

He steps away from you, and you watch from the corner of your eyes as he takes the original piece to one of your candles, holding it over the flames as it catches fire. He watches as it burns, the ashes falling into his other hand. When it’s all burnt up, he scatters it out the window, the wind doing its job as it takes any remains of what it was away from here. 

He looks back at you with a smile. 

“Last thing,”

Your head sways. 

“Fill this bag,” he holds up an empty satchel, “Fill it with things you’d take if you were to run away.”

You blink slowly at him, your mouth going dry. 

You can’t speak, but he can tell you’re confused. 

“We need to make it seem like, well,” he shrugs, his lips pursed together, “That you wrote that note and ran away. Pick out some clothes, jewelry, and coins. Make the room messy.”

Your heart beats slowly in your chest when you start to understand what it was he was asking you to do. 

He holds up his weapon, its edges shining red with your blood, and he points it to the door. 

“I know you’d hate to hear her scream,” he says, and you dimly nod. 

You set the quill down gently on the table, moving carefully from your chair as you walk towards his outstretched hand. Your fingers tremble as you take it from him, walking slowly towards your dresser. 

He’s right behind you, the knife pointed at your waist so that you don’t think of doing anything, and you quietly open the door, grabbing some hoods, slips, common clothes, nightwear and undergarments. You shoved it in until the bag was nearly full. 

You did as you were told, taking the rest of your clothes and scattered it across the ground, throwing some things onto your bed. 

He grunted behind you, most likely a little surprised with how compliant you were. 

You drift to your vanity, shoving some necklaces and earrings in the satchel, not wanting to take all because it was actively killing you to do this. 

“That’s good,” the man says after a couple minutes and you pause, your back still to him. 

You set the satchel down and turn slowly around, hoping this would be enough. That your night was done and that he would let you go. 

“Oh, and,” his eyes drop down to your empty hands, pouting the tip of the blade to your finger, “Leave the ring.”

Your eyesight goes blurry.

You feel lightheaded, gripping into the edge of the table as you heave for air. Leave the ring? Leave? Leave?

“We don’t have all night,” he explains, making that his reasoning for why he so suddenly takes your hand, his large fingers circling around yours as he roughly yanks off the piece of jewelry, throwing it next to some other pieces you had lying on the table. 

You can only stare blankly at it as he moves around, stare as the gold glimmers in the soft candlelight. It looks the same way it did the first time you saw it, when Gojo had placed it on your finger when he was saying your vows. It was a simple ring, a gold band that didn’t have any stones on it. Gojo later explained that while he had told you earlier it was usual something he had picked out, his mother had gifted it to him. 

You feel a force hit the back of your head and suddenly, everything goes black. 

—-

Waking up hurt. 

You blink once, twice and then for a final time before you feel like you can see accurately again. Your head was throbbing, a dull pain at the back of your skull. You go to rub it, but notice that your hands are bound together by rope. 

Coming to your senses you realize that the rope wasn’t the only problem. The wobbling motion you first had wasn’t from your stomach ache, but because you were rocking back and forth on a horse. 

You sit up a little bit in shock, but the motion causes you to wince, your body sore and aching. 

“I wouldn’t move if I were you.” 

That voice. 

So it wasn’t a nightmare. 

The wall that you felt behind your back wasn’t a wall, but was in fact the same man who had forced his way into your room at night, made you write that letter, packed your things and leave…

Leave home. 

All around you was a sprawling field, no sign of life from as far as you could tell. You had no idea how long you were unconscious, or how long you had been on horseback, but the North usually didn’t get grass to grow this tall seeing how the cold winters usually killed them. There was a breeze, but it wasn’t as biting as it should be. 

You were glad to see that your mouth was wrapped shut, but that also put a strike of fear through you. If the man wasn’t afraid of you screaming, then there surely wouldn’t be anybody around to save you. 

You were alone. 

A part of you was on the verge of breaking down, screaming until you coughed up blood and your throat became raw. But you knew that if you wanted to stay alive, if you wanted to go come, you had to keep onto your wits. It was either that or you froze, not moving, becoming a shell of a human, the same way you were that night when this all happened. And you had seen what it could do, had seen how your own body would betray you, and you vowed to never let that happen again. 

“How long has it been?” 

Your own voice shocks you. Your throat is dry, seeing how you haven’t opened it in a while, and the sentence comes out like a croak. You swallow some spit, hoping it would help with the scratchiness you were feeling. The horse moved slowly through the pasture, the sun shining but not beating down on your face in an unforgivable way. 

The man clicked his tongue against his teeth, his hands holding onto the reins. 

“Nearly six days,” he says gruffly, and your eyes widen, not expecting for it to have been almost a week that you’d been out, “Thought I’d killed you.” 

Five days? 

You try to do the math in your head. It had been almost six days since Gojo had left when the man came into your room, and with these five days, it would be almost a week since Gojo was gone from home. If the travel West took as long as it did for you, then he’d be almost there by now. But you didn’t know how mail would travel, or how long it would take till he’d come back home to figure out what the problem was. 

Depending on which direction the man was going, it could take weeks until they found you. Fields like this weren’t uncommon in the North, but the weather wasn’t. It reminded you a bit of home, but Western nature was dry and glaringly hot. Even in the fall, you’d still break a sweat after being in the sun. 

And given how prepared this man was, he surely wouldn't be heading there, most likely knowing that Gojo was there as well. You had seen enough maps and heard enough talk around the counsel to know that it would take almost two weeks to travel Westward, but almost three weeks to arrive in the Eastern nations. 

Judging by the landscape you had seen on paper and that you’re surveying now, this man was taking you somewhere East. 

“Did the king send you?” You ask, your head dipping downwards so that you could angle your ears to hear him better. 

He pauses, and you wonder if you’d asked the wrong question, if he was going to make you suffer in some way for crossing the line. You still couldn't work out his motive. If he was truly sent by the king, then why wouldn’t he have killed you in your room? Why go through the hassle of making you seem like you had run away?

Killing you and showing the North your body would send a greater message than whatever this was. Taking you without making it seem like an abduction was strange, even for the South, and so you desperately wanted to know what it was that had put you in this situation.

“A friend of his did,” the man finally says, and when he falls quiet, you realize that this was all he was going to say. 

So he was from the South. And he didn’t seem like he’d be a lying man, he’d have no reason for it. The more you thought about it, it made more sense that the king didn’t send direct orders to abduct you. But that made you furrow your brows in confusion. If the king was ready to wage war, why would an abduction be something he wanted hidden? 

“Why didn’t you kill me?” you ask after a beat of silence, your body swaying in tandem with the horse. You could feel your dried tears crusting near your eyes, your lips battered, iron coating your tongue the more you spoke, causing the wound to open up.

“I will, but not here.” 

You bite your cheek, your hands shaking. 

“Will you take me up to your king to make a spectacle out of me?” You try to keep your voice from wavering, from showing him any signs of fear. 

The man chuckles, spitting to the road. 

“I’ll kill you somewhere where there’s a lot of trees, hide your body so that nobody can find it,” he explains, and you feel your heartbeat in the palms of your hands, “Make it seem like you ran away.” 

You try not to let your lips tremble, instead, you try to piece the clues he was giving you together. If the king truly wanted to make it seem like you were running away, then it means that he would want your spot as Lady of the North to appear vacant. He would want Gojo to think that you didn’t care for him anymore, and that you wanted out of this marriage, which would make room for… 

His daughter. 

But if the king wanted his daughter to marry into the Gojo family, you wonder why he didn’t do this whole abduction in the first place. You sigh deeply through your nose, looking down at your hands, your fingers moving around slightly but to no avail. While you’re trying to see if there was any wiggle room, a thought runs through your head.

The king wasn’t expecting this…

You wonder if perhaps the king promised war in a way of bluffing, or hoping that Gojo would terminate the marriage and take on the princess to avoid any trouble. This wasn’t his first plan, you decide, but him trying to save the skin of his teeth. He wasn’t expecting the North to retaliate, to declare a war of their own. He didn’t see Gojo carrying this much for his arranged bride, and didn't think that the young lord would rather die than marry another woman. But the king underestimated Gojo, and sent this man to answer for his mistake. 

If it seemed like you found Gojo repulsive, that you no longer loved him, then he could search all he wanted to, but if he never found you, or your body, then he would come to the eventual conclusion that you had run away. Either way, this would make it so that he would call off the war. Maybe in attempts to fix the now shattered relationship between the two nations, a marriage between Gojo and the princess might actually take place.

Your hopes deflate, knowing the letter you were forced to write might also be more realistic than some Southern scribes realized. With the way you had argued countless times with Gojo over the chance of ending the possibilities of war, he might read it as an actual goodbye. 

The thought makes you sick. 

So, you decide to busy yourself with trying to find an escape option. 

Your wrists were chafing with how tightly the rope was tied, but the knot around it was tied in a way that seems to have shifted in the days you had been riding. The man behind you is tall, but sitting down, he can only see above your head, and he’d have to force himself up to peer down at your lap. 

Slowly, over the span of a few minutes, you’re able to position the rope closer to the bottom of your palm, your thumb and pointer finger reaching for the knot. A small smile graces your face when you're able to pinch it between the two fingers. 

You stop your movements, not wanting to make anything obvious, and then start back up after a couple minutes of silence passed. 

With the knot now closer to your finger, you begin picking at it with your nail. You know your nail is dull and cut through it, but you think that if you nudge at it enough, you might be able to create a small opening that would allow you to slip your pointer finger through it and unravel it. 

“I think it would be fair to share your name,” you say, not wanting the man to think anything of your silence, and you begin to execute your plan, fiddling away with the rope with your finger as you raise your head up, not wanting to keep your stare directed at your lap, looking ahead at the field. 

Wind blows through your body, ruffling the nightdress that you were still wearing. The man at least had some decency to put a cloak over you, hiding your body from being entirely bare. The more you looked at the field, the more it reminded you of the one that surrounded the Gojo estate. You blink and see him sitting there, his back on the grass, an arm resting behind his head, his white hair sprawled out as he held you close to his chest, telling you stories from his childhood. You blink again and see nightfall, see him with his tunic off, telling you about the scar on his torso. You see him professing his feelings, telling you how much he loved you. You blink again and see the field, your nose twitching slightly.

“My name?” The man repeats with a slight chuckle, most likely shaking his head in disbelief. Out of all the people he’s taken, out of all of the people he’s been sent out to kill, you’ve been the weirdest behaving out of all of them.

You nod, your finger working away at the knot, and you cough to cover up the noise when you make a particularly loud scratch. 

“My name changes based on the man who hires me,” he says after a minute, and you almost want to look back at him in confusion.

“What was the name you gave to the employer who sent you out to find me?” You ask, trying to wiggle some fingers around, bracing your thighs around the horse, trying to keep yourself balanced and upright. 

The man breathes deeply through his nose, as if he was contemplating telling you. There’s no reason not to tell you, if his plan is to kill you anyways. But you plan to escape, and you want to know the name of the man who put you through this hell.

“Toji,” he finally says, and you commit it to memory, your mouth falling in the shape of the name, “But I’ll change it for my next employer.” 

You go to say something else, but almost let your disguise slip when you feel your finger make its way through the knot. You move it in circles, moving it across, and slowly you feel the knot begin to unravel. You keep your hands pressed tightly together, but in a few seconds the rope has become undone. 

You stare at it in shock, not expecting for it to take so little time to unravel, but you look ahead again, shifting a little bit as you begin to think about what to do next. 

You can feel the sheath of his dagger digging into your back. You remember how it looked when you first saw it, and can confidently say that this was the thing that was there. It was large, but given how large his weapon was, you weren’t surprised to find it had an even larger cover. 

You didn’t know how fast you could move, nor how fast he could. You didn’t know if there was a latch or specific way to take the weapon out, but as far as you could remember, that was the only weapon he seemed to operate with. If you were able to harm him in some way and get him off of the horse, you might have a chance of escaping.

Though there was the obvious challenge, he knew how to fight far better than you. What’s to say that you get the dagger but he doesn’t get it out of your hands even faster? And if you did manage to wield it, how fast would it take for him to understand what had happened, how fast his reflexes were? If he’s had multiple employers before, then he must be skilled in his trade, putting you at an immense disadvantage. 

But you knew that if you didn’t try, you’d die at his hands. You knew you’d rather die fighting and on your own accord than at the merciless dagger of a stranger who was paid to kill you.

You let the silence grow, wanting the man to think that you had fallen asleep. You let your head hang down, your chin to your chest, and you slowly, quietly and gently begin the snake one hand out from the ropes. 

The man grumbles to himself from time to time, spitting to the side every now and then, but from what you can tell, is still unsuspecting. 

You know it’s a matter of seconds that gives you the advantage, and that any slight fumble or mistake will be catastrophic. You tell yourself that you have to twist your back quickly, pull the weapon out with your right hand, and strike him through the chest. You don’t know if one strike would be enough to take him down, but it would be enough to have you force him off the horse and take the animal for yourself.

You breathe deeply through your nose, calming your nerves. 

And then, you turn. 

You’re met with his face, your hand reaching for the weapon, and see the way his eyes slowly fall down to your fingers, and then to you, but you’ve calculated his brutish daftness enough to know that a moment of surprise would be his doom.

It doesn’t take much effort to get the dagger, but his hand quickly shoots for your throat, his fingers wrapping around your skin as he squeezes tight, restricting your airways. You choke, trying to cough, but with the way he’s seated on the horse you know you can’t falter. Your hold on the weapon weakens, but you still drive it forward, and are met with the satisfying sound of his groan. 

His hand around your throat falls, and you pull out the dagger only to drive it further up his chest, into his ribs.

The man, Toji, grips the handle, but you push with as much force as you can muster at his shoulders. You wonder if he’s ever had people fight back, if he’s ever dealt with somebody striking him hard enough to draw blood. 

With the way you’re positioned; your dress and robe still underneath him, he takes you down with him. You fall to the ground with a hard thud, wincing at the pain that shoots again through your head. Your vision has gone blurry again, but you can make out the man stumbling on the ground, grasping at his chest in shock. 

You place your hands on the ground, forcing yourself up. Your head is spinning, swaying up and down, but you know you have to get back up on that horse. 

He’s shouting at you, saying something but you stand up, almost falling back down with how your legs are shaking, but you hold yourself upright by the horse's saddle. You’re shocked that it hasn’t been spooked away, but don’t find time to question why. 

You’ve ridden enough times before to know how to haul yourself up, but it’s a trying effort that takes a couple swings. The man is still on the ground, clutching at his wounds, and you can’t revel in your victory just yet. 

When you’re up on the horse you feel your vision start to clear up a bit and your ears stop ringing. 

You look down to the man, trying to make out what it was he was saying. 

“...can’t go back,” he spits, blood coating his lips, staining them red as he coughs out more, “they’d never take you back.”

You stare at him, dazed. 

“You committed treason,” his voice is hoarse, and he tries to grab at your foot but you kick it away, “That letter? Don’t you remember?” he smiles darkly, and his teeth as red, “And if you go back, the king,” he chokes, spitting out some blood, but he chuckles, a mad look in his eyes, “The king would kill every single person you care about. He’ll rip the throats from your maids, send an army of unkillable men to kill y-your dear lord.” 

You look down, his words slowly making their way into your brain. 

The letter. 

You remember now. It wasn’t just a goodbye, but a confession of even further betrayal. You had denounced the North and its power, had said that the Lord of the North was an enemy of every state. 

And even if you did go back to prove that you were forced to write it, what’s to say that his words weren’t correct? If he was able to spy on you long enough to know your schedule, your maids, when to attack, then the South was truly capable of sending in more assassins. And Gojo might be able to take them, but what about Alina? What if the king decided to target Gojo’s parents, your friends, people you’ve come to care deeply about? 

The man grins cruelly when he sees the way you begin to understand his words, the threat behind them. 

The man wasn’t standing up not because he was weakened, but because he knew that even if he didn’t kill you, you’d wind up dead anyways. He knew you’d give up and let him go through with his initial plan. Because in that case, only you’d be dead. But you returned back to the Gojo estate and would have you killed, alongside everyone else you loved. 

But…but if you ran, ran away to somewhere hidden, it might be avoided. The war, the bloodshed, everything. You could actually be doing something good. 

He laughs, blood falling from  his lips, staining the floor when he sees the tears fall down your cheeks. You go to wipe them away, but it doesn’t matter anymore. In that moment you’ve made up your mind, have seen that there was no other way. 

You’d be leaving behind the man you loved in return for saving his life, as well as everyone else's. 

You think about his smile, the way his lips felt against your skin when he kissed you goodbye. You think about the way he laughs, a hearty sound that makes you laugh in turn. You think about the warmth you felt when wrapped in his embrace, the way he smelled like cinnamon after spending time with you in the kitchens. Your heart churns when you think about the love you hold for him, just how much it drived your everyday life. How you’d do anything to save him, even if it wasn’t a lot. You think about Gojo, and how for a little moment in time, you truly had the world in your hands. How he would do the same if the roles were reversed, knowing that the way you feel for him is just as intense as how much he feels for you.

And you finally think about how leaving might preserve those little things, even if not for your experience. If you were to disappear, this might all be forgiven. And that was a price you decided there that you had to pay. 

You turn away from him, and maybe under different circumstances you might have gloated at the confusion that takes over his face, not knowing why you weren’t stepping down. 

With shaking fingers and a shattering heart you look ahead, kicking the side of the horse as you send it running. You could hear his yells from behind you, calling for you to come back, but you kept repeating in your head that this was the only way.

Your eyes were blurring with tears from just how fast the wind was hitting your face, your cheeks and nose growing cold. You leaned forward, holding onto the reins with all the strength you had. 

Please forgive me Satoru, your mind begged, please forgive me.

—

“Miss?” 

You dream of a sound, a soft, gentle sound. It circles around you like a mothers tender care, making the coldest parts of your soul warm slightly. You smile a little bit when you imagine it again.

“Miss?”

A shower of icy water, colder than anything you’ve ever felt, washes over you, and your eyes sprout wide open, your mouth open in a loud gasp as you sit up as fast as you can, your chest heaving up and down with labored breaths. Your fingers jump to your face, trying to wipe off the freezing feeling away, and blink rapidly, trying to get a grasp of where you were. 

“Miss?” 

Your head swivels to the voice, and you feel your eyes burning. The voice is overshadowed with the burning sun behind them, but they crouch down over you, shoving you with a little force. You blink again, trying to make the spots go away. 

A woman, you think. Not Gojo. 

The last thing you remember was going to sleep, your stomach empty after multiple days of night finding any food, shivering your soul away as you curled up. The horse that you had stolen was set free a couple days ago after you felt bad for not being able to provide anything for it to eat or drink. Knowing that it had left somewhere for itself puts you in a better state of mind. 

You couldn’t remember how many days it had been since you had run away. You lost track after the twentieth night. You had no map to guide you, nobody you trusted to tell you where to go. You walked around with a hood over your head, looking through different towns and villages, scrapping around for their garbage.  You were running both from the man that had been sent to kill you, but your old life as well. You didn’t know if Gojo believed the letter, if he had sent people out to look for you. You knew you just had to get as far away from the North as possible, even if it meant you die trying.

After a few days of doing this, your feet had given out, marked with blisters and scraps, and you fell in your spot, sleeping near a tree as you let the exhaustion finally settle deep in your bones. You remember closing your eyes, thinking of the time when Gojo woke you up with sweets from the bakery you adored. You could smell the sugar beneath your nose, your fingers itching to grab one, your mind not able to tell what was imagination and reality anymore. You would wager that hunger was making you do this, but you couldn’t care anymore.

You can only look at her, forgetting the words needed to form a proper sentence. 

“Are ‘ye alright?” She asks you finally, and you can slowly begin to make out the crease in her face and the color of her eyes. You can see the wrinkles that adorn her forehead and cheeks, all scrunched up together in worry as she looks down at you.

Your hands pat themselves across your body, trying to make sure you weren’t dead. It had been a while since you had spoken to someone, especially when they weren’t throwing sticks at your head to get you to stop looking through their discarded piles of vegetables. 

You swallow thickly.

“Can ‘ye hear me?” She asks louder, bending down a little closer to you as she rests her hand on your forehead. 

She doesn’t seem too old, most likely a few years older than your father, but you feel stricken by her appearance. A part of you wonders if you truly have died and this was the afterlife; an old lady taking care of you. 

But with how hard she’s jamming her finger into your ribs it makes you think otherwise. 

“Are ‘ye hungry darling?” She continues to talk, her gray brows pinching together as she glances over your frail appearance, “Would ‘ye like something to eat?”

Your eyes widen slightly and she takes note of it. 

A small smile makes its way onto her face as she eases back upwards. 

“My husband and I own a small tavern,” she says, and with the sun framing her head she looks like a divine power, “I’ll take ‘ye there.”

You stare at her outstretched hand, look at her fingers, at the way they’re reaching out to you. You can’t remember the last time somebody offered you help, or looked at you like you were more than a common thief. You’d cry if there was any water left in your system. 

But slowly you raise your hand, holding hers as she heaves you up. You show her your feet, and she tells you not to worry. She sits you on the back of her donkey, telling you that the animal looks stronger than you’d think. 

You don’t have any will to argue, letting the old woman, who told you to call her Miss Murray, guide you and the donkey through a dirt road. You sway in and out of consciousness, blinking to find the scenery changed from what you last remembered. 

Miss Murray talks to you, but you don't have any energy to respond. She checks behind her shoulder sometimes to make sure you were still alive, and would only look back to the road when she was satisfied you were. 

It takes nearly another thirty minutes before you start seeing little homes begin to appear from over the hill. There’s a town in the distance, one that you see is bordering a vast blue ground. 

The ocean?

You blink to make sure you were hallucinating. 

You were only aware of larger cities that bordered the ocean, but this was a small little town at most. The roads were dirt and unpaved, the homes made of wood and layers of hay. The cities you were aware of were far richer, their structures made of sturdy stone and glass. And you knew that despite your delirious travels, you hadn’t rerouted and gone back up North, the only other place you knew that had cities near the water. 

“Home,” Miss Murray says with a content sigh and you look at her, your eyes slightly squinted in confusion. 

You swallow some spit, trying to wet your mouth. 

“Where,” your voice sounds foreign to you, and even the woman looks back in surprise when she hears you trying to speak. Your fingers are at your throat, wanting to have your voice sound normal. 

“Where a-are we?” You finally get out, and the woman smiles gently at you. 

“As far east as ‘ye can get,” she replies and you look back to the ocean. The water is shining off of the sun, the cold air that’s biting at your skin is a reminder of the winter that’s about to come. 

The color reminds you of a pair of eyes, the same eyes you often thought about before you went to sleep, not knowing if you’d wake up. 

“I’d wager yer a far way from home dear, no?”

Your body sways with the donkey's gentle movements, and your mind is slow. You know you need food and water, but her question isn’t one that reminds you of this. It’s a cut that runs deep through your aching soul, one that hurts to admit. 

So you only give her a little nod, one that she seems to understand quickly. 

“D‘ye plan to stay here?” Her gray curls frame her face in a nice way, her plump cheeks pink and soft.

You look to the water and then to the town. It’s a far distance from the North, and hidden enough that nobody would recognize you or find you. It’s surrounded by a forest, a densely thick mass of trees that stretches as far as the eye can see. The town is quaint, at most a few hundred people inhabiting it. Even if the news of your runaway had heard their ears, it was doubtful that they’d recognize you. Especially now, that even without a proper mirror you’re sure your appearance has changed drastically.

“Yes,” you mutter, your throat raw and unused. 

She hums, pulling you carefully down the grassy hill and closer towards the busting town. People were walking and shouting to one another, carrying trays of breads and pastries, flowers and fabrics from one place to the next. 

“I’ll fix ‘ye up something to eat when we get to the tavern,” she promises, having surely heard your eager stomach, but you shake your head slowly in a form of protest. 

“No, no coin,” you tell her, your eyes falling down in embarrassment, “I don’t have…any coin,” you say slowly, your tongue heavy in your mouth. 

Miss Murray looks at you for a second before throwing her head back and laughing. 

“Dear, I’m sure ‘ye need that food more than I need that coin.”

Your heart beats a little faster, your eyes glimmering slightly. 

You want to tell her why you’re like this, that you weren’t this way a few months ago. That you had a husband who you cared very deeply for, people who you loved helping. You want to tell her that you would give her all the coins you and your name if you could, but you bite your tongue from doing so. 

You no longer were the Lady of the North. You were married to Gojo Satoru, and you had no title, no coin, no amount to your name. But you still had respect and dignity, knowing you couldn’t lose every shred of yourself while trying to stay alive. 

“I’d like t-to…pay you back,” you stammer out, “I want to pay you back, please,”

You watch as Miss Murray pauses, the donkey halting its movements as your body lurches forward slightly. 

You watch silently as she observes your face, looks at the cracks in your skin, the stained clothes you were wearing, and your lack of proper hygiene. She feels something when looking at you, something that wasn’t right. There’s a certain stubbornness, a fight in your eyes, one that somebody only gets after surviving for so long. 

She knows you won’t back down, especially after you’ve had something proper to eat. 

“‘Ye need a job, no? Some coin?” She finally asks, and you look down at your torn up clothes and your bones fingers. 

You look back up to her and nod. 

She thinks for another moment before starting her walk again. 

“‘Ye can pay me back by working for the tavern,” her fingers curl around the donkey's rein as she controls it through a winding road, “Aye, we’re in constant need of firewood. It will make us even for this meal, and every day after that I’ll pay ‘ye for yer help. Deal?”

You feel a little light shine down, maybe from the gods as she turns her head to look at you, raising a brow as she waits for your answer. 

For the first time in a while, you feel your lips quirk upwards, a small, miniscule grin on your face. Miss Murray smiles at the sight. 

You nod slightly before you murmur a quiet, “deal.”

——

Miss Murray took you to her tavern and fixed you a large meal, something even your old self would gawk at if served at the estate. 

And she introduced you to her husband, the other keeper. She told him that she found you and knew you were willing to work, to which he took one look at you and decided she wasn’t going to budge on her decision. 

The old man showed you after a week of rest what it was you had to do. He demonstrated how to use an axe, how to cut up the logs in a way that would fit into the tavern's fireplace. He showed you which trees would be easiest for you to cut down, and which ones to avoid. 

The old man told you that his previous lumberjack had left town in search of a new life, and with how strenuous the job was, he couldn’t find anybody to do it eagerly in the short amount of time he needed. His son, who you slowly became familiar with, would do a majority of the workload, meaning you’d just have to bring in the smaller branches and twigs that kept the fire going throughout the night.

Miss Murray also showed you an old shack they had been using to store some equipment, saying that you could stay here for as long as you liked as long as you cleaned it out yourself. It was a little way away from the tavern, but still close enough that you wouldn’t have to drag the logs for a great distance. You were near trees and a few homes scattered around you as well so that you weren’t isolated. She told you she would’ve given you someplace nicer, but this was all she had. 

It takes a while for this strange new routine to become normal for you, but you quickly decide that chopping wood and lugging it around beats the hunger and cold you felt for weeks before you found this little town. That the motions almost became therapeutic, and offered you a peace of mind, letting yourself try to forget about your previous life, your husband, Gojo, and focus on getting your job done. 

You get the old shack as clean as you can, pleasantly surprised to find that underneath all the rubble and blankets there was a fireplace with a chimney still intact. You set a little bed up for yourself in the corner on the floor, made out of multiple sheets all piled on top of each other (all borrowed from Miss Murray) and a pillow that she had given you. 

You never told Miss Murray of where you were running from, who you were running from. You didn’t tell her that you were married or that you were from the North. Though she asked about why you ran, you never gave her a clear answer. It hurt thinking about him, let alone voicing the fact that you had left a loving husband in hopes of sparing thousands of people their lives. Some days, the pain was so numbing that you didn’t know how to move. You would hear his voice in your thoughts, could see his smile when you closed your eyes. In these moments you wondered if he misses you as much as you missed him. If he still slept in the same bed, or had his room completely changed. Did he get rid of your books, your oils, your clothing? A part of you hopes he did, hoping that he didn’t have to be cursed with the memory of you after what you had done. The more time passed, you wondered if he had decided to forget about you, if the thought of you was something he decided was better hidden rather than called upon.

Slowly, you began to turn the shack into your home, delivering the firewood as your daily routine, and made the town that bordered the ocean somewhere that you considered safe. 

But each night that passed and you went to sleep you dreamt of your old home, your old bed, the strong arms that wrapped around you, and you woke up, pretending the tears that had drenched your pillow weren’t there. 

Though you knew that after a while, when the talks of the Northern soldiers died down, that you had to move on. And when Miss Murray excitedly knocked on your door, a month later, telling you that the war had been called off, you offered her a gentle smile, knowing that you had done the right thing. She showed you the papers that were making their way across the kingdoms, the ones that said the North had agreed to pull their forces out from near the Southern border, releasing their final statement of neutrality. You skimmed the page, your heart hammering when you read that The North credits their Lord for the sudden decision, claiming that after months of searching for his missing wife with no luck, he agreed that continuing war efforts were barbarous and unnecessary.

Your vision goes blurry for a moment. 

He had been searching for you? For nearly six months?

It had been almost half a year, if you had done the math correctly, since you were first informed that a war would be happening. Six months of hardship, pain, tears, blood and half of your soul to end it all. Nobody in your little town knew of what you did, and you knew to keep it that way. Hiding your true nature was safe, no matter how much it stung when you realized that the North had most likely decided to forget you. That night you stayed in your little cabin while everybody was in the square celebrating and crying, not knowing what else to do. They were partially tears of joy, but mainly an accumulation of guilt and longing, wondering why your absence was what was needed to end a war.

Slowly, that pain began to seep into your bones, but you knew that you must go on with your life if you ever wanted to make it worth it. The days and nights turned into weeks, which then turned into months, and after some time, you no longer considered yourself the old Lady of the North. You melted into this life, and pretended that this was what you were destined to live from the start. You cut wood, collected pieces of dry bush and twigs to help keep the fire going at Miss Murray’s tavern. On the days when they didn’t need any fire wood, you helped her and her husband out with food and serving drinks. When she wasn’t busy, you found yourself listening to her talk, filling your silent moments with the gentle-hearted lady.

When a year had passed since you came to this town, you let yourself forget about everything. Everything your mind began to tuck away, all but for the lingering ache that longed for the man you loved so many moons ago.

—

Winters in a town near the ocean was something you never experienced until last year, and this year you knew how to prepare yourself.

The North was notoriously known for its freezing winters, but this town could rival it, you’d wager coin on this fact. The lakes in the woods nearby would freeze, snow piling on the ground, reaching a little bit below your knees in some areas. The ground was sometimes slick with ice, and if you didn’t have a careful eye to catch it you’d often come tumbling down, your cheeks heating in embarrassment when people nearby would laugh.

Last winter you had barely gotten on your own two feet before it had hit, but Miss Murray helped you out as much as she could. She spared some meat cakes from the tavern, bringing you what was left of their bread when the night was over. She lended you some of her old winter clothes, ones that she had outgrown, and you took it appreciatively. There were some nights you were sure you’d freeze to death, and other mornings when you weren’t sure you weren’t going to wake up. But you reminded yourself of all that you had been through, everything that you had survived, and pushed to open your eyes. So, in these past months, much like others in the town did, you prepared for this icy season, knowing this year you had to learn on your own. 

You stocked up on breads and pastries in a corner of your home which was always keen on never staying warm. You kept jars of jams, pickled vegetables and potatoes near the breads, somewhere dark and away from the morning sun. You learned from other townspeople how to prepare for when the cold settled in your home, how to fight it off late into the night. You watched the baker as he explained how to keep your bread from going bad, and how to store it properly. When you were content with the amount of food you had accumulated over the summer and fall months, you then prepared your clothing.

You had learned over trial and error to begin with wrapping your hands up once with some gauze (this would also prove to help once you were using the axe and looking through the shrubbery for things that could easily burn, seeing that it provided a buffer zone) and a thick pair of gloves that Miss Murray knit for you. You always had a fire running in your own fireplace, tending to it from the moment you woke up till late in the night when you went to sleep. The tavern needed its delivery each night, so until then, when you weren’t chopping, you either bundled up with a couple blankets or walked through the town, looking through the bakery and small bookshop (those two stores always were toastier than the rest).

If you had some spare change you’d buy a couple of loaves of bread and see if there were any old books the bookkeeper was going to throw out, and in between your free time, this seemed to be the best way to go about the freezing months instead of wasting away in your little cabin.

When night came, you hauled the wood, leaves and twigs into the wheelbarrow Miss Murray had lended to you and headed for the tavern, making sure your scarf was tied around your neck multiple times before you left the warm retrieve of your home.

It was only a ten minute walk from where you were to the inn, and if you hurried enough you could finish it in almost eight minutes. The colder it got, the slower your joints would work, but you also reminded yourself that the faster you got there, the faster you’d be met with the tavern's overwhelming and comforting warmth. You had the hood of your cloak around your head, keeping your ears from freezing and your scarf wrapped tightly around your neck. It was hard pushing the handcart through the snow, but you had learned where to go over the past weeks, which roads were more forgiving.

It had become clockwork as you neared the oak doors, the windows lit orange from the amount of candles inside. You could smell the meat roasting and see the smoke from the brick chimney as you neared it. You were already hearing the loud boisterous laughter from inside, some from town natives, some from travelers making a stop at the place for the night. You knew to walk around back, follow the track that led to the stables and ultimately the smaller door that would lead inside the kitchen, open it with the key Miss Murray had given you. You make a note of a couple of men standing near the horses, the usually empty rooms now filled with the animal. They were most likely tending to them, trying to keep them warm.   You’re greeted with the familiar sound of the bustling kitchen; the cooks yelling at the other cooks about what to get ready, the loud roar of the fire, the sounds of knives chopping away their vegetables and meats. You can smell the usual pies and stews they made nearly every night. This night seems to be their specialty of chicken pie with potato gravy soup. If there was a moment you could slip away and taste some, you reminded yourself to do so.

Glancing around the large room you take in the sight of the visitors of the night. There are a few wooden beams that restrict your vision, but you don’t need eyes to know just how packed it is. The sounds inside are even louder than the ones you heard walking near the place, and you’d wager that there are far more people staying here than usual. You’d guess that with the recent and abundant snowfall, some travelers were forced to re-route, and by the looks of it, you see far more strangers than familiar faces.

But you don’t let that distract you, walking over to the fireplace as you crouch down, making sure your cloak and skirt weren’t bunched up under your boots. You set the cart down near the fireplace, taking your gloves off as you held it near the heat for a few seconds. The gloves did a great job with keeping the cold from your hands, but they limited your mobility, and when you had to unload the logs, the branches, twigs, and everything in between, you wanted to do it as quickly as possible. You place them all into the large basket, observing the flickering flames. It’s still going strong, but there are some embers of coal that seem to be dying out, and so you tug carefully the door of the fireplace open as you place some wood inside, fanning it so that it would grow a little more.

You brush your hands against your legs, getting rid of the spare bits of bark and wood, and hold it back up to the fire as you feel the tension in your fingers and wrists begin to melt away. 

“We don’t pay ‘ye to keep up our space, y’know,” 

You turn your head around to the voice, smiling when you see Miss Murray standing behind you with her hands on her hips, her apron stained with spilled ale and some food splatters. Her gray curls are pulled underneath her cap, her full cheeks red and rosy, her lips pulled into a slight frown.

She tries to look serious, but her act slips away instantly when she sees you, moving closer as she wraps her around around you from behind, her arms reaching your shoulders, just barely, as you crouch a little to pull her in for a hug. 

It’s only been a night since she sees you, but this is always how Miss Murray greets you. 

“Are ‘ye warm?” She asks, her eyes worried as she looks at your hands and your slightly runny nose. 

You chuckle, nodding your head so that she doesn’t fret. 

“I’m warming up,” you tease your brow slightly raised, holding your fingers up to her cheeks to show that they were no longer cold, wiping your elbow across your nose as you go back to holding your hands over the fire, “And dare I say it’s my right seeing how it’s my wood that’s burning?” 

Miss Murray chuckles, pinching you softly on the side as you yelp, moving a little bit away from her as you giggle.

She stands next to you, looking over the crowd as she takes in who needs more beer and food, making a mental tally in her head. Once your entire body has finally thawed, you stand up straighter, turning around to look at the busy crowd, not a single chair going unused. 

“It’s busier than usual, no?” You ask, crossing your arms across your chest as you look to Miss Murray, tucking your hands into your elbows to keep the warmth. 

She nods, her eyes turning to yours slightly before she goes back to assessing each table. 

“Aye,” her voice is slightly lowered, not wanting others to hear, “The storm caught many travelers by surprise. There’s a group of young men coming in from Lolygrad,” a Western town, you note, a name you remember from ages ago, “Said they wanted to go up ‘nor but their horses cannae walk through the snow.” 

You chew on your lips, looking at the large group of men gathered near a corner, their beards and shaggy hair covering up most of their faces. Most of them had their backs to you, and the ones facing outwards were hunched, their shoulders sagging as they leaned their ears in to hear clearly what was being said. The rest of their features were pinched together as they let out howls of laughter, swinging their mugs of beer around as they listened to one of their members tell an animated story. 

You slightly smiled at the hearty sound, against your own will.

“Oh, dear, before I forget,” Miss Murray suddenly turned around, gently holding your hands as you look a little bit down, “Ewan,” her son, another worker at the tavern, the poor fellow who was tasked with almost every job, including getting the hefty tree trunks cut into bits, “Said he saw ‘ye heaving that barrow through the snow-” you began to shake your head, knowing what she was going to say but she raised a hand midway to stop you. 

“He told me to tell ‘ye to leave it near the stables. When the snow has settled and thaws a bit, he’ll bring it to ‘ye.” 

Your brows furrow, lips parting slightly as you go to protest. 

“But what about the firewood? I can’t lug it up on my own,” you joke a little bit, your lips quivering as Mis Murray smiles, patting your arm as she shakes her head. 

“Ye’ve brought us enough wood to supply a week, maybe even more,” she says, and you look behind your shoulder at the overflowing bin, knowing there were at least three more filled with logs waiting out back, “Give yerself a rest dear.” Her kind face looks at you in such a way that you can’t argue, sighing deeply through your nose as you debate it. You have enough coins to last you for a while, and seeing that you already have some bread and food prepared, it shouldn’t be much of an issue. So you nod.

You move to get your gloves, pulling them on as you head back out through the kitchen. You brace yourself for the cold, wrapping your scarf tighter around your neck and throwing your hood over your head as you open the door, quickly leaving and shutting it, knowing how much he cooks bickered when you let the air in.

You keep your head down, nose scrunching as your boots crunch as you walk through the snow, nearing the corner of the tavern, the one that rounds into the road that leads you back home before a yell catches your attention. 

It comes from behind you, the sound slightly muffled with the hood and scarf slightly covering your ears, but you glance over your shoulder to see what it was. 

In the distance, one of the men is waving over to you, his body illuminated slightly from behind from one of the lit torches that hang on the wall of the stables. Your eyes squint, moving a few steps closer as you try to make out what he was saying.

“...glove,” is all you make out, the wind roaring around you not helping. But he waves a red glove around, and you look to your hands to see that your right glove was missing. It had been so cold that you didn’t notice it had been blown away, the only thing covering your hand being your bandages. 

You shake your head, rolling your eyes at the thought, and slightly jog back, bringing your hand to your lips as you blow some hot air on it. Your cheeks feel like they're on fire with how freezing it is, the tip of your nose about to fall off, but you’re able to muster up a thankful smile as you near the man. 

“Thank you!” you call out, laughing a little bit at the absurdity of it all, boots scrunching and sounding like ice being shaved as you run a little bit closer to him, the man taking a few steps himself so that you wouldn’t have to go the full distance, and you squint your eyes more, trying to make out his blurry appearance that’s slightly coming to as he nears another torch, “It’s so cold that I didn’t even notice…” 

You stop. 

It seems like time has stopped. 

The snow seems to have frozen in mid-air, not falling as it stops around you. The wind no longer howls, but has fallen silent. The snow on the ground doesn't glisten, the torches lit with fire slowing down.

Your lungs don’t work. You can’t feel any air coming in through your nose. It might be because your nose refused to inhale. You can’t feel your heart, can’t feel a singular beat to keep you alive. Your pulse has fallen silent, your ears hearing every sound but no sound at all.

Gojo seems to have stopped breathing as well. 

His hand is still reaching out, your glove held tightly in his fingers as he stares, 

And you stare back. 

Your chest heaves out a single puff of air.

You blink once before everything suddenly goes black. 

—

“...is it really…?” 

“...never found a…thought she had…there must be…” 

“..last time I saw him look like that…”

There are multiple voices that blend together, and you can’t tell what’s happening aside from the fact that you can’t feel your limbs and your eyes feel like they’ve been turned to lead. You can’t open them, can’t move, can’t do anything but try to figure out what is happening around you.

“...doubt he knew,” a voice, louder and more clear than the rest fills your ears, sounding a little less like it was coming from underwater, “...searched for months…looks like her…” 

Her? 

The conversations around you continue, and you feel your fingers slightly twitching, a good sign that you weren’t completely incapable of moving. You feel your lashes flutter, lips parting a little bit. 

You try to listen more to the voices, but suddenly a loud slam happens from somewhere in the room. You nearly flinch, eyes moving back and forth between your lids and you will yourself to sit up, to do something.

The voices suddenly all fall silent, and your ears are becoming more in tune because you can pick up on the heavy thud that rings around the walls, loud but quiet at the same time, heavy and deep.

The sound nears your ears before it completely stops. 

You feel a touch, light, barely there, but you feel it. It’s the grace of a feather upon your body, a fingertip that slightly moves across skin. Your pointer finger moves a little bit, but it’s so miniscule that you doubt the touch noticed. 

It’s familiar, you think to yourself, you’ve felt this touch before. It wasn’t Miss Murray, for her fingers were more round and rough. It wasn’t foreign, because sometimes you still got off put by a stranger's touch. This was something you knew once, had carded somewhere in your mind when your skin felt raw and barren.

“Nothing?” 

The voice, it’s even more familiar. You hear it not only settle deep into your eardrums, but it rattles around your head, flowing down into your blood, seeping into your bones. Your brows scrunch a little bit, and you feel like a little bit of life is flooding back into you. Your toes curl in your boots, fingers itching against the wooden surface you feel yourself lying back upon. 

“Nothing at all?” 

That voice. The touch. The feel of those fingers against your skin, the way the voice breathes. 

Gojo.  

Your eyes suddenly snap open, your chest concaving in as you take in a big gasp of air. You shoot upwards, your hands resting on either side of you as they balance you on the table, your chest moving up and down with big movements as you look around wildly. 

The men that surrounded the table were the same men you saw earlier that night. But you know them all. Samson, Ren, Kenji, Declan, Koji. You remember now, how they all challenged each other to grow the longest hair and beard in the winter months, the winner taking the head of a hog they had hunted. Malcolm, Oisín, Shiro, Genji. 

They all stared back at you, their faces clammy and pale, as if they were staring at a ghost. 

Your body is shaking, your neck turning when you look to your side. 

Gojo. 

There’s a hitch in your breathing, your lips trembling when your eyes take in his face. 

Those eyes, the same eyes that stared back at you the day you married him. A foggy storm, oceans clashing upon each other, dark and messy. His hair was as white as the falling snow right outside the window, slightly longer than what you remembered, but still the same shape. 

His lips, red as the blood that stained the bandages around your hands. You take in the shape of his nose, the lashes upon his lids. The sharp line of his jaw, the slight twitch of his eyes. You take in the lifeless appearance of his skin, his cheeks lacking their usual pink hue. His figure looks even sturdier, more pronounced muscles around his shoulders and chest, the fabric around his arms tight. He looks exactly like you imagine him each night. 

You had forgotten some little things over time; like the scar near his left ear or the mole above his brow. You don’t remember how there was a slight crook in his nose from when he had broken it as a child from falling down a tree, but it’s still him. It’s Gojo.

Your fingers itch to touch his face. Your nails dig into the wood. 

You look at him. Look at the way his chest rises with each breath. This wasn’t a dream. This was him. He was real and staring back at you. 

You had to get out. 

It feels like a force pushes your body forward. You don’t know what strength it was that allowed you to swing your legs over the table, what power it was that allowed you to lurch yourself away and fall into him. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t falter, but you hear the others around you exclaiming some things in surprise at your sudden movements. 

You don’t stay on him for too long, forcing your feet that feel like iron ore to take one step at a time. You limp and stumble your way through, blindly grabbing for things as you pick up your pace, not looking over your shoulders as your hand reaches for the door. 

“Come back.” 

It’s his voice. You feel yourself shiver at the sound. 

But you don’t know what to do except escape, your palm touching the door knob. 

“Come. Back.” His voice is steady, biting, warning, and he doesn’t say anything else because this itself is the extent of what he’s willing to say. 

You pause, not looking behind you, your knees shaking as you support yourself upright on the door, one hand sprawled out on it as you heave. You feel like throwing up, feel like your head is about to burst. 

This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. 

You feel your body shaking, your arms quivering, your legs wobbling. Your shoulders are moving up and down as you struggle to breathe again, and you feel your legs slowly give out beneath you, and you crumble down onto the floor, your hand still on the door as the other one covers your mouth, trying to keep your broken soul contained.

“My lord, should we-” 

“Get out,” Gojo says, barely above a whisper, but perhaps the most forward and heavy command you’ve ever heard him give. 

There’s a confused silence that follows, his men faltering with the sudden order. 

“But-” 

“Out!” He roars, and you don’t make a move from the door, can’t find a bone in your body that has the ability to pull yourself away. 

Thankfully, you think this is one of the more advanced rooms of the tavern, and when you hear the patter of footsteps and a door latch open from another side of the room, one that most likely leads to an office that has another door out to the hallways. It takes a minute, but the footsteps begin to slow and finally they cease, the door quickly clicking shut as the last man closes it behind him. 

But there’s still one person remaining, and you could distinguish who it was by the sound of his breathing alone.

Your back is still facing him, your hands moving to hold your head as you fall sideways to the wall next to you, your hands moving down to hide your sweaty and clammy face from the one person you had convinced yourself you’d never see again.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. 

You curl your legs up to your chest in an effort to hide as much as yourself away from him as possible. It feels like your heart isn’t working correctly. It rattles around at an odd pace in the limited space of your rib cage, bouncing around erratically, trying to warn you that something was wrong. Your hands grasp at your chest, fingers digging into the skin as you try to calm it down. 

But you soon realize that that’s not your only problem. Your head was spinning in a way that made you see twos of everything, your forehead beading with sweat. It feels like you’ve lost control over any of your movements, your body working as one, your mind as a totally separate entity. You wondered if this was you dying, if your body had suddenly given up.

“Slow your breathing down.” 

You falter, eyes looking above your direct line of sight which was staring at the wall adjacent to you, traveling upwards when you slowly looked up and saw muddy boots, then a familiar pair of black trousers, upwards till you landed on his chest and then his chin. You see his face, looking down at your form, his eyes dark but focused on your face, his lips pulled into a thin line. You hadn’t heard him come near you, but you also doubt you’d hear a canon go off in this state. 

Gojo.

You shake your head, looking instantly away from him as your lips tremble, snot falling from your nose as you look anywhere else. It seems difficult to breathe, the simple but tiring task bordering on impossible.

You can’t see him, but hear a small thump sound a few seconds later. You glance from above your lashes to see that he’s taken a seat, resting his back on the wall that’s facing yours. His legs are sprawled out, long things that you used to tease him about, and the tip of his boots almost reach your knees. 

“Reach your hand out,” he says after a beat of silence. 

You almost scoff at the insanity of it. 

But you look at him, truly look him in the eyes this time, and see that he’s being serious. 

You look back down to your shaking hands, cold and still bandaged up, and then back to him. It feels unreal. You feel your hands shake even more when your mind computes again that it’s Gojo that’s two feet in front of you. 

“One hand at a time,” Gojo says, his voice lowered, and he demonstrates by sitting up a little bit, leaning a breathe closer, still feet away from you as he lifts his hand up from where it was resting on his thigh, holding it up in the air, fingers sprawled from each other, “Like this.”

Your mind tells you to move, just a little bit, and your fingers twitch against your knees that were sitting close to your chest. It takes a few seconds but you will raise your hands upwards, slowly, gently, just like he did. It’s shaking, he isn’t, but he doesn’t say anything about it. 

His eyes look over the bandages on your hand. Some spots are dotted with red blood from your most recent cuts. He looks at your fingers, the dirt beneath your nails and the way they’re cut at odd angles. He finally focuses on your fourth finger, lingering on its bareness, and you don’t realize in that moment just how much he was mourning the absence of your wedding ring. 

“Bring it away from your body,” his voice is barely a whisper, thick with unspoken emotions that have plagued him for the past year and a half, his own eyes glossing over slightly when he takes you in, just as you were doing to him.

You find that in these last moments your erratic breathing has slowed down a bit, so you go the distance, gingerly stretching your arm out so that your hand is straight in front of you, still trembling just a bit. 

“I’m going to hold your hand with mine. It helps, I promise.” 

I promise. 

Your teeth clatter against each other, your tongue laying flat and like a stone in your mouth. You can’t speak yet, but there’s a sharp look in his eyes. The same one that happened whenever he made his promises to you. Ones he’d never break. 

So you slowly tilt your head down in a small nod. 

He watches this, observing your behavior. He shows you his hand, never putting it down, just carefully outstretching his arm like you did, and he moves a little bit away from the wall to get a little closer to you.

You never blink as you watch his hand stretch out towards yours, fingers straight, and in a few seconds they hover above yours. He’s not wearing his ring, you note, but put your focus on the fact that in another moment his skin is touching your skin, his fingers curling slowly over yours. In another moment, his hand moves, gently holding yours in his. That touch, the same touch you feel like a lingering ache at night.

The two of you don’t say anything, looking at where your hands meet with bated breath.

The touch was grounding. You feel his fingers against your palm, long and steady, unlike your own. His skin is warm, comforting, inviting. It’s not soft, but it never was. Years of yielding swords, bows, spears, using his fists as means of destruction caused that. But when he held you, it never felt like the hands of a warrior, just of a man. Your own fingers stretch outwards, your tips gracing his large hand, slightly above his wrist, where his pulse point is. You try to forget that the last time you touched him was so long ago 

“Better?” He asks simply, taking in how your chest had slowed its movements, the sweat on your forehead stopping. Your eyes are still glossy, but he knows it’s more than just an episode that’s causing that. 

You swallow thickly, looking down at your hands and not to him as you nod again.

There’s a silence that follows, the only sound being the small exhale that you would give, and his slight inhale. 

You’re the first to move, your hand going slack in his as you begin to pull away. His own finger twitches, not wanting to let go for a minute, but he falters and lets you move away, resting your back up against the wall as you cradle the hand close to your chest, as if it was searing. 

Gojo moves back too, his shoulders square as his hands go to rest on his thighs again, letting out a large puff of air through his lips. After another moment his head dips, fists clenched as he pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezing shut as if he too can’t believe any of this. He runs a hand through his white hair, pushing it back, before he allows himself to open his eyes again and stare at you. 

“I’ve looked for you for sixteen months.” 

You look at him blankly, but inside something cracks. 

“I thought you were dead after the first eight,” Gojo says, “So I've just been searching for your body.”

You look away from him, the sight of him here and speaking to you too much to bear. 

He waits for you to say something, anything, a flash of anger crossing his face, his nose flaring and lips stretching thin as he tries to control himself. He had convinced himself for a while now that you were dead. He wondered what he’d do if he found you somewhere, not knowing how to prepare himself for the sight. 

But in the beginning, when he was sure that he’d find you, Gojo wondered about what he might say to you if he ever saw you again. He told himself that he’d yell, he’d beg you to tell him why you ran away, why you never wrote back, but his anger faded and dissipated the minute he saw you. The anger, the frustration, the pain, hurt, breaking, everything that he feels now is from seeing you alive, knowing that you were alive this whole time and never once said anything. The tears and the bite in his throat he has to fight back being from the sole reason of how much he missed you. 

He sees you here, alive, your chest moving with each breath. He sees the flutter of your lashes against your cheek, the plump of your lips. He sees your eyes, more tired and filled with unknown sorrow, but still that burning color he loved so much. He watches the way your arms wrap around yourself, the curve of your jaw and the way you try to blink away your tears. Gojo sees you and though there are small changes to your appearance, still remembers you being as beautiful as the day he last saw you.

His wife, Gojo thinks, his wife was alive after all this time.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he thinks his voice comes out breathy, almost like he was trying to stop himself from cracking in front of you, “Why didn’t you send a letter? Or…or a sign?”

You bite down on your lip, your head turned away from him so that he couldn’t see your face. You feel yourself choking as he speaks, your eyes stinging with tears again. You can’t do this, you can’t.

You blindly walk back into the other part of the room, where he and his men originally were. You hear him move instantly behind you, as if he was fearful you’d try to make a run for it again, but you’re searching for a pitcher, your throat dry and aching.

You stumble around, wiping away at your wet cheeks, hands stiff as you turn desperately to find anything, something to just wash away the biting and choking feeling you had that was settling deep in your chest. 

Your eyes almost light up when you see a pitcher, making your way through it as your fingers grasp the handle, finding a cup next to it as you bring it up. It’s heavy, filled with water, and although you’ve gotten stronger these past months lifting and carrying wood, you can’t seem to properly pour. 

It must be from how your hands are still shaking. Water pours messily from the sprout, getting everywhere but the cup. You let out a frustrated cry, wiping the tears away from the corners of your eyes with your elbow as you try again. 

Something stops you. You look over your shoulder to see Gojo, his hand hovering over your arm that’s holding the pitcher. Silently, he grabs it, fingers curling around the handle as you let go. He reaches for the cup in your hand, which you give him, and sniffles when he calmly pours some water for you, handing it back with the cup full. 

You take it after a beat of quiet, bringing it to your lips as you chug it down. You finish it in seconds, wiping your lips as you squeeze your eyes shut, feeling his heat radiating off of him from how close he was to you.

“You have to leave.” 

Your voice comes out frail and hoarse, and you're staring at him through tear stricken eyes, your lips pressed firmly into a little frown, one that you do to help you from crying even more. You cross your arms over your chest, wincing slightly when your bandage rubs the wrong way, but you refuse to drop your gaze from his.

“Y-you can’t know I’m here,” you’re shaking your head adamantly, stuttering as you think of everything that has happened and what it means, the repercussions that could come from it, all of your sacrifices amounting to nothing, “None of you can…please, gods, I…” You let out a gasp, hands covering your mouth as you frantically walk away from him, pacing around the vastness of the empty room. 

You run your hands over your face, wringing your fingers, fidgeting with the fabric of your bodice as you shake your head repeatedly. They know you’re here, they know you’re alive. If anybody finds out, if word gets out of where you are and your true identity, gods, what if the king finds out?

You’re muttering words to yourself, tears catching on your cheeks, chin, falling into your lips, and you phase Gojo out. You act like he’s no longer there. It feels like what you’ve done for the past year, pretending like his ghost, the thought of him, wasn’t haunting you when in fact it was at every single second of the day.

“Leave!” You shout, your voice hoarse, “Get out! Leave! Please!” You’re pleading with the gods above to make him listen to you, to cast away his stubbornness and pride and make him listen to your words just this once.

“Leave?” He says with a stutter, a chuckle of disbelief falling from his lips, “What are you sa-” 

“Get out!” You scream, cutting him off, pointing at his chest and to the door, “I don’t want you here! Go!”

He shouts your name, loud and clear, and you instantly stop. 

Your brows are furrowed down the middle, a crease between them, and you feel like your eyes are slightly twitching. You must look mad to him, not the person he once remembered. You hope he feels disgust, wanting to leave as soon as he gets a few words in. That would be ideal. Maybe he despises you so much he doesn’t talk about you ever again, satisfied to see just how poorly you’re doing by yourself

But to be fair, he doesn’t look any better himself. 

There are dark circles under his eyes. His skin seems flushed, but not in a good way. There’s a bead of sweat above his brow bone, his lips moving slightly as if he wants to yell, scream, cry, shout, but can’t figure out which one to do. The more you get a look at him the more you’re able to see the cracks in his usual appearance. The way he hides behind his strength but fails to use that strength to keep himself afloat. 

But oh, how you wish to walk to him, run to him. How you long to collapse in his chest, to feel his heartbeat against our cheek. How you want to feel those sturdy hands wrap themselves around you, give you an embrace you’ve been chasing for so long. You want to feel his skin, taste his tears. You want him, all of him. But you can’t, you remind yourself. He’s not yours to have anymore. 

“That’s it?” He bites out, his tone furious, “You haven’t seen me in over a year and that’s it? I have to leave?” He sputters, a bitter laugh falling from his lips as he rubs a hand across his jaw in disbelief, as if he can’t fathom the person that’s standing in front of himself right now is the person he nearly died trying to find.

You glance out the window, the snow storm still going strong. It’s as dark as ink outside, the only light that’s illuminating your faces coming from the candles lit that scatter across the room. You wish you were in the snow than in here, the freezing winds better than the hot and burning sensation you feel at the moment. 

“You…you don’t understand,” you plead quietly, “This isn’t-”

“What?” Gojo snaps, cutting you off as your mouth clams up, “This isn’t what? Simple? Easy to grasp?” He’s cracking, his demeanor slipping from calm to angry, ”How you ran away without any fucking warning? How you evaded all my guards? How you wound up here? What can I not understand? Because I’ve spent a year and a fucking half coming up with every single theory that could explain this!” His voice bounces off the walls and you wince slightly, face cracking as you sniffle, “So what? What is it? What can I not get that’s so difficult to comprehend?”

A strand of his hair has fallen onto his face and his eyes have gotten as dark blue as they can get. You let out a little sob, covering your mouth as you turn away from him, shaking your head again and again as you try to think, try to will yourself out of this. 

How could you explain any of this? How could you tell him without anything happening as a consequence? There’s no simple way. If you tell him the truth, who’s to say he’d believe you. And on the off chance he does, there’s no way he’d sit still and take it. All your efforts of keeping the two nations from war would break. If Gojo believed that his wife had been abducted due to order from the Southern king, a war was no longer the worst thing that could happen but full fledged destruction. Years of bloodshed and violence and everything you did would be for nothing. 

But if you didn’t tell him? If you lied? You didn’t know what to do or say, not expecting or preparing for a moment like this because you never thought it would happen. You tried to live blissfully unawares, hoping that your past life had eventually faded away. 

“Tell me,” he says again, his voice cracking, and his tone has fallen, it’s not angry, not the facade he was putting up because he could never be angry with you, could never yell at you and immediately regret his actions, “I’m here, I found you, so, so please, just…just tell me why,”

You jam your palms into your eyes, beginning to pace around the room again as you breathe deeply. 

“I, I didn’t know,” you don’t know what to say, how to lie, what to do to make any of this make sense, how to satisfy sixteen months of questions, prayers, hurt, in the little time you had, “I can’t…” you sigh through your nose, looking at him apologetically, cheeks shining in the candlelight as your lips tremble and you shake your head, giving him a small shrug, “I-I can’t tell you.” 

“Was it because I left?” He takes a few steps forward to get closer to you but falters when he sees how you take one back, his eyes confused, full of pain as he stammers, “Were…were you scared? Because I came back,” you let out another cry, hiccuping when you heard the tenderness and hurt in his voice, “I came back like I promised you I would.” And you shake your head to that and he pauses, hand clenching and unclenching as he tries to figure you out with your minimal words and even more limited movements.

“So…so why? Darling, please, just tell me why,” He’s begging you, and Gojo never begs. Not unless he needs to. Not unless it’s without anybody other than you. 

“You don’t - don’t understand,” your voice cracks as you wipe away your falling tears, “It’s n-not that.” How could he think you didn’t believe him? The thought that he even believed that, using it as a hypothesis breaks you even more and your chest shakes, fingers itching to hold him and tell him everything that happened.

Gojo looks like he’s struggling to think, like he doesn’t know what to do as he throws his arms in the air, his eyes pleading with you. You see a slight sheen in them, see the way they quiver, how maybe he too is crying. Maybe from frustration, maybe because he just missed seeing your face. 

“Then what?” He takes another tentative step closer and you don’t move, frozen in place, and he takes one more step to you, until he’s only a foot away, “Was it because of…because of the war? Because of what I did? Were you angry with me?” 

You lick your lips as you pursue them, squeezing your eyes shut as you cry even more. A sound tears from your throat, a sort of wail that you can’t control, and it’s one that you don’t mean to let out. You furiously wipe at your face, your head hanging low as you cross your arms across your stomach. It doesn’t take another second until you hear his boots thump along the floor, bringing himself to you as he pauses. And slowly, before you or Gojo knows what’s happening, you feel one of his arms circle your shoulders. Unknowing, a movement he wasn’t sure of. 

But then you break, falling into his chest as you sob, your arm flying upwards to grasp onto anything you could, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat, into his shoulders, around his waist. You can smell the faint lingering smell of smoke on him, the little hint of leather. You sniffle, fingers moving up towards his hair, wanting to feel it beneath your skin. You wanted to cherish it for a moment longer, like you should have all those months ago. You feel the sturdiness of his chest against yours, feel the buttons that engrave into your cheek. You feel him, all of him that there is to offer. 

You don’t realize how he does the same as you. The anger instantly faded when he felt your body against his, when he wrapped his arms around your frame. He could feel the flesh of your cheeks as he moved his hands across your face, over and down your torso as he grasped onto your waist. He wanted to push you away, force you to feel the pain he had all those months, but he couldn’t. He had you now, and he didn’t know how much longer he was allowed to. His lips are a breath away from your forehead, and he presses them to the crown of your head, his chest shaking as he cries silently, his tears wetting your hair. 

You don’t know why he holds you like he used to, why he comforts you like he still loves you. After all this time you thought that the only way he’d touch was if he were to touch you with a sword, banishing you from the North and from any of their territories if he saw you again. Not this. Never this.

If only you knew how upon feeling you, holding you close to his chest, he first took a breath of air in sixteen months. If only you knew how his heart started to pump, pump, pump, the way it was supposed to, and not the pathetic little beats it did just to simply keep him alive but wasn’t living until now. Because the truth was that he’d already forgiven you for what you did. He’d forgiven everything you had done up until this point and would forgive everything you do later, even if he wouldn’t be there to witness it. 

“I’m s-sorry,” you cry into his chest, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you chant, your words slurring together in a mixture of apologies, guilt, longing, hurt, and every emotion you’ve bottled up and decided to put away, hoping you’d never have to touch them again. 

It was a culmination of months away from the only man you had ever loved. Months of barely surviving, living through peoples scraps and trash as you tried to run away as far away from the only home you had ever known in a last ditch effort to be of some help to the people you cared about. It was a broken plea for Gojo to hear everything you had suffered in just two repeated words, knowing that he could never truly know what you had done and why you had done it unless you told him yourself. He just hugs you tighter, his arms caging you in as you bring yours close to your chest, your hand lying against his torso as your body shakes with cries. His hand rubs up and down your back, fingers curling into your cloak as he just nods, not trusting his own voice, just holding you with as much strength he could muster without crushing you.

Gojo waited for sixteen months, and he’d be damned if he let go of you now. Not after countless nights of staying awake and days riding across the four nations, through rain and mud, snow and storm, heat and desert, weeks spent without barely a blink of sleep, all in efforts to find you. And now he has. And he isn't letting you go. Not now, not ever again.

“Did you mean what you wrote?” He asks against your head, his lips falling open in a silent cry as his hands shake against your body. You squeeze your hands, balling them into fists against his chest. No, you want to scream, no!

“I have to leave. I could never, under any gods’ sky, pretend to keep loving a man as barbarous as you,” his voice is choked, the sentence falling from his lips at such a heart wrenching rate, and a part of your mind flashes to that fated night when the man put that knife to your throat and forced you to copy down those words, the same ones he’s saying now, the words that he memorized after reading your farewell letter over and over again, the letters searing into his mind, “Did you mean that?” You hear how Gojo’s voice cracks, as if hearing you admit to that would be a fate worse than death, as if he regrets asking the question that’s been plaguing him for months. 

You feel your tears soak through his coat, your teeth biting into your lips as you control yourself, taking every part of your soul that wants to crawl out and scream, from shaking your head. So you just go limp against him, nails digging into your palms.

“Look at me,” he whispers, his hand trailing up from your back, floating over your side as it comes upwards to grab at the side of your head which was hidden away in his chest. You don’t fight him as his fingers latch under the skin of your jaw, or when he cups your face as gently as he possibly could, his touch like a feather as he angles you upwards to look at him.

When you see his face you let out a little shaky exhale, wet and messy as you feel his warmth travel from his fingers to your body, tingling everywhere, a certain type of warmth that you had been missing for a while and only came back because the other half of your soul did. 

“Tell me you meant it, p-please,” his voice travels across the walls of the room, heavy, barely above a whisper but you hear every crack, every single way he breaks down, no longer able to keep himself strong, “That you ran away because you never loved me, and I’ll…I’ll leave,” his thumb rubs up and down your jaw, a movement he doesn’t even realize he’s doing, something that’s second nature to him and a tear falls from the corner of his eyes, his lashes fluttering as he tries to blink them away, “I’ll leave and you’ll never have to worry about me ever again.”

No, no no, no this can’t be happening all over again. You feel like you’re going insane, his thumb wiping away your tears as you stare silently at him, your lips chapped as you shake your head slightly, knowing the movement itself just cost you everything.  You see the way a little spark makes its way onto his face and you shake your head even more at that, not wanting him to get any sort of idea. 

“N-no, no, no,” you mutter, gasping for air, his hand falling a little bit but you chase after his touch, your head falling into his palm like it was meant to, “No, I…I didn’t want to, I m-mean I didn’t, I,” you’re stammering, words falling out like vomit and you can’t control them. 

You press your cold fingers to your eyes, shaking your head as if it’s the only thing you can do.

“I,” you sigh, looking up at him with a breaking look, “I d-didn’t but,” he deflates a little bit and it hurts to see the most strongest person you’ve ever seen look so broken, “But I can’t,” you whisper the last word with as much strength as you could, “I can’t go back.” 

Gojo lets out a puff of air, his shoulders rising and falling, his hand pulling away from your face, most likely thinking you didn’t want it there when it was the only thing you wanted, the only thing you longed for when you were alone and slept with one eye open.

He looks lost, confused, not knowing what to say to make any sense of this.

You take a step back.

“Then,” he runs a hand through his hair, something he does when he is stressed, not knowing what else to do with his hands, “Why did you write it? Why…why, why did you leave?”

You look away, your mouth opening slightly before you close it again, knowing your best option was to stay silent.

“Was…was there someone else?” There’s a slight tremor in his voice, no malice, no blaming, just curiosity, “Someone here?” 

You quickly shake your head, hiccuping a little bit as your nose scrunches up, sniffing when you vehemently try to silently tell him no, that the only person you’ve loved and can ever love was him. That you’d rather stab a stake through your heart that makes room in your heart for anybody else but him.

“Y-you didn’t do anything,” you murmur, a tear slipping down your nose as you shudder, “It wasn’t because of you.”

“Then why?” He presses quickly, pleading, his cheeks red and flushes as he begs for you to talk, to say something other than the empty clues you’re giving him, “If, if not because of another person then…then what possible reason did you have for leaving?” Gojo pauses to catch his breath, glancing away from you as he tries to regain composure, “You left without any other reasons telling me why, coming to a random town on the eastern coast with nobody you know here. It’s,” he laughs to himself, shaking his head as he shrugs indifferently, “It’s not like you were forced to leave, so…so why, why darling, why?” 

There’s a hitch in your breathing when he utters the simple words. It’s not like you were forced to. 

Your mind flashes quickly with memories of that night, the man on top of you, the knife pressed to your throat, urging you to write that letter. You remember waking up on his horse, your hands bound, trying to piece together what was happening. You think back to his greasy hair, the oily smile, his cruel eyes. You can still hear his gruff voice in your ear, the way he ordered you around your own room as if you were his dog, doing whatever he asked you to to spare the lives of those outside the door. You remember his hot breath on your skin, the weight of his body on yours, the way his eyes raked over your figure. You remember him lying on the ground, bloodied, calling you names as you ran away with his horse. 

Gojo calls your name, once and then twice when you don’t acknowledge him the first time. 

He stares at your body with furrowed brows, taking in the way your chest heaves, your fingers digging into your sides as you stare blankly out the window.

Gojo takes a few brisk paces to where you were, his hands grabbing your elbows, not tightly, just to force you out of your busy mind, his head shaking in utter confusion at the way you suddenly left, and you slowly blink out of your stupor, looking at him and his questioning eyes. 

There’s a strange look on your face, one he doesn’t recognize. 

His mouth parts a little bit, eyes squinting together as he assesses you. He lets out a small laugh, a disbelieving, questioning one, one that he can’t control because you didn’t react like this to any of his other questions.

“You…” his hand falls from your elbow, hovering over the back of your head, gently holding your nape, and you feel like a magnet, drawn to him, your hands balled by your side to keep you from doing something you’d regret, “You weren’t…forced to leave…right?”

You just stare at him.

You count to five, trying to steady your breaths. You want to shake your head, to disagree with his question even though it was the only correct thing, but your body stops you from doing that. Maybe it was fighting back, begging for you to tell him the truth. You evade eye contact from him, your tongue resting on the roof of your mouth and you swallow thickly, forcing down the bile.

But Gojo knows you, knows how to read your quiet expressions and little ticks. You don’t do anything but stay quiet. Soon, after a few seconds pass and he stares longer at your face, your silence becomes your only answer.

His hand falls away from your head, taking a few steps back as if the air had been punched from his lungs.

It was one of the first things he thought when he was given your letter. Thought you had been abducted, and entertained the idea for as long as he could. But there were just no signs of a forced entry, your bags packed and missing some clothes. He read your letter over and over again, and when they never found you, he began to believe the words you had written down. Different ideas came to him, ones of a different lover, ones that made him believe you truly never loved him, ones that said you had run away on your own free will. 

He covers his mouth with his hand, a tremor in his breath when you glanced at him with a sheen in your eyes.

“But…?” 

There’s no answer, no need for one.

You shrug a little bit, wiping at your cheeks once again as you purse your lips together, sniffing as you try to keep everything at bay.

“I, um,” you swallow your spit back, biting your lip as you think for a second, think before the dam breaks and you realize it useless to keep any of this in anymore because Gojo knows and it’s worthless to keep it a secret, “A man came a few nights after you had left. Through my window.”

You peek over at Gojo and quickly glance away because the look on his face is too much to process. You keep your eyes trained on the corner of a carpet, at the fraying end as you decide to continue. 

“He was huge, ‘Toru, like nothing you’ve ever seen,” you say with a small laugh, one because this entire situation is too much to handle, your hands moving away from your body as you show his width with the space between them, “He told me he’d cut my tongue out if I screamed, so I…I didn’t.” 

You sniffle again, chewing on the inside of your cheek, pausing slightly as your jaw ticks the more you recall that night.

“H-he had this letter in his, uh,” you sigh, trying to control your breathing as you blink rapidly, brows furrowed as you motion to your chest, “In his pocket. He told me to write the same words down b-but in my own handwriting.” 

Gojo feels his knees give out, holding onto one of the pillars of the bed next to him to keep himself upright, his eyes never leaving your lips, his head suddenly feeling like it was about to detach from his body. 

“I was told to pack some b-bags and clothes,” you wave your hands around as if that wasn’t important, “And I think he, uh, hit me in the back of my head,” your hand rises to your head, as if you could still feel the pulsing feeling from when you had woken up days later, “So I was out for five, six? Six days, I think, before I woke up again and was on his horse.”

The words fell from your mouth like silk, things you had been wanting to see forever spilling like water from a pitcher, and you couldn't stop yourself, the only thing your mouth was willing to do was continue.

“He said that somebody had sent him. Some bidding for the king, I guess. I think sometime between his talking I realized he was sent to kill me, dump my body in the woods so you’d think I had left. So I knew I had to leave, fight my way out somehow. And…and I don’t know…how, but,” you chuckle to yourself, shrugging at the thought of you when you broke free from your restraints and overpowered him, the look of surprise in his gnarly face when you dug the knife into his ribs, “But I was able to get away from him. I might’ve killed him, I didn’t check.”

Your blurry eyes blink upwards to Gojo as your head tilts to the side as you give him a small smile, full of unsaid words and melancholy feelings.

“I wanted to go back, back home to you and - and everything but,” your teeth dig into your bottom lip as the two of you stare back at each other through tears and even more tears, “But he said that if I had committed treason of the highest degree, that,” your teeth rattle, “That you’d never take me back. And that if they’d send more people like him. To hurt people l-like you, like Alina, my friends, your parents, e-everyone I cared for, everyone that you care for,” you can’t control the little cry that escape your lips, your hand flying upwards to your throat as you give yourself a second, “And I thought to myself that…that maybe if I ran away, if you thought that I no longer wanted to b-be your wife then,” one shoulder lifts up in a sad shrug, “Then maybe everything would resolve itself. That there’d be no war to fight, no cause to die for.”

You wait for a second, air lodged in your lungs.

“I nearly ended up dead on the side of a trail,” you motion around you, to the tavern, the snow, the town, “A lady found me and took me here. I,” you swallow thickly, tears caught on your lashes, “I’ve been here ever since.”

You look at him but he isn’t looking at you. You want him to look up, just this once, but he doesn't and you allow him his own time to think. You gnaw on your lips, fingers fidgeting with themselves as you tilt your head a little bit.

“I…” Your head tilts down to your chest, your words dying on your tongue, but there’s a sudden warmth that takes over you and you feel your legs being lifted from the ground as strong arms circle around your waist, your body almost flying back with the force and speed you were picked up with. You feel your arm go to circle around your head, holding you close to his face as he hugs you to himself like he never has before.

Your legs wrap around his torso, your cheek pressing against his and you cry, you let yourself let go of the tears, let go of the lost time, let go of all the feelings you told yourself you aren't allowed to feel, and wrapped your arms tightly around his shoulders and neck, holding him as close as you could to you.

“I j-just wanted to help,” you murmur wetly, choking as you sob, “I didn’t want anybody else to - to get hurt,” you tell him in broken phrases, “I didn’t want you to get h-hurt…”

He shushes you, lips kissing the side of your face, the corners of your eyes, your cheeks, the crown of your head, your ears, everything he could reach, feverishly. You could taste the saltiness of his own tears on your tongue, could feel his heart beating quickly from the pulse on his neck. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your skin, his eyes squeezing shut as he shakes his head over and over again, “I’m so sorry sweetheart, I’m sorry,” his arms grasp onto you tighter, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, gods, I’m sorry, I’m sorry darling, oh gods, I’m sorry,” you laugh weakly at his muttered apologies, at the way it sounds like he’s praying and apologizing at the same time; for your forgiveness, for you to believe that he was more sorry than any man has been and could be in his life.

“I s-should’ve stayed,” he cries out, his lips trembling as he kisses your forehead, between your eyebrows, your lids, “I should never have left,” you shake your head, trying to stop him but you can’t, “I…I shouldn’t have left, shit, gods, it’s m-my fault, I should’ve-”

“It’s not your fault,” you murmur against his ear, kissing his jaw softly, pulling away a little bit so that you could look him in the eyes, shaking your head a firmly as you could, holding onto the side of his face in your shaking hands, “Don’t you ever, e-ever, say that...you couldn’t - you couldn’t have known.” You shake with cries as you try to smile, try to rake your fingers through his hair to calm him down, twirling his hair around like you used to when you’d wake up next to him. You unlatch your legs from his waist, slowly setting them down as you stand up on your own, your hands still tangled with each other in his hair.

“I never stopped loving you,” you whisper, watching the way his face crumbled upon hearing your words, “When…when I was starving and didn’t know if I’d make it through the night, I tried to pretend you were beside me. And,” your shoulders shake again, “And when I didn’t want to wake up I pretended I was in o-our bed, about to wake up next to you. Everything - everything I did was for you, and I…I know you might hate me for it, despise me for running away but…” you trail off, your thumb running across his cheekbones, his brows, his nose, “But I hoped that one day you’d understand why.” 

You finish your words, staring at him as he stares at you, a storm happening behind those irises you loved so much. You deflate, knowing that this must be your final goodbye. That he’d never want to get back with somebody who’d ruin their life so easily, who’d break his heart so quickly and without any remorse. You try to cherish the way he looked, try to engrain the little features you had forgotten in your head for when he eventually pulled away and wasn’t yours again. You open your mouth, wanting to tell him that you understand if he no longer shares the same feelings.

“I’m-” 

His lips slam against yours, his hand behind your head to keep you steady as you stumble a little bit. Your arms go up to hold onto his, surprised and taken aback by the sudden movement. He pulls away almost as quickly as he had moved in, an apologetic look flashing across his face.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters breathlessly, his lips shining with spit, “I-” 

This time it’s you who cuts him off, reaching your hands upwards to tangle back into his hair as your lips slot against and move roughly against his, mixing your tears, spit, love and pain with one another as he eagerly meets you in the middle with another hand sprawled out across your back, pulling you closer to him.

You angle your head upwards, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as your lips press harshly against one another. They move in tandem, in perfect synch, as if you hadn’t spent one day away from each other but still with so much passion as if to make up for the months spent without one another.

You moan slightly, your lips opening as the sound escapes you, and he surges forward, his tongue meshing with yours as he licks into your mouth, wanting to taste you, to drink from you as if he hadn’t had a proper sip to satiate his thirst in over sixteen months. His lips are soft and plump, just like you remember, and your eyelashes flutter against your cheek at the feeling of him panting into you like a mad man who was suddenly becoming sane.

The hand that he had resting on your back moves upwards, grabign and kneading at your hips, cupping your waist as you whine at the spark his touch brings, feeling lightheaded when he pulls away slightly just to bite down on your bottom lip with his teeth, his nose nudging against yours as you try to catch your breath. 

“I missed you,” he whispers against your lips, two hands cradling each side of your face, “So, so much. I never stopped looking for you,” you laugh through your tears, your eyebrows quivering as you hold onto him, “I could barely sleep since you’ve been gone and the only reason I did was so that I could dream of you.” 

You pull his neck down to press one, two, three chaste and salty kisses against his trembling lips.

“I would have taken you back even if you had burned the entirety of the North,” Gojo tell you in a low tone, “I would have taken you back even if you carved my heart out,” he kisses the tip of your nose tenderly, “Which you damn near did with that letter.” You laugh softly, his thumbs on either side of your lips as he cradles your face in the palms of his hands.

“I wish I never wrote it,” you say quickly, scrambling, your eyes darting around, “I never…” but he hushes you, shaking his head as he bring your head forward to place a longing and slow kiss on your forehead, one hand at the nape of your neck to force you look him in the eyes. 

“If he,” he pauses, his nose flaring at the mention of the man who tore you away from him, he controls the anger that boils and bubbles at his flesh at the thought of him touching you, threatening you, hurting you, taking you away from him, but he knows it’s not the time for that right now, he’ll deliver chastisement when he gets the chance, “If that man told you to kill me, to kill an entire group of my men so that he wouldn’t hurt you, I’d let you it in a heartbeat,” you feel him wipe a tear away, looking at your features, taking in everything he had been nearly dying without for so long.

“I’m so proud of you, my darling girl,” he says delicately and your eyes well up at his words, never hearing them before and never expecting Gojo to be the one to tell you after everything that you had done, “Going through what you did? Surviving on your own? Gods,” he lets out a little chuckle, dipping his head down so it could rest on your own, smiling at you through his own tears, “That’s what I’d expect from my wife.”

Your mouth parts a little bit and you sniffle, holding onto the back of his arms like he’s your anchor, a tether to reality, to show you that this isn’t a dream and that you’d wake up in your shack but that he’s here.

You feel his arms go lower though, grabbing your thighs from behind your skirts and petticoat, a sign that he wanted you to jump. So you oblige him, knowing he’d catch you regardless, and you silently wrap your legs around him again as his lips find yours once more, your chests moving up and down with labored breaths, but you don't’ need air, you just need him.

“Bed,” you murmur against his feverish lips, in between his dizzying kisses as your fingers slightly pull at his white strands, “P-please,”

Gojo pulls a little bit away, his eyes falling to your lips and then back up, almost in silent questioning. You nod once, needing for him to move, but he gets the gist, a smile, the first one you had seen that night, the first one from him you had seen in over a year, breaks onto his face, and he moves slightly back, nudging you with his nose to kiss him again and you do. 

When his thighs hit the back of the bed you feel like a feather as he twists you around in his arms, your hands never disconnecting from his shoulders he gingerly puts you against the mattress, climbing over your body to resume his movements. 

The two of you work in tandem, and you know when he’s growing restless, when he wants to explore the rest of your body. His lips trail from your lips to your jaw, pressing wet and splotchy kisses against the skin you have there before his lips move downwards, towards your throat. 

You lift your chin a little bit, giving him more access as he sucks your skin into his mouth. You let out a little whimper at the feeling, his teeth grazing your soft skin, and one of your mouth slowly falls open in a little part. 

Gojo feels like he’s finally taken his first breath of air when he sees the way he’s marking up your skin, and he knows that once he’s started, there’s doubt he’d ever stop. There’s sixteen months of his lips and touch and mark absent from your skin, and he wants to make up for that.

His hands are at your waist, but his fingers dig into the fabric covering it, frustrated with the barrier that’s still between the two of you.

Your eyes creep open when you feel him pull away, looking at his large body looming over yours with a little pout, one that disappear and melts into a little grin when you see him fumbling with the knot of your cloak, looking even more frustrated with trying to take off your bodice as quickly as possible.

“Here,” you whisper gently, your hand holding his as you move it away, sitting up on your elbows as you undo the knot, shrugging off the layer of warmth as you throw it to the side, “There’s a lace up in the back,” you say, about to twist your body around to show him how to undo the bodice before you hear a loud, almost animated riiip!

You stare down at shock, your chest completely exposed to him, naked and bare, and then to his hands, the culprits for tearing the fabric as if it was a piece of parchment and not heavily lined and stitched top.

Your mouth drops open, hands flying to cover your breasts, but he tsks, swatting your hands aside. 

“H-hey!” You exclaim, laughing a little bit at the way his eyes look at you, his brow cocked, heat blossoming across your cheeks and chest, your nipples pebbling in the cold air, “You can’t just - just rip it!” 

Gojo chuckles, rolling his eyes, moving up to get closer to your face as he leans down, pressing another searing kiss against your lips. 

“I didn’t wait all these months just to be halted by lace,” he mutters, his voice thick and primal and your breathing hitches at the sound, the near growl he has in his tone, and you don’t have it in you to argue with him, desperately needing his hands on you as if you’d die without his touch.

His head dips as he looks down, his eyes finally falling onto your tits, your nipples, your chest that moves up and down with each exhale, and feels his mouth suddenly go dry. He remembers the first time he saw your naked top, remembers that night in the fields vividly, but now that he’s spent so long without being able to look at them, it feels as if he’s seeing you like this for the first time all over again.

“Wait,” you sputter out quickly, your hands going up to your chest again and this time Gojo moves away, quickly and giving you some space as you sit up a little bit against the pillows and backboard, chewing on your lip in embarrassment, “I, um, I might look different, from…from the last time you saw me.” 

His white brows pinch together in confusion, but he lets you have the time to gather the words, no matter how much they make you want to see yourself aflame in shame.

The bandages around your hands had slipped off with all the movement, your skin riddles with small scars and bruises that came with chopping and hauling woods. You sometimes looked in your little mirror and saw somebody different.

“My hands,” you say, looking down at them, at the scratches from leaves and twigs, the coarseness on the pads of your fingers from wielding an axe for so many months, and you feel subconscious when his stare falls down to them, “And I…I don’t know, the rest of me, it’s not-” 

He cuts you off, pulling your hands away from your chest, but not for the reason you’d expect. He brings them up to his lips, pressing a kiss against each knuckle, the backs of them, the bottoms of your palms, and the only thing you could do is watch with bated breath.

“Do you want to know what I thought when I saw you again? Just outside, in the snow?” 

You shake your head, eyes peering at him with an air of curiosity.

“At first I thought that I had died,” he says with a chuckle, “But when I saw you, saw your face, your nose, your eyes, your eyebrows, your cheeks, your hands,” he saws with a little grin, squeezing them in his hands, “I thought that I was dreaming. You looked just like you did when I dreamed of you. And when you woke up, and I saw your eyes again, I felt the happiest I have since the day I last saw you.”

Your shoulders fall, the tension in them dissipating, and you smile gently at him. Of course Gojo would know how to ease your worries, even after a year and counting of not seeing you. And he pauses, a silent talk happening between the two of you, one where he wanted to make sure you were still comfortable. To which you nod, biting your lips a little bit in nervousness, good nervousness, as you do.

His large hands falter, fingers reaching to grab the soft mounds. You watch through your lids that were slightly dropping, the anticipation causing a heat to blossom in your core, and you bite your lip as you wait for him to move.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says in a hushed tone, wonder dripping from his voice as if he was seeing a statue come to life, a painting moving in front of him, “As beautiful as the day I last saw you,” his fingers rub soothing circles on your waist, “My beautiful girl,” he mutters, a small smile on his face that you mirror.

After another second of staring, Gojo makes his first decision, long slender fingers trailing up from your stomach, up your navel and to your left breast, cupping it, his thumb rubbing across your hard nipple as a small sigh escapes his lips. 

“G-gods,” he stammers, squeezing the flesh, feeling like a teenage boy rather than the man he’s grown up to be, “Soft,” he chokes out, leaning his head down, “So soft,” he murmurs, his lips latching onto it as you let out a gasp, his tongue rubbing over your areola and your back arches up into him. 

He sucks the tit into his mouth, his other hand moving upwards to squeeze and knead the other one, not wanting to leave her unattended. Your lashes flutter at the feeling, mouth dropping open in a quiet sigh when you feel his teeth scrape against your nipple, biting down on it a little bit as your fingers curl into his hair. 

“O-oh,” you’re able to say, “‘Toru, oh, oh gods,” you can’t think, can’t formulate a thought as he latches off with a pop, his chin dragging across your chest, his eyes never leaving yours as wrapped his swollen pink lips around your other tit.

He smiles a little bit at the sight of you crumbling from his mouth, flicking your nipple over with his tongue, biting down on this one as well as he moves upwards, sucking the skin around your breast, watching in satisfaction as dark hickeys bloom in the wake.

Your nails rake against his scalp, tugging a little harshly, but his eyes roll back at the feeling, loving the sting.

His lips continue to kiss your chest, moving down from the valley of your breasts and goes down, his spit shining in the candlelight as he kisses the soft skin of your stomach, just above your belly button and then lower, where the tear from your corset ends and the loops of your work skirt begins. 

You let out a whine, a keel as he sucks the skin into his mouth. 

“You’re s-such a tease,” you stutter out, and he looks at you from his white lashes as his lips make another mark, his tongue moving as he licks the spot, lovingly, and you try to smile back, but your head falls back against the pillow no matter how hard you tried. 

“I’m taking my time darling,” he corrects you, his hands moving the hem of your skirt, tugging it down a little bit but eyes eyes squint when he feels some resistance, “I need the woman I love to know just how much I cherish her,” he kisses your hip slowly, “Want her, “another kiss to your lower stomach, “Need her,” and he finishes by moving a little up to press a kiss to your sternum.

You catch your bottom lip beneath your teeth, one hand wringing into the sheets of the bed as you sigh shakily, the heat that’s in your core turning into a fire, one that is growing and burning you from inside out. 

Before everything happened, the two of you were burdened with the ever impending need of consummating the marriage. Gojo’s parents were understanding, never pushed the two of you, but the outside world seemed to ponder why your belly hadn’t grown in the months you had been together. Truth be told, you were always nervous, not knowing how to do it, what to do, where things go, and so you’d freak whenever the two of you got close to having sex. So Gojo would always pull back, assuring you that your comfort was the most important thing to him. And though there were nights when he's eating you out, bringing you to ruin on his tongue and fingers, but that was it. But now, it feels different. There was a growing desire in you that felt like it was about to burst the longer you didn’t feel him inside of you.

You can feel the ghost of his touch on your legs, the way his fingers trail slowly up your calves and to your knees, not long before settling on the meat of your thighs, squeezing them as he feels the soft plushness beneath him. 

It’s all so maddening.

“‘T-toru?” Your hands search for his, your chest moving with each labored breath, and you feel his hands move upwards, lacing his fingers between yours as his eyes search for what it was you wanted, “‘Toru, please, oh, please, I need you,” you murmur weakly, “Need you i-in me, please,” you beg, and see the way his pupils grow, his eyes barely even blue when you say the words inches away from his lips.

He lets out an animalistic grown, his eyes rolling back in his head as he plants a sloppy kiss against your lips, his hands falling down to the waistline of your skit, fingers fumbling to find the loop before he gives up, scrunching up the fabric between his fingers before you hear another rip. Looking down you see your skirt in tatters, the fabric looking like it had been mauled by a bear, and watch as he bundles it up and throws it to the side somewhere.

You go to argue but he raises a brow, wondering how you expected him to stay calm and put together when you utter such filthy words in his ear.

It takes you a second to find that you’re now completely naked beneath him, and while that doesn’t cause you to cover up the way you expected, you find yourself pouting a little bit, something that Gojo notices. 

“What?” He asks, his hand immediately cupping the side of your face, worried, “Is everything okay? Do you want to stop?” 

But you shake your head, hands pawing at his coat, nails scratching as you try to unloop the buttons. 

“‘S not fair,” you mumble, pointing to his chest and then to yours, your lips quirking up a little bit as your pout deepens, eyes all wide and open for him, the way you know makes his words turn to slurred speech, “I’m all bare and you’re…not…s’not fair ‘Toru,” there a little whine in your voice, one that causes his cheeks to go pink.

He grins, kissing your cheek apologetically as he nods in agreement. 

“You’re absolutely right darling,” he says, able to make quick work at tearing his coat off, swift finger fumbling to get his arms out of the sleeves, his hands going the either side of the tunic beneath him to lift it off and above his head, but the sudden touch of your hands against his skin makes him stop. 

He looks down to where your fingers are lying, atop his neck, your eyes wavering when you hook something out from underneath the dress shirt.

How could you have forgotten? 

You think to yourself, looking at the ring he had resting on the delicate gold chain. His wedding ring, the one he had told you ages ago he keeps around his neck so that it does fall off during training. Your fingers rub against it, feeling the cold sting of the gold, a familiar thing. But that wasn’t what caught your attention. No, your eyes fall to something next to it. 

The matching ring. Yours.

You let out a little shaky gasp, looking up to Gojo to only see him staring back at you, trying to gauge your reaction. 

“I…” he sighs, holding your hand in his, the one that was holding onto your ring, “I thought-” 

But you don’t let him finish his rambling, pulling him down by the chain of the necklace as you slam your lips against his, a new set of tears sprouting in your eyes as you feel the rings dance around your neck. 

Your fingers curl into his hair, digging them deep as your tears wet his cheek, your lips trembling against his as you hook a leg around his waist, your other hand holding onto the side of his face as you kiss him feverishly. You need him near you, need him to know just how much you have missed him, longed for him, need him.

But after a few seconds pass, he pulls away from you and your head moves up to chase him, but he sits up completely, your leg falling away from his waist as you watch him move his hands up to the necklace, tugging at it as it unclips from the back. 

You watch silently as he slides your ring off of the chain, holding it in the palm of his hand as it shines brightly in the candlelight. His white lashes flutter against his cheek as he twists the ring around. 

“May I?” Gojo says quietly, and you falter, looking down at your hand. 

The hand that you’ve lived by for a while, using it for cutting logs and trees, to collect twigs and leaves. The hand riddles with scars and bruises, some fading, some new. The hand that always felt light, no matter how many things you were carrying in it. The reason you always knew, but never wanted to admit it.

You bring it closer to his own, watch as he turns the ring around to face your finger. You feel like the seconds have turned into hours, your mind flashing to when the last time he placed this ring on your finger, when you were a little bit younger and naive, not knowing he’d be placing it on your same finger nearly two years later, but this time out of love and not from an arrangement. 

When it finally slides on you sigh a breath of relief, a tear escaping the corner of your eye, falling into your hairline as you hold the hand up, admiring its lost component that you’ve missed so dearly.

“My wife,” he whispers softly, almost to himself as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, bringing your hand up to his lips as he presses a kiss that lays over the ring, holding onto your hand tight, giving it a squeeze as he gently set it back down on the bed. He places the necklace back over his neck, taking his tunic off with one fluid motion after it clasped into place. 

You smile, full, content, and you lie back down against the pillows after a minute passed, your legs spreading a little bit to make room for him between them. His touch goes back up to your thighs, fingers searing in their place as his gaze finally, finally, drops down to your aching, burning core.

You watch as he undoes the buckle of his pants, his trousers being kicked off, his eyes never leaving your glistening folds, and you feel your heart rattle in your ribcage, waiting to just jump out. 

Your eyes rake over his naked torso. Gods, he looked even bigger if that was possible. He riffs with even more muscles all across his chest, his arms, and his abs, looking even more pronounced from when you last saw him. His shoulders stand broad and sturdy, a thick vein running across the white trail of hair leading down, and you feel yourself growing wetter at the thought. You’re so busy staring at him you don’t even realize that he too has put his focus down. Down to where you need him the most.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight. It’s the first time you’ve seen it in its entirety. Sometimes you’ve seen the outline from afar, feeling the length from layers of his clothes, but never like this, never so raw. 

It’s long, you think, and though you’ve never seen anyone else cock before, you know this must be above what was normal. It curved upwards, not fully standing up from how heavy it was. You wanted to guess that it was at least eight inches, and gods, he was thick. His cockhead spurted more precum, pink, almost red, and it looked like it was about to burst. 

Little white hairs grow from its base, soft and plush, and your eyes almost blur from lust at the sight. 

Gojo scratches the back of his head almost in embarrassment, a little flush to his cheeks as he snaps his fingers in front of your face to get you to look back at him and not his little friend downstairs. You gulp, slowly finding his gaze as you stare at his pink face. A blush had traveled across his cheeks and went to his nose and jaw. Your head tilted slightly, bottom lip caught underneath your teeth as you squinted a little bit. 

Was he…shy?

“Are you…” You almost want to laugh, but stop yourself, a questioning look in your eyes as you sit up a little bit, resting on your elbows as you grin, “Are you blushing?” 

Gojo rolls his eyes at your teasing tone, pinching your waist as you squeal a little bit, a fit of laughter falling from your lips when he refuses to answer. Though he tries to look tough, his demeanor cracks when he hears the musical sound of you giggling, a new noise that seems to bring a fresh wave of colors back into his dull grey colored life.

“I know you haven’t,” he swallows, his throat bobbing when he rubs a thumb slowly up and down your thigh, a comforting touch, “I know you’ve never done this before. And if you want to wait-” 

“No,” you say instantly, shaking your head, “No, I want this. I want you. I…I need you, Saotru, I need you so bad I think I’m going to start going crazy if you don’t…” you trail off, swallowing thickly as you look back to his groin, and your fingers itch to hold it, to touch it, to feel the velvety skin beneath yours.

Gojo’s mouth goes dry, his lips parting as his pupils grow again. 

You need him. You need him and oh gods does he need you. He thinks his heart will stop if he doesn’t have your warmth circling him, pulling him closer to you.

He nods slowly, gnawing on his lip as he continues to rub soothing circles on your thighs, scratching his jaw as he thinks about how to go about this. Though he hates to even think about it, this wasn’t his first time the way it was yours. But it was his first time with the woman he loved, and it felt like he was learning how to do it all over again.

“O-okay,” he says shakily, and here he looks like a young man in love, not the Northern warrior people forced him to become, just your Satoru, “I’ll go slow, okay? Hold my hands, squeeze them as tight as you want. If it becomes too much…” his brow furrow, heart lurching at the thought of hurting you.

“Then I’ll let you know,” you finish with a smile, a promising one as you lean up to rest your forehead against his, “And I’m a strong girl,” you say with a little tease, trying to relax the tension, “It takes a lot to bring me down.” 

Gojo chuckles, nodding at your words as he leans a little closer to peck at your lips. You fall back down to the pillows, your legs spreading again as his hands move away form your thighs, going to your cunt, spreading some of his slick on them as he brings it to his cock, breathing slightly through his teeth as his fingers make contact with it, lubing it up as he lines it up with your entrance. 

He looks at you once, and you nod, smiling, telling him you were ready. 

He pushes the tip in, and feels your walls clench instantly around him. The stretch is there, and your eyes flutter shut, his hands traveling up through the sheets to grab at yours, your fingers lacing together as he brings them to your head, watching your reactions, fearful that it was too much. 

But you nod again, wanting him to continue. 

He pushes his way in little by little, your tight cunt fluttering and squeezing around him with each inch, biting down on your lips to keep the sounds in. It’s not too much, but you know that if Gojo heard he’d stop it immediately. Because while it does hurt a little bit, the sting is good, and the more he lets you settle in it, the more it actually becomes pleasurable. 

Gojo lets his cock sink into, letting you take all the time you need to adjust to his size, squeezing his hands as your fingers dig into his skin.

“G-good? Do you want to stop?” He’s able to bite out, feeling like he was about to cum with the way you’re clenching around him. But his eyes are still filled with worry, not knowing what you were feeling with the way you were staying quiet. 

You take a deep breath, biting the inside of your cheek as you slowly open your eyes, looking down to where your bodies were connected, and a little gasp escapes your lips when you see that he’s somehow managed to fit all of himself inside your tight walls, your cunt spasming around his girthy cock. 

You moan, mouth falling open as you grip onto his hands again, quickly nodding, needing him to move.

And Gojo takes it. 

He slowly begins to pull out, your cunt weeping wetly with his absence, and he gives it a second before he slams back in. 

“Umph!” You whine, eyesight going white when his cockhead hit the spongy part of your cunt, nudging at it as you feel achingly full, a good full, “Oooh, oh, ‘Toru, it’s…ohh,” and he knew it was a good oh because you were growing wetter around him, your slick staining his dick and the sheets beneath you.

He pulls his hips back out before he goes back in, creating a steady rhythm that makes your legs feel useful, wrapping around him to keep him as close to your middle as possible. You can hear the squelch whenever he pushes himself back inside, and can feel the way you spurt around him.

“You’re doing great darling,” he says encouragingly, praising you as your finger clench and unclench, “Doin’ so great for me, you know? So perfect, my perfect wife, fuck, oh, s-shit,”

He pulls the back of your hand to his lips, kissing it before he lets go, bringing your now empty hand up to his shoulders, his own hand falling in between your bodies as his finger find your clit, rubbing and pinching at it with such a speed that you feel like you’re finally going towards the light. 

“S-so tight,” he moans out, head falling down to your chest as he takes in a nipple between his teeth, sucking your tit into his mouth, needing something to with his tongue, “You’re s’warm, fuck, it’s so, so fucking good,”

You nod feverishly at his words, mewling in agreement, the ability to talk dying right in front of you, your walls turning to mush the more he slams himself inside of you.

It feels like lightning when his fingers continue their movements on your pulsating bud, his cock molding your cunt into its shape, your hot warmth trapping him inside like a honeypot, barely allowing him to move but pulling him back inside whenever he pulls away, needing to chase after the intoxicating feeling. 

You feel like crying and laughing, never expecting to have this moment happen. You want to pinch yourself, to see if maybe you were dreaming. You feel all your emotions wash up as Gojo kisses your chest, feel the excruciating pain you first felt when you ran away, the lonely feeling when you were surviving on your own, to live by yourself, pretending that he’d be there to wake you up.

And sure, you dreamed that you’d see him again, but you never thought he’d believe you, let alone forgive you. You never thought he’d be like he always was, kind and caring, loving you with such tenderness that it feels like you never left. You never thought he’d fall in love with you twice, but maybe that was your biggest mistake. Because Gojo Satoru never stopped loving you just like you never stopped loving him.

You feel tears prickle as your eyes, your nose scrunching up to hide your sniffles, a sound that quickly catches his attention. 

He looks up from your sternum, fear flooding through his eyes when he sees the tears that roll down the side of your face, the watery look of your eyes and the way you turn your head away so that he wouldn’t see you.

He instantly stops, pulling out of you as his hands quickly go to your cheeks, tapping your jaw, worried, anxious as he begs for you to look at him. 

“Hey, hey,” he mutters quickly, his hands slightly trembling, thinking he had hurt you terribly, “We can stop darling, it’s okay, don’t worry,” but you shake your head, a tremor in your lips as you look at him, hands covering your face as you feel tears wet your finger.

“It’s not that,” you whisper, choking on a cry, “‘S not that, it feels good, really good,” you add, sniffing again as your nose scrunches up. Gojo falters, rubbing away your stray tears, eyes looking everywhere to figure out what was wrong. He lets you find your words, even if it takes a minute.

“I…I just,” you sigh, pushing your lips together tightly as you look at him, “I missed you so much Satoru, I m-missed you, and,” you feel his eyes gloss over, “And I’m sorry I didn’t write o-or tell you anything. I love you,” you tilt your head up slightly to kiss him softly, “I love you so much. I know this isn’t what-” 

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head to cut you off, knowing that you might spiral, “I don’t care about the time, darling, I don’t care how long it took to have you again,” a tear off his falls on your cheek, “Just that I have you again. That I have the woman I love back in my arms is enough for me,” he promises and you laugh wetly, rubbing at your eyes. 

He kisses your tears away, balancing himself above you as he nudges his nose against yours, something he does when he wants to catch your attention, when he knows you’re lost in your own mind. 

You smile again, your hand falling in between your bodies to line himself up again with your entrance. He stutters, going to stop you, but you shake your head, wanting this, wanting  this more than anything, and let your legs wrap around him again. 

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips, feeling his cockhead push a little bit again past your aching walls.

His head drops down to your chest, not wanting you to see him break. Not wanting you to see the way he cracks because he never thought he’d hear you say those words again, never thought he’d see your lips form around those tender words, to give him such a divine feeling. 

“I love you,” he says huskily, gasping it out as he sink in a little deeper, “I love you so much, so so much,” he kisses your chin, “So much that even if it took a century to find you I’d still love you as much as the day I first loved you,”

You giggle a little bit, kissing him messily as you moan against his lips, your cunt stretching again to fit his size, cradling the side of his face in your hands.

“I’m…I’m never letting go of y-you ever again,” you stammer, a little moan escaping you when a vein scratches deliciously against the side of your pulsing walls, “‘M yours, S-satoru, all yours.” 

He groans, hands finding purchase on your waist as his eyes squeeze shut, too many feelings, all good feelings, coursing through him.

“Everything I have, e-eveyrthing I am and will be is yours,” he says, his voice breaking, “I was always yours to begin with.” 

Your nails scratch down the flexing and large muscles of his back, leaving red lines in their wake as he picks up his face, your own tears, spit, juices, everything, mixing together as you moan in tandem.

“So good!” You whine, toes curling, your arm wrapping around his neck to pull him down to your chest until you were flush against each other, kissing against him messily, licking into his open mouth as you moan even louder when he angles his hips a certain way to reach even deep inside of you, if that was even possible, “T-think…think I’m ‘gonna…!”

That same buzz grows, that feeling of an incoming orgasm approaching you quickly. You were warned that it was difficult for a woman to finish during sex, and some of your friends often told you how they usually lay there until their husbands finished. But it wasn’t like that with Gojo, not at all. You have no idea how much time has passed, but it feels far quicker than usual.

His fingers never give up their pace on your clit, and your walls clench around him, a new feeling growing inside of you.

“‘Toru, I think I’m ‘gonna c-come,” you hiccup, your orgasm building up, “I t-think…” 

He nods, biting your bottom lip between his teeth, feeling his own release creeping up on him, feeling the white hot flash grow in his groins.

“I know darling, I k-know,” he mutters, kissing the side of your mouth as his motions quicken, needing to feel you come with him, “I know, let go, come on, I know you can, let go for me darling, there it is.”

You let out your last moan when you feel your orgasm wash over you. 

It’s blinding, exhilarating, and for a second you think you nearly died from how good it was.

You spray around his cock, gushing with your release. It wets his balls, dripping down onto the sheets, his abs shining wet from the way you squirted all over him. You want to feel embarrassed, but quite frankly can’t because of how utterly spent you feel.

Gojo opens his mouth in a silent exhale when his own orgasm happens, spilling his cum deep inside of you, painting your walls white with his seed as he spurts, seeming like it was never ending. 

You feel yourself clench around him at the feeling, your entire body feeling even warmer at his cum reaching deep inside of you. He came so much that it overflows from inside, coming out from the sides of your cunt, mixing with your own juices as the two of you try to calm down from your mind-shattering climaxes. 

And despite how tired you feel, a giddy smile makes its way onto your face. 

Your husband is right next to you. You could have only dreamed this moment happening.

Gojo looks down at you, smiling too, his head tilting to the side. 

“W-what?” He asks with a quiet chuckle, his cock still nestled inside you, and the thought makes you feel even giddier, turning your face to the side, smushing it against the pillows to mute your bursts of laughter.

But it’s no use, because Gojo leans down to the side of your face, kissing your cheek and jaw gingerly as he smiles against your skin, wiping the excess tears away from the corners of your eyes. 

“What’s got you laughing, hm?” He says, his voice slightly muffled against your cheek and you giggle even louder, unable to control it, his fingers not helping as they place tickling and fleeting touches all over our naked and sweaty skin. He can’t help himself and laughs too, the sound hearty and loud, bouncing off the walls as you squirm around, your lips pulled wide, a toothy smile etched permanently onto your face. 

“S-stop!” You wheeze out, his fingers everywhere, your arms, legs, thighs, stomach, fast and unforgiving, trying to squeeze every but of the wonderful sound out of you so he could bottle it up and keep it forever, “S-satoru, s-stop! Please!” 

You push at his chest, eyes bright and full of mirth, looking back at the man you loved, his smile bright and blinding. You want to have this moment forever, over and over again, never ending, and you never want it to end. He finally pulls away, looking down at you with such adoration and love in his shining eyes that you feel like you’re about to go blind.

He pulls himself out of your warmth, kissing the back of his teeth when you pulse around him again, and his limp cock hangs satisfied. He pushes the mixture of his cum and your juices back in with his thumb, something primal filling him seeing you full of his seed. 

Your legs twitch, slapping his curious hand away when it starts to trail back up to your clit, and watch him send you a little wink, a little sign for what’s to come later. Not now, though, because he sees the way your eyes are drooping, your hands resting on your stomach as you pat the empty space next to you. 

Gojo obliges, falling down on the rumpled sheets, turning to the side to look at you.

You sigh, happy, full, and breaking at the seams with love. He lets the same sigh out, his pink lips pulled into an easy grin, months of exhaustion washing away from his body as he loops an arm under your waist, tugging you closer to his chest.

The two of you stay there in comfortable silence, grieving the months you lost, celebrating the moments just spent together, finding each other over and over again even if it tore you apart in the process. 

He kisses your hairline, your forehead, the corners of your eyes. You preen like a cat, humming when you feel him kiss your cheek and your lips, pressing his last kiss to the tip of your nose, something he used to do when you were about to go to sleep. 

“Sleep now” he whispers against the side of your head, pulling the blanket to cover your bodies, his hold of you never letting go, “I’ll be here when you wake up,” he smiles, pausing before saying, “I promise,”and you smile softly, craning your head up to look at him. 

You fight back the tears, at the thought of waking up next to him, just like you always dreamed you would. 

“You promise?” You murmur, feeling one last tear fall, one tear of joy, utter joy, and he catches it with his thumb, his blue eyes wavering like a clear sky without a singular cloud, and you watch as his throat bobs, eyes roaming all over your face, still can’t believing you were real. He hums deeply, tipping your chin up to meet him in one last longing kiss, lips moving gently along one another.

“I promise.”

corporal: ch 1 - punishment

SUKUNAxF!READER ☽☾ HEIAN ERA AU ☽☾ ONGOING SERIES ☽☾ AO3

☽☾ SYNOPSIS: You are such a menace that your father decides to offer your eternal servitude as a gift to the King of Curses.

Sukuna has not accepted such a tribute in years, more often opting to eat the young girls rather than put them to work, which is perfectly acceptable as far as your asshole dad is concerned.

Will the demon make an exception for you?

☽☾ WARNINGS/TAGS: 18+MINORS DNI, blood and gore, violence, abuse, true form sukuna, eventual smut (not yet), references to cannibalism, I suck at tags

☽☾ WORD COUNT: 4.2k

As a little girl, you were inseperable from your sister, Emika. You spent countless afternoons giggling and dashing between the trees in the wood surrounding your home. The same wood you are now running through as your life depends on it.

Even as stitches crawl, burning, into your ribs, you picture Emika's smiling face in the dappled sunlight. When you trip over a root and catch the stony soil with your knees and palms, your mind conjures a memory of practicing katas and swordplay with her in secret, of the many times she put you in the dirt, herself, grinning as she tapped her bamboo sword lightly against your throat. "Dead," she'd giggle. She was so strong.

You bound to your feet and run despite your burning lungs and aching legs. As your pursuer knocks you to the ground, restraining you with a strong pair of arms, you recall the time you walked into your favorite clearing and found her kissing one of the servant girls. Later, she had shared her secret with you, only you. 

As the guards drag you kicking and screaming back to your family home you recall how vacant her eyes had become when the servant girl was sent away. The way her lips no longer smiled when she was given to a man twice her age, a cruel man who kept her pregnant and did not love her. You would die rather than accept such a fate for yourself. You would be the warrior Emika had dreamt of being. 

As calloused hands throw you into the closet used to confine you when you were had misbehaved especially severely, you pictured how Emika had looked at you on her wedding day, a tight smile under eyes shiny with unshed tears. As you scream through split, swollen lips and pound your fists bloody on the heavy wooden door, you pictured her nodding and mouthing a silent goodbye to you. 

When you finally slump against the door and succumb to a darkness so complete that closing your eyes makes no difference, you hiss her name into the silence. Damn her. Why didn't she fight it? All that strength, for what?

Twenty now, you are half a dozen years older than she was when she was married. You are known for your wild behavior which has discouraged many requests for your hand, despite your clan being rather powerful. Your life was not pleasant, as a result.

You had been flogged and thrown into the dark more times than you could count. Your mother does not even come to sit on the other side of the door and tearfully beg you to change your ways anymore. You are utterly alone, and you suffer. But at least you have a modicum of freedom. At least this suffering is your choice.

"So you're back, father," you spit, blinking at the light that filters around his still armored silhouette. Fresh from one battle, into another. You do not give him the satisfaction of crying out when he yanks you out of the closet by your filthy hair. After all the pain you have suffered at the hands of this man and his lackeys, you hardly feel it anyway. 

"Yes, daughter," he spits the word out like he can't stand the taste of it. "And I will finally be rid of you for good."

"Finally grown the balls to kill me?" You sneer as one of his underlings closes manacles around your wrists. You lean away as the back of his hand flies toward your face, angering him further when his strike fails to land. He does not miss a second time. You grin at him with bloody teeth. 

"Worse," he answers. "You are to be given to the shrine." He smiles back at you when your grin falters, your heart skipping a beat. You know exactly what he means. You are to be offered to Ryoumen Sukuna, the king of curses. You have never seen him yourself, but his monstrous appearance and even more monstrous appetites are well known throughout the region. 

You can remember looking out of your window one night as a child, seeing the orange tinge to the horizon in the distance, the faint smell of smoke. "It's the King of Curses, raiding," Emika had explained, as she stroked your hair. Goosebumps raised on your skin as she described the four-armed cannibal warlord, a powerful weilder of cursed energy. The strongest force known to the country. "Don't worry, he won't come here," she had soothed. "Father has ways of keeping him placated."

Your dismay is only momentary, however, as you realize the irony of your father presenting you as a gift: dirty, broken and wild as a rabid dog. You laugh softly. "Perhaps he will kill you for your trouble," you sneer.

Your father looks you up and down before averting his eyes and scoffing in disgust. "Vile as you are, I'm sure you taste the same as any other girl, and that's the only use that savage has for such gifts," he responds. "Have her cleaned and dressed" he says over his shoulder, already marching away from you. 

It takes two men to hold you down while a servant girl is brought in to wash you. Her soft, dark eyes remind you of Emika. They are filled with fear when she looks at you. You do not give her any trouble, not even when she removes the muzzle from your face to clean it with a warm cloth. You slide your eyes to the gaurd whose fingers you had wounded before he was able to get the thing on your face, glaring at him threateningly.

The woman's hands are gentle, especially around your wounded lips, and the cleansing soothes your broken skin. "Thank you," you murmur to her as she pours warm water over your matted hair, combing it out as she washes it. She says nothing, but looks at you with pity, now. You had preferred the fear. 

On the journey to the shrine, you manage to ruin most of her work, throwing yourself repeatedly into the mud. At one point, you even manage to escape, despite being shackled, and forced the guards to chase you through the woods for over an hour. As a result, you are late to court, but your father drags you through the doors, anyway, dripping from an impromptu "bath" he had given you in the river. 

Standing on your tip-toes, you peer over the heads of the crowd. Your heart rate picks up a notch when you spot the monster lounging on a throne piled with skulls and bones at the head of the room. His enormous frame is draped over the chair, his cheek resting on his fist, as he looks down on one of his subjects. The squat old man is currently groveling next to a pool of blood at the foot of the steps that lead up to the throne. Presumably, his predecessor had not fared well.

Tattoos adorn the King's forehead and chin, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw, as well. A pair of piercing red eyes are set into each side of his face, although one set sit inside a rough-textured mask of some sort. The halo of soft, pink curls on top of his head looks strikingly out of place. His white kimono edged in dark blue hangs open over his chest, more black ribbons of tattoos frame his exposed pectorals. An additional pair of arms sit relaxed in his lap, the wrists of all four appendages are circled by more tattoos, like bracelets. 

Suddenly all four of his eyes snap up and he scans the crowd, until he sets his sights on you. You sink back onto your heels, heart in your throat, hoping, for once, that you have vanished into a sea of men. You are beginning to think that the eye-contact was just your imagination, when a booming voice calls out your father by name, asking him to approach. 

"Hold her," your father hisses at his guards, who are, in fact, already holding on tight to your manacled arms. You are grateful for the muzzle, for the first time, hiding your fear behind it. The old man that had been stuttering at the King's feet scurries back into the crowd as your father approaches. 

Sukuna glares down at him in silence for several very long and uncomfortable moments before he finally asks, "Brought your brat here, have you?" 

"I have, your-"

"Is it true," he cuts your father off, examining a long, black fingernail as he speaks, "that she disarmed one of your generals and managed to wound several men with his katana before she was stopped." 

"Regrettably-"

The monster cuts him off again with a low chuckle. "Bring her," he says.

Your legs feel like lead as the guards drag you foward, the crowd parting in front of you, many eyes casting curious looks in your direction. All four of Sukuna's eyes bore into you as you approach. You can't seem to tear your gaze away from his, though it is more out of paralyzing fear than defiance, for once. You wonder if he can sense it. Your fear. It has been a long time since you have been afraid like this, accustomed as you are to pain. The guards stop just a few strides behind your father. 

It feels as if all of the air is sucked out of the room as the two of you stare at each other, neither moving. The man seems awfully fond of uncomfortable silences, you think, as he stares at you with the same heavy-lidded, bored expression.

"What is that shit on her face?" He asks without moving a muscle. 

"Told you to take that off," your father hisses at the guards over his shoulder, even as one has already opened his mouth to answer Sukuna.

"A muzzle, Master Sukuna," the man on your left bows slightly, releasing your arm as he answers, "she bites."

Sudden inspiration strikes and you stomp hard on the toes of the man on your right, causing him to release your other arm and then you are running. You feel like you take only a half-dozen strides before a strong hand clamps down on your wrist. You spin, intending to smash your captor's nose in with your head, but you draw back when you are met with the muscled expanse of Sukuna's tattooed chest. "Leaving so soon?" He growls. He is enormous, you realize as you life your eyes to his, glittering garnets. He is smiling and you make a note of his long, sharp canines.

Frozen in place and unable to tear your eyes away from his, you don't even see the back of your father's hand flying towards your face. Your head reels back with the impact, a warm gush of blood colors one side of your vision red as his knuckles split the flesh under your eyebrow. 

Sukuna flicks his wrist almost imperceptibly and then your father is screaming. A fine spray of blood lands at your feet seconds before his severed hand rolls into your line of vision. Sukuna's eyes never leave yours. You don't move when he removes the muzzle and lets it fall to the ground where it lands just out of reach of the twitching fingers of the severed hand.

"Going to bite me?" He asks, his voice so low only you can hear, he leans in, eclipsing your vision, his breath warm against your ear.

You shake your head. You decided when this man removed your father's hand with a simple gesture that no amount of biting or running would prove effective against him. 

"Run if you want," he says, in the same low voice. "But you won't get far. Either they will get you," he says, nodding in your father's direction. "Or I will." He smiles, a cold display of sharp teeth, "and I like hunting."

He releases your wrist and turns to your father who is clutching his gushing arm. "You are aware that I appreciate useful offerings?" He asks.

"Yes, master Sukuna," your father bleats in a broken voice.

"What use do you think I would get out of her," he gestures at you, and you realize what a pathetic mess you must look, streaked with mud and blood and drenched in river water.

"I- well-" your father stammers, face gone pale from blood loss. "Your- your- appetites..."

He scoffs. "Execute your own children..." He says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Uraume!" He calls, addressing a white robed monk, who, you are peripherally aware, had been standing serenely beside the throne throughout the proceedings. "Put her up in the East wing," he commands. "You know the chambers I mean?"

"Yes, Master Sukuna," the monk nods, but you don't miss the arch of her eyebrows above her pale pink eyes. Despite their surprise, Uraume descends the steps and places a hand lightly on your shoulder. You shiver, their touch is intensely cold, but allow them to guide you towards the exit behind the throne.

Before you are out of sight, you turn to look once more at your father. "If you survive the blood loss, I hope you die of infection," you bellow at the top of your lungs. 

Sukuna throws his head back and laughs.

Uraume is silent as they guide you down empty corridors to the chambers specified for you. When they slide back the shoji door and you step in, you are surprised to find a sizeable suite with varnished floors, a large futon stacked with pillows, cushioned chairs and, what really draws your attention, a vanity littered with combs and perfumes.

"Who lives here?" You ask, narrowing your eyes at the feminine items.

"You, now," they answer.

"I mean before."

The monk hesitates, but finally answers with a shrug. "Master Sukuna's... concubines... but not for a long time now." 

"I will not be anyone's concubine!"

Uraume clicks her tongue. "Master Sukuna does what he likes," they shrug. "But, if it comforts you, he has not shown interest in replacing those he... rid himself of."

"What happened to them?"

"I will bring you a basin so that you can wash up. I'm sure you will find some clothes that will fit you in the wardrobe."

"But-" you begin, but they are gone in a white and pink blur of hair and robe.

All that first night you lie awake on the futon, staring at the shoji doors, half expecting the demon to burst through them and make his motivation for keeping you known. He never comes, although in the wee hours of the morning you hear soft thuds and low growling from the wall at your back. You wonder if the monster's chambers share a wall with yours, and shudder to think what he might be doing to make all that noise. 

After a few restless nights, you are eventually able to sleep. Although you are fairly certain that he is the source of the noises you are hearing at night, they almost comfort you at this point, as they mean that he is in his quarters, not thinking of bothering you.

Weeks go by and you barely see him, except in passing, and even then, he only addresses Uraume or other staff, never you, directly. It is as if you are invisible to him. Except for one instance in particular, you saw him entering through the West gate. Evidently, he was back from raiding and pillaging, as he was covered in blood and soot, wearing only a tattered hakama, hanging low on his hips. When he turned and saw you staring, he flashed a manic grin that had you spinning on your heel and hurrying in the opposite direction. You could hear him laughing behind you, and shuddered at the sound. 

Most days, Uraume would collect you in the morning and assign you some task or another. Cleaning and food prep, mostly. Apparently, Sukuna enjoyed eating large quantities of a variety of foods, not only human flesh. Thankfully, Uraume was the only one entrusted with preparing fare of that kind.  Other than that, you were free to explore the estate and no one seemed to bother you or ask what you were doing. 

You often ate in the kitchen with the other servants, and it was from one of these that you learned what happened to Sukuna's former harem. 

"Ate 'em, he did," Baba, croaked. She was a bent and wrinkled old woman who appeared to be at least a hundred and fifty years old. Her watery, cataracted eyes gleamed over her sunken cheeks as her toothless mouth sputtered out the story. "Got bored of fucking em, sure enough! Or fed up with them treatin' him too familiar, one! One tried running away but he caught her quick as anything and that's the truth! What a mess that was! Thought I'd never get up all that bl-"

"Baba!" Uraume scolded as they walked out of the back holding Sukana's tray. You tried not to look at the contents, or even think about them, as you poked at your salmon with your chopsticks.

"Well! It's the truth, it is!' The old woman screeches, spittle flying as she throws up her hands. "It is," she insists, leaning towards you and fixing her milky eyes on yours. 

Normally, you would smile at the old woman's theatrics, but you find yourself frowning at your food, instead. You recall that first day, how Sukuna had said that he likes useful things. How are you useful to him? You doubt he is even peripherally aware of what little work you do here, and, even if he was, anyone could do it. Why had he specifically put you in a room so close to his own, a lavish one at that, nicer than anything you had ever had at home?

You look up from your plate and down the table at the other servants. The few that are looking at you drop their eyes. Come to think of it, Baba and Uraume are the only ones who talk to you. Everyone else avoids you like the plague. Why is that?  You stand suddenly, knocking the table with your hips, causing dishes to clatter. Everyone is looking now. You hurry to clear your place and rush out into the bright daylight, no longer able to tolerate being confined indoors with your thoughts or with all those eyes on you. I have got too comfortable, you think to yourself.

Eventually, as you pace around the estate, you calm, although your eyes seek out the exit gates more than usual. The space is beautiful, with sprawling courtyards filled fruit trees, vegetable gardens, even a koi pond and a little stream that empties into a hot spring on the outskirts. Carrying your sandals, you walk along the edge of the whispering water. You smile to yourself as you watch the clear water rushing over the pebbled streambed.

Might as well enjoy all this while I can, you are thinking to yourself, when you hear movement ahead of you. Although you are somewhat concealed behind a stand of trees, you are only yards away from the hotspring. You hadn't realized that you had waljed so far. Sukuna stands at the edge of it, having just let his kimono slide off of his shoulders. Rooted to the spot, your eyes trace the lines of his tattoos, then the dips of his sculpted abdominals until they reach an odd line just below his navel. A scar, perhaps? You swallow thickly, finding your mouth suddenly dry. 

Your eyes are still focused on the odd slit on his belly- you could have sworn you saw it move- when his hands drop to loosen his hakama. As heat crawls unwanted into your cheeks and the tops of your ears, you avert your eyes and turn to go. Your heart was already threatening to hammer it's way out of your rib cage when he calls out, "Come here, girl." 

Could be talking to anyone, you reason as you will your limbs to obey you and continue your retreat.  A couple of splashes and then you hear him call out your name, louder than before. You are shocked that he even remembers it. Slowly, your movements dreamlike, you turn and make your way toward him. Holding your chin high and hoping you exude a confidence that you do not feel, you move to the edge of the hotspring opposite to where he is now half-submerged in the steaming water. "You called me?" You ask, bowing stiff and shallow.

"Closer," he nods, but doesn't otherwise bother to move. His upper arms are draped along the edge of the hotspring, his lower ones, concealed beneath the water.

Hesitantly, you move closer, but still  just out of reach of his splayed fingers. He looks, first, at your bare ankles, then, his spider-eyed gaze lingers along the length of your body until your eyes meet. The silence twists knots in your gut, and, although you do your best not to squirm, you feel as if every drop of blood in your body is rushing to your face. He is smirking. He is young, you realize, looking down at his unlined face. Striking, you are unable to stop yourself from thinking of his tattooed features, his extra eyes.

"Do you need something?" You ask, thinking better of the 'What do you want,' you typically have on queue for unloved authority figures. 

"Do you? Or are you content to spy on me from the shadows?" 

"I wasn't-" you begin, scowling. "Actually," you change direction, crossing your arms. "I do want something. I want to know why you keep me here... and why in that room?"

His smirk widens until it is almost a smile. A sinister expression, nonetheless.

"Do you want to go home?"

"I-" you sputter. No you don't want to go home, but you don't necessarily want to admit that, either. 

"I think what you mean to say is: thank you, Master Sukuna, hm?" He says as your mouth opens and closes like a fish. "Does that answer your question, or would you like me to think more about what to do with you?"

While you spoke he had inched closer to you and now you feel the warm slide of his fingers on the back of your calf. You look down at his extended arm, the tattooed wrist disappearing under the hem of your kimono, as you stomach does a series of somersaults.

When your legs finally decide to obey you you turn and speedwalk stiffly back towards the East wing of the shrine. You expect to be called back or struck down at any moment, but Sukuna only laughs at your retreat. 

Thst night, ypu decide you will leave. You manage to gather some food from the kitchen and other supplies without attracting attention. Now all there is to do is wait until you hear the demon thudding around and growling through the wall. Then, you will know that it's safe.  

What is he doing in there anyway, you think to yourself as you pace back and forth across the suite, stopping now and then to actually press your ear against the wall. Growling like that... the image of his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his hakama rises, unbidden, to your mind. You shake your head as if that will clear it. "Stop it," you hiss to yourself, absolutely hating the way your stomach twists and flutters at the thought. 

Hours pass. It is much later than it usually is when you hear him on the other side of the wall. You press your ear hard against the wall and strain to hear, but the only sound is the pumping of your own heart.

You sigh raggedly.

Maybe he's sleeping.

Maybe he's traveling, doing whatever monsters do. 

"Fuck it," you mutter, grabbing the bag full of supplies and slinging it over your shoulder. The shoji door is blessedly quiet as you slide it open. The hallway is dark, empty, silent. You breath a sigh of relief and close your eyes, centering yourself, gathering your courage. Maybe he won't even care that you're gone. Maybe he won't even notice. The thought comforts you and you draw on it for confidence as you take the first step out into the corridor. 

"Going somewhere?"

You nearly jump out of your skin at the sound of his voice. It is a miracle that you don't cry out. You turn slowly, as you would in a nightmare, to see him leaning against the wall bare inches away from your door. You are surprised you didn't hear him breathing, as close as he is.

"For a walk," you answer evenly. 

"With luggage?" He asks, nodding at the bag slung over your shoulder. His eyes and teeth glint in the dim light. He's smiling. This is entertaining for him, it seems.

He chuckles when you say nothing and steps toward you. "Go on, then," he says. "I'll give you a generous headstart... Although," he reaches out and plucks the heavy bag off of your shoulder as if it were nothing, "I suggest you travel light."

There is only one response to that.  

You run. 

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-two —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.1k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol

The tray of food crashes to the floor at her feet. Salome gasps. Her hand shoots back, fumbling for the doorknob, and her lips part, ready to call the guard you know is just outside.

"If you call for the guard," you stop her, "I’ll cut deeper."

She clamps a hand over her mouth. "Please—stop! Hurting yourselves is a sin, a great dishonor to the body God gave you—"

“It is,” you agree calmly. You press the shard deeper into the cephalic vein, ignoring the bite of pain. Blood spills in a fresh, startling curtain down your arm, the wound mimicking the severity of an arterial cut. “And she’ll blame you for it. You’re the one she entrusted to watch over us, and you didn't notice we broke one of the mugs."

"I did not think you would—"

"What happens to you,” you cut her off, pointing the bloody shard at her stomach, “—and your baby when the two new child-bearers die because of your failure? Because I will die, if I cut any deeper. This artery,” you lie, tapping the wound for emphasis, “is important. If I finish slicing through it, I’ll bleed out in less than a minute. Not enough time for you to get help. Not even enough to try saving me yourself.”

Her lashes flutter rapidly through a swell of tears. "You could have a good life here—"

"Answer me. What happens to you if I die?"

She swallows hard. "She’ll punish me," she whispers frightfully. "I have seen what happens to those who fail her. She might take my child and I will... never see them. Please, don’t do this—”

"Why should we care about you and your child when you are okay with them killing an eleven-year-old girl tomorrow?"

A flash of shame crosses her face. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't know Maman would want the girl. The offering has never been so young before. But it is God's will, there is nothing I can do to—"

"What you can do is open the cell. Open it and we will kill Maman, then you won't have to worry about anyone taking your baby. But if you don't open it, then we die in here and you will face her punishment."

Her lips part, but nothing comes out. She looks between you and Nereida, eyes darting wildly, fingers twitching against her stomach. 

"Decide before I bleed out!"

"I... I can't," she says pitifully.

With a glance at Nereida, she takes her cue, digging into her vein.

"Open the cell," Nereida urges far more soothingly than you can, blood dripping to her elbow. "We won't hurt you. We want Maman gone, not you."

Salome whimpers under her breath, but her fingers move before her mind catches up, reaching inside her robe to retrieve the key, gripping it like it might burn her. She shuffles closer but pauses, inhaling deeply before finally reaching the door. Her hands shake so violently that the key rattles against the lock. It slips against the metal, failing to match the hole, and your finger twitches when she nearly drops it.

"Mais si elles ne parviennent pas à la tuer..." The whisper leaves quietly, lost beneath the veil. "Sa punition pour moi sera pire."

Then, her hand curls back around the key.

She swallows hard—and steps back.

No. 

You see red.

A growl curls at your mouth and you snap forward, grabbing onto her dress through the bars before she can retreat too far, and pulling her flush against them, her forehead banging into the metal. Before she can scream, you clamp a bloody hand over her mouth and then press the piece of broken mug to her neck with just enough pressure to make her panic. She gasps into your palm, struggling. You dig it harder, forcing her body to turn still and rigid.

"Twix—"

"I tried doing things the nicer way," you speak in a low snarl, veering off the script you and Nereida conjured. Round, glossy eyes stare into yours. "You should have made up your mind before getting within my reach. Now give her the key. I’d hate for my hand to slip."

Another sharp press into her skin wrings a squeak from her, her breath coming out jagged and uneven against your palm. Trembling, she extends an arm through the bars, offering the key to Nereida.

The moment Nereida takes it, she fumbles to find the lock from the outside, her fingers searching blindly. The key scrapes against the metal—once, twice—before a soft click finally reaches your ears.

The door swings open.

You don’t hesitate. Keeping your grip firm over Salome’s mouth, you shove through the opening and swing around to the other side. Before she can react, you force her back into the cell, driving her onto the bed. The veil tears free from her head as you pin her down, your weight pressing her into the mattress, the sharp fragment still poised at her throat. When her legs begin to flail helplessly, you order Nereida to grab them. She clasps Salome's ankles to keep her from bucking you off.

"You were afraid of the wrong person," you hiss, your nose nearly brushing hers. "Maman may have spared your life because she values her baby makers—but I don’t. Answer everything I ask, or I’ll show you just how merciless I can be."

The dishonest threat rolls off your tongue with enough force to make her nod frantically, fear widening her eyes. But what she doesn’t need to know—what you won’t let her see—is the part of you still holding back. Because even now, even as you pin her down and press the shard to a vital piece of her throat, you’re careful. You don’t dig hard enough to damage. You don’t let your weight bear down on the swell of her stomach.

"I'm glad we understand each other. I am going to lift my hand, and you're not going to scream. You're going to tell me everything we need to know about the guards out there."

Her lips are puffy and raw when you set them free. 

"There is only one outside the d-door," she sputters in a whisper. "B-but there are more... more by the... h-homes and the keep."

"The keep?"

"Where they keep the new m-males," she chokes out, snot dripping from her nose.

"That's in the old slaughterhouse, right?"

She nods.

"How many guards are over there exactly?"

"I do not know." At your glare, she rushes out, "B-but there are less after d-dinner ends. Many go to sleep, and switch shifts at sunrise."

You mull over the information, eyes darting across her face. “And the child—the offering? Where is Maman keeping her?”

A terrible look of fear ripples through her eyes. "Only few are allowed near the offering b-before her ascension. 

"So you're telling me you don't know?" you seethe in her face.

She sobs. "I know they... they will offer her to the démons right before the sun rises. The night is when God’s wrath is strongest, but it’s in the morning—when hope ascends—that we seek atonement."

Despite further pressing, that seems to be the extent of what she knows—or she's still withholding. Either way, you're satisfied enough. You rip strips of the sheet, using one to gag her and two more to bind her wrists and ankles. You and Nereida wrap your wounded wrists tightly to stop the flow. Then, you remove her white gown. You’ll need something to wear that doesn't easily mark you as an escapee, but there’s only the one white dress and veil. You hurriedly slip into them, making sure all of your hair and face is hidden, leaving Nereida still in the thin slip. The shoes Salome wears are thin and made of unsupported leather, but they are all you have to tuck your bare feet into.

Salome said there will be fewer guards after dinner. You and Nereida listen carefully to every sound that bleeds through the window. When you hear a few exchanges of bonne nuit, you figure people are starting to retire for the night. You take this as your cue to grip your makeshift weapon. The guard outside the door is expecting Salome to leave at some point, giving you the perfect opportunity to catch him off-guard while dressed as her.

You quietly open the door to the warm summer night, the long gown ghosting around your ankles. As expected, a well-built man leans against the side of the building, arms crossed languidly. No one else is in sight, which brings you some relief. When his gaze shifts to you, he raises a brow.

"Tout va bien, mademoiselle? Vous êtes restée là-dedans un moment."

The last word barely makes it out of his mouth. Within a heartbeat, you spring at him like the head of a snake, one hand over his mouth and the other stabbing his neck with the shard, then sweeping it through the thick of his trachea. A gush of blood oozes out in one thick stream, before he gargles out a strangled choke and turns to dead weight against the wall. 

With Nereida's help, you quickly push his body inside the building to keep anyone from spotting it. 

"Wear this," you usher, already starting to undress him. Like the man who visited you, he's wearing a grey cloak. Though it's too big for her, and bloodied, it will be enough to keep her discreet in the dark, her long hair safely tucked beneath the hood.

Two things race through your mind: the ticking time toward sunrise and the fact that you still don’t know how many more men you’ll have to take out to reach Ghost, Price, and Kyle. The knife you find on the guard adds a small weapon to your shitty arsenal. You have no idea where they could’ve stored the guns and ammo they took from you, or your bow. How you'll manage to fight through a community of cultists without those is a worry you can’t afford to dwell on right now—one step at a time.

After a few minutes of collecting yourselves, urgency pulls the two of you outside, free from the barred enclosure for the first time in almost four days. In the blanket of night, you quickly scan the area, taking in what you’re up against. The community appears fairly spread out, with only six small farmhouses like the one you just escaped from, along with a few larger structures in the near distance—likely where they house the men. You catch a glimpse of a fenced pasture’s perimeter and the unmistakable stench of cattle fills the air. Despite the faint shuffle of hooves and grey plumes of smoke from a few of the chimneys, everything is eerily still, leaving an unnerving amount of quiet for your heart to shatter through.

From what you can see, there aren’t many places to hide Blue, but there could be more to this place beyond what’s visible, especially since the chapel you first saw is nowhere in sight. But none of that matters right now; you need to find the others first if you’re going to have any real chance of saving her and getting out of here.

The next male you encounter spots you first as you make your way up the gravel road towards the barn, the sound of his boots making your hand tighten on the knife's handle. He greets you unassumingly in French, causing Nereida to startle beside you as his shadow approaches. Then he stops in front of her, his shoulders tensing and his hand hovering near a knife at his waist.

"Que fais-tu avec la femelle? C’est interdit!"

Again, you go for the throat, desperate to silence any screams that could cause alarm. You get a good swipe at the base of it, but he is at least a head taller than you, making it difficult to stab fully. He grabs you by the waist, clearly in shock that a veiled female just sprung on him with a knife, but swipes a fist at your face nonetheless. The force spreads through your temple, thrusting your head to the side. 

"Take the knife from him," you hiss at Nereida through the pain, who until now was effectively frozen. She finally moves, using the distraction you've caused as he clutches his bleeding neck, and snatches the knife still hanging at his waist. Once she has it, you leap at the disarmed man again, this time stabbing his liver. With a muffled grown, he face-plants into the gravel, quickly soaking it with blood. 

"The body," she stutters worriedly. "We need to hide it."

You look around, spotting stacks of chopped wood.

"Over there. Help me drag him."

Once the body is heaved behind the logs, you pat him down in search for anything else, but there's nothing.

"Keep that on you," you tell her, and she gives a quick nod, hiding the knife under her sleeve.

You keep following the road up to the fence, your white dress splattered with crimson, resembling the dotted stars overhead. The 'keep' is somewhere by the barn that man said, but you notice smaller buildings to the right and to the left of it. Which one looks like an old slaughterhouse? It's too difficult to tell even when you squint, so you grab Nereida's arm and quickly lower by a bush.

"Watch that one, and I'll keep an eye on this one. Whichever building has more guards patrolling is probably where they're holding them."

"Okay," she whispers, peering around the bush.

Minutes pass. The building on the right has more shadows skirting around it—three guards total. You take a moment to study their movements. One is stationed near the back, the other two at the front.

"I want you to take the one at the back and wait for me. I'll handle the other two."

"How do I take him?" she whispers uncertainly. "He’ll see me coming."

"You’ll come at it from an angle." You point toward a stack of hay. "Sneak over there, quietly. Once you're behind it, circle around and approach where he can't see."

She hesitates, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead. "I’ve never—"

"Never killed anyone?" 

The way she grips the knife, her fingers white on the handle, confirms it.

"These people deserve it, Nereida," you say, forcing her to meet your gaze. "John is in there."

She closes her eyes, and for a moment, the weight of it all presses down on her. When she opens them again, her jaw is set, and her grip on the knife tightens.

After reminding her where to strike, you pause for a moment, watching as she sneaks over to the hay. Then, you move toward the other two, slipping behind a tree for cover, but your foot catches on something and you almost trip, catching yourself against the bark. Your breath hitches and you steal a peek at them to make sure they didn't hear you. No—they are too busy murmuring to each other, laughing in a low exchange.

When you glance down, you spot a shovel half-buried into the ground, its handle sticking out. Carefully, you wriggle it free, having to grit your teeth to fully remove it. This will let you stun one while you deal with the other. Inhaling deeply to center yourself, palm tight over the splintered wood handle, you close in on the two guards.

The shorter one with curly hair spots you just before you take a swing, his eyes widening. The shovel slams into his skull, effectively making him stumble to the ground, but slips from your grip from the force. The other guard whirls around, hand slapping for the pistol at his belt. You deliver three consecutive stabs to his stomach, heart, and cheek. The gun never leaves his waist before he falls dead.

You suck in a gulp of air just as the curly-haired one regains his footing. His head is still heavy from the blow, and before he can draw his knife, you shove him in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground. You pin him easily beneath you, his movements sluggish and weak. The two of you wrestle in the grass, jagged breaths mixing with frantic, scraping nails, until, with a snarl, your knife finds purchase in his neck, stealing the life from his eyes in an instant. You stab him again and again, shaking, until the ticking urgency pulls you back into control. With a deep breath, you steady yourself and wiggle the knife lodged in his trachea, your hands slippery with blood.

"You got death," you spit in a whisper, thumbing his lids shut.

You lift up.

Now you have a single gun.

It is an old thing. Outdated and far from the military-grade weapons Ghost has. It takes a moment to figure out the parts—your fingers fumble for the small magazine, which is stocked with three bullets. You pull the slide to chamber a round with a click and keep it ready in your hand as you circle the building toward the back, praying that Nereida managed. When you find her, she is stood over the man's body, a deep cut oozing on her cheek.

"He saw me," she says, swallowing. "But I did it."

You nod. "We need to hide them before we go in."

All three bodies are hidden behind the hay stacks. You cover them with manure to mask the smell, not wanting a horde of Greys to materialize. You'd spotted a door at the back and hope it may be more discreet then blazing in through the front, given that you don't know who all is in there. Finger ready on the trigger, you hold your breath as you lead Nereida into the old building, instantly met with the rich smell of pennies. The space quickly unfolds into an old butcher house, rusted hooks hanging from the stone ceiling, the air cramped and cold. 

"Une femme? Maman ne voudrait pas de toi—"

The voice echoes in your ear as you round the corner, and then a fiery bullet rips into the owner's chest. Nereida flinches. Another guard comes barreling over, shouting, but you slide the chamber and shoot him in the head.

You don't linger by the bodies, itching to check the first steel door you see. You lower the gun only to pull at the handle, but it won't budge.

"Check him for keys," you motion to the dead guard.

Nereida crouches, hands rifling through his pockets until she yanks free a ring of keys. Her fingers shake as she tries them one by one, the lock stubborn—until, at last, it gives. With a sharp tug, the door groans open, revealing a windowless chamber. In the center, a lone captive hangs from chains.

It’s Price. Shackles bite into his wrists, his bare chest mapped with deep bruises against pale skin. Beaten, but unbroken—his gaze sharp as it lifts to meet yours. Nereida chokes on a sob, ripping the hood off her head and sinking to her knees before him, cupping his jaw.

A weighted baritone manages: "Duchess."

"There is nowhere I will not find you," she croaks. Teary kisses find the corner of his mouth. "I'm here, I'm here."

"How did you—"

"We got out. Where are the others?" you ask.

His jaw grits. "I haven't seen them since they knocked us out."

"They must be here somewhere. We need to move quick before someone notices the bodies."

After finding the small key to undo the manacles, you leave them to each other for the moment, continuing down the hall until the next door. An undeniable pull rises in your chest, something that has nothing to do with the adrenaline rushing through you—something you can’t quite name. But when you open the door, your heart falters with unwelcome disappointment at the sight of Kyle. He looks equally battered, but still aware enough to lift his head as you step in.

"Who are you?" 

You lift the veil.

"It's me," you answer, the words almost lost in the rush of emotions. Only when you fully take in the room do you notice Ari, curled in the corner. They’ve put them in here together. While there are no obvious injuries on the boy, the sight of the open Bible on his lap, and the empty dinner plate beside him, sends a cold shiver down your spine. You touch his cheek, feeling warmth, and reassure him he’s safe.

You release both of them. "Price and Nereida are through the door down the left. I need to find Ghost. I’ll be back."

Kyle rubs his wrists and manages to stand despite his black eye and shaky legs. "I’ll come with you."

"No. I’ll get him." The words come out sharper than you mean to, but you turn away before he can question them.

You are pulled further through the tight, cold hallway, movements turning more hurried as you look around. There are a few more half-opened doors, but they only lead to supply closets filled with whips and metal batons and empty chambers where old blood stains the floors. Something sharp tugs at your heart, and for the first time since initiating your escape, your fingertips succumb to a tremor of fear. 

Where is he?

The hall spits out into a room where dried animal carcasses hang from the walls.

One final door sits on the far end.

The rusted lock resists, swears hissing from your lips—until a sharp kick forces it open.

The smell thickens with fresh blood, and a cold pit sinks into your stomach at the sight of him—bound in chains, his body slumped haphazardly. Unlike the others, he doesn’t lift his head. You rush forward, a shaky breath catching in your throat as you take in the blood caked on his shoulder blades, deep welts splitting through the inked skin. His back, too, is covered in wounds. He looks worse—so much worse—that a bite of anger swells moisture in your eyes.

"Simon, you idiot. What did you do?" The words slip out on a sharp inhale as you lower yourself in front of him. "Simon," you whisper again, silent tears hot against your lips. You thread a hand through his hair, tilting his jaw up with careful fingers. His eyes are heavy, but relief finds you when they flutter open. He’s alive. The reddened whites flicker over your face, unfocused—until something strange sharpens the haze. A flicker of fear.

"It's me, Simon. We're getting out of here."

The brief fear shifts into shock when he recognizes your face, and only after you fumble with the key ring does understanding click into place, causing his jaw to flex. "Where... where is she?"

"I don't know, but we need to hurry. They have her." You undo the manacles, and his body rolls heavily into you, face falling onto your collarbone. You struggle to hold him up, gripping his shoulders without touching the wounds. A low groan bleeds through his teeth, and his eyes flutter shut again. No, no, no. "Please, you have to... you have to get up, Simon. I can't—she's going to fucking die!"

His upper chest rapidly expands with a breath, and he musters the strength to lift his weight off you and slap a hand against the wall. As he leverages his weight up, you help by grabbing beneath his other arm, until a final rush of adrenaline gets him on his feet. Urgency snaps tension into his limp shoulders, and he growls out another, more steady, breath.

"Price," he says.

"He's alive. Come on."

It takes some effort to help him walk at first, but eventually, he manages on his own. You guide him to the first room, where the others are pacing, murmuring in low voices.

"Simon, Jesus," Price mutters when he sees him.

Ghost brushes it off, his eyes narrowing. "They're going to kill her."

"At sunrise," you add, your voice tight. You pull out the pistol and show it to them. "I have one bullet left. I don't know how many more men are in this cult, but we've killed six so far."

"We have one shitty old gun." Kyle growls in frustration. "They took all our shit. How are we going to—"

"We find the weapons. They must have stored them somewhere," Price says.

"We can't just go searching through every building here. We don't have the time," you press. "And how are we supposed to get it back without everyone noticing we're gone?"

"I don't give a fuck about the guns. We find her first," Ghost grits, nostrils flaring. 

"We can't help her if we don't think things through. We can't just start a war with these people empty-handed, Simon," Price says.

"We find her first!"

"Simon," you say, reaching for his arm, but he pulls it away, clenching his bloody fist. The energy radiating from him would scare you if you didn't feel the same way.

Just then, there is the faint sound of a door opening and footsteps clanging through the hall. You tense up, two male voices shouting in echoes, one of them vaguely familiar.

"Quelqu'un les a tués ! On doit régler cette merde avant que Maman découvre quoi que ce soit."

"Les putains de prisonniers!"

Before you can react, Ghost snatches the pistol from your grip. The second they rush toward the open door, he launches at them—an elbow to one’s face, the butt of the gun breaking the nose of the other. Price uses Nereida's knife to stab the fallen guard, while Kyle helps Ghost subdue the second one. You only recognize him as the man who made you strip when they forcibly drag him toward the manacles, the sight of his blonde hair making your nails curl into your palms.

"You stupid fucking Brits!"

Ghost strikes the gun into his left eye, making him jerk within the constraints, howling as the socket turns into bloody pulp. 

Kyle grips the man's scalp from behind to hold his head up, while Ghost presses the gun into his cheek, where you notice a wound shaped like a bite mark.

"Tell us where she is," he roars. "Or I'll take the other eye."

Nereida cowers into the corner, holding onto Ari's arm. 

"I don't know!" the man spits blood, and Ghost digs the gun into his cheek, ripping it open further until the bitten flesh hangs as a torn flap, exposed all the way to his eye. The scream that follows feels inhuman. "I swear, I don't—I don't fucking know!"

Fresh blood drips to the floor. Price, much more calm, lowers at the man's side. "How many people live here?"

The man grits his teeth, struggling to answer, "T-thirty males, and six females. Plus the infants."

Twenty-two now, you count in your head.

"And the weapons we had. What about those?" Price questions further.

When only staggered, pained breaths fills the room, Ghost tosses the bloody gun and grabs the knife from Price, stabbing the man's kneecap without hesitation. Another scream ensues, and there is the small itch to cover your ears, but you steel yourself against the wall to keep watching.

"Answer the fucking question." Ghost twists the knife in his knee.

He cries out, more bloody spittle flying from his mouth. "All of the ammo is hidden. Only A-Alexandre knows!"

"Who is Alexandre?"

“Maman's son, he enforces her commands and oversees the males.”

"Where is he?" Price asks, voice hard.

“He… he resides in the work shed, while the rest of us sleep in the quarters within the barn.”

You step forward. "We saw another building outside with just one guard, that must be it."

There is a beat of silence as Price processes the information, giving Ghost a satisfied nod. With pain still contorting his face, the man's eye drifts past Ghost's shoulder toward you. His lips twitch into a faint, bloody smirk that makes your skin crawl. Ghost follows his gaze, snarls, and abruptly slashes the man's throat from ear to ear.

B

It is still dark when Eloise comes to awaken her, though Blue's eyes never once fell shut with sleep. She spent the short-lived night alternating between staring at the crescent moon outside the window, and fiddling with the knitting needles left on the table. There is a new dress in the woman's clutch, beautiful white fabric embroidered with flowers, and a pair of beautiful leather shoes in the other hand.

"See? I told you the dress would be nicer." She smiles and hands it over, as if to offer something to be thrilled for. "You must change quickly. There is a lovely breakfast of framboises and milk waiting for you. Put these on as well." She sets the shoes on the floor.

Blue thinks it strange, to bother feeding her just before her death. Blankly, she asks, "How many people will be there? To watch me die."

Eloise's smile quivers slightly, a slight crack in her composure. "Not too many, I assure you. Only a few of us women, and one or two worthy men. Most are still sleeping." After a pause, she adds even quieter, almost ashamed, "Be thankful you don’t suffer through childbirth instead. It is... a painful thing. Long, too. At least this pain will be honorable and swift."

Blue's fingers tighten around the dress. "Okay. Do you mind if I change alone, please?"

Eloise bows her head. "Of course."

She casts one last gentle glance her way before shuffling out of the room, locking the door behind her and leaving Blue with only the dress and shoes. Once the door is closed, Blue quickly slips the dress on, shuddering as the cold fabric caresses her limbs. It’s more beautiful than anything she can remember ever wearing, and that disgusts her. Swallowing the churn in her stomach, she grabs the needles and sits back on the bed.

The wounds on her feet are shallow, her fingernails only able to pierce the thick skin slightly. Using the needles, she digs into them deeper, trembling from the pain that throbs as fresh blood begins to seep from the soles. She cuts and cuts furiously, teeth gritted, praying it’s enough to soak through the shoes she slips on over the new wounds. She covers the blood stains on the sheet with the blanket, then stands, almost crying out from the agony of walking on her torn feet.

"Please dad," she whispers, closing her eyes briefly, before calling to Eloise that she is ready.

"Is everything alright, miss? You've been in there for a while." "What are you doing with the female? It’s forbidden!" "A woman? Maman wouldn’t want you—" "Someone killed them! We need to fix this shit before Maman finds out anything." "The fucking prisoners!"

you manage to make college!sukuna take yuuji trick or treating

college!sukuna masterlist

You barely put your foot inside the apartment when you hear sniffling coming from the kitchen.

“Please ‘Kuna, I can’t go alone,” Yuuji mumbles, moving a single piece of spaghetti around his plate.

Sukuna huffs, standing up from the table. "Can't you just go with that kid you invited over the other day? Meg... Meg something?"

"No! I already told you I can't, like 3 times!" Yuuji starts, getting progressively more frustrated.

"Don't throw a fucking tantrum, Yuuji, you know I hate that shit," the older grits out, cleaning his plate.

"But-"

"Hello...?" you say, peeking inside. Two sets of eyes fix on you, and silence engulfs the three of you for what feels like the longest three seconds ever. "Y'all are weird," you whisper, getting inside and going to the fridge. Yuuji waves at you, trying to be polite even if you can see he's on the brink of tears, before the two brothers in the room with you resume their conversation.

"Brat, I'm not coming. I have assignments," Sukuna sighs. He doesn't turn around, he knows Yuuji is pouting and he might or might not have lied. Well, not completely: he does have to turn in two different projects for his economics class, but he's almost finished. He did say he would take a double shift the night Yuuji is asking him about though. They're tight on money, but it's not like he wants to admit that to his little brother. Is this what guilt feels like?

The little pink haired boy sniffles, then nods. "It's okay," he slurs out, cleaning after himself in silence. For the next 5 minutes, you can hear a pin drop from how silent it is. Sukuna keeps on washing dishes, Yuuji keeps on cleaning the table.

You're still standing by the fridge, trying to mind your own business, but seeing the whole scene makes the hair on your nape stand up. The two siblings would have the same stoic and unmoving face if it wasn't for Yuuji's lip trembling imperceptibly from time to time.

"I'm going to my room. Sorry for having bothered you, 'Kuna," the little one says, opening the door to the kitchen softly, and closing it even softer. Sukuna inhales strongly, putting his hands on the counter in front of him and closing his eyes. You feel like if you breathe harder than what a mosquito does, he'll crash out.

He pats his pockets repeatedly, searching for something. He takes out a pack of cigarettes and turns around to reach for the lighter you keep in the first drawer, when your voice startles him. Seeing him startled startles you too. He's never startled. What is going on?

"I thought you quit."

"Mind your own fucking business," he snarls, snatching open the drawer.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" you reply, matching his rudeness.

"Can you shut the fuck up? Damn," he continues, glaring at you, taking one big drag of the pressed tobacco between his fingers.

"No, I'd like to eat a normal dinner with both of you today, so are you going to tell me what is going on or do I have to ask your crying nine year old little brother?" you hiss out, snatching the cigarette he just lit and tossing it in the sink, still wet from when he washed his dishes, effectively turning it off.

He's on you in a second. "Don't piss me off, woman," he says, trapping you between the sink and his body. He's towering over you, and he has to bend down to look at you properly. "Stay out of it," he says, menacingly. You gulp, but you're not finished. And most importantly, you know him. You've been living together for forever, or maybe it feels like it because you're always together, either for Yuuji or because... wait, why are you always together?

"I'll stop when I feel like it, Sukuna," you say, getting closer to his face. Your voice is clear, your nose an inch from his own. You look into each other's eyes so intensely that if you had the power to shoot lasers he'd be blind by now. You're about to speak up again, when he headbutts you. Hard.

"Ouch!" you yelp, punching him in the arm as hard as you can. He just traps your fist in his, squeezing until you wince, then lets go, smirking.

"Don't play with me, girl," he says while getting off of you. You pout, rubbing the spot he hit on your forehead.

"Asshole," you mumble.

"Mh? What'd you say?"

"Nothing, sir," you respond mockingly, assuming the position of a soldier. "You know what, I'm going to report you to the police for domestic violence," you continue, still pouting.

He throws you a single cube of ice. You raise an eyebrow.

"That's all we have, make it work. I ain't got the money for court," he shrugs.

Something clicks in your brain. You know he sees it. You see it from the way his eyes widen waiting for you. "Is this what this was about?"

He sighs, then sits on the floor across from your figure, which is still standing by the sink. You raise the ice cube on your forehead. This feels nice.

"Yuu asked me to accompany him trick or treating on Halloween."

You wait, but he's not looking at you anymore. He seems distant.

"Oookaaay, and...?" you push. He sighs again. His hand repeatedly passes through his pink locks.

"I picked up a double shift for Halloween like... last week. I can't lose the money right now, or I won't have enough for rent on the 1st," he grits out, keeping his head low. You hum. You throw the melted ice cube in the sink near the cigarette. The image makes you smile. It looks like you two.

You get down on the floor too, the tip of your sock clad feet grazing his.

"You could've asked me, you know," you say, trying to sound nonchalant. He scoffs.

"Baby, I know you're whipped, but I didn't think you wanted to be a sugar mommy at twentytwo," he says smirking. You try kicking him, but he just gets out of the way, snickering. "I'm not asking a girl for money, that's fucking humiliating."

"I'm serious, idiot. If you didn't want the money I could've taken Yuuji for you, it's not like it's the first time," you tell him, rolling your eyes. "He tried to be strong for you at the end, I know you know," you add, delicately this time, Tentatively. He stares at you and sighs for what feels like the hundredth time. He grabs your foot again and manspreads, just to position your calf on his thigh. This position feels incredibly intimate, and you try not to stiffen. You two have never been the cuddly type of roommates, but he looks like he could use a little bit of physical contact.

"It wouldn't be the same. He wants me there because all of the other kids are with their families, even if he doesn't want to tell me so. Satoru texted me about it this morning. He's taking the two brats he basically adopted too," he rambles. Sukuna is not one to open up, so you just let him talk, absorbing everything like a sponge.

"Couldn't you like... move the appointments up by a few hours?" you ask.

"I could, but I still have two fucking assignments for Halloween. If I don't turn them in I'm fucked, and I need the scholarship," he grits out. His thumb caresses your exposed ankle mindlessly. Shivers run up the entirety of your leg.

Suddenly, an idea pops into your mind.

"But what if you had an amazing roommate who oh so happened to love your brother so dearly that could turn said assignments in for you if it meant to see him happy?" you say, looking at him expectantly.

"I can't ask you that, come on," he rolls his eyes. You jump up, almost falling over him in the process. "I'm not doing that for free."

"I knew you were a bitch," he growls. You just whistle, going toward the door. He squeezes his eyes hard, before opening them, jumping up too and grabbing your wrist before you can exit the kitchen.

"What do you want?"

You grin.

That's how you find yourself holding a badly sponged muscled up Tarzan-Yuuji's little hand while going from door to door, your cute yellow Jane dress on.

"Might have given you a concussion the other day, doll," Sukuna, dressed as a monkey, grumbles next to you. You laugh, and he throws you a mean glare.

Yuuji leaves your side and runs up to his friends, screaming "Trick or treat!" with them, beaming. He looks back at you from time to time, smiling, offering you something every time the people he rings the doorbell of give him more than one candy.

You suddenly feel an arm drape over your shoulders roughly, before getting slammed into a hairy side.

"Thank you, y'know," Sukuna mumbles near your ear, pressing your head in a way where you're not able to see his expression. Then, he pushes you away. "Not for the fucking costume, that's for sure," he adds, disgusted, scratching his neck and arm at the same time. You just stand there, mouth gaping a little, in front of him.

"Cat got your tongue, sugar mama?" He tells you after a while, grinning.

You scowl, fake mad, before chuckling. "Who knew you were capable of saying thank you?"

"Don't get used to it."

Church Grim | Chapter 2

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!reader werewolf au

Content: angst, mention of death, suicidal ideation, hurt/comfort, werewolf Simon. No use of y/n.

Words: 4,161

Black Eyed Dog series masterlist

You dream of the howling, the wolves running through your property, they hunt, and stalk. They stalk you, following, chasing, tearing you apart, but it's not you, you're only watching them. Then, they're gone, and it's just you on your property, walking around aimlessly. It feels eerie, but somehow right, like you're meant to be in this cemetery. 

A fog rolling in to consume you whole.

All night long you dream of dying, the paranoia affecting the hippocampus. You dream of saying goodbye to loved ones, preparing yourself for it all. It's restless sleep, keeps you up the majority of the night. You have dreams like this often.

The morning comes too soon, and too cold. You try to huddle more under your blankets, try to forget about the cold, but it lingers all around you, seeping into your bones and reminding you of every way you've ever hurt your knees before.

It bites like it has the right.

Pushing the blankets off of you you're met with more of the cold of the early morning flooding over you, making a shiver surge through you, gooseflesh bubbling up on your skin with prickles of pain.

Opening one of your boxes you pull out a sweatshirt, putting it on over your pajama shirt, you slip some socks onto your feet before folding your arms and shuffling your way down the stairs to the thermostat, you could have sworn you made sure to adjust it before going to bed, but maybe you never turned it on.

Checking it over, the temperature should be in the mid sixties. But there was no way your house was that warm, turning the old dial you brought it closer to seventy, waiting and listening for the furnace to kick on. Nothing happened, nothing changed.

Folding your arms you cupped the sides of your chest, trying to heat your hands up as you made your way to the utilities closet, trying to ignore how the cold hardwood seeped in through your socks like they weren't even there, creeping into your very bones.

You were so sick of being cold all the time.

Opening the closet door you pulled the string to the light bulb, inspecting the furnace for an on switch or obvious issue, but you couldn't see any issues, not that you'd know what you were looking for either way. You knew nothing about furnaces.

Sighing, you turned off the light and made your way to your kitchen, putting the kettle on the gas stove, grabbing out a mug to make some tea.

You'd probably have to call someone, but that would be expensive, and you hadn't budgeted something like that out, you could dip more into your savings but you really preferred not to do that.

They were wearing thin from paying the movers as is, and you didn't like to dip below a certain amount, you needed ample savings in case you had a medical emergency, or really just anything medical related. Why did healthcare have to be so damn expensive? 

It was cheaper to die than it was to live.

You had a fireplace in the living room, you'd use that to heat the house until you figured something out, maybe there was a youtube video or something that could help you fix it. You had tools, maybe you could figure it out yourself.

It would really only be a problem at night and in the early morning, but you could just layer more blankets on your bed, see if you could find a space heater in town.

As you waited for the kettle to whistle you went upstairs to get dressed, wearing something warm, something to keep the bitter wisps of autumn at bay. 

You made it back down stairs, coming back right in time to pour your tea, the whistle of the kettle screaming in the kitchen.

After breakfast you made yourself busy, working more on unpacking and setting up the internet, setting up your curtains. It warmed you up moving and working hard. Despite everything in your life, all the pain you felt in your body, you did like to work hard, you liked to use your body and prove to yourself that you could do hard things. It felt good to exert yourself. Until it didn't.

The house warmed up more too, the morning chill dissipating into afternoon warmth, the sunlight bleeding in through the windows and making the stained glass above the doorways glow, beautiful patterns being reflected onto the walls and your belongings, the multitude of things you still needed to sort out, it made the mess almost into a work of art.

You forgot to eat lunch, too focused on unpacking. It made you dizzy by the time dinner rolled around, the hunger setting in all at once, eating away at you like you were about to drop dead. Still you pushed through, scrounging something up from the groceries you'd picked up the night before, you'd go back into town tomorrow for more things.

The sun was setting now, a chill coming in with the change from day to night.

Stepping outside you walked around to the side of the house, pulling some wood from a pile left by the previous owners, picking out the driest logs you could you hauled them back inside, their rough weight pinching and bruising your forearms through your sweatshirt, but at least you wouldn't freeze.

Lighting fires always came naturally, whether it was with wood or words, you were good at lighting that spark, stoking the embers. You struggled to admit fault, a large character flaw you tried not to let show. Sarcasm meant to cut, words meant to bite.

There was so much unkindness in your life you had regret for.

Relationships you have severed with your willingness to let things burn.

You hated it. Hated how you'd add fuel instead of trying to calm things down. Though there was only so much trying you could do before you had to let some bridges burn. Some paths weren't worth going down again, even still you had guilt over the hurt you've caused.

Maybe you'd receive forgiveness when your obituary arrives in the mail for them.

Maybe they'd stop holding it all against you then.

Blowing on the sparks you gave them oxygen to feed on the kindling, catching and spreading over the old logs, the heat washing over you, heating your face and hands.

Sitting back on your couch you watched the fire, listening to the crackles as it burned, letting its light fill your living room. You'd done enough for the day, you could sit and rest here a while. It would be okay to just take a minute.

You knew you couldn't have the fire all night, so you would have it until your house got decently warmed up.

Getting up you closed all the curtains in the house, taking all measures to preserve the warmth inside, closing your curtains at night was a good habit anyways, even when you didn't have immediate neighbors.

There was just something about looking out into the dark of the night that set you off, never sure of what might be staring back. What might be seeing you as you look out, unable to see it. Somehow the thought of nothing being able to see you as you looked out was just as perturbing.

You'd heard stories about why you should shut your curtains at night, your grandma ever one for folklore and superstitions.

Though truthfully you typically kept most of your curtains closed anyways, day or night, unless you were in a more cheery mood or if it was what you would consider a beautiful day outside they'd stay shut, at least the one in your room, you tried to open the one in the living room every day.

Sometimes you felt your grandma passed down more supernatural stories than stories about her own life, her own experiences. You knew her from tales of things that most people didn't believe in, and you'd see her in them for the rest of your life, unable to find her in anything else.

You should have asked more questions, learned who she was outside of all her spooky stories and warnings. Now you'll never know more about her. Who gave her the necklace, where she's worked, all the places she's lived, how she knows so much folklore from every part of the world, and why she wanted to pass the knowledge down to you. 

There was so much you'd never know.

If only the dead could talk, you'd never leave her grave.

Once everything was locked up and all the curtains were shut for the night you went upstairs to get changed into some pajamas, the ones you wore last night would probably be too cold tonight.

Sorting through your boxes of clothes you searched for something that would work, pulling out a white nightgown you'd gotten from your grandma's things after her death, it was thicker, two layers in the body, though one was probably more so like a slip, it had long sleeves, and buttons that brought the neckline up to your collarbone, not necessarily made for the cold but it would help trap your body heat around you like another blanket. That's all you needed.

You paired it with some fleece lined leggings that matched your skin tone as close as cloth could, you typically wore them in the winter, under skirts or dresses, paired them with tights a lot, just another layer of warmth. Tonight they were serving as pajama pants to keep you from freezing to death.

Tomorrow you'd have to sort through more boxes and try to find your winter pajama pants, but you weren't in the mood for a wild goose chase tonight.

Coming back downstairs you settled back by the fire, adding another log.

You felt a little other worldly sitting here, like a ghost. Haunting your own home, a home that had so many people live in it before you, filling it with love and laughter, lives that were hopefully filled with more joy than sorrows. These walls knew love, you knew that from the way the house had settled. The swing on the porch. 

You hadn't thought you'd be the ghost here. The one still out of place.

You've always haunted every place you've been, you weren't someone who lit up a room, more like an eerie dark corner. It felt like anywhere you went whisperings followed you, pitied looks, oftentimes though you were ignored entirely. Like you didn't even exist.

You missed your grandma, she had always listened to you. She would come and pick you up from your childhood home anytime you'd asked to spend the night, you practically lived with her when you were young. Anything to avoid home.

Tugging on the silver chain around your neck you looked down at the locket, running your thumb over the dream catcher, feeling the grooves of the silver with your skin. You used to crawl up onto her lap just to play with her necklace, sit with her and look at it for hours.

You should have gone before her. Then you wouldn't have to be sitting here without her.

You should have died before a lot of things happened in your life. Maybe it would have been better for you if you hadn't lived at all.

Life was tiring, exhausting. It had a way of beating you down, one thing after another. It was always one thing after another.

Taking a deep breath you leaned back more into the couch, closing your eyes.

Sometimes, when things were quiet, peaceful, you could relax like this, feel almost like you were floating, you could just let yourself drift for a while, shut off your brain. Be nothing for a moment. Feel like you weren't here, living in your body of years.

You liked the idea of being nothing, laying down and decomposing back into the earth, leaving your body behind, really becoming a ghost, wandering around with a sunken face. You'd make a better ghost than a person anyways.

You saw beauty in death few others did. Your relationship with it was enough to drive some away.

You were being left behind by living, breathing people for a fascination you couldn't shake out of you.

It wasn't a good way to live, but it's not like you were living anyways, you were just waiting.

Sitting up you poked at the dying coals, putting out the fire before making your way up to bed, it got much colder with each step you took away from the living room, your own bedroom was untouched by the warmth the fire had.

Climbing in under your pile of blankets you laid yourself down to sleep.

You weren't sure how long you'd laid there, feeling the cold slowly seeping into you, robbing you of the warmth you'd gained. You weren't even sure if you'd fallen asleep at all before you heard it.

It was the howling again. The calling. Right outside.

Getting up from your bed you pulled back the curtains, looking out the window down at your front yard, the light from the almost full moon lighting it up enough to see things, your warm breath was fogging up the glass, almost canceling out the usefulness of the moon, but what you saw was unmistakable, a giant black dog stared back up at you, it's tapetum lucidum reflecting up at you.

It wasn't a dog though, it was much too big, too big to be a wolf either.

Staring down at the creature your mind searched for a reason it'd be here, calling to you, like a guide.

A guide.

You remembered a piece of folklore and history your grandmother had told you about, church grims, black dogs in graveyards meant to stay and lead the others buried there to the other side.

Maybe you'd died in your sleep, frozen to death. Maybe that's why you were still so unbelievably cold, you'd heard ghosts were cold. Chilled without their hearts pumping in them, or the blanket of skin over their bones, muscle and fat like a comforter.

Had you really died in your sleep? Or were you just seeing what was to be in your future? Why did you feel peace with this? Weren't you supposed to be scared? Staring down at the call to the other side.

Stepping away from the window you felt compelled, compelled to meet the dog closer. To follow it, to be with it.

It was to be your guide.

Something that knew your name, something that would remember your name as it took you.

You were in a daze, slipping on your socks and boots, though you supposed a ghost wouldn't have much use for them, even still it was a habit.

Opening the door you stepped out, your boots meeting the wood of the porch, the dog watched you, its eyes so dark they looked black, inky voids taking you in, taking in your every move, its head lowering as it watched you. 

You took slow steps to the end of your porch, resting your hand on the post, standing on the edge before the steps. Still the dog watched you, no more reflections in it's eyes to shine back at you, even with the moonlight overhead you saw nothing in them.

There was a breeze in the air, bringing the chill of autumn into you, pushing your nightgown, swirling it around your legs. "Lead me?" Your voice is soft, you're not even sure what you're asking. 

Asking a church grim to take you.

Dogs have been mankind's best friends for centuries, the church grim were made from man's fear of being without comfort and companionship, giving the job to a beloved animal, one who would stand their loyal post and help along all those who needed it.

You needed it. Desperately. 

You carefully stepped down the two steps, standing before the dog, it was bigger than it looked from upstairs, level with your shoulders.

It turned away from you, slowly walking, letting you keep pace with it, your hand gently went to its soft fur, resting on its back to keep from falling behind. It was warm, very warm. A juxtaposition to the cold night air sinking into the rest of you.

You were able to keep an easy pace with the dog, its head would turn to look back at you every once in a while, checking up on you.

It was leading you through your property, taking you towards the cemetery. You were getting colder, leaning into the dog more you sought their warmth. 

Were church grims supposed to be warm? It would make sense, warmth was often associated with comfort, a hot meal, soup, cider, tea, fresh baked cookies. The arms of a loved one. This was meant to be a final comfort before moving on, something welcoming.

"Was it you I heard last night?" You'd never been shepherded like this, never had something nice to follow. Something you've really wanted to follow.

The dog glanced at you, seeming to decide on a spot it wanted you they stopped, blocking your way with its body.

You stood with the dog, eventually sitting down in the overgrown grass, sitting among the tombstones, the dog sat beside you, watching over the rest of the cemetery. You took the opportunity to look over the dog, your cold hands petting his warm fur.

Leaning into the dog you sought more of his heat, soaking up his excesses, he looked down at you as you snuggled into him, taking in your actions, he made no actions to move away.

"I've always liked cemeteries, my hometown had a nice one, it was old. There was a statue in it, a woman weeping. I would go drive through just to see her, there was no name on the statue, no story to the grave. I've always wondered about her, why she's weeping." You weren't sure why you were talking about this, you weren't sure the grim could even understand you, but this was nice. The most mellow comfort you've felt in a long time.

"When I die I want a statue, something people would take interest in, maybe something people can see themselves in, let my grave become something people can connect to. It doesn't have to have my name on it, but maybe I'd like it to, I want someone to be able to know me even after all is said and done. I want to be seen. I don't care if they ever met me, I want someone to know me." You looked up at the moon, it was at the end of the waxing gibbous phase, the full moon would land over the weekend.

Looking over to the dog you took in his face, his ears, his eyes, they were such a dark brown they looked black, black pools you could fall into, drift into oblivion. Maybe they were black, otherworldly. 

Scooting in front of him you knelt before him, gently cupping the dog's face, bringing it closer to you, rubbing your thumbs over his soft fur, his eyes never leaving yours. "What's it like to be buried? Are you there? With your body? Does your soul stay with it? Experience each bit of dirt falling over you, solidifying your eternal resting place. Is it peaceful?" 

You resist the urge to bring your forehead to his, to connect them. To hold him like a dear friend. He wasn't yours, you were just here with him, sharing this moment. 

Leaning back you sat back on the ground, releasing him. "I suppose it doesn't really matter either way, we all end up dead and deposited somewhere, no matter how your remains are dealt with." Absentmindedly you pull on the chain around your neck, holding your locket in your hand, rubbing your cold thumb over the warm silver, heated from your body, your core. 

The grim looked down at your necklace, staring at it, ears back as his eyes narrowed at it. studying the glinting metal in your hand. Seemingly curious about it.

Moving back beside him you leaned into him, still holding the silver locket. It was becoming a habit to hold it, to feel it. Almost a compulsion. A need. It gave your hands something to do, something to feel. 

The dog still watched your hands, watching you, looking down at you as you leaned into him. You were shivering by now, body tensing as it soaked in the cold. Your hands and feet took the worst of it, though your nose and ears weren't fairing much better.

You've always hated feeling cold, but a part of you also liked it, the serene, quiet misery. 

The grim pushed at your head with his snout, pushing at you until you were laying down, moving in beside you, partially on you. A heated blanket over you. 

Dropping your necklace you let it fall back onto your chest, using your hands to instead pet him, running your hand over his head, smoothing it over his forehead and down his neck. You'd never pet a dog so soft, so pleasant. 

You'd only had one other animal accept you this quickly once in your life, you missed that dog every time you thought of them. 

You couldn't imagine how loved this church grim was in life, how much he must have meant to his people, to everyone else in his life. You didn't know how long he's been here, what kind of dog or breed he was before he came back as this, this huge black wolf. 

You wondered how playful and loving he must have been in his youth. He must have died old, he had that wise and gentle attitude old dogs had. 

"I hope you've been loved. Your whole life, I hope you never had to question whether you were or not. I hope you were treated with kindness, I hope you had good things in your life." You let out a deep shaky breath, relaxing in the cold overgrown grass. 

The wildflowers were going dormant, giving up on keeping their flowers, dying back for the colder weather all around you, around the graves. The dead and dying at peace with one another.

The cold didn't sink into you as badly with him on you like this, his head on your abdomen, your hands in his thick coat, his soft eyes looking up at you. 

This was what peace was, this was all you needed, something to keep the all consuming cold at bay and a quiet company. It was all you've ever asked for, begged for. Company. 

You didn't want to be alone all the time anymore, you didn't want to have to make do, fill in your touch deficit with an added blanket on your bed, replacing what you needed from a person with a little more weight on top of you. A pillow beside you that you could throw your leg over, sleep between your two pillows, pretend you were sleeping on the arm of someone you love.

But you had no one to love. So you tried to love yourself, love your solitude. And in many ways you did, but now without any form of support, whenever you'd start to sink, start to slip, you'd sink alone. 

Drown under a ragged sea, one you didn't volunteer to be sailing. One you'd seemingly never find land on. Misery until the end. Could true peace be found in the same place as misery? Could you have both happiness and joy at the same time as misery? Or were you made of what you felt most? 

Were you as miserable to be around as you were miserable in your life? Is that why when the diagnosis comes around everyone around you stops coming too?

You were drifting, eyes slowly closing, but tonight, right now, you weren't sinking alone. You had something with you. 

If this was all real you'd be dead in the morning, if you haven't already frozen to death you would with the morning frost, it would cover your body, stick to your skin, freeze your hair, stopping your tired heart. 

Fitting you'd die in the cold. Something that's always surrounded you, even with all the warm hospital blankets, heating packs, warm air, it's always lingered. Always slipped in. 

You don't remember what came next, but in the morning you woke up in your bed, still cold. A comfort missing from your heart, as if all that happened last night was a dream. 

Reaching for the chain around your neck you didn't find it there, in a surge of panic you looked all around you, patting your sheets, letting out a sigh of relief when you found it on your nightstand, a cloth underneath it. You don't remember taking it off, but you must have. 

None of last night must have been real. A vivid dream, like the night before.

You had no comfort in the night, no guide. Nothing was going to lead you to peace. Only in dreams would you ever catch glimpses of that.

she won't go away— a sukuna fic

art creds to to_0fu (twitter/x)

pairing — college sukuna! x reader

synopsis — of all the people in your chemistry course, you get stuck with ryomen sukuna—the most insufferable, arrogant asshole on campus. he barely does any work, runs his mouth like it’s a sport, and somehow manages to make your life even more exhausting than it already is. if this project doesn’t kill you, he just might.

wc — 26k (ONLY 1K ABOVE THE EXPECTED WC YAAAY)

warnings — explicit sexual content (unprotected sex), sukuna is quite mean in the beginning, possibly incorrect depiction of frat culture (spare me i am not american), lots of sexual jokes, brief tiny smidge of angst, reader is a bad bitch, mentions of feeling insecure, choso and toji are gym himbos.

“Please, anyone but him, professor—” You try begging, hands gripping the edge of the desk like your life depends on it. You know it’s useless, but desperation makes a fool out of you.

Professor Shimizu sighs, sympathy flashing across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. She adjusts her glasses, pushing them up her nose, and gives you a rueful smile. “I understand your concerns,” she says, “and if it were up to me, I’d happily rearrange the groups, but the pairings were assigned by the department. Something about fostering academic cooperation.” She shakes her head like she, too, thinks it’s bullshit. “My hands are tied.”

Your stomach sinks. Fostering academic cooperation? With him? You’d have better luck reasoning with a brick wall—one that could talk back and insult you for fun. You turn back toward the class, eyes darting between the clusters of students already deep in discussion. Some of them look at you with poorly concealed amusement, others with pity. And then there’s him, sitting by the window, looking positively bored like this whole situation is an inconvenience. 

Ryomen Sukuna.

The campus heartthrob. The golden boy of the mechanical engineering department. A nightmare wrapped in a six-foot-something frame of smugness and muscle. A nightmare that you unfortunately have to share your CHEM10002 course with (why he’d picked a premed course as an elective was beyond you) You hate him. And not in the petty ugh, he’s annoying kind of way. It’s deeper than that. He’s insufferable. Arrogant. Egotistical. The type of guy who always has a girl in his bed but never the same one twice. He walks around campus like he owns the place, flashing that sharp grin, that lazy confidence that makes people—girls, especially—fawn over him despite his reputation. Cocky, rude, impossible to work with.

And now you’re stuck with him. Oh, hell no. Your body stiffens. No way. No fucking way. Like hell you’re going to spend the next few weeks working with him. You whip your head back to Professor Shimizu, grasping at anything—anything—to get out of this. “What if I did extra credit? A research paper? A presentation? Anything,” you plead, voice tight. “I’ll take a lower grade. Dock my participation. I don’t care—just not him.”

She sighs, but it’s not exasperated, just… tired. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says, like you’re asking for more work because you love learning instead of trying to escape an actual nightmare. “But, again, I can’t change the pairings. And as much as I’d love to give you an alternative assignment, the department is very strict on this. It’s meant to ‘challenge students to collaborate beyond personal preference.’” She air-quotes it, which means she definitely thinks it’s bullshit. You slump, stomach twisting with something bitter. Collaboration? With Sukuna? The only thing he collaborates on is making everyone’s life harder.

You grit your teeth, hard. He’s lounging now, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other lazily spinning a pen between his fingers while he lazily eyes you from where he’s manspreading in his seat. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying, and that’s what pisses you off the most—he never tries. Not in class, not with people, not with anything. Everything just seems to work out for him anyway.

You hate that you know that. You really hate that you know that. But you’ve known him long enough. Long enough to remember—

Freshman Year

It was something small. Stupid, even. But you still remember the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck, the way people laughed under their breath, how he barely even looked at you afterward, like it hadn’t mattered.  You had been in a required first-year seminar, and the professor called on you to answer a question. It wasn’t hard, but the nerves got the best of you—you stumbled over your words, your voice wavered.

And then you heard it. A tsk, followed by a lazy, mocking lilt:

“Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.”

Heat flushed through you, the classroom suddenly too bright, too small. A few people chuckled—some outright laughed. You had swallowed thickly, willing yourself to focus, to get through the answer. When class ended, you stormed out, ignoring the lingering stares, the murmured that was brutal from some guy behind you. But Sukuna? He didn’t even glance your way. Because to him, it wasn’t anything. It wasn’t worth a second thought. And now, here you are, stuck working with the one person who had made you feel like an idiot before you even had the chance to prove yourself. 

You hadn’t even thought about it that much at the time—not really. But later, when you were alone, it festered. You were just a freshman. Barely out of high school, still figuring things out, still nervous about speaking up in a room full of people smarter, older, better than you. It wasn’t even like you got the answer wrong—you had just hesitated. That was all it took. And it was stupid, so stupid, but after that day, you started thinking twice before speaking in class. Before raising your hand. Before answering anything unless you were absolutely sure you wouldn’t trip over your words. And god, you hate that it got to you. It’s not like it was some big, scarring moment. It was one second of his life. A second he probably doesn’t even remember.

But it was yours. It wasn’t just that one time. There was another. Worse, somehow, because this time, he hadn’t even been speaking to you—just about you. It was late freshman year, after you’d spent the whole semester training yourself not to stutter, not to hesitate, not to embarrass yourself again. You were doing better. At least, you thought you were. Until one afternoon, outside the student center, when you walked past Sukuna and his group of friends—Toji, Choso, Mahito, and a couple of others, all leaned back on the benches like they owned the place.

You weren’t eavesdropping. You didn’t mean to hear it. But then—

“—was struggling so bad, I thought she was gonna pass out.”

A few chuckles. A low whistle from Toji. 

“Like, just say it, dumbass,” Sukuna scoffed, sharp, mocking. “Or at least commit. That shit was painful to listen to.”

Your stomach dropped. You don’t know who they were talking about. Maybe some other poor freshman who had choked on their words mid-discussion. Maybe a random classmate. Maybe—

Your face burned. You forced yourself to keep walking, head down, pretending like it wasn’t about you, like you weren’t suddenly back in that seminar with his voice in your ears and everyone’s quiet snickers pressing into your skin. He didn’t even look at you as you passed. Of course, he didn’t. He probably didn’t even remember it was the same person. And now, three years later, you have to sit across from Ryomen Sukuna, the campus asshole, the man who probably hasn’t stuttered a day in his goddamn life, and pretend you don’t want to walk out of this classroom and never come back.  You exhale sharply, pressing your fingers into your temples.

This is fine. You’ve dealt with annoying people before. You’ve had to work with partners who contributed nothing, who slacked off, who treated group projects like free rides. Sukuna is just another roadblock—one with a stupid face and a worse attitude.

And, honestly? It’s not even about the stuttering thing anymore. That was years ago, and you’d be damned if you let some insignificant moment from freshman year shake you now. Just because he made you insecure about one thing doesn’t mean you’re meek. You’ve worked too hard to let this get to you. So, with all the grace you can muster, you pull out the chair across from him, stiffly sit down, and say, “Hi, I’m—”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge you. Doesn’t even pretend to try. Instead, he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, and immediately starts talking to Toji, who’s standing nearby.

“So, dinner at that steak place tonight?”

“Yeah,” Toji mutters, tapping at his phone. “Gonna see if they’ve got space.”

Sukuna scoffs. “They always have space.”

“No, dumbass, last time we went, they were booked.”

“They let us in last time,” Sukuna corrects, smirking, and that smugness makes your eye twitch. Are you being fucking ignored? You glance between them, incredulous, and then say, “I’m literally talking to you.”

That finally gets his attention. Slowly, like you’re the inconvenience here, Sukuna turns his head toward you. His gaze flicks over you, slow, unimpressed, like he’s barely registering you exist. You square your shoulders. “This project is quite hefty. We need to split up the research so we’re not scrambling at the last minute.”

He stares at you for a moment, blank, and then—

He rolls his eyes.

“Jesus,” he mutters, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You’re one of those, huh?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

“The tryhard type. Gets assigned a little homework and suddenly thinks they’re running a Fortune 500 company.” He tilts his head, smirking. “Relax, woman. It’s just a project.”

Woman. Your jaw clenches so hard it hurts. 

“That ‘little homework’ is forty five percent of our grade,” you bite out.

“Don’t give a fuck,” he grunts, sounding bored.

You inhale deeply. “So, I was thinking—”

But he groans, dragging a tattooed hand down his face. “Are we seriously doing this now?”

“Yes, we’re seriously doing this now,” you snap. He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring. “God, you’re fucking annoying.”

You’re not sure whether you should be offended or hurt. On one hand, obviously as a normal human being, being spoken to like this from a person you’re quite literally talking to for the first time is bound to hurt your feelings. On the other hand, this guy’s dickhead personality is kind of well known through your university. Your grip on your pen tightens, but you keep your voice even.

 “I’m annoying because I want to pass?”

”You’re annoying because you talk way too fuckin’ much.”

 That stings more than you’d like to admit. You grit your teeth, ignoring the way your stomach tightens, and push forward anyway. “If we divide the research today, we won’t have to meet up as often,” you say, firmly. “I assume you’ll want to do as little work as possible, so let’s just—”

“Holy shit.” Sukuna pushes his chair back with a loud scrape, fixing you with an exasperated look. “Do you ever shut up?” You blink, stunned. Toji snickers.

“Oh, come on,” Sukuna scoffs, throwing up a hand. “You’re gonna sit there all wide-eyed like I just kicked your fuckin’ puppy? You started it.” Your fingers twitch against the table. “Started what?” you ask, voice dangerously calm. “This whole thing—acting like I’m some bum ass delinquent who needs a babysitter.” His eyes narrow. “If you wanna play boss, go find some other loser to be a bitch to.”

Your patience snaps. “Or you could just not be a lazy asshole. Do you lack brain cells? You’ve seriously told me to shut up like 5 times in the span of about ten minutes. Do you have a problem where you can’t focus?” The air between you shifts.

Sukuna’s jaw tics. His expression darkens, something sharp flashing through his eyes, but then his lips pull into something crueler than a smirk—something with edges, something dangerous.

“You think I’m lazy? Got somethin’ wrong with me because I can’t take your nerdy bitching?” he asks, voice low. You hesitate, but only for a second. “Glad you have the ability to comprehend what I said.” That makes him grin. “And you think I’m an asshole?”

“Yes.”

He hums, tilting his head. Then he leans forward, just slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice drops into something smug, mocking—

“Then why the fuck are you still talking to me?”

Your blood boils.

What the fuck is his problem?

You lean forward too, matching him, refusing to shrink under his gaze. “Because I have to, dumbass,” you snap. “I tried to change my group. I begged. I offered to do extra credit. I would have written a whole goddamn thesis if it meant not sitting across from you—but guess what?” You gesture sharply between you. “I’m stuck with you.”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Tragic.”

You let out a frustrated breath, gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turn white. “So, as much as I’d love to pretend you don’t exist—”

“Then do it,” he interrupts, tone dry.

You blink. “What?”

“If you wanna pretend I don’t exist, go ahead,” he drawls, leaning back lazily. “Do the whole project yourself. You’ll probably enjoy it, since you’re clearly getting off on playing group leader.”

“Oh, my god.” You clench your fists, barely restraining yourself. “Why are you such a dickhead? Parents not teach you basic respect?”

“Because you don’t shut the fuck up,” he snaps, finally looking genuinely irritated.

Your lips part, incredulous. “I’m literally just trying to do the fucking project? Like any normal human being?”

“No, you’re trying to control shit,” Sukuna says flatly. “Like this is some big deal—like I haven’t passed a million of these useless classes already.”

You stare at him. “You think this is useless?”

He smirks. “Yeah.”

Oh, you hate him.

“Some of us actually give a shit about our grades, Sukuna.”

“You know my name? Cute.” You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to stay calm, trying not to launch your textbook at his stupid, perfect face. “I don’t care how many classes you’ve passed,” you say, voice taut. “You’re doing this one with me. I care about this project. And if I have to suffer through working with you, you can at least pretend to give a shit.” He tilts his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mm. No.”

You exhale slowly, trying—failing—to stop your hands from curling into fists.

“I swear to god—”

“What, huh?” he cuts in, voice dripping with condescension. “You gonna whine to the professor again?” He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Your jaw tightens. He grins, like he’s won something. Like he’s getting exactly what he wants—like this is a game to him, something to toy with, something to waste his time on. And you refuse to let him win. So, you straighten your spine, lift your chin, and meet his gaze without flinching. “Fine,” you say, voice steely. “If you want to half-ass this, be my guest. Just don’t expect me to pick up your slack.”

Sukuna watches you, amused, as if he’s waiting for you to crack. When you don’t, he smirks.

“We’ll see.”

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.

“Well, unfortunately for you,” you say stiffly, “you actually have to do your share.”

Sukuna snorts. “Says who?”

“The professor.” You cross your arms. “Since apparently, students have been slacking on group projects, we have to submit proof of collaboration—meeting logs, progress updates, actual proof that we’re working together.” His expression darkens. You fight the urge to smirk. Suffer.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.

“Nope.” You press your lips together, trying to hold back your pure satisfaction. “So, congratulations, Sukuna. You have to meet up with me at least once a week.” He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring at you like you’re personally ruining his life. “You’re telling me I have to sit through this shit every week?”

“Yep.”

“You specifically?”

“Yep.”

Sukuna groans, dragging a hand through the unruly pink strands of his hair. Then, just as you’re about to remind him that this is literally his problem for being a shit student, he lifts his head—eyes raking over you in a slow, lazy once-over. And then, he smirks. You freeze.

“What?” you snap, immediately on edge.

His smirk widens.

“Nah, I was just thinking,” he drawls, tipping his head back against his chair. “If you were hotter, this would be way less painful.”

Your stomach drops. The words hit you like a slap, and for a second, all you can do is sit there, stunned, completely caught off guard by how casual—how easy—it is for him to say something like that. Like it’s just true. Like it’s a fact. Your fingers dig into your sleeve. And the worst part? It’s not even the insult itself that stings—it’s the sheer, blatant dismissal. The fact that he looks at you and immediately decides you’re not worth even pretending to be interested in. As if you were hoping for his attention. As if you were seeking his approval. 

“Yeah?” you say, voice flat, emotionless. “Well, if you were smarter, I wouldn’t have to carry your useless ass through this class.” His grin falters, just barely, but you see it—and for once, it’s your turn to smirk. You lean forward, matching his posture, tilting your head mockingly.

“Guess we’re both disappointed, huh?” 

For a moment, Sukuna just stares at you. And you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, how his fingers twitch against the table like he’s fighting the urge to rip you apart. Good. Then—he exhales sharply through his nose, tipping his chair back slightly, acting unfazed even though you saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Damn,” he muses, voice slow, dragging. “Didn’t know you had a mouth on you.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “Didn’t know you gave a shit.”

Sukuna scoffs. “I don’t.”

“Then shut the fuck up and do your assigned work.”

He lets out a low, mean laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”

“Generous?” You nearly choke. “You’ve been nothing but a dick since the moment I sat down.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Could be worse.”

You want to strangle him. Instead, you inhale sharply through your nose, pressing your palms flat against the table before forcing yourself to stay on track. “Whatever,” you say, shaking your head. “Here’s the deal: we have to meet at least once a week. I don’t care where. I don’t care when. But we need to get the work done, and I need proof that you were actually present—because if we don’t, we both fail.”

Sukuna glares at you, as if the very concept of responsibility offends him.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face again. “You’re really gonna be a hardass about this, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t care about failing?”

“Not really.”

Your eyes narrow. “Then why are you even in this class?”

At this, he finally drops his chair back down onto all four legs, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, voice lower, more serious. “I don’t need this shit. I’m here because my old man thinks I should at least pretend to give a fuck about college.” He smirks, sharp and taunting. “But don’t get it twisted—I don’t actually give a fuck.” You pause, studying him, trying to piece together the weight behind his words. Of course, you know he comes from money. Everyone does. The Ryomen family name carries weight, old money, power, prestige—so it makes sense that college, for him, is just some bullshit obligation rather than a means to a future. Still, something about the way he says it—how bitter it sounds—sticks with you. Not that you care.

You roll your eyes. “Right. Got it. Poor little rich boy.”

His smirk drops.

For a second, there’s silence.

Then—

“You know what?” Sukuna says, voice eerily calm. “Fine. I’ll meet up with you.”

You blink, a little thrown off by how easily he gives in.

“…Okay?”

“But.” His gaze darkens, and the corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he’s daring you to argue. “You work around my schedule.”

Your stomach twists with irritation. “That’s not—”

“Not my problem,” he cuts in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do morning meetups. I don’t do last-minute bullshit. And if you start bitching about how I ‘don’t take this seriously,’” he mocks, voice lilting high, “I will walk out and leave you with an automatic fail. Or whatever the fuck happens to your grade if the other person doesn’t do their part. Got it?” Your blood boils. But what can you do? You already tried to get reassigned. So, through gritted teeth, you say, “Fine.”

Sukuna smirks.

“Good girl.”

–

You should have known it was going to be hell the second he suggested meeting at the East Wing library. It’s the furthest damn library on campus—twenty minutes from the dorms, uphill, and completely out of the way. Not a single other student in your class would have chosen that location. And yet, when you tried suggesting the much closer, more convenient library, Sukuna had just shrugged, barely sparing you a glance as he packed up his bag.

“Aw, did you forget that I’m in charge of where we meet up?,” he drawled, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “That sounds like a you problem.”

And just like that, the decision was final. So now, here you are, twenty minutes later, climbing the last flight of stairs to the East Wing library, already in a foul mood before the study session has even started. And when you finally get there? You find Sukuna kicked back in his chair at one of the study tables, feet up, scrolling through his phone like he’s waiting on room service instead of his own damn groupmate.

No laptop. No notes No book. Just his phone. Un-fucking-believable. You drop your bag onto the chair across from him, loudly, but he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge your presence at all.

“Seriously?” you deadpan, arms crossing. Sukuna exhales through his nose, still not looking at you. “Took you long enough.” You almost black out from rage.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice flat. “My dorm is on the opposite side of campus.” He hums, barely acknowledging your words, his focus glued to his phone. You take a deep breath, count to three, and pull out your laptop. “Okay. So, the project—”

Before you can even finish, his phone rings. And instead of silencing it, like a normal human being, Sukuna just smirks and answers it, right there in front of you. “Yo,” he says lazily, stretching his arms behind his head. Your eye twitches. The person on the other end—you recognise the voice as Choso—says something that makes Sukuna huff a laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m at the library,” he mutters. “With that chick from class.” Your hand tightens around your pen. So he didn’t even know your name. Great. And you two were supposedly paired for the rest of this semester? You wanted to fucking die. Not even two minutes in, and he’s already testing your patience. Sukuna leans back, grinning as Choso says something else. “Nah, it’s just her,” Sukuna says, completely offhand. “No eye candy here, bro.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Did this dumbass seriously just say that out loud? In a library? In the middle of your study session? You drop your pen onto the table with a sharp thud, but the sting in your chest lingers. It’s not like you expected anything different from him. It’s not like you cared.

…Except you do. Just a little. Not because you want him to think you’re pretty—fuck no—but because there’s something uniquely humiliating about being dismissed like that. Like your presence is some minor inconvenience he has to tolerate. Your jaw locks, and you square your shoulders, forcing the feeling down. Screw him. You’re not here to impress him. You’re here to get your damn work done. Sukuna finally glances up, raising a brow like he just now realized you’re sitting there. You stare at him, completely done. He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. You look like someone stuck a stick up your ass.”

“Genuinely do you have a mental illness or some shit?,” you shoot back, your irritation reaching an all-time high. “We have a chemistry project that’s 45% of our grade, and you’re sitting here talking about—”

“Bro, hold on,” Sukuna suddenly says into the receiver, cutting you off mid-rant. He holds his hand up like he’s physically silencing you, turning his head away. “Choso, you hear this? Shorty’s about to pop a blood vessel over some homework. All ‘cause I said she isn’t some eye candy. Women, right?”

Your mouth falls open.

Did he just—

“I— You—”

Your brain short-circuits for a second, tripping over the sheer audacity of him. Sukuna leans back in his chair, grinning up at you like a complete bastard. “You need to get laid or something?” A beat of silence. Your entire body stills. And then, without hesitation, you lean forwards and rip his phone out of his hand and slam it face-down in front of you.

“The fuck?” Sukuna scoffs, finally looking genuinely surprised for the first time all day. Then, his smirk returns, and he props his chin on his hand, clearly amused. “You got some nerve,” he muses. 

“And you have the IQ of a fucking vegetable, but we’re still here.”

Sukuna huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“My panties in a twist?” you scoff, staring at him in pure disbelief. “You refuse to work, you talk shit about the way I look while I’m sitting right here, and you—”

“You are sitting right there, and you’re not really hot enough for me to notice.” he interrupts smoothly. “What, you want me to lie?” 

Your eye twitches. “You could at least pretend to have an ounce of human decency—”

“Pfft,” Sukuna snorts. “For you?” Your nostrils flare. Sukuna just grins. “Oh, come on,” he drawls, waving a hand. “You’re taking this way too personally.”

“How—” You press your fingers to your temples, inhaling sharply. “How else am I supposed to take it when you—”

“And you,” Sukuna counters casually, “are a fucking headache.” You slam your hand against the table, startling the people sitting nearby. “At least I’m a headache with a work ethic. You’re a pain in the ass and can’t focus for like what? 2 seconds? Without spacing out.”

“Congrats,” he deadpans. “You want a gold star?”

You want him to get hit by a bus. 

Sukuna shakes his head, leaning back again, still looking far too entertained. “Look, we both know you’re gonna do most of the work anyway,” he says lazily. “So why not just save yourself the stress and accept it?”

“Because this is a group project—”

“Yeah, and I’m in the group. So technically, that counts.” You inhale sharply, barely keeping yourself from lunging across the table.

“Swear to god, bro,” Sukuna snorts, having picked up his phone from where you’d slammed it down, resuming his call with Choso, “I got this chick sending me, like, three nudes back-to-back last night. Shit was insane.”

“You are,” you say, voice flat, “fucking disgusting.” Sukuna smirks, clearly thriving off your irritation. “Oh? Why, ‘cause I get pussy?”

“No,” you snap, willing for your cheeks not to redden with the way he speaks so crudely. “Because we’re supposed to be working.”

He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. I got time.” You scoff. “Oh, so you do know how deadlines work?”

“Damn,” Sukuna mutters, shaking his head, lips curling into an annoyed frown. “You’re really pressed over this, huh?”

“This is not happening,” you mutter under your breath. “I am not about to let some oversized thug skate his way through a semester while I—”

“Thug?” Sukuna repeats, laughing. “You mean scholar? You hear that, Choso?” He puts his phone on speaker. “She just called me a thug.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Choso’s voice comes through the speaker, lazy and unbothered. “She’s right.” Sukuna snaps his head down at his phone. “The fuck?” 

You bark out a sharp laugh, your first real one of the evening. Sukuna rolls his eyes and hangs up, tossing his phone onto the table with an annoyed click of his tongue. “Choso’s a bitch,” he mutters.

“And you’re a waste of oxygen.” Sukuna grins at you. “You’re a piece of shit.” You snatch your textbook off the table and throw it at him, eye twitching when he easily manages to catch it.

“Oh my god, please kill yourself and do us all a favour” Sukuna laughs at that, tilting his head like he’s genuinely entertained by how close you are to losing your shit. “C’mon,” he drawls, placing his phone face-down on the table—finally giving you some attention. “Let’s hear it, then. What’s our big, bad, super important assignment?”

You exhale sharply, flipping open your notes. “It’s a research-based chemistry project. We’re supposed to choose a topic related to reaction mechanisms and provide a full breakdown of the process. That includes—”

Sukuna leans back. “Boring.” You snap your notebook shut again. “Oh my god.” He grins. “This is really your shit, huh?”

“What?”

“The nerdy little projects,” he teases, resting his chin on his hand. “Bet you’re thriving right now.” You glare. “I am thriving off the idea of you getting hit by a bus.” Sukuna just chuckles, shaking his head. “Violent,” he muses. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” You press your fingers against your temples. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He smirks. “That’s cute.” You inhale sharply. Exhale. Inhale again. This is fine. This is totally fine. He is just a guy. This is just a project. And you are not going to let him get under your skin. You open your notebook again, forcing yourself to focus. “Our topic is—”

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Ooooor,” he interrupts, leaning forward with a lazy smirk, “you can just shut up and do it yourself.”

You pause. You blink at him, barely processing what he just said. He shrugs. “You’re good at this shit. I’m not. Seems fair.” Your jaw clenches. “Haven’t you gotten it through your thick skull? Even if I wanted to, we have to constantly update all the meeting logs, and–.”

Sukuna just smirks wider, cutting you off in true Sukuna fashion. “But it’d be so much easier if you did all of it, wouldn’t it? And those fucking collaboration logs can be faked.” You stare at him. You are going to lose your mind. You are actually going to lose your fucking mind. You inhale one last time, roll your shoulders back, and meet his gaze with renewed determination. “Let’s get one thing straight,” you say, voice sharp. “If you refuse to contribute, I will tell our professor. And you know that they take the reported behaviour for consideration the next time they mark a group assignment from literally any other class, yeah? ”

Sukuna snorts. “Snitch.” You glare harder. “I don’t care.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head like you’re just so exhausting to deal with.

“Such a pain in the ass,” he mutters, stretching his arms above his head. “But whatever. We’ll see.” 

You stare him down. You know what that means. It means he has no intention of doing shit. You exhale slowly, clenching your jaw. This is going to be the longest semester of your life.

–

You try to keep your composure. You really, really do. But after a week of dealing with Ryomen fucking Sukuna, you’re already at your breaking point. It’s bad enough that he refuses to contribute anything to the project. Bad enough that every time you try to get him to focus, he leans back in his chair like some smug, insufferable prince, making a point to not listen.

“Oh, come on,” he drawls one day in class, stretching lazily in his seat while you sit next to him, barely keeping yourself from strangling him. His shirt rides up just a bit, flashing a sliver of tattooed skin– and a happy trail– and you look away on instinct. He deserves no admiration. “You love this shit. It’s kind of sweet, honestly. Doing all the work for me like this?”

Your grip tightens on your pen, knuckles going white. “I wouldn’t have to if you actually did your part, dumbass.”

Unfortunately, the guy was worse than you had anticipated, so begrudgingly, only once or twice you had taken up his slack, deeming that he wouldn’t get into too much trouble even if you complained to the professor. It wasn’t too bad considering it was just the introductory part of the project, but you would probably complain if he pulled this shit in the middle of the semester when things got serious. Sukuna just smirks. That smirk. The kind that makes you want to throw something at his face. “Do I, though?”

Your eye twitches. “Yes.”

“Because, from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve already taken care of most of it.” He gestures lazily to your open notes—your notes, where half the research under his name is written in your own handwriting because you were sick of waiting for him to do it. “Appreciate the help, baby.” Your jaw clenches. “You—”

You exhale sharply, fingers flexing against your notebook. You swear, if murder wasn’t illegal—

Across the table, Choso (They had been lounging here with him even before you had arrived, and you were sleep deprived and tired from the venture to the East wing from your dorm, so you kept your mouth shut about their presence) chuckles. “Damn, Sukuna,” he muses, lips quirking as he glances between the two of you. “She’s really out here doing your degree for you.” Toji snorts. “Shit, at this point, just put her name on your diploma.”

You snap your head toward them, scowling. “I’m not—”

“Oh, but you kinda are,” Sukuna interjects smoothly, smirking. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to give you a nice lil’ thank you when I graduate.” You glare. “I don’t want your fucking thanks. I want you to do your damn work.” Sukuna just clicks his tongue and leans back, propping his feet up on the chair next to him like he has not a single care in the world. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, so fucking dismissive. “We’ll see.”

—

It gets worse. Because apparently, refusing to do work and making you look like an idiot in front of his friends isn’t enough. No, of course not. Sukuna has to make sure you suffer. So, during one of your scheduled study sessions (during the most odd times of the day), while you’re actively trying to go over the research, Sukuna—in all his dickhead glory—leans back in his chair, tilts his head toward the nearest girl, and flashes that cocky, stupid toothy smile of his.

“Hey,” he purrs, voice dropping into that low, slow tone that has half the campus wrapped around his fucking finger. “You got a pencil?” The girl blinks—clearly flustered—before fumbling through her bag. “Uh—yeah! Yeah, here.” Sukuna smirks, taking it from her fingers way too slowly, thumb brushing against hers. The poor girl sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening like she’s just touched a live wire. He leans in just slightly, voice dropping to something just for her. “Thanks, cutie. Real lifesaver.”

The girl giggles, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. “You’re welcome, Sukuna.” You knew he was an asshole. You knew that his stupid, irritating grin made girls fall over themselves. But this? This was just blatant disrespect. You were right there. He was doing this on purpose. And sure enough, when you glance up, Sukuna’s already watching you—mouth twitching, eyes glinting with amusement. You slam your book shut. “Are you done?” Sukuna raises an eyebrow, playing dumb. “What?” You gesture vaguely toward the poor girl, who’s still blushing and dazed from his attention. “With your little… whatever this is?”

His smirk stretches wider. “Jealous?” 

Your nostrils flare. “I’m annoyed.” He hums, twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Could’ve fooled me.” You clench your fists under the table, swallowing the very real urge to dump your coffee on his head. You refuse—refuse—to let him get under your skin. So, instead, you take a breath, roll your shoulders back, and force your voice to stay level. “Are you actually going to contribute today, or should I just log that you didn’t show up?”

Sukuna laughs—loud and unbothered. “Damn,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re kinda a hardass, huh?” You stare him down, unwavering. “And you’re a waste of fucking time.” His grin widens, something sharper, meaner curling at the edges of it.

“Now, that’s just mean,” he muses, tapping the pencil against the table. “What happened, sweetheart? You just pissed off, or do you just need to get fucked? Seriously with the way you act so fuckin’ bitchy all the time, I swear you act like you haven’t had dick in ages.”

You still for half a second. Then your jaw locks. Your entire body runs hot, blood boiling, because what the fuck? You’re already on edge, and now he’s going there? You let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking your head. “You speak so disgustingly, you know that? So weird and perverted...” Sukuna leans back again, sprawled out, totally relaxed. “What? I’m just saying.” He gestures vaguely in your direction. “Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight all the time.” Across the room, the girl from earlier glances over, eyes flicking between you and Sukuna like she’s witnessing something amusing. You refuse to give her—or him—the satisfaction. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself. And then, voice cold and clipped, you meet his gaze dead-on.

“Do your fucking work, Sukuna.” He grins. And then, of course, he doesn’t.

–

The lecture hall is freezing, the air-conditioning cranked too high like the university is trying to keep students awake through sheer environmental hostility. It doesn’t work. You’re exhausted. After back-to-back shifts at work, an avalanche of coursework, and the black hole of stress that is your chem project with Sukuna, you’re running on fumes. The moment you step into the lecture hall, your eyes instinctively scan for the back row. If—when—you inevitably start nodding off, you don’t want the professor clocking it. You sink into a chair near the corner, stretching your legs out with a sigh. Heavy-lidded eyes drift toward the front, barely focusing on the professor setting up slides. You could close your eyes just for a second—

The seat next to you creaks. A familiar presence drops beside you, and you know who it is before you even turn your head. Sukuna. Of course. You don’t acknowledge him. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint and—

His knee knocks against yours, jostling you just as your head dips forward. Your body tenses, and you snap a glare in his direction. He’s manspreading like he owns the place, legs sprawled wide, one arm slung over the back of your chair like this is his personal space and not a public lecture hall. He’s wearing one of those long-sleeve compression shirts that clings to his frame, every inked line of muscle pressing against the fabric. Not that you care. But the sheer arrogance of it is annoying. You scowl, shifting as far away from him as possible. “Why are you here?”

“Dunno,” he drawls, voice low and amused. “Felt like it.”  You roll your eyes and turn back toward the front, trying to focus on the professor’s voice. Your brain is barely keeping up with the lecture, exhaustion pressing against your skull like a weight. Sukuna doesn’t let up. He leans in just enough to make his presence known. “Damn,” he muses, eyes dragging over your face with something unreadable. “You look rough. Didn’t get the chance to put on concealer or whatever you women use to cover up that?” The words land heavier than they should. It’s the way he says it. Careless. Blunt. No humor to soften the edge.  And you know you’re not ugly– the opposite in fact, but–

Your face drops before you can stop it. You don’t have the energy to fight back today. You just swallow whatever sharp retort you could say, fix your gaze on the front of the lecture hall, and pretend like he doesn’t exist.  Sukuna notices. For the first time in ever, he doesn’t get the reaction he expects. No snark, no glare, no half-assed insult thrown back at him. Just… silence. You don’t even look at him. Something weird stirs in his chest, something unfamiliar and fucking irritating. It sits in the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it—brushes it off like it’s nothing. He doesn’t say another word for the rest of class.

–

By the time the second week of working with Sukuna rolls around, you’re wrecked. Sleep-deprived, overworked, running purely on caffeine and sheer spite. Between your job, your other classes, and this hellish project, there isn’t a single moment to breathe. You’ve been taking shifts at work to make rent, pulling late nights cramming for exams, and somehow, despite your best efforts, Sukuna is still making your life miserable. The last thing you need is another study session with him. You drag yourself into the East Wing Library, exhausted and bitter about it. The East Wing is so far from your usual haunts, practically on the other side of campus, and the walk here in the late afternoon heat is hellish. You mumble complaints under your breath the entire way—something about how your feet hurt, how this library is ugly anyway, how he should’ve come to your spot instead—but you know Sukuna won’t care. He probably won’t even listen.

Sure enough, he’s already lounging at one of the study tables when you arrive, acting like he’s been here for hours when in reality, he probably sat down two minutes ago. He’s slouched in his chair, all sprawled out and insufferable, wearing that same damn compression shirt that makes him look more like a gym rat than a student. His legs are spread so wide he’s practically taking up half the table. In fact, the table looks small compared to how long his legs are. You resist the urge to drop your bag onto his lap just to make him move. Instead, you sink into the chair across from him and immediately rest your forehead against your palm. “Kill me,” you mutter.

Sukuna barely acknowledges you. “You look like you’re already halfway there.”

You sigh heavily. You don’t even have the energy to glare at him. “Gee, thanks.” He’s watching you. You can feel it. That lazy, assessing stare, like he’s about to say something that’ll make you want to slap him. Something that’ll make that weird, uncomfortable feeling go down your spine.

And then—

Nothing. You brace yourself for the insult, for the inevitable Damn, you look fucked up but it never comes. He just clicks his tongue, looking back at his laptop screen, eyebrows furrowed. You squint at him. Weird. But whatever. You don’t have the time or patience to dissect the mysteries of Ryomen Sukuna’s behavior. You flip open your notes, rubbing at your eyes. “Okay, let’s just get this over with,” you mumble. “I still have an essay to write after this.”

Sukuna stretches, the fabric of his compression shirt shifting as he raises his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of inked skin carved just above his hip. You don’t mean to notice, but you do—because of course, he’s the type of asshole who shows off his tattoos like they’re a personality trait. You snap your eyes away before he catches you looking. “Relax, woman,” he drawls, voice dripping with lazy amusement. “No need to be so fucking tense.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Woman? Again? You level him with an exasperated glare. “Tense? I’ve been doing our project by myself while you sit on your ass, and I’m the one who’s tense?” You scoff. “And stop calling me woman, you sound like you get life advice from Andrew Tate.” That earns you a sharp, wolfish grin. “Are you not a woman?” he counters smoothly, tilting his head. Before you can answer, his eyes deliberately drop—slow, pointed—trailing down to your chest. He doesn’t even try to be subtle about it, and the sheer audacity of this man has you gaping at him, heat rushing to your face in a mixture of anger and secondhand embarrassment. Your jaw clenches, your hands curling into fists beneath the table. “Are you fucking serious?” you grit out, voice low and sharp.

Sukuna just smirks, lazy and unbothered, flicking his eyes back up to yours with a knowing look. “What? Just checking.”

You resist the urge to lunge across the table and strangle him on the spot. Just breathe. Don’t get expelled for homicide. 

“Also, Andrew Tate? Seriously, woman? What, you think I’d listen to a broke, bald bitch like him?” Sukuna leans forward, arms resting on the table, shoulders broad and imposing. “You’ve got some real shitty assumptions about me.”

“I’ve got accurate assumptions about you,” you correct.

He just smirks. “You say that like I’ve done nothing.”

You glare harder. “You have done nothing.”

“Have I?” he challenges, cocking a brow. He tilts his laptop screen toward you, and there, staring back at you, is a shockingly filled-out document. Your eyes flicker across the paragraphs—coherent, formatted, and even cited.

You blink. Pause. Stare at him like he’s just grown another head. Because for the past week, this man has contributed exactly two sentences to the project. “…And?” you say, deadpan. “What do you want? A gold star? A participation trophy?” Sukuna leans back, manspreading like the chair was custom-built just for him. “Don’t need validation from you, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you shoot back. “Because you’re not getting any.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh, rubbing a hand down his face like you’re the exhausting one here. “Look, I don’t see what the big deal is. The project’s coming along fine.” You inhale sharply. Count to five. Resist the urge to fling your notebook at his fat head. “It’s coming along fine because I’ve been doing all the work.”

Sukuna shrugs, unconcerned. “Teamwork makes the dream work.” You stare at him. A long, silent, murderous stare. 

“You make me wanna end my life,” you finally say, voice utterly devoid of emotion. He grins, teeth sharp and infuriating. “I know.” You exhale slowly through your nose, willing yourself not to commit homicide. Instead, you rub your temples and look back at your notes. “Let’s just finish this. I don’t want to be here all night.” Sukuna hums, tapping at his laptop. “You sound so eager to spend time with me. Desperate?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “It’s the highlight of my week.”

“I knew it.” He smirks. “You wanna spend the night with me, hmm? Naughty.”

You actually throw a pen at him this time. He dodges effortlessly, laughing under his breath. “Fucking finally,” you mutter. “Maybe now you’ll shut—”

“Shhh!”

You both freeze. The librarian—an older woman with a stern face and sharp eyes—is glaring at you from the front desk. You and Sukuna exchange glances. “You’re the one being loud,” you whisper harshly. Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one being loud?”

“Yes, you—”

“Out.” The librarian’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. You and Sukuna both go silent.  And then—

“…Shit,” Sukuna mutters, closing his laptop. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You are such a waste of time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stands, stretching. “Let’s go, dumbass. You can yell at me somewhere else.” You glare at him as you gather your things. “I will be yelling at you somewhere else.” Sukuna smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets as he saunters toward the exit. “Can’t wait.” You storm out of the library with Sukuna trailing behind you, still looking disgustingly relaxed for someone who just got thrown out of a public study space. You wish she had thrown him out alone. “Dick,” you mutter under your breath, shoving your laptop into your bag as you walk. Your head throbs with exhaustion, and the last thing you need is him making this night even worse.

Behind you, Sukuna hums, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Your steps falter for half a second before you pick up the pace again. He, of course, notices. "You're so fucking touchy today," he drawls, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he strolls beside you, the very picture of unbothered arrogance. "On your period?" Your eye twitches. You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, gripping the strap of your bag so hard it might snap. "Okay, we're going to the study lounge near my dorm," you say, tone clipped.

Sukuna groans. Loudly. Like you're torturing him. 

"The hell? Why?"

"Because you got us kicked out," you snap. "And we haven’t even done half of what we were supposed to get through today." Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation but doesn’t argue further, shoving his hands into his pockets as he follows behind you. His pace is slower than yours, like this entire walk is beneath him, like he’s graciously putting up with it. You can practically feel his annoyance radiating off of him, thick and palpable in the evening air.

The east wing is far. Too far. You’re used to it by now—your classes are scattered across campus, your dorm inconveniently placed, and your schedule an absolute disaster. Between balancing coursework, shifts at your part-time job, and somehow squeezing in study sessions, your days bleed into each other in a never-ending cycle of exhaustion. And because Sukuna’s the most infuriating person alive, he’s been forcing you to make this trek every damn day, dragging you out to the main library just so he can half-ass his way through this project in a space that he prefers. You’ve followed along because you refuse to let this assignment tank, but every second spent with him is another test of patience you’re not sure you’ll pass. So when, predictably, about ten minutes into the walk, he lets out an exaggerated, loud huff of irritation, you already know something stupid is about to leave his mouth.

"Are we still walking?" he grumbles, scowling at the path ahead. "This is taking so fucking long." Your eye twitches. You keep walking, fists clenched at your sides, trying—trying—to ignore him. But he doesn’t stop. Because of course he doesn’t.

"This is stupid," he mutters. "Should've just stayed at the fucking library. Or better yet, we could’ve just worked at my place—"

And that’s it. That’s the last straw. You snap.

"I do this every day because of you!"

The words come out harsher, sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You whirl around to glare at him, eyes blazing, voice rising louder than it should, this late at night. "You think this is taking too fucking long? You made me do this every night. You insisted on working at the damn library. You refuse to meet anywhere else because apparently, my dorm study lounge isn’t good enough for you!" You huff out a breath, heart pounding in your chest. "So yeah, Sukuna, it is a long walk. And guess what? I do this every single day while you sit on your ass and complain!" Sukuna stops mid-step. His mouth is half-open, clearly ready to throw some cocky remark back at you—except nothing comes out. For once, he’s quiet. That, more than anything, unnerves you. But you don’t stick around to decipher the look on his face. You turn back around and keep walking, jaw clenched, shoulders tense, because if you don’t, you might actually lose your mind. And this project isn’t worth a murder charge.

Sukuna watches as you keep walking, your back rigid with frustration, your fingers curled so tightly around the strap of your bag it looks like the only thing anchoring you upright. It’s only now, in the dim glow of the overhead lights of the university hallways, that he actually sees you. The exhaustion carved deep into the lines of your face, etched into the tight pull of your brows and the faint downturn of your lips. The way your steps drag just slightly, like your body is moments away from giving in but you refuse to let it. The dark circles beneath your eyes, barely concealed by whatever concealer you must’ve swiped on this morning. 

(Yes, you ended up feeling the tiniest bit hurt and put some on the next time you saw him)

You look tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a late night or an early morning. No, this is the exhaustion that settles deep in your bones, that lingers even after you’ve slept, the kind that never really leaves. And then there’s something else—something off. It’s not like you to get this quiet after snapping at him. Normally, you’d keep going, pushing, throwing words at him like knives, sharp and ruthless, waiting for him to hurl them right back. That’s how it’s always been between you two. You say something snarky, he says something worse. You get pissed off, he laughs. It’s a cycle. A game.

But right now? Right now, you don’t fight. You don’t even look at him. Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, irritation flickering beneath his skin—but it’s not directed at you. Not this time. He shoves his hands in his pockets, jaw clenching, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. And for the rest of the walk, he doesn’t say a word. No complaints. No grumbling. No sarcastic remarks. Just silence.

–

The place is smaller than the library, tucked into the corner of your dorm building, but at least it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and only a few other students are scattered around, focused on their own work. You drop into a chair unceremoniously, opening your laptop with a sigh. Sukuna takes the seat across from you, stretching his legs out obnoxiously under the table until they almost bump into yours. You kick him. He smirks. “Feisty.”

"Shut up."

For the next half hour, you work in silence. Sukuna pretends to read something on his screen, but you can feel his eyes flicking to you every so often, assessing. You try not to think about it. It’s quiet for a moment, and then—

"You formatted this wrong," he says.  Your head snaps up. "What?" Sukuna tilts his screen toward you, pointing lazily at a section of your document. "The citation. APA, not MLA, genius."  You stare at him, brows knitting together. "Why the hell do you know that?" Sukuna shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "What, you think you're the only one with a functioning brain?"

"Functioning is a strong word," you mutter, fixing the citation. He snorts, but then, because he’s him, he adds, “I mean, makes sense you’d fuck that up. You look half-dead.” Your eye twitches. "And you look like a walking midlife crisis, but you don't hear me pointing it out every two seconds." Sukuna grins, sharp and unrepentant. “Liar. You know I look good.”

“Ugly.”

“Sexy.”

"Say that again and I'll stab you with my pen." 

It’s late by the time you finally close your laptop, rubbing at your temples. The day has dragged on forever, and the last thing you want is to keep dealing with him. You shove your things into your bag, ready to leave, when Sukuna—still leaned back in his chair, still looking infuriatingly relaxed—says, "Tch. Whatever. We’ll just meet here next time." You pause. Blink at him. "Huh?" He doesn’t look at you when he says it, like this entire conversation is so beneath him. "The hell, are you deaf? I said we’ll just meet here next time. Less walking." You stare, uncertain of what to make of that. Of him saying anything at all.

Then—

"Uh. Okay," you mumble. Sukuna snorts, pushing himself up from his chair, rolling his shoulders like this entire night has been a mild inconvenience to him and nothing more. “Try not to die of exhaustion before then.”

You flip him off.

He grins.

–

The dorm study lounge in your building isn’t anything special—just a couple of couches, a cluster of wobbly desks, and chairs that groan when anyone shifts. But it’s quiet, it’s close, and more importantly, it’s not the goddamn East Wing library. You’re already seated with your laptop open when Sukuna strolls in like he owns the place, hoodie thrown over his shoulder, compression shirt clinging to him in that casually smug way that makes you want to set your notebook on fire.

“Damn. You live like this?” he says instead of greeting, glancing around at the peeling posters and flickering overhead light.

“You’ve been here three times now,” you mutter, not looking up. “Get over it.” To your surprise, he actually sits down and opens his laptop. No dramatic sighs, no drawn-out complaints. Just pulls up the shared doc and starts typing. You side-eye him suspiciously. “Wait. You’re actually doing work?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “Told you I’m not completely useless.”

“You literally did none of the intro. Or the background research. Or the—”

He turns slightly, eyes narrowed. “Jesus. You want me to write your acknowledgements too?”

You roll your eyes and keep typing, but you can’t help the way your gaze flicks back to his screen every so often. He’s doing it. Slowly, a little messily, but he’s actually doing the work. You hate how that’s kind of impressive. The door creaks open an hour in and Toji saunters in with a protein bar in one hand and Choso trailing behind him, hoodie half-on like he got distracted putting it on. “Yo,” Toji says, tossing himself onto the arm of your chair like there’s no concept of personal space. “This where the grind’s happening?” 

Choso raises a brow at Sukuna. “Didn’t think you actually meant it when you said you were working on your project.” Sukuna scoffs, not even looking up from the screen. “Don’t start.” They pull up chairs, half-invited, half-ignored. Somehow, you end up the only person who seems to be actually working while the other three devolve into semi-productive chaos. Eventually, the conversation drifts—like it always does when boys are left alone with too much time and not enough supervision.

“Yo, did you see that blonde on the cheer squad last game?” Toji starts, popping open a protein bar like it’s part of the ritual. “The one with the ribbon thing in her hair. Face card was solid.” Choso smirks, still half-focused on his phone. “I think she followed me on Insta. Or her friend did. Can’t tell—cheer girls got that same face filter thing going on.”

You hum under your breath, noncommittal. You’ve learned how to tune this out. Let the background noise of testosterone and ego bounce off while you focus on your screen. But then—

Choso glances up, flicking his gaze between you and Sukuna like he’s just had a thought worth sharing. “Actually… Sukuna’s got the best deal out of all of us.” You pause your typing. Slightly. Toji quirks a brow. “How you figure?”

“He gets to sit across from her every day,” Choso says casually, jerking his chin in your direction. “Dude’s been staring at that face for what, like a week straight?” Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

Choso lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. When you’re not chewing him out, you’re actually kinda—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just gives a slow, meaningfully raised brow like the conclusion is obvious. Toji lets out a low whistle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No, wait—he’s right. You’ve got that whole mean girl, academic weapon, doesn’t-look-up-in-lectures thing going on.” You just blink at them, caught somewhere between wanting to melt into your chair or hurl your laptop at both their heads. Sukuna, up until now half-listening while scrolling on his screen, exhales like this whole conversation is beneath him. “Shut the fuck up.” His voice is flat. Lazy. Like he's bored with their entire existence. But his eyes flick up—and linger on you just a beat too long. There’s no smirk. No wink. Just that unreadable look again. Heavy-lidded. Slightly narrowed.

Toji raises a brow. “Struck a nerve?” Choso glances between you and Sukuna, curious now. “Damn. Didn’t know you were the territorial type.” Sukuna doesn’t even rise to it. Just drags a hand through his hair and mutters, “You idiots hear yourselves talk?” That seems to be enough. Toji snorts and mutters a half-apology under his breath. “Alright, alright. Chill.”

Choso shrugs. “She’s still bad though. No take-backs.” You clear your throat and mutter, “Thanks… I guess?”

No one hears it except Sukuna, whose gaze shifts back to his laptop—but his ears are slightly pink now. Not that he’d admit it. And just like that, the boys forget they ever had a filter. They’re back to talking about the football coach and some frat party coming up next weekend. You, meanwhile, keep your eyes glued to your screen—but your skin feels hotter, like that look Sukuna gave you never quite left. You try to refocus on your screen, but your heart’s still thudding in your chest in a way you hate. You don’t want to be flustered. Especially not over Sukuna, who has the emotional depth of a spoon. Still, when the session winds down and Toji and Choso finally get bored and wander off, Sukuna leans back and says, with the same bored tone he uses when talking about the weather, “I’ll see you here again next week. I’ll finish up some of the work at my place before I come, so we don’t hafta sit here on our asses long enough for these idiots to show up again.”

You blink. “Uh… okay.” He doesn’t wait for a response. Just slings his bag over his shoulder, walks off like he hasn’t just stunned you into silence with the barest sliver of consideration, and mutters under his breath on the way out:

“Better chairs anyway.” You stare after him. Annoyed. Confused. Unsettled. Slightly amused. And a little less sure about how much of a dick he really is.

–

It’s been three weeks since you started meeting in the dorm building’s study lounge. The sessions are no less exhausting, but they’ve become… bearable. You still argue. He’s still insufferable. But Sukuna actually does the work now. Not without the occasional passive-aggressive comment or that maddening little smirk when he catches you getting flustered. But he contributes. Sometimes he even takes initiative—like today, when you arrived and found he’d already opened the shared doc and annotated the latest journal article. Miracles, apparently, do happen.

You're both seated on opposite sides of the same table, a precarious peace holding between the clack of your keys and the scratch of his pen against paper. Sukuna's in a black hoodie—which really emphasises how broad his shoulders are–paired with some low-slung sweatpants. He’s got one leg up on the chair, knee almost brushing the table’s underside, completely manspreaded in a way that takes up far more space than necessary. Typical. You’ve tuned it all out. Almost. The only sound in the lounge is the soft hum of the vending machine and the low rustle of paper. That is, until your phone buzzes.

You glance down.

[8:37 PM] Yuna:

pls tell me ur free next friday night frat party at Theta house i need a plus one u owe meee

You pause. Theta house. The name sparks something in your brain—a half-formed association, faint and unimportant until now. You’ve heard it muttered in passing, caught glimpses of its parties plastered all over people’s Instagram stories. Flashy. Loud. Too many red solo cups and too little self-respect. But more importantly: it rings a specific bell. Something familiar. Your eyes flicker back to the message on your screen, rereading Yuna’s plea. Your brows furrow. You bite the inside of your cheek, lips tugging downward as you try to decide if this is worth the impending social fatigue, or if you can just ghost her and fake a fever. Maybe a paper cut. Across the table, the scratch of pen on paper falters. You don’t even notice until Sukuna’s voice cuts in, sharp and dry. 

“What’re you making that face for?” he asks without looking up. Flat, disinterested, like your expression is an inconvenience. You blink, mildly startled. “...What face?”

“That weird one.” He finally lifts his head, narrowing his eyes at you with vague irritation. “Like you just found out you forgot to pay your car registration or somethin’.” Your mouth opens, closes. “It’s just a text,” you say eventually, letting out a quiet sigh as you flip your phone facedown. “My friend’s dragging me to a frat party next week. She needs a plus-one.” At that, Sukuna stills. Not dramatically. Just... a subtle pause. His elbow stops bouncing. His pen hovers above the page.

“What frat?” he asks. The question is casual, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. You hesitate. “…Theta house. I think.”

He snorts. Loud and unmistakable. “That’s mine.” 

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He leans back lazily, one arm thrown over the back of the chair, looking maddeningly relaxed. “Theta. That’s my frat. Toji, mine and Cho’s. Didn’t ya know? They were talkin’ about it before.” You blink, momentarily at a loss. The realization hits with a muted thud—of course. It all makes sense now. The flashy parties, the obnoxiously loud music every other weekend, the guys who walk around campus with too much cologne and too few responsibilities. Of course he lives there.

“Oh,” you say finally. It hangs there—awkward, brittle, like a glass ornament someone forgot to put away after Christmas. You both look back down at your notes, pretending the moment never happened. You reread the same sentence in your textbook three times and still can’t register what it says. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t comfortable either. Just... weird. Like there’s something in the air that neither of you wants to acknowledge. Then, after a minute, Sukuna exhales slowly and leans further back in his seat.

“You should swing by,” he says offhandedly. So casual it sounds like a throwaway line.

You glance up. “Huh?”

“The party,” he says, eyes flicking briefly toward you, then back to the ceiling. “Your friend’s already going. Might as well.” You study him. His expression is unreadable—calm, indifferent. No trace of smugness, no expectation behind the offer. It’s almost too nonchalant. Like he wouldn’t care either way. You narrow your eyes a little. “Are you… inviting me?”

He shrugs. “You’re not special. I’m inviting everyone.” Your lips twitch at that, but you don’t call him out. “Right. Of course.”

Still, you hear your voice soften slightly. 

“I’ll think about it.”

Sukuna hums in response, eyes drifting downward—right to your hoodie, baggy enough to cover you from neck to knee, sleeves tugged over your hands. You can practically see the judgment forming. “Just don’t show up dressed like this,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching. You snort before you can stop yourself. A short, surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Seriously?”

He gives you a deadpan look. “It’s a party, not a cult meeting.” You raise your brows, amused. “Clearly, you don’t know me at all if you think I dress like this everywhere.” Sukuna tilts his head, studying you like you just issued a challenge. “So you do have real clothes.”

“I’m a woman of mystery,” you say smugly, folding your arms. “You don’t get to know.” A rare smirk twitches onto his face—brief, dry, almost like he’s trying not to be amused. “That sounds like a yes.” You roll your eyes, grabbing your highlighter again. “Focus on organic chemistry, casanova.”

He chuckles under his breath but doesn’t argue, returning to his notes. The mood shifts again—easy now, fluid in a way you didn’t expect. The banter lingers, like a residue in the air, and for once, you don’t feel like you’re dodging landmines when you speak. You work in silence for a while longer, but it’s not the same brittle quiet from before. It’s something softer. Settled. And maybe—for just a second—it doesn’t feel like you’re enemies anymore. Not friends, either. But not enemies. When you finally pack up for the night, Sukuna doesn’t say anything. He just slings his bag over his shoulder, glances at you once, then jerks his chin toward the door like let’s go. You fall into step beside him, not speaking, the click of the lounge door swinging shut behind you.  You don’t even know how it happened. How somehow he waited for you by the staircase that led up to your dorms before departing back to where he lived. The hallway is quiet. The air, cool and crisp, smells faintly of late-night ramen and floor cleaner. You say nothing. But somehow, that moment stretches longer than it should. And it stays with you. All the way back to your dorm.

–

“Yu— I don’t know,” you say, pulling at one of the spaghetti straps of your top and glancing at your reflection in her full-length mirror, “I like wearing shit like this but… don’t you think it’s too much for a frat party?” Your voice comes out unsure, tinged with that all-too-familiar pre-party doubt that creeps in five minutes before you’re supposed to leave. You’re still adjusting the fabric over your chest—this stupid, tiny top that clings a little too perfectly to your figure, exposing just enough skin to make you question if you’ll even make it through the front door without second-guessing everything. The bra underneath? Completely unintentional. You didn’t even mean to match it—had just grabbed something clean and vaguely push-up-ish from the drawer, but of course, it had to be your most expensive set. Lacy, pink, and not remotely subtle. Victoria’s Secret, you realize with mild betrayal, had made your boobs look criminally good. Like, pause-a-man’s-conversation good.

The top itself wasn’t the issue—it was cropped, sure, but cute. Flimsy fabric and soft color, something you could probably dress down if you were pairing it with anything other than this damn skirt. The skirt was what had you feeling like you were in over your head. And it wasn’t even yours. It was Yuna’s. A distressed, light-wash denim mini that was practically a belt. It hugged every curve, curved a little more than you were used to, and sat low enough on your hips to make you feel a tiny bit scandalous with every breath. If you shifted too fast, it felt like it’d ride up and expose everything. And with the panties that came with your VS set—thin, lacy, and technically classified as lingerie—you felt dangerously close to flashing someone if the wind so much as thought about picking up.

“I look like I’m trying to seduce someone’s dad,” you mutter.

“Oh my god,” Yuna gasps from behind you, eyes wide as she stops in her tracks. “You look so fucking hot. I’m not hearing any complaints about this.” She spins you around, hands on your shoulders as she takes in the full outfit like she’s styling you for a Vogue shoot. Her perfectly manicured fingers trail to the hem of your skirt, and with a gleam in her eye, she gives your butt a dramatic, playful slap.

You glare at her. “Can you not grope me right now?”

“Sorry,” she says, completely unapologetic. “You just look so good. Like, painfully good. Like—‘oops, I just made that guy trip over a keg because I walked by’ good.” You attempt to give her your best unimpressed stare, but it’s hard to hold when she looks that excited—and especially when she’s standing there in a sparkly, strapless top that’s practically glued to her skin and a skirt shorter than yours. Not to mention the rhinestone eyeliner and lip gloss she reapplied twice already. You sigh, defeated, because if she looked hot, and you looked hot, maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to just embrace it.

“Ugh, okay, fine,” you mutter. “You look sexy too.”

“So do you,” she grins, squeezing your wrist before spinning toward the mirror to grab her purse. “We’re gonna be the baddest bitches there.”

You snort. “That’s not exactly a high bar. I saw someone show up to one of these in a Pikachu onesie.”

“Exactly,” she says, throwing a jacket over her shoulder. “We’ll be legends by comparison.” Despite yourself, you laugh—and when you turn back to the mirror, something about the reflection feels less terrifying than it did five minutes ago. The outfit was bold, sure. But with Yuna beside you, her energy electric and effortless, you could feel yourself slipping into that mindset, too. The one where you were allowed to be hot without apologizing for it. You slip on your shoes, grab your phone, and follow Yuna out of the dorm. The hallway’s quiet, dimly lit with that weird yellow lighting all college buildings have after 10 PM. You both walk down to the street where your Uber is already waiting, music faintly thumping from the frat row just a few blocks away. And for once, you’re not dreading it. You’re a little nervous, maybe. But with your favorite person beside you, in outfits that could start wars, heading into a night with no plans other than chaos—you’re ready.

The Uber ride is a blur of Yuna’s makeup touch-ups, last-minute accessory debates, and Spotify blaring a throwback remix that has both of you scream-singing the chorus. The nerves in your stomach ease up a little more with each passing minute. Maybe it’s the way Yuna keeps hyping you up or how good the outfit actually looks under the glow of the passing streetlights—but by the time the car pulls up in front of Theta house, you’re no longer on the verge of changing outfits or ghosting the night entirely. The frat house looms ahead like every other frat house you’ve ever seen—loud music already spilling out from the open door, string lights tangled across the porch, people clustered out front with red cups in hand like it’s a high school movie come to life. You can hear someone whoop as a beer pong shot lands across the front lawn, and someone else yells “Take it off!” from an upstairs window. 

Yuna’s eyes sparkle. “Home sweet home,” she says, linking her arm through yours. Inside, it’s chaotic—but weirdly cozy. Warm. The air smells like cheap beer, cologne, and weed, the floors already sticky under your heels. There’s a crowd around the living room-turned-dance-floor, another bottlenecking at the kitchen where a keg is set up beside a counter full of jungle juice and liquor. You spot a couple of people you vaguely know from class or mutuals through Yuna—most of them already tipsy, greeting her with hugs and loud compliments. Someone hands you a drink you don’t ask for, and you take it anyway, sipping something vaguely fruity and deceptively strong. The thrum of music settles in your chest, rattling the floorboards beneath your feet, and for the first time in weeks—maybe even months—you feel something close to relaxed. You’re halfway to the kitchen to grab a chaser when it happens.

You turn a corner and bump into someone—shoulder to chest. Solid. Firm. Tall enough that you instinctively glance up before you even register who it is.

Sukuna. He looks down at you, expression unreadable for a moment—until his eyes very obviously drop from your face to the low neckline of your top. And linger. There’s the barest flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—in his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to confirm. You step back, blinking. “Oh my god. You are so weird.”

He lifts a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re literally checking me out like I’m a Victoria’s Secret window display,” you deadpan, tugging your top slightly higher—not that it helps much.

“You wore that and expected no one to look?” he says, voice dry and annoyingly smooth. His eyes flick lazily down again. “Also, hate to break it to you, but your bra’s doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.”

You scoff. “You’re actually such a freak.” He shrugs, tilting the water bottle in his hand toward you. “Not denying it.” You’re about to roll your eyes and walk away, but then he says it—so nonchalantly it barely registers at first.

“You look nice, though.”

You freeze mid-step.

“…What?”

His mouth quirks up slightly, like he didn’t just toss a grenade into the conversation. “You heard me.” 

You stare at him, trying to gauge if he’s mocking you. But there’s no smug grin, no teasing lilt. Just that lazy drawl, that unreadable expression that always keeps you guessing. You fold your arms, shifting your weight to one hip. “Well,” you say slowly, “clearly you don’t know what to do when I’m not wearing my usual two layers of oversized fabric.”

Sukuna snorts. “Thought you were gonna roll up in your campus hoodie again. Kind of a shame, actually. I miss how it swallowed your whole body. You looked like a walking laundry pile.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I try.”

You take a slow sip from your drink, hiding the small grin tugging at your lips. “So this is what you’re like when you’re not being the biggest dick on the planet.”

“I’m not the biggest dick, although I’d say I have the biggest dick” he retorts with a snicker. “You’re just distracting now.”

You blink. “Distracting?”

He shrugs again, way too casual about the whole thing. “You look good. I’m not blind.” You glance around to make sure no one’s listening, then mutter, “You’re way more tolerable when there’s alcohol involved.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re way more tolerable when you’re not scowling at me for breathing too loud.” You glare. “That happened once.”

“It happened twice.”

“Once,” you insist.

He just smirks and takes a sip from the water bottle in his hands. His gaze flicks past you, toward the hallway, and he jerks his chin slightly. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to some people who won’t talk about your bra.” You narrow your eyes. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

He smirks again, already walking off. “Take it or leave it.” You roll your eyes and follow—only because your drink’s almost empty and the kitchen’s in that direction anyway. Obviously. And maybe—just maybe—because being around him like this, when he’s not being a complete jackass, isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least not tonight. Sukuna leads you through the crowd like he’s done this a million times before—which he probably has. You catch a couple of people eyeing him as he walks by, and you wonder if it’s because he’s hot or because he radiates that unapproachable energy like it’s cologne.

“This is…?” someone asks when you both approach a small group gathered around a tall keg table. He jerks a thumb toward you lazily. “My chem partner.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the title. “Hi,” you say instead, a little wave as you flash a quick grin.

“Yo, you’re in Shimizu’s class too? That woman’s a menace.”

“Tell me about it,” you groan. “I swear she adds extra steps to procedures just for fun.” Someone laughs. “You actually talk to her? I just fake nod through half of her lectures.” You slip into conversation easily after that, bouncing off the group's energy. You’ve always been extroverted when you’re comfortable, and it’s oddly easy here, surrounded by strangers who are just buzzed enough to be nice. It’s even easier when you catch Sukuna watching the group banter from a short distance, sipping from his water bottle again, his expression unreadable.  You break away to get another drink, winding toward the makeshift bar on the patio. The music's loud, the air sticky with alcohol and cologne, and just as you reach for a clean cup, a shoulder brushes into yours.

“Shit—”

You turn, and there he is again. Ryomen Sukuna. Up close this time. “Jesus, what is your problem?” you mutter, looking up at him. “Do you teleport?” He looks unfazed. “You walked into me.”

You snort. “You walked into me.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans slightly back and lets his eyes flick down, over your outfit, and—yep. Not subtle. Not even trying to be. Your eyes narrow. 

“You’re such a creep. I don’t care if I’m slightly drunk, I can definitely tell you’re staring at my boobs.” He scoffs, openly amused. “Well, sorry. I’m a man. And those are practically fighting for their lives in that top.” You gasp, smacking his arm. “You’re disgusting.”

He shrugs. “And you’re the one who wore it. Don’t act surprised people are looking.” You roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth twitches. “Whatever. At least I can pull it off.”

“Who said you couldn’t?”

You pause for half a second too long. Then you glare. “You’re pissing me off.”

“And you’re drunk,” he retorts, smirking.

“I’m not drunk yet. You’d know if I was drunk.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow. “What, do you start crying or something?”

“No,” you scoff. “I just get… more honest.”

“Terrifying.” You give him a sweet smile that’s anything but. “What, afraid I’ll hurt your little ego?” He looks down at you—really looks. Like he's taking in the pink flush in your cheeks, the glint in your eye, the way you don't back down even when he’s standing so damn close.

“Nah,” he says. “My ego’s huge.”

You blink. “...That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

He laughs, low and dry, then tilts his bottle at you in mock cheers before walking off again. You stand there for a moment, a little dazed, before grabbing another drink. Eventually, a while later, you find your way back to Yuna, who’s already three sips away from shouting compliments at strangers. She gasps when she sees you. “Babe. Baby girl. My precious. Did I just see you with Sukuna?”

You blink. “Yeah, why?”

“You know him?”

“We’re in the same chem class,” you mutter, sipping your drink. “Group project.” Yuna grabs your arm. “And you didn’t say anything?” You eye her suspiciously. “Say what?”

“That he’s literally the hottest man on this campus?!” You make a face. “He’s not that hot.” Yuna gives you a look like she’s been personally offended. “You’re lying to yourself. Also, you two have like, that weird tension. It’s kind of hot.”

You groan. “Yuna—”

“Just fuck him.”

“What is wrong with you?”

She only cackles in response before she gets whisked away by a guy who’s clearly her on-again-off-again situationship. She doesn’t even look guilty as she leans in to whisper something to him. A few minutes later, you get the text.

sorry i love u but i’m gonna go with him ok i’ll send u money for an uber ily don’t die xx

You stare at the message, swaying slightly on your stool. The room blurs a little when you blink. You swipe over to the Uber app. Try to log in. Error. Try again. Error. The third time your phone crashes entirely and you groan, bracing your elbow on the edge of the bar counter and burying your face in your hand. Your heels are starting to hurt and you can already feel tomorrow’s hangover tap dancing in your brain.

“You good?”

You lift your head slowly. And of course. Of course. It’s Sukuna again. Leaning one arm against the edge of the bar like he’s been summoned by your suffering. “You’re like a cockroach,” you mutter. “You just keep showing up.”

He grins lazily. “Still here?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. My friend ditched me and my Uber app’s being a little bitch.” He hums, gaze flicking over your glazed expression, your flushed cheeks. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I might,” you admit. “If I don’t cry first.” 

There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’ll drop you off.” You blink. “What? No. You’ve been drinking.”

“I haven’t. Can’t have everyone in the frat house drunk. Someone’s gotta babysit these idiots.” You blink again, the lag in your brain buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “...You?”

“Yeah, me. Shocking.”

“You know where I live?”

“You told me. Last week. After lab.”

You squint at him. “I don’t remember that.”

“Yeah, well, I remember everything.”

“Ew.”

He just stares at you, expectant, one brow cocked like he’s got all the time in the world.

You exhale dramatically. “Fine. But if you kill me I’m haunting your frat house.”

“I welcome it. It’s been boring lately.”

“Freak.” 

He smirks and plucks your phone straight from your hands to toss it into your purse, ignoring the half-hearted slap you aim at his wrist.

“Come on.” You groan, dragging yourself off the barstool, your legs not cooperating in the slightest. Your heels were cute in theory—silver with a tiny bow on the back and barely any support. Very much not made for trudging across dark college lawns and cracked sidewalks. You follow him out, still kind of mad at the universe for letting your Uber app crash. He opens the door like it's nothing, like he’s a gentleman or something—gross—and the cold night air wraps around your skin instantly. As it does, you swear you hear him mutter something. You turn, squinting through the haze. “What?”

“Nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. It was something. And you're drunk, but not that drunk. It sounded suspiciously like you look pretty tonight. But you don’t say anything, just frown and follow him out into the night. Until you realize he’s not heading toward the street. He’s heading toward the back lot. Behind the frat house. 

You pause. “Wait—where the hell is your car?”

“Other side,” he says, without slowing.

“What do you mean other side?”

“I live here, dumbass. The resident lot is across the quad.”

“Are you kidding me?” You groan. “My feet are going to fall off.”

“Shouldn’t’ve worn stripper heels.”

“Shouldn’t’ve been born with a stick up your ass.” He snorts, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks ahead of you, like he's not dealing with a barely coherent girl in a miniskirt and heels struggling to walk in a straight line. You try to keep up, but the lawn dips, uneven and soft, and your ankle rolls slightly to the side. Your foot catches. Your knee gives out. And suddenly you’re stumbling, arms flailing, balance gone—You land hard on your ass with a sharp oof.

“FUCK,” you hiss, grabbing your ankle, already feeling the sting. You stay there a second, stewing, overwhelmed and overstimulated—the lights from the party still flickering behind your eyelids, your chest heaving from the sudden jolt, your mouth dry and head spinning. “You good?” Sukuna’s voice comes from somewhere above you, way too calm for someone whose lab partner just ate shit in front of him. “No, I’m not fucking good,” you snap, scowling up at him. “My feet are bleeding, my brain is melting, and your car is apparently in Narnia.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re such a dick!”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, suddenly stepping closer. “Just—fuck it.” You barely register him moving before there’s a sudden shift in gravity and your world tips sideways.

He scoops you up like it’s nothing.

Bridal style.

Your arms instinctively hook around his neck as you squeak, instinctively clinging to his hoodie as your legs leave the ground. “What the fuck are you doing?!” you yell, even though your voice comes out way too breathless to be convincing.

“Carrying you. Because you’re useless.”

“Put me down!”

“No.”

Your mouth opens to protest again, but your brain short-circuits because—

His hand. One of them—large, warm, calloused—is curled under your thighs, gripping firmly but not rough, fingers splayed slightly against the bare skin between your skirt and where your panties ride up your ass. But it’s the other hand that breaks your brain. It’s pressed right beneath your chest, right where the thin fabric of your top clings to your ribs. His knuckles graze the underside of your boob with each step. Not on purpose. Probably. Hopefully. But your body registers every tiny movement, every bounce and shift. Your breath stutters, nipples tightening under the lace, and—

God, you need to shut your brain off. He smells like expensive cologne and weed and something darker—musk and leather and sweat. The hoodie under your palm is worn soft, like he's had it for years, and his chest is so warm against your arm it’s making you feel dizzy. You go quiet. Not because you want to, but because your mouth won’t work right. He notices. “What, no snarky comment? Are you dying?”

“Just… conserving energy,” you mumble, trying to ignore the way your head is now resting against his shoulder, half from exhaustion, half because it feels nice there. 

“Shame. I was enjoying the sound of you bitching.” He makes it to his car—a black ‘09 Civic parked in the furthest back row—and sets you down gently, like you're glass. Which somehow feels even more ridiculous than being carried. You try to get your balance again, but before you can even reach down, he crouches and grabs your ankle.

“Hey—what are you—”

He’s already unbuckling your heel. “Your feet are bleeding,” he mutters, slipping it off carefully. Then the other. “Why are girls like this?”

“Because we suffer for fashion,” you reply, watching as he sets them neatly in the footwell of the passenger side. “Idiots,” he mutters, straightening and helping you into the seat. The door is still open as he leans in and buckles you up, the seatbelt snapping into place just under your chest.

“Don’t look at my tits,” you mumble, half-asleep, half-defensive.

“I’m not looking.”

“You are. You’ve been staring all night, you absolute perv. I might be drunk but I’m not blind.” He sighs, shuts the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and slides in beside you. The car’s interior is cool and clean and smells like the same cologne that’s still clinging to him. Once the engine’s on and the headlights glow, he glances over at you.

“Sorry I’m a man. My bad.”

“You are bad. And that’s not an excuse.”

“And yet here you are,” he drawls, pulling out of the lot, his hand casual on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. His thighs spread slightly as he adjusts, and you don’t mean to look but—

Yeah. No. You’re drunk. Because there’s no way you’re checking out his hands or his stupid muscular legs or the way his jaw clenches every time he shifts gears. Absolutely no way. You fold your arms and press your forehead against the window, trying to cool your cheeks down, but it doesn’t work. The drive is short. He doesn’t play music. Just lets the silence sit, and somehow it’s not awkward. Just… quiet. Kinda warm. When he pulls up in front of your dorm, he doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there for a second. You turn to him slowly. “Thanks… for not letting me pass out in a bush or get murdered.”

He shrugs. “Would’ve ruined my grade if you died.” 

You scoff. “So romantic.”

A pause. His eyes flick to yours, and his voice drops just a bit.

“You’re welcome.” 

And you don’t know why, but that makes your stomach flip a little. You nod, mumble something incoherent, and go to open the door. But he stops you, reaching across you suddenly to grab your purse from the floor. His arm brushes your chest again and you freeze. He pretends not to notice. But the corner of his mouth twitches. He hands you your bag without a word, and you climb out, the night air immediately biting your skin. As you shut the door and start toward your building, you hear his voice behind you—low, amused, maybe even a little genuine.

“Get home safe, dumbass.”

You turn over your shoulder.

“Night, perv.” Then you're gone. And his car stays parked for a few more seconds than it needs to.

–

It starts slow. Just like always, you two keep meeting up for study sessions, mostly in the same tucked-away campus library room. And technically you’re still working on your project. There's still the usual back-and-forth, the occasional threat of flinging a pen at his head, and your ever-reliable "God, you're so annoying" whenever he pushes too far. But something's changed. Some invisible shift. Like the night of the frat party cracked something open. You still bicker, still throw jabs like it's oxygen, but now—

There’s laughter. Actual laughter. From you. And snickering from him, like he’s low-key delighted when you call him a dickhead with that little smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. Now he leans closer than necessary when you’re reading. His arm brushes yours and he doesn’t move. His eyes linger on your mouth when you talk and when you call him on it, he just shrugs and says, “Sorry, your lip gloss is distracting.” You throw your pen at his forehead. He catches it without looking. You start referring to the group project as our child, and he calls himself the hot absentee father. You start keeping a tally of how many times he sighs dramatically when he doesn't get the answer before you. He keeps a separate one of how many times you chew your pen cap when you’re stressed and says it’s “borderline erotic.”

“I will murder you,” you say sweetly.

"That's what makes it erotic," he replies. But it’s not just that. There’s more. Quieter things. One time, he walks in late with two iced coffees and just drops one in front of you without a word, like it’s normal now. (It becomes normal. He starts bringing snacks too. Sometimes even the weird granola bars you said once in passing that you liked.) When you’re tired, he starts reading sections aloud to you in a voice that's somehow both mocking and comforting. When you're scribbling notes and your pen runs out, he's already tossing you a spare. And eventually—

You exchange numbers.

It’s just for “convenience,” you both claim. So you can update each other on meeting times. So he can send you stupid memes related to your topic. So you can text him "you forgot the rubric again, dumbass" when he shows up with nothing but a Monster and the same black hoodie he’s worn four sessions in a row. You never call each other, of course. Not yet. But the texts get more frequent. More casual. Sometimes you’re not even talking about the project. Sometimes it’s just:

You: tell toji to stop calling me your lil nerd wife Sukuna: don’t flatter urself. he called u my leashYou: even worse?? Sukuna: not to me 😏

And one day, you're the first to arrive. You’re early, even. Kinda excited to see him, which you don't interrogate too hard because you're a busy girl with academic priorities and definitely not thinking about his stupid shoulders lately. So you sit. And wait. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Finally, you send a text.

You: where u at bruh wtf im already here

There’s a delay. Then your phone buzzes. It’s a photo. A mirror selfie. Gym bathroom. Fluorescent lighting. He’s shirtless—no, wait, technically his shirt is in his mouth, bitten between his teeth. His abs are cut like they were designed in a lab. There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, and the pinkest hint of a happy trail disappearing into black shorts. And god– the tattoos that intricately line his hips, and you’re ashamed that you’re zooming in to see them a bit more clearly. Toji’s in the background throwing up a peace sign and smirking like a menace. And the caption?

Sukuna: gym

You stare at your screen like it personally offended you. Because okay. Fine. You tolerate him now. You maybe even like him a little. Like, as a person. As in, you don’t fantasize about choking him out every time he opens his mouth. That’s progress. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the way your stomach plummets at that photo.

It’s shameful, really. You’re sitting alone in the study room, already annoyed that he’s late, your phone clenched in one hand and your cold coffee sweating on the table. You only texted him out of impatience, fully expecting some lame excuse. And instead, you get that. His abs are right there. Cut. Sharp. Obscene. His happy trail is a faint pink stripe leading down, dusted just enough to make your thighs clench, and you hate yourself for it. Your face heats so fast you think you might spontaneously combust. You look around the room like someone else might have seen it, like that would somehow make this a shared crime and not just your own private downfall. You blink at the photo. Then again. Then you lock your phone. Then unlock it.

You type.

Delete.

Type again.

Backspace halfway. Then finally give in and hit send.

You: keep those freaky selfies to urself bro Sukuna: u sure? u stared at that one a little too long You: YOU CANT SEE ME Sukuna: can feel it tho You: ew Sukuna: ur welcome

You throw your phone face down on the table like it just slapped you. He shows up twenty minutes later. Hair still damp, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie half on, clinging to the edge of his frame like it was trying to slide off. There’s still that smug grin curling on his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You don’t even say hi. You just cross your arms and raise your brows as he strolls in like he owns the place.

“I said keep the thirst traps to yourself, gym rat.”

He collapses into the chair next to you, legs spread way too wide, stretching his arms back behind his head with a low groan like he’s been working so hard—and the motion tugs his hoodie just enough for you to catch a flash of skin. A line of muscle. That stupid V again. “Thirst trap?” he echoes, voice low and lazy. “Nah. That was community service.”

You make a show of rolling your eyes, flipping a page in your notes. “You’re disgusting.” He leans over, chin propped in his hand, eyes glittering with something sharp and amused. “C’mon,” he says, his voice dropping, thick and playful, “you’re telling me you didn’t like it?” You don’t answer. He grins like that’s an answer. Then, slow and deliberate, he leans back again—slouches down in the chair like he owns it, hands behind his head, and lets his hoodie inch up. Not a lot. Just enough. Enough to show the ridges of his abs. The line of his hipbones. The tattoos. The happy trail, pink and soft and infuriating, peeking above the waistband of his shorts like he planned this entire thing. Like this is a setup and you walked into it willingly. “Sure about that?” he murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded and watching you now. You make a strangled sound in your throat and smack a folder in front of your face.

“You are so weird,” you mutter from behind it. He laughs. Real, deep, warm. And you hate the way it makes something loosen in your chest. And it keeps happening—these strange, flirty little moments you don’t know how to explain. He starts texting you just to annoy you. You start sending him selfies of your weird coffee orders with captions like for our child (the project). He calls you baby mama when you least expect it and winks every time you make eye contact. And maybe the worst part?

You start dressing better. Not for him, obviously. That’d be dumb. It’s just… you’re a girl. Sometimes you want to look cute. Sometimes you want to wear something other than an oversized hoodie and leggings. So you start showing up in cropped tops. In fitted shirts. In actual shorts when it's warm out. Sometimes you even—God forbid—do your hair. Not for him, of course. Except... he notices. You’re bent over your laptop one afternoon when you catch him staring again. Not like he’s trying to be subtle. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking lazily.

“What?” you say, defensive.

“You look good,” he says, so bluntly it makes you blink. Then, almost offhand: “But I liked when you wore those weird baggy clothes, too.” You snort.  And suddenly the words tumble from your mouth, words you didn’t expect to say at all.

“Yeah? Didn’t you say the project would be easier if I was hot?”

His smirk falters for the first time. He pauses. Then—quietly, sincerely, and in that very Sukuna way—he says, “Yeah, well. I lied about that to piss you off. Obviously.” 

A beat.

“You’re touched in the head if you don’t think you’re hot.” You go quiet. The air goes weird again—thick and strange and soft around the edges. You blink down at your notes, unsure what to say. Then, like it’s nothing, he shrugs. “Also… sorry. About that. And all the other comments. Shouldn’t’ve said that shit.”

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just fiddling with the ring on his finger like he’s not even sure if he meant to say it out loud. You swallow. Your stomach flips. Something tender and unfamiliar blooms in your chest. Then, because you can’t handle the softness, you bump his foot under the table and mumble, “You’re still annoying.” He grins like he’s won something. You work in silence after that—your legs stretched out, your ankles resting comfortably on his lap. He doesn’t move them. Just shifts to make space. At one point he starts absently tracing circles on your sock with one finger. And you don’t move either. You just let it happen. Because whatever this is—it’s not nothing anymore. It’s weird and slow and unfolding. It’s not sharp like it used to be. It’s soft. It’s warm.

And you don’t know what this thing is. Not yet. But it’s something. It’s teasing and warm and slow and building. It’s softer around the edges now. His glances linger longer. His jokes don’t always have a bite. He starts giving you the better chair. He moves his laptop so you can stretch your legs out and rest your ankles on his lap like it’s no big deal. He taps your water bottle when you forget to drink. He waits for you after class sometimes now. He starts noticing things. When you’re tired. When you’ve skipped lunch. When your leg’s bouncing under the table and you’re clearly spiraling about a deadline. He just reaches over and taps your water bottle. “Drink something. You look like you’re about to combust.”

And one day you realize—

You’re not dressing better because you feel like it. You’re dressing better because something inside you wants him to look at you. Want him to notice. Wants him to sit across from you with his dumb jawline and his pretty mouth and his stupid gaze and look. Like he sees you. And he does. It’s horrifying. And kind of thrilling. You don’t say anything. You just keep showing up. You let your shirts fit a little tighter. Your hair falls a little smoother. You wear that one necklace that always rests right at the tops of your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s nothing.

–

The last few weeks of the semester come fast and loud. Finals hang heavy in the air, coffee-fueled library sessions and group study chaos around every corner, but somehow, Sukuna still finds a way to plant himself next to you in every single lecture. Literally. He doesn’t even ask anymore—just drops into the seat beside you like it’s his birthright. Kicks his legs out wide under the desk, slumps dramatically back in the seat, leans over with that lazy, smug-ass voice to ask if you did the pre-lecture reading (you did, obviously; he did not, obviously). Sometimes he brings snacks. One time, it was gummy worms. Another time, chips he smuggled in the sleeve of his hoodie like a middle schooler. He offered you one and you made a face but still took it. He grinned. 

Your chem project is basically wrapped up. You’re in editing and final-presentation mode now, which somehow translates to even more time together. Study sessions have blurred into hangouts, your text convos half-project, half weird jokes and chaotic memes. He still calls you names—airhead, goblin, menace—but sometimes his voice gets soft when he does. He still teases you, but the silences in between stretch warm and easy. So when you’re walking out of a bookstore downtown one Saturday afternoon and spot him across the street, it’s almost normal. He’s with Toji and Choso, the three of them leaning against a car like they’re posing for some kind of delinquent calendar. Sukuna clocks you first. His eyes catch on you, and he lifts his hand in a lazy, beckoning wave.

You cross the street.

He smirks. "Didn’t know you had business on this side of town. What, you stalking me now?" You roll your eyes. "Relax. I was running errands. There’s a stationery shop over there that sells the pens I like."

"Nerd," Choso says, but he sounds kind of fond. Toji just nods like, fair. Sukuna tilts his head. "You taking the bus back?"

"Yeah, why?"

"It’s getting dark," he says like it’s a passing observation. Then, in that dry, effortless way: "You look like a perfect kidnapping target. All spaced out and clueless. C’mere, little lamb."

You gape. "Okay well you’re the type of person to be the one doing the kidnapping."

"Uh-huh. Get in. I’ll drive you."

You’re protesting before he even finishes the sentence. But Toji just shrugs, opens the passenger door for you like this is something he’s used to, and Choso’s already climbing into the back. You sigh and slide in, heart pounding for reasons you refuse to name.  The drive starts off easy. After a while, he drops off both Choso and Toji to the gym– where they were apparently headed for an evening grind session. Spending time with these three makes you think that the gym might be their second home besides the frat house where they live. You lean your head against the window, watching the city pass by in a blur of dusk and brake lights. But traffic hits near campus—an accident or something up ahead—and the car slows to a crawl.

You sigh, long and dramatic, throwing your head back against the seat. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck.” Sukuna shoots you a flat look, one hand tapping the wheel while the other lazily rests across his lap. “Incredible deduction, Sherlock. What gave it away? The line of cars stretching into the abyss?”

You flip him off without looking. “I’m putting on music.”

He sits up a little straighter. “Don’t you dare play weird indie-girl shit.” You’re already unlocking your phone, smug. “Too late.” And then it begins—those soft, dreamy guitar chords of She Won’t Go Away, spilling out through the car speakers like a bubble bath in audio form. Sukuna visibly flinches.

“What the fuck is this?” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This sounds like it belongs in a movie montage of someone getting dumped in the rain.” You grin, curling your legs up into the seat and pressing your temple against the cool glass of the window. “It’s art. It’s emotion. It’s currently the only thing keeping me alive during finals.” 

You’re already humming under your breath, voice quiet but matching the lilt of the lyrics like you’ve done this a hundred times alone in your room. You don’t even notice you’re doing it at first—just this soft, distracted singing, like muscle memory. Like breathing. Sukuna groans again, leaning back against his seat like he’s physically in pain. “Put on Playboi Carti like a normal human being.”

“No,” you reply sweetly, already queuing the song again. “I’m hyper fixated. That means I’m playing it at least three more times.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, but doesn’t reach for the aux. Instead, he leans his head back against the headrest and shuts his eyes, as if surrendering to the inevitable. His tattooed arm is draped lazily along the console between you. The setting sun outside paints soft orange lines across the curve of his throat, the ridges of his knuckles, the cut of his jaw. You glance over. Just for a second. His damp pink hair is curling a little where it rests against his forehead, the collar of his shirt a little stretched from where he tugged it off earlier. His hands are relaxed, but you’ve seen them clenched around a pen, a steering wheel, a can—so often that it’s weird to see them soft like this. 

When the chorus hits again, you can’t help it—you clutch your water bottle like it’s a microphone and sing along, full volume, completely tone-deaf. Your voice cracks on a high note. You don’t care. The car is stuck, the sun is bleeding out across the horizon, and for once your brain is quiet enough to let you just be. Sukuna cracks an eye open to stare at you. There’s an expression hovering on his face—part judgment, part amusement, all exasperated affection. “You’re fucking insane,” he murmurs, but doesn’t tell you to stop. You play the song two more times. The last time, he even taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. By the time the traffic thins and he pulls up in front of your dorm, it’s fully dark out. The streets are quiet. A light breeze rustles the trees overhead, and your building glows warm from the windows.

The car idles for a moment. Neither of you moves. You fiddle with your bag strap. “Thanks. For the ride.”  Sukuna shrugs like it’s no big deal, hand still resting casually on the steering wheel. “Didn’t want you to get kidnapped. I’ll be pissed if I have to deal with a new project partner this late in the semester.”

You snort. “So heartwarming. Hallmark should hire you.” But still, your smile softens. You open the door, start to slide out—

“Hey,” his voice cuts in, low. You turn back. He’s watching you, one elbow propped against the window, his mouth tugged into something just barely resembling seriousness.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” he says, slow. “When you sing.”

You blink. Then: “I mean—it’s not good,” he adds quickly, defensive. “Just—nice. Like. You know. Tolerable. Shut the fuck up.” You’re already laughing, your whole face warm, stomach fluttering for a reason that makes you want to scream into your pillow later. You shake your head, half-dizzy, and wave him off.

“Freak.”

He grins. “Obviously.” And then he’s pulling away, the soft glow of his taillights disappearing around the corner as you stand there on the curb, heart doing something you really wish it wouldn’t.

–

The dorm lounge is dark. A sad, crooked little sign is taped to the door, flapping slightly from the draft in the hallway: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. You stare at it in disbelief.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mutter. Sukuna makes a noise behind you—something between a groan and a sigh that says of course this would happen now.

“We walked all the way here,” you grumble, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “And East Wing Library’s still under construction as well.” You sigh, then shove your phone back in your pocket. “Whatever. Guess we’re not studying tonight.” Sukuna scratches at his jaw, eyeing you sideways. “We could go to my place.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“My frat house,” he clarifies, as if that helps. You squint at him. 

“Yeah, no offense, but the last thing I wanna do is walk into a testosterone-infested lair filled with Axe body spray and half-naked dudes playing Call of Duty.”

Sukuna smirks. “What do you think a frat house is, Animal House?” You raise a brow. “Is it not?”

“It’s…marginally cleaner.”

“Uh-huh.” 

He grins, lazy and wolfish. “What, you scared you’ll get corrupted?”

“Oh please. I’m scared I’ll catch a fungal infection from your couch.”

“Wow.” He mock clutches his chest. “That’s the same couch Toji had sex on junior year.” You wrinkle your nose. “You’re not helping your case.”

–

But you’re already walking beside him as he pulls his keys out of his pocket, smug as ever. The house is surprisingly... not awful. It’s big, for one. Tall windows, wide wraparound porch. Someone’s put effort into decorating the front room—there are actual plants. A couple are plastic, sure, but still. Progress.

“Don’t touch anything,” Sukuna says as he unlocks the door. “You might set off a trap.” You snort and follow him inside. Almost instantly, voices erupt from the kitchen.

“Yo!” someone calls. “Sukuna brought a girl? What the fuck?” You round the corner and find a man with gauges, hair tied back into a bun, leaning back in a chair with his feet propped on the table. Choso’s there too, hair also tied up in a low bun, sipping some horrifying green drink out of a mason jar.

“Holy shit,” Suguru grins, “she real?”

“She’s not my date,” Sukuna says, already annoyed. “She’s my lab partner.”

“Uh-huh, he’s actually not making up bullshit this time, Sugu,” Choso says, nodding solemnly between Sukuna and you. “Suguru, you shoulda seen the way he talks about h–.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“She’s cute though,” Suguru adds, eyeing you with an arched brow. “You sure this isn’t, like, your redemption arc?”

You just raise a brow. “This what you call hospitality?” Suguru snorts. “She talks back. I like her.”

“Bye,” Sukuna says sharply, grabbing your wrist. “Upstairs. Now.”

You’re still laughing as he drags you past the second floor landing. “Damn. Didn’t know you hadn’t brought anyone home in months.”

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“What’s wrong, celibate king? Losing your edge?” He stops in front of a door, turns to face you with that cocky smirk curling up again. “You wishing I haven’t gotten laid recently?”

You blink at him innocently. “Just surprised you haven’t. With how obsessed you are with yourself.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing the door open, “standards.” You snort.  But his room is… not what you expected. It’s neat. Cleaner than yours, probably. Dark wooden desk against the wall, books stacked haphazardly but intentionally. An unmade bed with black sheets and a dark grey hoodie tossed over the pillow. There’s a little lamp glowing low in the corner and a record player next to a speaker. You hate how nice it smells in here. You set your bag down on the floor. “Why does it smell like... sage and expensive soap?”

“Because I’m not disgusting?”

“Debatable.” You both settle on the floor, laptops out, papers scattered. He brings over a half-full bag of spicy chips and a water bottle, which he throws at you without looking. It hits you square in the chest.

“Dickhead.”

“You’re welcome.”

The first twenty minutes are actually productive—notes reviewed, graphs tweaked, last-minute slides double-checked. But inevitably, the banter creeps in. His foot nudges yours under the desk. You nudge back. He leans over to steal a gummy from your bag and you slap his hand away.

“Stop stealing my candy.”

“You ate my gummy worms last week.”

“I didn’t steal them. I accepted them.”

“Wow. You’re so full of shit.”

“Eat dirt.” He laughs—low, under his breath—and it shouldn’t affect you the way it does, but it sinks into your skin like heat, lingers in your bloodstream. It’s not the usual cocky bark of a laugh he throws at you when he’s being a menace. This one is quieter. Throatier. Less sharp edges, more velvet. Like he’s amused with you, not at you. It wrecks your focus. He’s leaned back against the edge of his bed now, legs splayed carelessly, one knee bent, the other stretching toward you like it owns the space. His shirt rides up a little at the waist, just enough to flash the hard lines of his stomach, the deep cut of his hipbones disappearing under black sweats. One of his arms hangs lazy over his knee, veins taut beneath inked skin, fingers playing absently with a red pen. And his hair—fuck. It's a mess, falling over his forehead in soft waves, a few strands catching on his lashes when he looks down. You want to brush it back. You want to tug on it.

You shift slightly, trying to re-cross your legs, trying to re-engage your brain with the paper in front of you. But your sweater dips with the movement—a soft, oversized thing you threw on without much thought. It hangs loose over your collarbones, dips just enough to expose a hint of skin and the swell of your chest where the neckline falls low. You feel his gaze before you see it. A flicker—subtle, but deliberate. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s staring.

“You're staring.”

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t pretend to be caught, doesn’t have the decency to look embarrassed. He just meets your eyes, unashamed, and shrugs one shoulder in a way that’s all smooth arrogance. “Can you blame me?” You snort, but it comes out quieter than intended. Your throat’s a little dry. “You’re gross.”

“Yeah?” He shifts a bit, elbow sliding behind him so he’s leaning fully back now, neck tipped against the wall, gaze still locked on you. “Don’t act like you didn’t wear that on purpose.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

He lifts a brow, lazy. “The sweater. The whole off-duty art girl thing. You knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” you protest, but your voice slips a bit, too defensive. “I just… liked the color.” Sukuna hums like he doesn’t believe you. His eyes stay exactly where they were—lingering, slow, blatantly appreciating. You glare at him. “You're an asshole.”

He grins. “True.” But then, softer. Less teasing. “You look cute.”

It lands differently. The words settle between you like something solid, something heavy. Not a joke. Not just banter. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how warm it is in the room, how quiet. The hum of the old radiator. The scent of whatever he uses in his laundry detergent—something clean and citrusy and a little intoxicating. You don’t respond. Your heart is thudding against your ribs, a little too loud, a little too fast. He watches you. Waits. Then, finally, you manage: “Stop being weird.” But your voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s soft. Uncertain. He smirks, but his eyes stay serious. “You love it.”

You roll your eyes, trying to drag your gaze back to your notes, to anything other than the way his gaze is dragging over your skin like a physical touch. You pretend to read, pretend to write, but you feel it—the tension, thick as syrup in the air. He’s close. Closer than before. You can feel the heat of him next to you, the way his thigh shifts slightly, brushing yours. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s already watching you. His expression is unreadable—equal parts amusement and hunger. He’s studying you like he’s memorizing. Like he’s waiting for the exact right moment to pounce.

And then he moves. No warning. No smart remark. Just a slow lean forward, one hand braced near your thigh as he closes the distance—eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

And before you know it, his lips are melding against yours. The kiss is slow. Careful. Not tentative, but measured, like he’s savoring the first taste. His lips are soft, warm, coaxing yours open. His hand comes up, rough fingers brushing your jaw before settling lightly at the base of your neck, thumb against your pulse. You inhale sharply when his mouth deepens against yours, tongue sliding over your bottom lip, teasing, asking—and when you give in, he groans, low and satisfied in the back of his throat. The sound goes straight to your stomach. He tastes like cinnamon gum and spice, something dark and smoky underneath. His teeth scrape lightly against your lip and you gasp into him, fingers fisting in the hem of his shirt without even realizing. When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His breath brushes against your mouth. His eyes are lidded, lashes low, lips parted and slightly swollen. He looks fucking wrecked. And somehow still manages to smirk. “Still think I’m gross?”

You blink at him, dazed. “Yes.” He laughs, that soft velvet-laced one again. You don’t even hesitate this time. You kiss him again—harder, needier, something unspoken unraveling fast between you. Your fingers curl tighter into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he doesn't resist—in fact, he deepens it like he's been waiting for this, like every smartass comment and every prolonged look was just him biding time. His hand drifts, slow, from your jaw to your throat—not pressing, just resting, thumb stroking just under your jawline, grounding you. The contrast of his rough fingers against your softer skin sends heat spiraling straight down your spine. Not just that– The hand on your throat sends a wave of heat right between your legs. Like he’s showing you who’s in control.

He pulls away just slightly, breath ragged, forehead grazing yours. "You kiss like you’ve been thinking about this.” You giggle against his mouth. “What if I have?”

That makes him groan—low, deep in his chest—and then he’s kissing you again, more urgent this time, less slow-burn and more fuck, finally. His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he tilts your mouth open wider, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy kind of rhythm. You shift instinctively into his space, knees brushing his thighs, your body angling toward his like gravity made the call for you. His hands trail from the length of your back to your ass, squeezing it in his large, calloused palms. It gets hazy, fast. The taste of him, the weight of his palm as it trails from your throat to the dip of your collarbone, fingers catching on the edge of your sweater. He breaks the kiss just long enough to look down—his hand still on you—and you see the shift in his expression the second he remembers your neckline. He hooks a finger into the v-line of the neckline, exposing the swells of your pretty tits to his hungry gaze.

“See,” he murmurs, voice rough now, barely-there smile curling the corners of his mouth. “You did wear this shit on purpose. Look at the way it just falls down so easily– ‘S like you wanted me to stare at your tits.” You breathe out a laugh—shaky. “You’re so full of yourself.” He ducks his head, mouth grazing your collarbone now, slow and deliberate, hands palming your breasts. “You’re not denying it, though.”

Your response gets swallowed by the way his lips brush the base of your neck, warm and soft, and then he bites—not hard, just enough to make your breath catch. 

“Fuck—Sukuna—”

“Say that again,” he mutters, voice vibrating against your skin. “Say it like that.” You yank at his shirt in response, pulling him closer until he's practically between your legs, notebooks shoved aside and forgotten. He lets you, smiling against your neck, one hand situated on your breast, the other settling on your thigh now, fingers pressing just enough through the fabric of your leggings that it sends your heart into a tailspin.

“You’re—I don’t even like you like that,” you breathe, even as your hips shift slightly forward, even as your body clearly wants him, your heat pressed directly on the very evident bulge in his sweatpants. He drags his mouth back up to yours. “So stop kissing me.” You kiss him harder.

His hand slides up your thigh, slow but sure, fingers skating over your hip, his palm pressing warm through the fabric. You gasp into his mouth when his thumb brushes just below your waistband, teasing, testing. Still not rushing. Sukuna’s the kind of guy who knows exactly how to draw something out until it burns. His kiss slows again—like he’s dialing it back, testing your limits. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “If you want me to.” You shake your head before the words even leave his mouth. 

“Don’t.” He exhales, almost like relief. “Good.”

Because now his fingers are slipping under your sweater, not even pretending to be shy, tracing the warm skin of your stomach, the skin above your waistband. When he feels the way your breath stutters, he pauses—lifts his head to look at you.

“You good?” His voice is soft. Different. You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. I’m good.” His lips twitch like he’s amused with how breathless you sound, but he doesn’t say anything cocky this time. He just kisses you again, slower now, more methodical, hands exploring like he’s cataloguing every inch of you. You’re vaguely aware that you're still in his room, that the door’s closed but the walls are thin, that you’re half-on, half-off his bed surrounded by a mess of notes and highlighters and open laptops. And none of that matters. Because the way he’s looking at you now—eyes dark, mouth kiss-swollen, hair a mess from your fingers—it’s not just heat. It’s hunger. Craving. Like he’s been waiting for this since the day he sat next to you in chem lab with that annoying smirk.

And now that he has you? He’s going to take his time. You're not sure when studying officially got left behind. Somewhere between the first kiss and the way his hands slid under your sweater, books became background noise. The project became irrelevant. Now, he’s laying you back on his bed—slowly, carefully, like he’s trying not to make you overthink it. The room is dim, golden light spilling in from the desk lamp. Your legs are tangled with his, your sweater halfway off your shoulder, and he’s hovering over you, kissing you like it’s something he needs to do, like he’s been trying not to all semester and finally gave up. You feel his hand slide under your sweater again, this time pushing it up your ribs, warm palm skating over your skin like he’s memorizing it. He doesn’t even rush—he just looks down at you like you’re something to unravel, slowly.

“You sure?” he says again, quieter this time. His thumb brushes just under your bra, like he’s offering you a way out, even now. You nod, heart stuttering. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes. Because after that, Sukuna moves like a switch flips. His hands are suddenly everywhere—sliding your sweater off completely, tossing it somewhere behind him, and then he’s kissing you again, this time lower, trailing his mouth down your neck, down the line of your collarbone, licking into the dip between your breasts like he’s been thinking about doing it forever. 

His hand tugs off your bra roughly, making you squeak– you’re not sure if it’s from the surprise from having the material ripped off of you so roughly, or the fact his long fingers are pinching at your nipples. He takes one in his mouth, sucking and rolling the sensitive bud around, before doing the same to the other one. With each action, you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, to the point you’re half wishing he’d just take your leggings and panties off, and just get on with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, half against your skin. “You’re—god, you’re driving me fucking crazy.” He pulls off your nipple with a resounding pop, eyes darkened by the sight of the sheen of his saliva on your breasts. You laugh, breathless. “You’re literally the one climbing on top of me right now.”

He looks up at you, hair falling in his face, mouth wet and swollen. “Yeah, because you look like this. Wearing that stupid little sweater. Coming to my room. Being all—” He cuts himself off with a groan. “You knew what you were doing. You expected me not to do all this?” He punctuates this with a light pinch to your nipple, making you squeal.

“I came here to study!”

“Yeah, and now you’re in my bed. About to get your little pussy wrecked until you can’t walk. Real tragic how that worked out.” You feel yourself heat up– like your entire body aflame at his vulgar words, mouth opening to retort something back at him. He kisses you again before you can reply, this time rougher—his hands slipping under the waistband of your leggings, tugging slow and deliberate. You lift your hips to help him, cheeks flushed as he pulls them down and off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your underwear. His eyes darken.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re unreal. And wet. Fuck, I can practically see your pussy because of how wet you are.” 

You reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. “Take this off. It's unfair I’m the only one half-naked.” 

He grins—sharp, pleased—and yanks it over his head in one smooth move. Suddenly you’re staring at the body that you’ve been unconsciously (consciously) staring at everytime he wears something even slightly form fitted. Defined, lean muscle, broad chest, ink curling along his side. Do you even need to mention the pink smattering of hair below his navel? It makes your thighs clench uncomfortably, making your eyes darken. He catches your look and smirks. “Like what you see, huh?”

“Shut up and get back here.” And he does. He presses his body flush against yours, warm and solid, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your waist. You can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants now, the heat of it making your breath catch. His hand trails down, teasing the edge of your underwear. “Still good?” You nod, hips shifting toward him. “Sukuna, please.” He growls, soft and low in his throat, and hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down. He kisses your neck as he does it, slow and hot, and you shudder. He gets them off and then leans back, just for a second, to look at you spread out in his bed, wet and inviting. His eyes are practically black now, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters. “You’re actually gonna kill me.” You tug at the waistband of his sweats. “Then die faster.” He laughs, breathless, and strips them off, boxers too. Holy fuck. It’s impressive. Thick and girthy, leaking from the pink tip. You try not to stare—try being the operative word—and he notices.

“Cute,” he says, climbing back over you. “You’ve been a nuisance to me all semester and now you’re blushing over my dick?”

“You’re literally about to be inside me. Give me a break.” That shuts him up real quick. He leans in, kisses you slow, hand sliding between your thighs. He teases you with his fingers first, dipping the long digits in and out of your wetness, making sure you’re ready, whispering things against your neck—“You’re so wet already,” and “Fuck, this tight for me?”—until you’re shaking, seeing stars just from two, thick fingers of his, clinging to his muscled arms. Once he’s deemed that you’re pleasantly even more wet than you were pre-orgasm, he strokes his shaft, the tip pink and angry as he stares with a half lidded gaze at the glistening area between your legs.

And then he’s there, lined up, pushing in slow. You gasp at the stretch, the pressure, your hands grabbing onto his biceps as he sinks into you inch by inch. “God,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel—fuck—you feel insane. Oh my– Shit, I’m never letting this pussy outta my sight.” You can’t speak. You just hold onto him, breathing through it, until he’s all the way in and stills. Gives you a second. Kisses you again. When you finally nod, his hips start to move—slow, deep strokes that make your whole body arch into him. It’s hot and messy and intense, but there’s something else in it too—something careful. He watches you like he wants to memorize every expression you make, every sound you let out.

It builds fast—frustration and release and months of tension finally cracking open. His name falls from your lips more than once, and he groans each time like it’s doing something to him.

“S-Sukuna—fuck—I’m—”

“I got you,” he mutters, kissing your shoulder. “I got you. Come on, baby. Make a mess on my dick. Yeah, mhm. Fuck.” And when you come, it hits like a wave—sharp and overwhelming, your whole body curling into him, his name leaving your mouth in breathy moans. He follows not long after, hips stuttering as he barely manages to pull out, his warm seed splattering on your stomach, head buried in your neck, cursing softly against your skin. He kisses you briefly, heading quickly to his bathroom to grab a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach clean, tossing the balled up cloth into the hamper in some corner of the room.

Afterward, there’s just heavy breathing and tangled limbs. His hand finds yours under the sheets, fingers interlacing. You’re the first to speak, voice still shaky.  “That was–That was not studying.”

Sukuna laughs—hoarse, wrecked. “Yeah, no shit.” You glance at him. “So… do we pick the project back up tomorrow?” He rolls over, smirking at the ceiling. “Maybe if you let me come inside next time.” You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it without flinching. “Worth it.”

And you laugh, falling back into the sheets beside him, skin still buzzing, body still flushed. For once, everything’s quiet.

–

You stretch, groaning into the pillow, body aching in a way that’s half delicious and half criminal. Your thighs hurt. Your back hurts. Your soul might hurt a little. From across the room, you hear the sound of Sukuna's shower turning on. “No,” you croak, face still buried in the pillow. “I am not moving. I live here now. This is my bed.”

“You’re literally lying on my hoodie.”

“Then it’s mine now too.” 

He snorts. “Get your ass up. We should shower before everyone in the frat wakes up and thinks I killed someone in here.” You peek out with one eye. “You can go first.”

“I wasn’t offering,” he says, walking out of the bathroom with just a towel slung low around his hips. Drops of water are still clinging to his chest, and the tattoos on his ribs look somehow worse in the daylight. In the best way. “Come on.” You blink at him. “You want to shower… together?”

He raises a brow. “Yeah?”

“No.” He squints. “Why not?”

“That’s intimate.”

He stares. “My dick was inside you last night.” You wave a hand. “That’s physical. This is emotional.” He laughs—actually laughs—and crosses the room in two strides. “You're such a weirdo.”

“I’m serious! Showering together is, like, emotionally naked. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s so vulnerable. That’s like… domestic. That’s, like, soft.”

He rolls his eyes, completely unfazed. “You’re such a freak.” Then, before you can protest further, he grabs you—still very naked, still very sore—and throws you over his shoulder like a caveman. His hand slaps across your ass lightly, snickering to himself.

“SUKUNA—”

“I’m not listening to you spiral about emotional nudity,” he says, totally calm, carrying you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing. “You moaned my name like a porn star last night. You can handle a shower.”

“I can’t walk!”

“Which is why I’m being a gentleman and carrying you.”

“You are the opposite of a gentleman.” He kicks the bathroom door shut behind him and sets you down on the edge of the counter. Steam curls around both of you, hot and fragrant—his shampoo smells stupidly good, which is somehow infuriating.

You stare at the water, then at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

Sukuna grins, dimples flashing. “Obviously.” You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips a little anyway. The second you step under the spray, your muscles sigh. Hot water hits your back, and you slump forward with a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a prayer. Sukuna slides in behind you, and his hands immediately land on your hips, holding you steady like he knew you were about to collapse.

“I told you I couldn’t stand,” you mumble, leaning back against his chest.

“I didn’t realize you meant it literally,” he says, smirking into the curve of your neck. “You should work on your stamina.”

“You should get bent.”

“Hm, I think I bent you. Very successfully, actually.”

You try to elbow him, but he catches your wrist easily, still grinning. “Want me to wash your hair?” You eye him warily. “What are you gonna do? Douse me in Axe body wash?”

“Hey. That’s slander.” He grabs a bottle from the ledge and starts working it into your scalp before you can protest. His hands are warm, gentle, and surprisingly careful. He’s quiet for a second, and so are you. Then he murmurs, “You smell good.”

“It’s your shampoo. That’s like self cest. You’re saying I only smell good because I smell like you?”

“Yeah, but now it’s on you. It’s different. Not self cest. You just… Shut up and lemme wash your hair.” You glance up, heart doing something stupid in your chest. “You’re being weird again.”

“Yeah?” He ducks down slightly, voice lower now, breath ghosting against your ear. “And what if I said I like being weird with you?” You freeze. Then you shove a palm into his chest. “Shut up. That’s so corny.” He laughs, but his grip on your waist doesn’t falter. You stay under the water a little longer, letting the heat and his hands and the way his chest feels against your back melt the rest of the tension out of you. When he reaches for the soap again, you catch his wrist. “Do not start anything. I physically can’t take another round.” Sukuna leans in, kisses the side of your jaw with a smirk. “Don’t worry, baby doll. I’ll be good.” He’s not. Safe to say you ended up begging for it too.

–

The hallway’s cold. Way colder than your dignity can handle when you’re limping barefoot behind a shirtless Sukuna in his frat house, wearing his hoodie and a pair of his shorts that might as well be pants. Your hair’s damp, your thighs are wrecked, and your pride? That’s somewhere on the floor of his room with your underwear.

“You didn’t have to break me in half,” you mutter under your breath, wincing with each step. Sukuna snorts, completely unbothered. “You seemed fine last night. And in the shower.”

“I was faking it.”

He glances over his shoulder, smug. “You were screaming.”

“Faking it loudly, then,” you snap. He just chuckles, steps into the kitchen like he’s not Satan incarnate. Toji’s already there—standing shirtless in front of the stove, flipping protein pancakes in a pan that looks like it’s seen war. He glances up the moment you hobble in behind Sukuna, eyes trailing from your flushed face to the unmistakable fact that you are wearing Sukuna’s hoodie and walking like you’ve been in a car crash.

Toji freezes. Then grins. Slow. Evil.

“Oh shit.”

You want to die. You want the linoleum floor to open up and swallow you whole. You press the sleeves of Sukuna’s hoodie over your face. “I knew I heard something last night,” Toji says, flipping a pancake like this is the best morning of his life. “Told Choso it wasn’t the pipes. That’s gotta be why he slept on the couch.”

“I hate this house,” you mumble. Sukuna yawns. “Shut the fuck up, Toji.” Toji just cackles. “She’s limping, bro. You broke her.” Your head snaps up. “Shut up! Don’t say it like that—”

“Toji,” Sukuna says again, voice dropping low now. “If you say one more thing, I’m banning you from ever speaking in the kitchen again.” Toji raises both hands, innocent. “Damn. Y’all are sensitive this morning.” Sukuna grabs a water bottle off the counter and throws it—nails Toji square in the chest. Water explodes. Toji wheezes laughing.

“I’m putting a ban on the entire house,” Sukuna mutters, turning toward the hallway. “Nobody comes out of their fucking rooms for the next twelve hours.”  Toji wipes water off his chest with a paper towel. “That’s not how a frat works.”

“It is now.” 

You, meanwhile, are dying silently in the corner of the kitchen, gripping the counter for dear life like Bambi on ice. Your legs genuinely might give out. You pull the hoodie lower and try to disappear into it. Toji eyes you, smirking. “You want a protein pancake, champ? You’ve earned it.”

“I swear to God—”

Sukuna slams a mug down on the counter. “TOJI.”

“Okay, okay! Damn. Sensitive and possessive.”

Sukuna grabs two mugs, fills them with coffee, then turns to you like nothing happened. “C’mere.” You shuffle over, still avoiding eye contact with the man who just witnessed your walk of shame, and accept the mug gratefully. Your fingers brush Sukuna’s as you take it, and he glances at you. That look again. The one that’s always a little cocky, a little smug. But softer now. Like he hasn’t quite recovered either. You sip the coffee to avoid saying something dumb.

Toji, of course, ruins the moment by smacking the spatula on the counter. “So when’s the wedding?” Sukuna chucks a pancake at him. And despite the embarrassment, despite the ache in your thighs and the fact that your ego might never recover… when Sukuna leans against the counter next to you, shoulder brushing yours, and murmurs, “Still think showering’s more intimate than sex?”—you don’t argue. You just bump his hip with yours and whisper, “Next time, you’re the one limping.” He barks out a laugh at that, looking down at you.

“You sound like you’re gonna peg me.”

“Keep embarrassing me like this and I might just peg you.”

–

It keeps happening. Somehow, even after you swore you weren’t gonna end up tangled with a smug frat boy who wears rings like armor and calls you “menace” every time you breathe wrong—here you are. The project is basically done, but that doesn’t change much. You still see each other constantly, like it’s built into your week now. Study sessions, late-night editing, grabbing food on the way back from the library. He still comes over unannounced and flops onto your bed like it’s his, still kicks his shoes off and demands snacks and calls you bossy for forcing him to fix his citations.

And okay, yeah. You keep hooking up. It’s not even subtle anymore. Sometimes he’ll press you into your mattress before your laptop’s even warmed up, muttering something like “five minutes” that always turns into an hour. You fall asleep tangled in his limbs more often than you’d like to admit, his hand wrapped around your waist like it belongs there. And it’s not just sex—it’s everything. The way he orders your coffee without asking. The way he instinctively tilts his head down when you talk so he hears every word. The way he looks at you, like he’s memorizing you. Toji and Choso have basically stopped pretending it’s casual. Every time you come over to the frat house, someone whistles or yells, “Yo, Sukuna’s girl’s here!” 

You always roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. Sukuna usually throws a middle finger over his shoulder and drags you inside like he doesn’t care—but you’ve caught the smirk on his face more than once. But then. One Wednesday, you walk into class a couple minutes late. You’re digging for a pen in your bag, not paying attention, until you hear it—his laugh. You glance up. He’s already in your usual seat. But he’s not alone. There’s a girl next to him—cute, brunette, sparkly earrings. Laughing with her hand on his arm like they’re in the middle of a joke. And Sukuna? He’s laughing too. That low, easy laugh he uses when he’s genuinely amused. His whole body turned toward her. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Familiar.

Too familiar. It shouldn’t matter. He’s not your boyfriend. You never asked him to be. But something curdles in your stomach, this horrible bitter twist of heat and nausea. Because he’s never laughed like that with anyone else—not that you’ve seen. That was yours. You sit on the other side of the lecture hall. You don’t text him back that night. Or the next. You’re not cold. Just… distant. Muted. Detached. You don’t flirt. You don’t roll your eyes when he calls you names. You don’t even rise to the bait when he eats the last of your chips and says, “You snooze, you lose.” You just nod, distracted. Quiet. The first time he tries to pull you into his lap during a break, you shrug him off.

The third time it happens, he snaps. “The fuck is going on with you?” You glance up from your notebook, eyebrows raised. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he says, jaw tense. “You’ve been acting weird all week.” You look at him flatly. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what? Avoiding me?” The words hang heavy in the air. He stares at you across the room, breathing hard, the project open on your laptop but completely forgotten. Your throat is tight.

“Forget it,” you mutter, pushing back your chair. He grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you stop.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” You inhale, shaky. “I saw you. In class. With that girl.”

His expression shifts, confusion tightening into something sharper. “What girl?”

“The one you were laughing with,” you say, voice brittle. “It’s not a big deal. I just—forgot who you are, I guess. You can talk to whoever you want.” He stares at you. Like he doesn’t know whether to scream or laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

You rip your arm from his grip. “Yeah, actually.”

“That was my cousin, you idiot.” You freeze. “What?”

“My cousin. From Osaka. She was visiting campus and sat in for class,” he says, exasperated. “Jesus, you thought I was flirting?”

“You were laughing with her!”

“I laugh with you more than anyone! Does that mean I’m flirting with you too?”

“Yes!” you blurt, and then immediately regret it. His eyes narrow. “So you do see it.” You open your mouth. Close it. Your face burns. He steps forward, close enough to make your pulse jump. “You’re jealous.” You look away. “No, I’m—”

He cuts you off. “You are. And you know what? Good. ’Cause I’ve been going fucking insane pretending we’re just study buddies who coincidentally spend every second together and coincidentally fuck and coincidentally sleep in the same bed, but can’t call each other anything real.” You stare at him, breathless.

“I like you,” he says, low and hoarse. “I like you so much it’s driving me nuts. And if you don’t feel the same—fine. But don’t act like I haven’t been making it obvious.” You swallow hard. “You have a fucked-up way of showing it.”

He snorts. “You’re one to talk. Giving me the silent treatment because I laughed once?”

“You laughed like you do with me,” you whisper. “That’s what hurt.”

Something flickers in his expression—something soft and real. He cups your jaw.

“I only laugh like that with you,” he says, voice thick. “I only want to laugh like that with you.” Your heart stumbles. “Now shut up,” he mutters, “so I can kiss you.” You do. And he does—hard, hungry, like he’s been waiting for years. Hands are in your hair, yours are on his shoulders, and everything finally clicks into place. When you pull back, flushed and breathless, he grins. “Well. You’re my girlfriend now.” You blink. “That’s not romantic at all.” He kisses your cheek. “Didn’t say it was. But it’s the truth.” You shove his chest. “You suck.” He just grins harder, tugging you back in. “Not what you were saying last week. In fact, you were sucking it.” You groan. But you don’t argue. Because yeah—you’re his now. And he's yours. Officially.

–

Sukuna’s room is warmer than usual. The window’s cracked, the scent of pine air freshener battling the distinct smell of boy—clean laundry, leftover cologne, something vaguely woodsy. You’re cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by notebooks and crumpled printouts, while he’s sitting in his desk chair with one foot up on the edge, tapping away at the final slides of your presentation. Toji passed by the door earlier and shouted, “Yo, project couple!” before Sukuna flipped him off and slammed the door shut with his heel. You’re both halfway through your second coffees, the last dregs sloshing around your cups. The project’s done for real now—just tweaks now. Alignment stuff. Graph polish. The usual shit that seems small until it’s 2 a.m. and your brain starts melting.

“You typed ‘photochemistray,’” you murmur, leaning forward to peer at his screen. He doesn’t even look up. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“I don’t make typos.” You snort. “You make so many typos.”

“I make sexy typos.”

“‘Photochemistray’ sounds like a bootleg brand of nerd lingerie.” He finally glances over, one brow raised. “You say that like it’s not a market I could corner.”

You throw a pillow at him. He laughs, full and low and so familiar it warms your stomach. That sound’s become muscle memory at this point. Embedded into your damn soul. The moment settles. Quiet for a beat. His keyboard clacks, and you start flipping through your notes, eyes skimming blankly. Then, out of nowhere, your voice slips into the silence. “Y’know… we’ve technically talked before this semester.” 

He glances up. “What?”

“Like, you and me. Before we got partnered.” He blinks. “When?” You hesitate. “That freshman welcome thing. In the orientation lecture hall. They made people from different majors introduce themselves. I stood up and said something about being interested in environmental science.” He frowns, clearly digging through his brain.

“And I stuttered,” you add, dryly. “And you—very loudly—mocked me from the back row.” There’s a beat. His face changes. Just slightly. Jaw tightening.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. You said something like, ‘Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.’”

He winces. “Shit.” You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I mean, whatever. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, it was,” he says immediately, looking at you now with that intense, unreadable stare. “I was an asshole. I didn’t even remember that was you.” You shrug again, but it feels a little thinner this time. “You weren’t wrong. I was stuttering.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he says. “I was a piece of shit. I’m sorry.” The quiet that follows isn’t awkward—it’s just… charged. The way he says it, that gravel in his voice. The way he’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, rings glinting under the dim desk lamp. It does something to you.

“Didn’t think the Ryomen Sukuna apologized,” you say lightly. He lifts a brow. “Only when I mean it.” You nod slowly. Then: “Guess I’m honored.” His eyes narrow—playfully, but there’s heat there now. “You should be.” Your heart skips. You stretch your legs out, feigning boredom. But the hem of your shorts rides up, and his gaze flickers down—lingers. You see the change in his posture. The way his foot drops from the desk, his chair creaking as he shifts.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’ve been sitting there looking like that for the past hour and it’s getting hard to think.” You blink. “Like what?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching. “All pretty and smug. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.” You raise a brow. “I’m literally in a hoodie and gym shorts.”

“And yet,” he says, slowly standing. “Here I am. In physical pain.”

You scoff. “Maybe focus on the final slide instead of your dick.”

“Maybe stop sitting there looking like a fucking sin,” he mutters, now crossing the space between you. You don’t move. You can’t. Your breath is caught somewhere in your chest as he stops right in front of the bed, towering over you, eyes hooded. “Can I?” he asks, voice quieter. Rougher. You nod. The shift is immediate. His hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate, as he kneels onto the bed, caging you in. His mouth brushes the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Didn’t like that I hurt your feelings.” 

You swallow. “You didn’t. Not really.”

“I did,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your neck. “And now I’m gonna make it up to you.” Your breath stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at you—his thumb grazing your jaw, eyes dark and locked on yours. “You good?” he asks, tone shifting just slightly—checking in. You nod. “Yeah.”

“Say it.”

“I’m good.”

That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and teeth and months of tension bleeding out between your lips. His hand finds your waist, gripping you like he’s been starving. You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The laptop slides off the bed with a thunk, forgotten. You pull him down with you, and he goes easily, one knee slipping between your thighs, his weight bracing over you. He kisses like he studies—focused, intense, overwhelming. His tongue licks into your mouth and your brain just short-circuits. He looks at you for a long second. Then, suddenly, grabs your waist and pulls you into his lap.

“Also,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck, “for the record, if I’d known the hot chem girl from freshman year would end up riding me like five times a week, I would’ve introduced myself sooner. And not have been such an asshole to you.” You slap his chest. “That’s your way of apologizing?”

“Yeah, but you like it.” You kiss him to shut him up, and somehow, that turns into another hour of not reviewing the presentation.

–

it’s the final day, and your name’s being called. You head to the front of the class with your laptop while Sukuna follows, looking every bit the cocky, casually dressed bastard he’s always been—except now he’s your cocky, casually dressed bastard. He nods at the front row like he’s about to win a Grammy, and you nudge his ribs. A significant portion of the project requires an overview accompanied with an oral presentation, so here you are.

“Behave.”

“I’m always well-behaved,” he mutters, grabbing the clicker. You start the intro. He takes over halfway through. You can’t help but grin a little—because he’s good. Actually good. Clear, confident, no stuttering, and he even makes Professor Shimizu laugh with a sarcastic quip about the data trend in one of the chemical reactions. And then, without thinking, he leans down and kisses your cheek. Like it’s second nature. The room doesn’t even react that much—probably because no one’s shocked anymore—but when the class ends and people start packing up, Professor Shimizu catches your arm. She grins. “Isn’t that the same boy you were begging me not to pair you with at the start of the semester?”

Your face burns. “We had…a rocky beginning.”

“Mmm,” she says, amused. “Well, you turned it around. Solid work. And the chemistry was palpable.” You groan. “Please don’t say chemistry.” But she’s already walking away, still smiling to herself. After class, Sukuna drives you back to your dorm like always. One hand on the wheel, one resting over your thigh like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Halfway through the drive, he queues something on his phone. And the soft strum of Faye Webster's She Won’t Go Away fills the car. You whip your head toward him. “No fucking way.” 

He doesn’t look at you. “Don’t start.”

“You said this was depression music for people who get dumped in the rain.” He clicks his tongue. 

“Yeah, well. Maybe I like that kinda concept now.” You cover your mouth with a gasp. “You’re evolving.”

“I’m gonna shove you out of this moving car.” 

You’re already singing by the chorus, and even though he groans, you catch him mouthing the words beside you. He tries to act like he’s just being ironic, but his fingers tap the rhythm on your leg, and he keeps the song on repeat the whole ride. By the time he pulls up to your dorm, the sun’s setting. You lean in, eyes soft, smile lazy. “That was kinda romantic,” you murmur. 

He scoffs. “Don’t get used to it.” You kiss him anyway. And when you pull back, he’s watching you with that grin. The one that’s half smug, half stupidly, hopelessly fond. “You know,” he says, “if you weren’t so annoying, I might’ve asked you to be my girlfriend sooner.” You blink. “That was the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Like, worse when we had that little argument and you just told me that I was your girlfriend now.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “You didn’t fall for me because I’m romantic.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Why did I fall for you, actually?”

He leans in close. “Probably the dick.” You shove him away, laughing. “God, you’re disgusting.”

“And yet,” he says, as you open the car door, “you’re still letting me hit. Also, this song, I actually really like it–”

You squint. “Are you saying this to get laid?”

“No,” he mutters. “But if it works, I won’t complain.” You slam the door in his face, but you’re grinning. And he’s still smiling when you look back through the window.

a/n: i had way too much fun writing this lollll now i need sukuna!!!

also, honourable tag for @writesvani bc of whom i actually had the motivation of writing this because she sent the most beautiful words of support 2 me after whisper of the heart. thank u so much and ily immensely <3

tags: @tracysdemise @perqbeth @fushiguroooozzz @bowlware @yuunice @xxstormyprincessxx @bnbaochauuu @beabamboo @erintaro @altgojo @sugurulefttesticle @minascasket @rinofcike @captainquake42 @pinkpookiebear @hellowoolf @clp-84 @yit-tk @nessca153 @domainofmarie @crunchyholo @emochosoluvr @sukubusss @being-blue-is-better @nikilig @syubseokie

The Red Lord (Chapter 2 of 2)

On the hills above your village stands a magnificent but supposedly cursed castle where the mysterious Red Lord lives. Lord Sukuna is a man of breathtaking beauty. Too beautiful. Rumors claim that there is something wrong with him. But what happens when an accident makes you end up in the care of that mysterious man? Will you uncover the truth about him?

Chapter 1

Pairing: Vampire!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: Vampire AU, gothic fairytale, smut, fluff Word Count: 8k Warnings: 18+, Sukuna is a vampire, blood, mentions of murder and death, mentions of past domestic violence and abuse (NOT from Sukuna! But Reader's father, brother, and the man she was promised to didn't treat her well), smut, virginity loss, fingering, oral, creampie. All characters are of age. This story is 18+. Minors don't interact.

As much as the evening in the rose garden and the tender kisses distracted you, you can't stop thinking about the villagers' accusations. Their words play over and over in your head.

Three men were killed.

But what do you know about what has happened down in the village? No one mentioned any names of the victims. For all you know, it could be anyone. There is no evidence that it is connected to you. So why should you presume that the victims were the three men that had wronged you? And why should you assume Lord Sukuna had anything to do with that?

The burn marks on his hand? A foolish mind could interpret them as proof that Lord Sukuna is a vampire. You remember how he didn't fully step into the sunlight but stopped in the doorway. Only his left hand must have come into direct touch with the sunlight. But isn't this a bit far-fetched?

Maybe Lord Sukuna just burned himself on candle wax. That's a far more likely explanation.

It would be convenient to wrap yourself in sweet ignorance and pretend everything is fine.

But you can't ignore the voice of reason screaming at you that all those coincidences are very suspicious indeed. The part about Sukuna being a vampire is still too wild for you to allow it. But what about those mysterious deaths that have occurred?

You have to acknowledge that there could be a connection to you.

Three men posed a threat to you. Three men were killed.

You catch yourself watching Lord Sukuna more closely. Wondering if those strong hands that are so carefully handing you a crystal glass filled to the brim with red wine could be the hands of a murderer. Wondering if those glittering diamond eyes and the confident and handsome smile are hiding his true monstrous nature beneath a beautiful mask.

Is the man who took you in a monster after all?

But the thing is, you find that you don't care either way. Because isn't it all a question of perspective? When is a monster an actual monster? Generally speaking, you don't condone murder, of course. But is it still murder if it was done out of the wish to protect someone? You don't think so.

So that leads to a conviction: Even if Lord Sukuna is the one who killed those men who you assume were your father, brother, and future husband, that doesn't make him a monster in your eyes. To everyone else in your village, he might be. But to you, he is the brave man who ensured that the men harming you would never lay a hand on you again. So you could say Lord Sukuna is your hero. Your knight who slayed the dragon.

You don't mind that he has some strange habits or that the way he speaks is a bit odd sometimes, old-fashioned. It is probably because he never really comes into contact with other people. Lord Sukuna lives here alone with only a loyal servant at his proposal.

He seems to be a lonely man in self-inflicted isolation. You tell yourself you would feel guilty at the thought of saying farewell to him, and so you decide you will stay a while longer even though all your injuries have long healed.

And wouldn't you miss him too? Wouldn't you miss the inspiring book discussions the two of you hold? Or the way Sukuna's face lights up when he laughs at a joke you made? When he looks so devastatingly beautiful in the candlelight, it almost makes you cry?

Wouldn't you miss the sweet kisses he shares with you? Stolen kisses in the rose garden at night. Gentle and sweet, but with an ever-growing passion on Lord Sukuna's and your part. The lingering touches when you pass him in the doorway. A brush of his hand against yours in passing by. A strong arm that sneaks around your waist to guide you down the stairs. A smile and an intense look out of those gorgeous eyes that make the fluttery feeling in your stomach and chest intensify.

You would miss all of those things.

And so you stay. Even after that incident in the village and Lord Sukuna's possible connection to it, you stay.

The doubt remains, though. As crazy as you tell yourself it is to believe in such foolish tales as vampires, there are so many weird things about this place and about Sukuna that it's hard to ignore them.

But one particular incident makes you spin out of control.

Lord Sukuna brings you roses all the time. He puts them on your dinner plate or hands them to you with a smile and a soft kiss pressed to your cheek. Those roses from his garden are magnificent, red, and flawless. They never have any thorns.

Lord Sukuna told you that he asked Uraume to cut off the thorns so you won't hurt yourself on them. You always assumed he was just caring and thoughtful.

But then, one night, a single little thorn is left on a rose, and you prick yourself on it.

"Ouch!"

You gasp and lift your hand, inspecting the small cut, where a big drop of blood already wells up.

Lord Sukuna makes a strangled sound next to you. His eyes seem even redder suddenly, glimmering in an unnatural bright scarlet red as they stare at the thick drop of blood on your fingertip.

Before you can do anything, he grabs your hand and brings it to his lips. You can only watch in astonishment, and dawning horror as Sukuna's soft tongue flicks over your finger, licking up that drop of blood.

Your gaze meets his, and you can see a hunger in it that you have never seen before. So intense that it looks almost feral.

Those bright red eyes widen suddenly, and Lord Sukuna drops your hand and hastily takes a step back. Before you can process what is happening, he has already fled the room, and the dark wooden door falls shut behind him with a loud bang.

It's that incident with the rose that keeps you up for hours this night.

You have never seen Lord Sukuna like this. He usually is so calm and in control. So it seems strange to see him so distraught. The way his eyes were burning with hunger. Glowing red like never before. The way he had licked the blood off your finger. His hurried escape afterward. As if he wanted to hide something from you. Or as if he was scared, he did something bad...or would do something bad if he stayed near you.

You sit up with a gasp. Your head is spinning. It is time, you realize. Time to acknowledge those thoughts that have been haunting you for weeks.

What if vampires exist after all? What if you are living with one at the moment?

Suddenly you're filled with an unbearable restlessness, driven by the need to finally discover the truth.

Is there any base for those suspicions? Or are you just getting carried away by crazy thoughts and fantasies? You know what you need. Cold hard facts! More knowledge about this topic!

Only one floor beneath you is the vastest collection of books you have ever seen. So if there is a likely place to find more information about vampires, it will be there!

You are out of bed in seconds, not even bothering to put on shoes or wrap a cape around your shoulders to keep you warm. You just grab a candle holder and leave your room barefooted, only dressed in your thin nightdress.

The luxurious plush carpets feel soft under your feet as you rush through the long corridors and down the flight of stairs. The heavy wooden door closes softly behind you after you enter the spacious library.

You should start your search in the mythological section and then continue to go through the science section and look for medical encyclopedias.

You are so focused on your mission to find a book that will contain the information you seek that you don't see him until his low velvety voice drifts through the dimly lit room.

"Can't sleep, sweetheart?"

You almost drop the candle, your heart jumping to your throat as your head whips around to stare at the big red armchair Lord Sukuna is sitting on.

"L...Lord Sukuna! I am sorry for disturbing you!"

A lazy smirk spreads over his beautiful face, red eyes sparkling in amusement as he cocks his head and watches you curiously,

"Don't worry, darling. You can come here at any time of the day or night. This is your castle too. And I, for one, understand the nightly craving for information and the fantastic world books can offer us. I come here almost every night to read. Can I help you? Are you looking for anything specific?"

His glittering gaze holds yours for a long moment before slowly traveling down your body. Suddenly you become aware of the way you are dressed. Only standing in front of him in your thin nightdress that slips off your shoulders, sitting low on your breasts. Delicate white silk that is too thin for walking around at night at this time of year. 

Your nipples are stiff peaks because of the chilly temperatures, clearly visible through the thin material of your nightdress. You are sure that the snug fit of the dress does nothing to hide your body from Lord Sukuna's gaze.

Your free hand self-consciously tugs on one of the lacy straps, trying to pull it up over your shoulder.

"I... no, I am not looking for anything in particular. I just... I just need something to calm me down, I think. So I can find rest afterward."

The smirk on Lord Sukuna's pretty face turns even bigger, even more dazzling in its beauty. There is something in his eyes and in his voice, a certain sparkle, a specific timbre, that seems almost hypnotic, making you slowly walk towards him when he says,

"Then I have something for you, my dear. Come to me."

You are breathing too fast when you stop in front of the red armchair where Lord Sukuna is lounging, still in the formal and luxurious clothes he has been wearing the whole day. He took off his fine red velvet frock coat and draped it over the backrest of the armchair, allowing you a good look at his muscular figure in the red silk vest and white dress shirt he's wearing beneath it. His thighs in his red silk pants are spread slightly.

He looks gorgeous. Majestic, like a King sitting on his throne. A beautiful and powerful King. A man of such beauty that it makes your head spin.

He smiles at you, mouth opening wide enough to reveal his straight white teeth with the canines that are slightly too long, slightly too pointed.

"Let me read to you, my love. I am sure it will help you feel better. Come, sit."

Your mouth feels dry as you follow the movement of his elegant hand as he pats his muscular thigh, indicating unmistakenly where you should sit.

It's a scandalous offer. Highly inappropriate. Your heart is beating so fast, and you gulp hard. A decent woman would decline politely. It's what has been drummed into you ever since you were a young girl.

But you have left this old life behind. It's not like you haven't done worse things than sit on a man's lap. After all, you have shared many kisses with Lord Sukuna during the last few weeks.

Since he is here, you can't follow through with your plan of doing research anyways. So it won't hurt to spend a little time with him. Wouldn't it be suspicious if you turned down his offer?

And he is so beautiful, so tempting. You have never felt desire stir in your core when interacting with a man before. But Lord Sukuna makes something deep inside you feel so hot.

Before you can think too much about it, you quickly walk over to him and slip onto his lap.

After all, who is here to judge you? Who is here to call you a whore for sitting on a man's lap who isn't your husband? It feels oddly freeing to do this. To let go of all the guilt and strict rules forced upon you, which made you feel like a prisoner in an invisible cage.

Lord Sukuna's strong arms encircle you instantly. He takes the candle holder from you and puts it on the table beside his chair, and then those firm hands land on your waist, always holding you so securely in his arms, always making you feel so taken care of, so safe.

But tonight you aren't wearing several layers of clothes. Tonight there is only a thin layer of silk between your skin and Lord Sukuna's fingers. You can feel their coldness seep through the flimsy fabric, making goosebumps appear on your naked arms.

"Good girl. You don't have to be afraid."

He whispers, his voice as seductive as a caress.

"I am not afraid."

It's true. You aren't scared of him. Even though you came down here to research the possibility of him not being human. But as strange as it seems, you feel safe with Lord Sukuna.

Instinctively you snuggle into his arms, leaning against his broad chest, breathing in the luxurious and tantalizing smell of his perfume. A shy smile spreads over your face as you lift your head to look at him, caught in his spell, mesmerized by his beauty and strength.

He smiles back at you, and his strong hands tighten their hold on you, long fingers sprawling over your waist, thumbs caressing your sides gently. And you catch yourself craving more of his caresses, more of his touch, his kisses, his affection.

Your left hand lands on his firm chest, feeling his muscles even through the layers of expensive clothing. If there is a heartbeat underneath those clothes, you cannot feel it. But you find that you don't care.

You don't care if there is something unusual about Lord Sukuna. You don't care if he might not be human. If being this close to him feels so good even though it is supposed to be wrong, you are very willing to do the supposedly bad thing.

You are willing to let him taint you. To let him steal your innocence. You don't need it anymore. You left all that behind when you left your future husband, your cruel father, and your brother. It feels like for the first time you are truly alive. Truly living for yourself. Truly allowed to be yourself. To feel and to want and to desire.

And you desire him.

You want Sukuna, want to feel more of his muscular body, his firm but gentle touch, his kisses that are so sweet and addictive as if you ran right into one of those absinthe taverns your chaperon always warned you about.

He picks up the book he had been reading when you entered the library, opening it to the page he was currently on. There's a soft smile on his face as he begins to read to you,

"No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and dear to his heart and eye the morning can be." 

You feel comfortable in his arms, resting your head on his broad shoulder and letting his low sultry voice lull you into a state of blissful drowsiness.

His long fingers are still sprawled over your waist, caressing you lightly through your thin nightdress.

You sigh and open your eyes to watch him. To bask in the beauty of his handsome face, the angular jawline, the high cheekbones. His sparkling jewel eyes focused on the page before him, his full lips moving so gracefully as he reads to you with that seductive voice that makes your heart flutter.

It doesn't take long for you to become bold and cup his beautiful cheek, distracting him from reading, and his pretty glittering gaze lands on you, raising an elegant eyebrow curiously.

His lips lift in a smile right before you cover them with yours.

The book falls from his hand, tumbling down and landing on the thick plush carpet with a soft thud.

But neither you nor Sukuna cares about that. Instead, his hand grabs the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as his lips move against yours, mouth opening to deepen the kiss. You sigh softly when his tongue brushes against yours when he lets you explore his mouth, licking and kissing, groaning when the tip of your tongue comes in contact with the sharp point of one of his canines.

Your breath comes out in soft huffs when the lord's cold lips trail down your neck, teeth grazing over your sensitive skin, making your hips buck involuntarily when his mouth closes over your pulse point, and he starts sucking.

Your fingers find Sukuna's soft reddish-pink hair, running through it, marveling at the way it feels like silk. You cannot get enough of the tingling sensation of his lips on your skin. A gasp fills the dimly lit library when Lord Sukuna's mouth travels further down your neck, leaving soft kisses on your exposed shoulders.

You let your head fall back, giving him better access, leaning back in his strong arms that hold you so safely.

His mouth travels to the low neckline of your silky nightdress, making you shudder in anticipation when Sukuna's kisses caress the curves of your breasts.

You press your chest against his mouth, eager for more. The thought of his lips on your body sends a surge of longing through you. You want more of him, want to give yourself to him in any way he wants.

And then Sukuna pulls the neckline of your nightdress down, freeing your breasts, and making them spill out against his beautiful face.

You whimper needily when his soft lips close around one of your stiff peaks, kissing it lovingly and gently pulling it into his silky mouth. He is suckling on it and flicking his velvety tongue over it in tender caresses that make your whole body tremble with desire.

You never thought this was how it feels to be with a man. All those tales about how it is a disgusting thing that no woman enjoys and only has to do for her husband to please him made you believe it would be bad. But what Lord Sukuna is doing to your body feels so good. Better than anything you ever could imagine in your wildest dreams.

Heat is throbbing between your legs, and you spread them unconsciously, opening them only to feel a wetness between them that you have never felt there before. So slick and hot, throbbing with such intense craving, it makes you gasp and squirm against Lord Sukuna's muscular thigh.

He laughs softly, where his face is buried between your breasts, loving them with soft kisses and licks. And then he pulls away only to capture your lips with his a moment later, meeting you again in a deep passionate kiss.

You kiss him back feverishly, naked breasts pressing against his chest, moaning at the feeling of his silk vest brushing over your sensitive flesh.

One of Lord Sukuna's large, firm hands slips under your nightdress, caressing your knee and slowly traveling upwards. He is so cold, like marble. But his hand stays on your thigh long enough to warm up against your skin until it feels like a human hand should feel.

Your pulse is racing, your head spinning as you let yourself get lost in Sukuna's sweet passionate kiss and the feeling of his strong body against you. You can feel a hardness press against your thigh where you are sitting on his lap, making you feel dizzy with need at the thought of what that means. He is affected by this too. He desires you just as you desire him. It's exhilarating.

And then Sukuna's now warm hand slips further under your nightdress, long fingers caressing your inner thighs, making more wetness coat your womanhood as your thighs begin to tremble.

You gasp loudly when that strong but gentle hand finally reaches your hot wet cunt. 

Your initial reaction is shame. Not because you don't desire his touch but because you are ashamed of how wet you are down there.

You don't know much about the act of sexual intercourse. But what you know so far made you believe firmly that men don't want to touch women down there. That they only use your cunt to bring pleasure to themselves, to sink their manhood deep into it and take what they need.

You try to close your legs, pushing Lord Sukuna's hand away as your face feels hot with shame. 

Sukuna stops, his hand lingering gently between your thighs, fingertips only a breath away from your throbbing heat. You feel his lips on your neck again, showering it with more tender kisses, and then his low voice murmurs soothingly against your skin,

"Don't be shy, my love. Please let me touch you. I want to make you feel good, want to spoil you, my pretty little dove."

"B... but isn't this dirty? You don't have to do this..."

He laughs softly against your skin, the vibrations of his laughter sending shock waves through your body, making pleasure pool even more between your legs.

"I want to touch you, darling. It's the biggest blessing you could grant me to let me touch you like this. May I?"

And you let out a shaky breath and nod, whispering,

"Y...yes, please touch me."

A sob escapes your mouth when his fingers slip back between your thighs, brushing gently over your wet folds, and then your hips buck as those loving fingers rub over a very sensitive part.

He is tender as his fingers travel lovingly over your cunt, gently spreading your lips down there and gathering your creamy wetness on his long fingers, rubbing it all over your folds while soft moans fall from your lips.

His fingers find that place again that makes you cry out in pleasure. He caresses slow loving circles around your swollen nub, making you moan and spread your legs for him, abandoning all earlier shame.

Suddenly you are bold. You want to do more. You want him to do everything a husband is supposed to do to you on your wedding night. You want him to claim you, to make you his, and push his manhood deep into your waiting cunt. No one else but Lord Sukuna should be gifted with your virginity.

"Please take me, Sukuna. I want to be yours, all yours."

There's a fire in his eyes, and his voice sounds rough, full of need as he flicks his thumb over your nub again, making you moan his name as he answers you,

"Then I'll make you mine, sweetheart."

He lifts you as if you are a mere feather. Carrying you over to his large wooden desk and carefully sets you back on your feet, letting you lean against the desk, your back to him. You are breathing heavily, your body brimming with pleasure and nervousness.

Before your nerves get the better of you, Sukuna's strong hands grab the thin fabric of your night dress, his fingers twisting in it, and then he rips the dress off your body in one powerful motion.

The dress slips to the floor, leaving you completely naked in front of The Red Lord. You gulp hard, knowing that his hungry gaze must be traveling over your bare skin right now.

"You are so beautiful, my love. And all mine."

A gentle kiss is pressed to the back of your neck, making you shudder with need, and then you hear the rustling of clothes.

You can't stop yourself from looking over your shoulder, wanting to see him. He is already naked.

He looks like an angel, so glorious and breathtakingly beautiful. Firm defined muscles everywhere, strong arms, and a broad chest. And even down there, he is gorgeous. His cock is thick and long, already erect, resting heavily against the defined muscles of his abdomen.

A dazzling smile blooms on his handsome face when he catches you looking at him. And then he is with you again, stepping behind you, so close that his tall body brushes against your back.

You tremble lightly as his strong hands land on your hips, holding you as he begins to kiss your neck once again. You sigh, relaxing against him, feeling your cunt pulse with arousal, craving him so much that you fear you will pass out.

But Sukuna is there to take care of you, strong and firm behind you, one hand on your hip, the other cupping one of your breasts, massaging it gently, playing with your stiff nipple. And he presses his body against you, his thick cock pushing between your thighs.

He rubs his stiff hard length against you, letting it glide through your wet folds by rolling his hips in a tender slow rhythm. Letting you feel all of him, coating his long, girthy cock with your cream, making it slippery and warm the longer he stays between your legs. You cry out shakily when his gorgeous cock does what his fingers did earlier, massaging your swollen bud.

You are panting loudly by now, your body brimming with pleasure and your face feeling hot as you lean back against Lord Sukuna's broad chest and let him spoil you with his lips and his hands, and his cock.

You're trembling helplessly in his strong arms when the pleasure heightens, and suddenly you get drowned by it, crying out loudly as his cockhead kisses your swollen wet pearl in a way that makes pleasure explode in the little bud. You cling desperately to Sukuna's muscular arms as your body convulses and your cunt twitches and pulses hotly over his thick length.

You have never felt something like this before. It must be what the women in those steamy novels were experiencing with their lovers. And finally, you understand the fascination, the craving to want to feel this again and again.

Lord Sukuna's voice comes out in a low groan when he kisses your neck, and his strong hands caress your breasts with gentle touches. Allowing you to experience that high until the last wave ebbs off.

You turn around in his strong embrace, wrapping your arms around him and kissing him deeply, unashamed now that you feel this bliss. 

You press your naked body against him, whimpering with need when Lord Sukuna pushes your back against the desk, and then he lifts you with a fast, fluid motion, making you sit on the desk with your legs spread for him. You can feel your slick coating the wooden desk beneath you, spreading your heat and arousal over it. But you don't care.

Lord Sukuna's gorgeous cock is back between your folds, caressing you again down there, renewing your arousal. But this time, he leaves your bud after a few strokes and instead settles his thick cockhead at your wet entrance. You tremble for a moment in a mix of arousal and fear. Will it hurt when he takes you? He is so big. 

His cockhead is kissing your tight heat gently, stretching you open around his thick tip for the first time. Your first man, your first lover.

You gasp loudly when Sukuna pushes deeper into your virgin cunt, truly claiming you now. Taking your virginity with a gentle but powerful snap of his hips.

You hiss as a stinging pain makes your legs jerk, but Lord Sukuna stops immediately, long elegant fingers caressing your sides soothingly, and he murmurs against your neck,

"The pain will be over quickly, my love. I will be careful. I'll take good care of you, my sweet girl. You feel so good around me. So warm and wet."

His fingers grab your chin, tilt your face up to him, and he kisses you sweetly as his other hand wanders between your legs to caress those sweet slow circles around your nub again, making your cunt tighten around him as new pleasure surges through you. 

He rocks his hips again, pushing his thick girth into your slick cunt, and your initial pain lessens and gets replaced by a wonderful feeling of being full.

You wrap your arms around him, caressing his muscular back and lifting your hips to welcome him, to let him know you crave him, let him know that he can take you. And he does.

Sukuna groans loudly. His long eyelashes flutter prettily as he moves his hips, thrusting his manhood deep into you and finding a delicious pace that makes you gasp anytime he rams his thick girth back into you, filling you completely.

You discover there is a specific spot deep inside you that makes your body jerk and your hips stutter anytime Lord Sukuna's manhood kisses it. It only takes a short while until your nails dig into Sukuna's back, and you writhe in pleasure against him, feeling hot tears run down your cheeks as the bliss you feel gets more intense with every thrust of his gorgeous thick cock.

But you aren't the only one who gets increasingly lost in the pleasure your lovemaking causes. Loud moans fall from Sukuna's lips, whispered endearments and needy grunts, and then his teeth graze over your neck, and he growls. A sound that sends a shiver down your spine. But not in fear but in excitement.

You cling to him desperately, meeting his powerful deep thrusts, and you catch yourself whimpering,

"Please, take anything you need from me. I want to be yours."

Your mind is hazy with lust, but at the same time, you know full well what you are trying to say. What you are offering to him.

This man in your arms might not be human, and you are fine with it. You want him to show his true self. Need him to do it now that you are as close to him as you can be. Now that you are one with him, filled by his thick cock, your cunt twitching needily around him.

His low voice sounds strained, as if it takes all his strength to hold back.

"You don't know what you're asking for, sweetheart. I can't..."

"I know it, Sukuna. Please...just claim me in every way. I need you to..."

The rest of your words get drowned out by the feral-sounding growl coming from Sukuna. His hands tighten on your waist, and the next thing you know, a sharp pain explodes on your neck.

He did it! He really bit you!

His sharp canines are buried in your neck, drawing blood.

You cry out, but at the same time, intense pleasure washes over you, making your body jerk and your cunt clench needily around Sukuna's manhood.

The pain is gone in a second. Instead, pleasure engulfs you.

You whimper needily, feeling your lover's fangs buried in your flesh. He is sucking at the wound, making your blood spill out, which he drinks hungrily.

You gasp his name, full of longing, and feel something warm trickle down your chest and between your breasts which bounce with every powerful snap of Sukuna's hips.

His mouth leaves your neck to follow that warmth. You realize it is a small rivulet of blood that Sukuna licks up thoroughly, red eyes burning into yours as he looks up at you, tongue flicking over your breasts, licking them clean, moaning at the taste of your life essence in his mouth.

"So sweet, my love. You taste so sweet."

He takes you with even more vigor now, hard deep thrusts that make both of you gasp and moan loudly. A frantic mating, like two animals in heat.

You cry his name when the pressure in your core snaps, and you feel this heavenly bliss wash over you again. The only thing you can do is cling to Sukuna's tall, muscular body sobbing from pleasure while you are coming undone on his gorgeous cock.

His thrusts become faster and harder, making you gasp loudly at the sheer strength he possesses. And then his gorgeous eyes fall shut, and his lips open in a low moan, showing his teeth with the canines that are much longer than usual, looking like a feral beast's fangs, long and sharp with some blood still sticking to them.

You cannot stop looking at him. Sukuna is always stunning, of course, but especially now, at the peak of his pleasure. When his cock is buried to the hilt in your wet cunt as he cums deep inside you. Pulsing his seed into you while your blood is still on his teeth.

You are truly his in every way now.

You are breathing heavily when Sukuna's gaze meets yours, and he captures your lips in a tender kiss before pulling away.

You can't help but look down between your legs, watching in curious fascination as Sukuna pulls out of you. His long thick cock slowly slips out of your stretched cunt, glistening with wetness, coated in your creamy arousal and the evidence of your virginity that he took tonight. Traces of blood paint a filigree pattern on his gorgeous length.

Sukuna moans loudly at the sight, a sound that sends more arousal through you. You want to slip down from the desk, but Sukuna stops you with his hands on your hips. He shakes his head, and before you can ask what he wants, he already sinks to his knees between your legs, strong hands pushing your thighs further apart, exposing all of you to him. His beautiful face disappears between your thighs.

His mouth is soft and tender on your leaking wet heat. He licks and kisses it so gently and lovingly that it makes you cry as your fingers run through his silky hair, lost in the pleasure he gives you.

Sukuna is moaning against your heat as if it brings him just as much joy as it brings you. It's only then that you realize what he is doing. Licking all your virgin blood out of you, tasting the sweetest treat you could offer him.

He kisses a third high out of you, making you whimper weakly as your body shudders and your hips buck as your desire peaks and your cunt twitches against his beautiful face and soft mouth. And Sukuna drinks your pleasure eagerly. Licks your essence out of you as if it is his favorite food.

When he pulls away, you see a faint red stain on his lips. But Sukuna's tongue darts out immediately to lick it up, and his eyes close in pleasure when he gets more of your taste.

As grotesque as it looks, it somehow sends a spark of pride through you. This gorgeous man claimed you in every way. He took your virginity and drank your blood. He made you his like no other man ever could.

A decent maiden shouldn't find this appealing. But you are far from decent nowadays and also not a maiden anymore. The proof of it is still lingering there on Lord Sukuna's tongue.

You don't need to find books about the topic of vampires anymore. You are pretty sure now. All the evidence leads to one assumption: The lord of this castle, the man who kissed you, caressed you and made you his, is a vampire.

And yet you don't leave. You don't even consider it. Because as strange as it may sound, you are happy here in this castle and with The Red Lord.

With Sukuna. Your lover.

He is sweet. He is alluring. He makes you crave him every day. Crave his kiss and his touch and the comfort of his strength and protectiveness.

Love was something you never thought would be possible in your life. A life that had been planned by other people.

Your chaperone had advised you to stop daydreaming about foolish notions like romance. She told you love is something for books or theater plays, but it has no place in everyday life. A woman is supposed to marry a man who her family sees as beneficial, not someone she picks herself and who she loves. She had constantly lectured you that marriage wasn't about love. It was about obedience, learning how to serve your husband, and make his life more comfortable. The sooner you understood this, the sooner you'd be happy.

But that thought never made you happy. The opposite was the case. It made you despair.

But now you feel your chest fill with warmth anytime you think about Sukuna. Your heart beats faster when he is near you. You feel happiness fill you when he smiles at you.

Lord Sukuna is different from how everyone told you a man would be.

He is gentle and respectful. A passionate lover in the bedroom who always makes sure that you find completion and enjoy what he is doing to you. Oh, and how you enjoy it. His kisses and touches are addictive, making you tumble into a hazy blissfulness that sends your head spinning.

But it's not just that carnal aspect that draws you so much to Sukuna. It's the way he treats you in every other aspect too. The respectfulness, the care, the humor. It's the shared interests the two of you have. It's the tenderness that this powerful man allows you to see.

He asks you to keep him company in his library. Invites you to read to him, and in turn, he reads to you. He recites love poems and dark gothic tales in his velvety low voice while his strong arms wrap around you in a loving embrace.

He lets you help him pick new roses for his garden, names them after you, and watches you with pride in those beautiful glittering jewel eyes when you tell him you want to water them yourself from now on.

He plays the piano for you, making tears well up in your eyes at how beautiful and delicate the sounds of his music are. How tragic and heart-wrenching those songs sound. The melodies carry a tale of centuries of loneliness to your ears.

When you ask him with a choked-up voice who composed those pieces since you have never heard them before, he smiles and tells you he is the one who did.

"I had a lot of time to do those things, my angel. But I didn't make music for a long time since it didn't bring me joy to perform for an empty room. I'm truly blessed I can play for you now, darling."

He visits you in your room almost every night. Comes to your bed and wraps you in his strong embrace. His body is so solid and heavy on top of you, but his touch is loving and tender, and he always takes the utmost care of you. He makes love to your whole body, kisses you, and caresses you in all the right places, sets your senses on fire as you gasp his name and come undone on his gorgeous manhood over and over again.

He feels cold to the touch, but his skin grows warmer when he lies with you. That may be why he likes to stay for hours in your bed. And after a few weeks, he doesn't bother getting up again but stays the whole night, wrapping his tall, muscular body around you and holding you to his firm chest.

You have never slept that peacefully before.

You have long accepted that your lover must be a vampire. And yet, Sukuna never admits it. He apologized to you after that passionate night in the library. Apologized for losing control and biting you. Claimed that it was a stupid accident and he never meant to actually drink your blood.

"I am deeply sorry, my love. It was in the heat of pleasure, and I wanted to claim you as mine, give you a little bite mark. But I misjudged my strength. It won't happen again."

You try to reassure him, try to make him see that it is fine. But Sukuna changes the topic anytime you try to confront him. He smiles his most charming smile and ignores your attempts to discuss the matter, distracting you with a new book or a new idea for the rose garden, or, if nothing else works, he just kisses you until you shut up.

You try to come to terms with the fact that you might never be able to get him to confess the truth. But it bugs you. You stare at the beautiful man in your arms, wanting to know everything about him and wanting him to see that you love him the way he is and that he doesn't have to hide from you. 

But how can you achieve that?

And then fate offers you a chance you didn't expect. One of your excursions through the castle leads you to a dusty room in the highest tower, and you stumble upon an old battered box that contains things from a former inhabitant, apparently. Some necklaces and old letters, lacey handkerchiefs, and a pearl ring. But you only have eyes for one thing:

A golden hand mirror.

Your heart is hammering in your chest when you hear the door of your bedroom open and the soft footsteps of the man you love as he makes his way over to where you are sitting with your back to him at your desk.

With shaky hands, you lift the small hand mirror and angle it in a way that lets you see yourself and the room behind you.

Your breath catches in your throat. You see your own face very clearly, but where the reflection of Sukuna should be is nothing.

You turn around in your chair, staring at him with wide eyes. His gaze meets yours. A shadow flickers over his beautiful face, and there is a deep sadness in his gorgeous red jewel eyes.

"So you found out after all."

He sounds defeated. His usually so sultry voice is full of regret as he continues softly,

"You can leave anytime you want, my love. I will arrange everything for safe travel and ensure you find a good place to live and never have to worry about money."

You blink at him, tears gathering in your eyes. It breaks your heart to see him like this, to see the sadness in his eyes.

You drop the mirror, and before Sukuna can utter another word, you get up from your desk so fast that you knock your chair over and send the mirror flying.

But you don't care about the chair or the mirror. You fling yourself at Sukuna. Wrapping your arms around him and hugging him tightly, pressing your body against his and burying your face in his firm chest as you cling tightly to him.

"No! I don't want to go! I want to stay with you!"

You lift your head to look at him, seeing the surprise flash over his flawless features, the way his pretty eyes widen, and he blinks as if he can't understand what is happening. A tentative cold hand cups the back of your head and gently pets your hair.

"But... aren't you scared of me now, darling?"

He says it as if he can't believe you are still here. That he can't believe you are touching him, holding him, when he expected you to scream and run.

You smile softly at him and shake your head.

"No, I am not scared. What difference does it make what you are, Sukuna? That was what I was trying to make you see. That's why I was so adamant about finding out the truth. I know many people call your kind monsters, but I haven't encountered a single monster since I came to this castle. I only met a very kind man who took me in when I was injured and who took care of me and protected me from the people who wanted to bring harm to me. You aren't a monster to me, Sukuna. The only monsters I have met so far have all been human."

The sadness in his eyes gets replaced by a tenderness that makes your heart clench. Lord Sukuna's hand tightens in your hair, bringing you closer to him. He leans down to press a gentle kiss on your forehead.

His low velvety voice is full of wonder when he says,

"You never cease to amaze me, my love."

You laugh softly as you tighten your arms around him, feeling relief wash over you.

"I love you, Sukuna. Can I please stay with you?"

You can see the warmth in his eyes and the wonderous joy on his handsome features as he smiles at you and laughs softly.

"Of course, you can stay. I will be delighted if you stay forever. I love you too, darling."

The months pass, but here in the castle, time doesn't seem to exist. Not when every day spent with Sukuna is so full of joy. And now that he doesn't have to hide his true self anymore, you are blessed with learning about the life of an immortal.

You love the long evenings you and Sukuna spend cuddling together on the large red settee in the library, naked under a warm blanket, letting your hands and lips explore Sukuna's gorgeous body while he tells you tales about his life. About all the different cultures and traditions he encountered in all the centuries he spent on this earth.

There is no heartbeat thrumming under your palms when you press them against your lover's chiseled chest. There is no pulse when you brush heated kisses over his neck. But there is so much warmth inside you when you are this close to him. And a matching warmth is in his gorgeous eyes when he cups your face and smiles at you.

"One day, I will show you all of this. We can go anywhere you like, my love. People get suspicious if I stay in one place too long. So we will have to keep moving. But you can pick our next destination."

You smile at the implications of Sukuna's words. 

Three days ago, he got on one knee in front of you in the middle of the rose garden, holding out a beautiful gold ring with a ruby as red as his eyes in its center. Now that ring sparkles on your finger.

It's a promise. A promise that you will be Sukuna's companion through countless lifetimes. His beloved bride, who he will turn into one of his kind so the two of you can be together for eternity.

Lovers until the end of time itself.

Thank you so much for reading part two of my Sukuna vampire story! I am happy but, at the same time, a bit sad to leave Lord Sukuna and his gothic castle behind now. It was so comforting to disappear into this world. I hope this story could offer you comfort too!

Thank you so much for all the love I received for this short series! It means a lot to me to see that you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think about the second part. Comments and reblogs make me happy!

The book Sukuna reads to Reader in his library is "Dracula" by Bram Stoker, a new novel that had just been released, and of course, Sukuna had to get his hands on it to check how Mr. Stoker portrayed someone of Sukuna's kind :) 

=͟͟͞♡ Healing Hearts =͟͟͞♡

=͟͟͞♡ Pairings:-Doctor Gojo x Intern F!Reader

=͟͟͞♡ Summary- You are the top Surgical Doctor intern, along with Maki, Yuta and Toge. You all are exhausted from passing the first month, sixteen plus hour days, days you don't even go home, all to get a top spot with the star Surgeon, Dr. Gojo, your resident doctor and boss. Or as you call him, Dr. Hojo. He's takes nothing serious but his surgeries it seems, and has a reputation for being a player, but he has that top spot, so you want to prove your worth! You just have to ignore those stupid butterflies he gives you, and those pretty blue eyes, along with his interest in you, and focus!

=͟͟͞♡ Contents/warnings- MDNI- Warnings- overuse/incorrect use of prescription meds, angsty asf in places, scene of a medical procedure, heavy subject matter, some sexual tension. Reader, 26, Dr. Gojo 34- Grey's vibes - this chap, fingering, teasing, tension like a mf, use of prescription drugs, a character with a medical condition, light angst =͟͟͞♡ WC this chap- 6.5k

♡ It's backkk- Reblogs and comments appreciated if you enjoy ♡

=͟͟͞♡ Part Six =͟͟͞♡ Playlist =͟͟͞♡ Masterlist

Part Seven

It’s been a week now, since you’ve kissed Doctor Gojo, but he smiles at you every morning, his cerulean eyes drinking you in, he gets you a coffee and something for breakfast every morning. Every elevator ride he’s right next to you, shoulders brushing, hands aching to entwine. During surgeries with you he’s a calm guidance, a hand on your back to gently guide you as he leans over.

You can hardly handle not being with him, you can hardly handle not just kissing him again, especially after that night he took you home. You want to know more about him, about what made him how he is, a brilliant and damaged man, a man that you simultaneously admire and fear, for all he makes you feel.

“Good morning, intern.” He says now, it’s been seven days since you kissed those plump lips, seven days of longing to feel his fingers against your skin.

“Good morning, Doctor Gojo.” You say with a little smile, one that melts him completely.

It’s been seven days since Satoru got to kiss you, seven days since he ruined it all, since he ruined what was just starting. You’re constantly in his mind, he has to see you all day every day and not be able to touch you, kiss you, hold you. Miwa has already tried to hook up again, but Gojo turned her down flat, as he did anyone who even looks at him.

You may not be his, but you will be.

This morning he’s brought you a little breakfast sandwich, you smile gratefully at it, but he sees your dark circles worsening. “Getting any sleep?”

“Uh… no, I’m not.” You admit softly, sitting next to him at the cafeteria, surprising him then. Usually you sit just a little away, or run off to work, but you’re next to him, legs brushing over your scrubs, making his body tense. “Thank you for breakfast always, it’s very sweet.”

“It’s nothing, cafeteria food.” He says with a little smirk, and you sigh, giggling now, a sound that makes his heart falter.

“It’s thoughtful. I’ve been thinking, too, you know.”

“That’s dangerous.” You roll your eyes at him, Satoru sips his coffee, feeling his adderall kicking in, he’s been back to his normal dosages now, well what he considers normal. “Thinking of what, Miss Perfect?”

“I so am not that, stop it.” You nudge at him then, sighing and looking around noticing it’s relatively quiet in the hospital. “I was thinking I miss you.”

Satoru’s heart pounds in his chest now. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I see you every day and miss you, and it’s fucked.” You sigh now, shaking your head and running a hand through your hair, hair that Satoru longs to enwrap his hand in, pulling while he has you bent over. His thoughts are all over the place when it comes to you, some sweet, some lewd, some overwhelming.

You’re all he can think of.

“Of course you miss me.” He smirks and earns your glare, before he sighs, a serious look on his face, leaning close to you now. “What is it that you miss? Me touching your pretty body?” His whisper in your ear causes shivers to go down your spine, you’re trembling then with need. “Ah, that’s it.”

“You’re such an ass.” You say through gritted teeth, his laugh tickles your ear as he wraps an arm casually around the back of your chair.

“If you ask for something, anything? I’d give it to you.”

“Aside from decent answers and commitment?”

“Ouch.” He eases back, and you shake your head.

“I don’t know why I said anything.” You stand and he grabs your wrist, you look down at his big hand, veins pressing up from his thin, pale skin, thumb brushing on your inner wrist.

“I’m sorry, I do miss you too. In every way.” He looks up at you under snowy lashes, as you sigh now, looking away from his perfect face. “Every way.”

“Yeah?” You manage to breathe out, he nods just a bit. “Why do you have to look at me like that?”

“Like what, sweets?”

“Like all… intense Gojo like.” He snorts now, easing back his hand, leaning in the chair and looking up at you.

“Hard not to look at you.”

“These eye bags turning you on?” You tease, sitting back down, his hand comes to brush your lower back, making you gasp just a bit.

“Anything about you makes me insane.” You bite your lower lip, looking down at your lap, barely able to function around this man. “Especially love that shampoo you washed your hair with last night.”

“Strawberry really gets you going hmm?” 

You both laugh a bit then, so much unsaid and unknown lurking between you however, creating this… tension that’s so palpable.

“If you need me… you could utilize me you know.” You blink then.

“Utilize?”

“Mmhmm. Utilize my skills on your anatomy.”

“Jesus, Satoru.” He watches the color spark on your cheeks, smirking outwardly, but inside he’s dying for you, for any of you. “You think what, we could just… there’s no way.”

“If you need me I’m yours.”

“No chasing after infinity stones? At all?” Your eyes narrow a bit, assessing his face, which is far too serious for his teasing tone.

“None at all. I’d let you use me.” Your mind whirls, you shake your head quickly, sipping on your coffee, making your tummy flip with his images.

“You’re insane. Use you?”

“Mmhmm. Any way you wanted to. You work hard, you know.”

“I’m out.” You stand now, as he chuckles at you, mischievous little shit again, but you know there’s so much more, and his pull is irresistible. It’s not like you don’t know better, and it’s not like you’re giving in, but the idea of… cumming for him? You suddenly feel so hot you can’t take it.

He stands now too, walking with you to the elevator, god this elevator, where he stands too close, where his eyes get lidded, the first place you kissed. “Thoughts going through that pretty head?”

“You’re annoying, that’s the thoughts.”

“Hmm. And damaged.”

“Definitely.” You agree, earning his snort of amusement, as he turns and steps to you, backing you up until you’re against that elevator wall, his free hand on your waist, thumb brushing up, making you shiver. “You’re suggesting I what, fuck my frustration out on you? Where’s that lead?”

“I’d take any part of you, sweetheart.” His desperate words are your undoing, you yank him down, kissing him then, it’s desperate and messy and full of desire, before you pull back, as the elevator stops, and Satoru feels your heat against his thigh, pressed between yours.

“You’re the most toxic man.” You huff, shoving at him and stomping out, Satoru leans against the wall, head falling back, when you’re back inside, your coffee and sandwich not even in your hands somehow. The doors shut again, and you’re pressing the highest floor, shocking him. “You’d really just… get me off?”

“Oh I’d let you fuck my face any day baby.” You kiss him again, like a dam breaking, when he’s all over you, picking you up in his arms, your thighs are against his hips, making you grind eagerly as he groans, hand against the wall, holding you up as he nips your lower lips, pressing harder against you. Your cry makes your head fall back, his lips kissing up your throat.

“Fuck you, Satoru.” You grumble, gasping when he grabs your ass, pressing his cock against your eager cunt.

“Lemme make you cum.”

“Here!?”

“No… m’office…lemme feel her pulse around me, fuck.” You whimper then, breaths coming quicker and quicker.

“It doesn’t mean we’re good, though. I’m still m-mad. Just…”

“Be mad, but let me drink you.”

“Goddammit, ugh.” You’re eased down, dizzy as he presses the button to your floor, you try to compose yourself. “You’re infuriating.”

“I know.” Is all he says, softly now, brushing your hair back. “Meet me on break.”

He walks out and you’re shaking, he’s practically beaming, this ass of a man that you can’t stand, but also… love and want. Know he’s got issues out the ass, but fuck you want him, and could it just be sexual? You severely doubt it, not with how you feel as he kisses you, the energy altogether, but your pussy throbbing around nothing is trying to infiltrate your better judgement.

What a day it’s going to be.

“Someone just left a sandwich and coffee. Yum.” Maki says, her and Yuuta have split it in half, you can’t stop the laugh, an insane peal of laughter that makes half the hospital stare at you.

You’re losing your shit, aren’t you?

The day paces as it normally does, aside from stolen glances from a certain blue eyed ass of a man that was your boss. Was he really an ass, though? Or was he sweet, and damaged. But you’re not here to fix someone, not in that way, you want to fix people’s hands, their limbs, stitch them together, make them whole again. Not figuratively.

Literally.

You’re stitching up a patient as Maki walks in, pushing her glasses up just a bit on the bridge of her nose, observing. “You’re good at that now, damn.”

“Lots of suture duty.” You tease, rolling your eyes, smiling as you finish up and give the patient after care instructions. “How was it with Shoko?” You ask.

“Interesting, actually? I am surprised.” You both head to grab coffees, both failing to hold back your yawns.

“Right, I was so intrigued by it, too. Until…”

“Yeah, you’ve had a rough week.” She says, surprisingly soft, but she’s soft in places when it comes to her friends.

“It’s okay, I have to get through this. But thank you.” You hug her tightly, and then tense a bit when Satoru rounds the corner, some sugary concoction in his hand.

“How does he stay that thin?” She says, earning Gojo’s smirk.

“My ears are burning, talking about how handsome I am?” He says, brushing back his hair, back to his usual self, insufferable and cocky.

But you saw a different side of him, a side he clearly keeps hidden, and you hate how badly you want to unravel it, piece by piece, the mystery that is Doctor Gojo, that is Satoru. A carefree, unbothered and youthful man ninety percent of the time, a serious doctor nine percent, and one percent, a mess, vulnerable and distraught, tugging on your damn heart.

“Talking about how you have diabetes in your cup.” You tease then, and he gasps, hand to his chest.

“You two are like old ladies gossiping!”

“Says you.” You roll your eyes, and Maki looks between you both.

“I see something… over there.” She leaves you both now, and Satoru walks a little closer, sipping on his drink, you wipe off the little bit of foam on his lips, finger lingering too long.

“Messy.” You mumble, then he leans low, breath against your ear.

“You’re messy, from my very vivid memory.”

“Shush!” You’re heating up, when he pulls back, lips far too glossy and tempting, destroying you bit by bit.

“Office, meet me in ten.” He turns and walks off then, lanky body in those lavender scrubs and that white coat, you nervously look at your watch, noticing your heart rate is through the roof.

The moment you’re in there, the hunger just unleashes, his hands are all over, on your breasts over your scrubs and your bra, as you kiss him desperately, hand slipping under his scrub top, thumb along the soft white trail of his hair under his belly button. Hungry, desperate, devouring each other, until he’s picked you up, sitting you right on his desk, moaning

Satoru’s slipping his fingers under the stretchy waistband of your blue scrub pants, and once his finger brushes your soaked panties, you cry out softly, covering your mouth as he exhales, leaning further over you. “You’re soaked, sweetheart, you just stay this way?”

Around Satoru, yes, you do.

Your eyes roll back as his fingers brush up and down your panties, pressing even deeper. “G-god…” Is all you manage, letting your hand fall off your face to grip his white coat, pulling him so close. “F-feels so good…”

“Does it, baby?” He murmurs, slipping under them now, your breath is coming faster and faster, moaning softly when he finds your little clit, making your thighs tremble, your tummy clenching in desire. “Missed touching you, miss those pretty little moans.”

He kisses you as his finger rolls in circles, and when your lips connect it’s just too much, you feel too much for him, like something grabbing your heart, squeezing it like a vise. The tingles that shoot from his lips make you soak his fingers, long and cool pressing on your twitchy little clit, all while his mouth consumes you, his plush lips so pliant and hungry.

“Wanna cum f’me, pretty?” His husky words are too much, as you look into the swirling storms of those eyes, hips arching and rolling. But you’re too caught up then, as he slips a finger in, just looking at you.

Eyes that were black last week, dark and desolate, now so eager and bright, sparkling so brilliantly while he stretches you, one finger curling inside as he angles his arm. Eyes that filled with tears, the sadness as two tears had rolled down his cheeks, the desperation as those hands that are playing you gripped your face, mixing with all the pleasure he’s bringing.

“Look at you, fuck…” He’s whispering, and how he does look at you, like you’re everything and anything all at once.

“Satoru…” You’re tearing up as he makes you feel so good, kissing you again, you’re clinging to him while he’s kissing and licking up your neck to your ear, now pressing on the spongy little spot in your slick walls with two fingers. You hear it echoing in the office, how wet you are, as he nips your lower lip.

His cock is aching, tip leaking precum as he hears it, the squelching wetness of your overheated cunt on his fingers, your cheeks flushed so beautiful, eyes just glinting with tears. He pauses, breathless at the sight, all while you’re soaking his hand, his wrist even, as his other slips up the delicate curve of your back, watching you tremble, pressing your spot again and again.

“That’s it, let go for me.” He whispers, and you can’t then, you’re too invested, you’re too…

In love.

“Stop for a moment, please?” Satoru blinks snowy lashes in confusion for just a moment before he pulls back immediately, looking at you with concern.

“What is it, too rough?” He murmurs, so goddamn thoughtful it makes you cry more, and soon he’s panicking, as you’re shaking your head.

“God no, I want you so badly. It’s… I can’t do this casually. It’s too much, you’re so much.” You cup his face, watching the confusion as his fingers now rest on your waist once more, as he tries to control his breathing.

“Let me feel you cum, it’s all I need, we don’t have to sleep to-”

“No, it’s too much. Everything.” You take another breath, trailing a hand down his body, trying to calm your pounding heart, fingers brushing the soft material, your eyes lowering, sticky from tears.

“I’m sorry I said it. I am.” He whispers hoarsely, you shake your head then, taking a breath and resting your forehead on his chest.

“I forgive you, Satoru. I do.”

“Shit…” He exhales in relief, kissing you again, tiltitng your chin up, your head falls back as you cling to his shoulders, he drags you closer, until he’s right between your thighs. “You probably shouldn’t.”

“You just feel how you feel. I feel how I feel. It is different but…” Your hand cups his perfect face now, exhaling, breath tickling his lips, as he aches for you. “This deserves some sort of chance, but a real one. Not… me fucking you because I’m aching to. It can’t be that.”

“Do you want… more? To try for…”

“To try for you, yes. I want to. I want to… know you, Dr. Gojo, know every bit of you, not just what I have seen so far. I want the real you.” You say softly, as he feels his own emotions take hold of him.

Who has ever wanted to truly know Satoru Gojo, the man behind the pretty bright smile? Surely Suguru, but as for women, his experience has always been sexual, or just hateful in the case of Utahime. Friendship perhaps, but never the combination of friendship, of sex, of more, of you ripping open his soul with just a pretty look, god he just enjoyed hearing you breathe.

“Being without you is fucking torture.” He says softly, pulling you even more against him now, to where you can feel how much he wants you. “I’ll do anything for another chance, I’ll try… to open up.”

“That’s all I want, I don’t want to ‘fix you’ or change you, just know you.” You sniffle now, aching to speak those words, that you’re in love, but it’s insanity. “That's all I’ve wanted.”

“Then I promise, I’ll try to be… open. I promise. But… if you hate-”

“Shh.” You touch his lips with your fingertip now, shaking your head as you feel it, his insecurity, the most conceited man deep down is so terrified you will hate who he is. “It couldn’t be further from the truth of what I feel.”

Satoru’s left speechless at you, torn between making you cum, kissing you, holding you, fuck you have his head swimming, his mind whirling. “There’s a lot you don’t know, though. Or think you do.”

“And for me too. I… shit…” You feel it then, the stabbing pain that’s been blissfully gone, making you wince as he presses his fingers on it carefully, frowning at you.

“Hurting again? For how long?”

“Just this week. Not bad like before, more like… stabbing, ugh.”

“Hmm, stress probably doesn’t help. Stress like a pillhead doctor madly obsessed with you?”

“Satoru! Don’t call yourself that.” You whisper the words, head still throbbing, Satoru smiles just a bit. “No self deprecating humor.”

“None at all? Dick could help the headaches-”

“Satoru!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But it really could.” You glare as he chuckles, so happy to just have you in his arms, near him once more. “I can get you some more of that medicine if you need.”

“The one you shot in my ass cheek?” You raise a brow, and earn his more devious smile. “Actually it did help.”

“Still should scan it again soon, the tap should have helped longer.”

“I am under a lot of stress.” Both of your beepers go off then, and you two sigh, as he helps you down off the desk, now towering so tall over you, your head falls back to look at him while he caresses your lips longingly.

“A date, tonight, no matter what. Even if it’s three am. Promise me?” He asks softly, as your beepers go off again, but his arms are on either side of you, again his lips hovering. “You deserve one, a real one, not whatever we’ve been trying and failing royally at.”

“A real date, where we… talk.”

“Then-”

“Talk. We need to just talk, okay? Before…” You brush against him, making his nostrils flare, a teasing little smile under your lashes then. “Before more again.”

“Fuck. Yeah?”

“Yeah, better be a good date, been asking me all this time, hmm?” You dart away then, running out on him after a peck on his cheek, leaving him for just a few moments, trying to pull himself together.

This insane feeling for you, the fear of losing you, is all so much, he’s shaky when he grabs a bottle, hesitating just a bit. He doesn’t want to be fucked up tonight with you, he wants to be all there, but he knows he needs to have some, to be a perfect doctor, to help everyone in the best way he can.

Perfect Doctors can’t have shaky hands.

Perfect Doctors can’t have bad days.

Satoru Gojo is the perfect Doctor, and he can’t fuck up, but he doesn’t want to fuck up with you again, his heart can’t take it. He takes a xanax and puts it under his tongue rather than right up his nose, watching as his hands slowly stop shaking, as he slows his heart rate, the blood pressure dropping just a little, you have him so on edge and needy.

He sucks his fingers, just to taste more of you, that mixes with the sweet and bitter xanax, he’s not sure any two things really taste better, thoughts of snorting it right off your pussy fogging his damn brain. He smacks at his own cheek, shaking himself out of it, walking out to see you commanding a whole fucking room, you’re straddled right on a patient and pressing on their chest as the nurses wheel you.

God you’re fucking impeccable.

Satoru clears out of his obsession with you for just a moment, running in to help you, as your compressions tire your little arms out, you seem so small to him suddenly, on this huge guy pressing as quickly as you can. As they get him to the room you look at Satoru, face exhausted so clearly, he carefully touches your shoulder, fingers brushing against you.

“Let me take over, champ.”

“No I- oh look.” The patient is breathing now, blinking his eyes as he gasps, and sees you, his hands coming to your hips.

Satoru thinks of making his heart stop for good.

You blink rapidly, as the man relaxes, eyeing you with wide eyes then. “Oh my… I’m so sorry I… thank you!?”

“You’re welcome.” You smile softly, the man is probably as buff and probably as tall as Satoru if that’s possible, as you clear your throat and try to get his hands off your hips. “What’s your name, since we’re so personal now?”

He laughs just a bit, smile on his face so big, releasing you as Satoru helps you down, glaring at the patient that dares to try to rizz up his girl after almost dying, who the fuck is he. “Choso. I guess you’re now like my angel huh?”

“Oh no, not an angel.” You giggle a bit at him, at his sweet smile, feeling the absolute glare from Satoru at you as you put fingers to his pulse. “Choso, hmm, what happened? Do you remember?”

“I have a pretty bad heart, unfortunately.” He mumbles, slipping up his shirt to reveal his chest, with a line right down the center, making your own heart hurt for him, with his tired little smile. “It’s on borrowed time while I wait for another.”

“How young were you?” You touch his chest, and Satoru tries to observe you as a doctor, not as the girl he needs, so proud of you as you go over everything, fuck he barely even has direction for you.

You’re a perfect intern, already.

He wishes he was just a little more like you back when he interned, yeah you’re emotional, you are too invested, but he loves it about you, watching it all unfold as it unfortunately looks like the man is giving you heart eyes. Satoru switches to doctor mode, peering now at the medical records that get brought to him by Miwa, frowning then.

“You needed a heart a good two years ago.” Satoru murmurs softly, and you look over at him curiously, Choso smiles a bit, brushing back messy dark hair.

“I think your pretty intern is making my heart better.”

“Oh, no, stop that. Let’s get him on a heparin drip please?” You say to one of the nurses, who runs off while Satoru peers at his number on the list.

“He’s number two actually. So, you’ll have to get admitted, we should monitor this until one becomes available.” Satoru says, and Choso finally peels his violet eyes off you for a moment.

“It could be… too late though?”

“We’ll do everything we can to keep it beating until then. Let’s get a current ultrasound of his heart, see if there’s anything to prolong it.” You nod then, but Choso grabs your hand, and Satoru thinks of fucking his heart up for a split second, as you look down warmly at him.

“Can she do it?” He asks Satoru and he goes to say no, an ultrasound tech will, but you’re already speaking before his brain works.

“I can be here, if you want, but we do have ultrasound techs, they’re so amazing at it too.”

“Could you be?” You nod again, as you finally step out now, frowning as Satoru hands you the charts.

“Shit, he got this as a teen, no wonder. He’s… thirty. He’s so sweet, fuck I hope we can help him.”

“Sweet, huh?” He glares at you with those icy blue eyes, you laugh softly then, shaking your head as you further flip through the pages.

“Satoru, he’s just thankful I saved him. For now, at least.”

“Uh huh.”

“Silly.” You gently brush a hand up his arm, looking around at the bustling hospital, making his skin prick with goosebumps, looking at your pretty face, feeling so possessive he can’t stand it at the moment.

You’re not his.

Not yet.

Why would you choose him? What if someone comes along and promises the damn world to you, what if they want exactly as you do, would you leave him so far behind? How can he ask you to sacrifice so much, is he so selfish, truly, when it comes to you?

He is.

After getting the ultrasound, Satoru has you in his office for a much different reason than earlier, as you both study a teenage heart working overtime to pump through a grown man's body. “It's insane, it's still beating at this age, he clearly takes good care of his body.”

Satoru scowls at you, making you blink a bit and then snort at his statement. “Oh, you like his body huh?”

“You're cute when you’re jealous. Focus or no date, maybe I’ll go have a little dinner with-”

“You’re a brat, fine, intern you tell me the option I have here, because there’s really only one.” You sigh, standing in front of him, he rests his chin on your head, hands coming to your waist, possessively thinking of how only he should, as he inhales your sweet scent.

“An LAVD is his best option, it could give him up to a year or two? And with as high as he is on the list, it shouldn’t be too long. But then, all sorts of potential complications with the surgery.” Your fingers trace the ventricles, so tiny and dark on the scan, of the sweet man’s heart, hating this for him. “But you’ll do the surgery, right Satoru?”

“Of course I will.”

“If anyone can do it right, it’s you.” Your words make his heart falter, while he pulls you even tighter against him, enwrapping you.

“Of course I will, I’m not worried about the surgery, he also seems pretty tough, and a good will, that matters.”

“It’s not fair, though, is it?”

“None of it is, nothing that happens to anyone, sweetheart.” He kisses your temple, enjoying being near you again, how has something that just started become so special. “So, proceed with the LAVD? Or?”

“Monitor him for a couple of days first I think? Before the extreme.” You say softly, and Satoru nods then, pulling you tighter against him. “I’ll go over the options, he seems comfortable with me.”

“Very comfortable.” You laugh, shaking your head and turning around to look up at him, tapping at his pointy chin, then leaning up, hands slipping up his chest.

“He’s sweet and he needs something right now, if he’s comfortable with me, I’ll be there for him. But it doesn’t hurt to have a jealous Gojo.” You grin and wiggle your brows, gasping then as he grips you with his strong hands, leaning low.

“Should I show you how jealous?” He steps you until you’re against his wall, his thigh between yours, vivid images of you arched in his bed filling his mind.

“That date, remember? We have an hour until the shift ends, you gonna pick me up and everything from the house?”

“I sure will. Fine, go on and talk to him heartbreaker, I’ll see about having the staff order a device just in case he agrees. And then…” He kisses your lips again. “I’ll call you when I head to your house.”

“See you then, Doctor Gojo.” You smile as you slip off again, as he rests his head on the wall, the inner workings of his mind spinning in circles when you walk out, he pulls his bottle out of his jacket, wondering if he should have one more bar, but puts it back instead as Miwa walks in.

“Need anything before I head out, Doctor Gojo?” She asks, brightly bouncing up to him, he shakes his head, dismissing her with a little smile.

“I’m good, go home and relax.”

“Oh, I don’t mind helping… at all.” She trails her hand down Gojo’s stomach and he tenses, panicking as he looks over her shoulder, the door cracked open, how shitty would this even look. He grabs her wrist, noticing her flush of excitement.

“I said I’m good, Miwa.”

She pouts now. “You look so worked up, don’t you need a stress relief, you used to enjoy it.”

Satoru firmly takes her hand off, shaking his head. “I’m not interested.”

She looks like she’s about to cry then, irritating Gojo though he supposes he should feel… bad or something? He can’t bring himself to, maybe it’s the xanax but her tears don’t matter. “You’re not even with her though? The intern…”

“I will be.” He smiles then, sighing. “Keep it a secret but I’m in love.”

“In.. love!?”

“Mmm. Yeah shush though. Don’t ask again, mmkay sweets?” Satoru pats her head, firmly pushing her away, as gentle as he can. “Bye bye.” Satoru walks out, leaving her in tears, planning every damn detail of a real date with you as you go and talk to your intriguing new patient.

“Hello, angel.” You flush a bit at the handsome patient, clearly exhausted with dark circles, pale and drawn, but so bright and sweet.

“Well hello, Mr. Kamo.”

“Choso, please.”

“Choso, we have a couple options here. But I’m gonna be honest, they’re both a little risky.” You sit on the bed, just the edge of it near his hips, wires everywhere, monitors beeping with his weak heart. You try not to look as concerned as you feel for him.

“Be real with me, it’s a shitty heart.”’

“No! It did its job and more, but it’s past its prime. You took good care of it, I can tell.” You say with a little wink, earning his blush. “Lifting heavy?”

“Not too heavy, restricted in what I can do. But I try.”

“So, there’s something called an LAVD, a Left Ventricular assist device, basically it can help keep this heart here pumping until you get a transplant. It could be tomorrow, it could be months, you’re high up which is good!”

“But…”

“But, the surgery has got its own risk, we’d be operating on a weak heart.”

“And if I don’t?” You sigh, looking over at him, and he exhales. “Ah, it’s pretty bad huh?”

“It’s not great. Um… we have a few days of leeway at least if you stay and relax here for a bit, think of it, see if something comes.”

“So relaxing here.” He gestures to his wires, and you bite your lip, hating that something like this is happening.

“You’re so… positive.”

“Should I not be?” He smiles lazily, eyes on your lips for a moment, before they slide back up to your thigh. “Got the prettiest doctor ever.”

“You mean Doctor Gojo?” You tease.

“Not my type.” You both laugh, as he inhales from it, touching his chest, the monitor spiking just a bit.

“Flirting is making your heart race, Mr. Kamo.”

“Shit.” You both laugh softly again, you put your hand over his, covered in intricate tattoos.

“We will try everything to get you to live for the transplant, as best as we can, but it’s ultimately your decision. I’ll go over more with you tomorrow, okay?”

“Sounds good, doc.”

“Mmm, weird not getting called ‘intern’. Have a good night, then, we’ll monitor you for now, try to get comfortable, okay?” You turn off the lights as dim as you can, handing him the remote. “There’s always Twilight Marathons on channel fifty five.”

“Oh shit, who doesn’t love that?”

You grin as he does. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Sure thing angel.” You roll your eyes, shutting the door quietly, as Satoru texts your phone, making it buzz.

Satoru: I’m off already, I’m going home to get ready. An hour sound good?

You: It’s actually happening!?!?

Satoru: Nothing’s stopping this shit.

You can’t stop the smile from hitting your lips, rushing to the locker room, and soon you’re throwing a million outfits all over the ground, as you yell out Maki’s name, she runs in, seeing you in just your panties whistling. “Damn baby, just stay home with me hmm?”

“Don’t tempt me, now.” You wink and then you both giggle, Yuuta and Toge walk by, and both blush and turn, but Toge runs off, earning you shaking your head and laughing softly.

“You’ll kill that poor boy with those titties.” Maki shuts the door thankfully, and you’re holding up several outfits. “The red top, it’s cold so wear that pretty puffy black jacket with the fur.”

“Oh god this is why I adore you.”

“Only good taste?” Maki sits in your chair, and you wiggle your bros.

“Love you for all sorts of reasons.”

“Ooh baby. No, that’s hot as fuck… those leggings… hmm what about thigh high boots?”

“Yes, shit! I was thinking it was too cold to be sexy, you’ve saved me.” Maki bends down to help you zip up, then you’re throwing the jacket as she dabs on a little makeup, some blush and gloss. 

“Damn you look good, like you slept four hours at least.”

“Bitch!” You both snort, as you work on brushing your hair, then hear the text, that Satoru is here. “Oh shit, I’m okay!?”

“You’re perfect. And hey…” She brushes your hair back carefully, serious Maki is here, not the joking and fun girl. You tense a bit at it, looking up curiously. “Just let yourself… know each other, okay? Sex is cool but…”

“No, I agree. I need to know him. We had sex so soon and…”

“I can’t blame you now.” She winks, and you blush, making your cheeks even brighter under the loose powder along your cheeks. “Allow yourself to feel, to have fun, but be careful.”

“Wise Maki, who knew!?”

“I am pretty amazing.” You hug her then, as the doorbell rings.

“You are. Shit, Toge may kill him, let me go!” You both dart down the stairs, as Toge scowls at Satoru, while he pats his head.

“Hey kiddo. And…” He pauses as you step down, exhaling at the sight of you, so gorgeous, you always are, but seeing you outside of scrubs addled him even further. Like some corny ass rom com from the nineties when you descend the old stairs of your home, leaving him breathless for a moment.

“Hey, Satoru. I’m ready.” You smile at him nervously, as he clears his throat, blush decorating the infamous ‘Dr. Hojo’s’ cheeks, as he opens his mouth and closes it, then opens it again.

“You look gorgeous, shit.” He manages, rubbing the back of his neck, as you shyly look down.

“Thank you, Satoru. You look handsome.” You take in his own appearance, so gorgeous as always, but he’s also got a thick winter coat over him, but it’s this fancy overcoat, looking so good on his lithe frame. His eyes sparkle, bright like you know them to, as he takes your hand, kissing the back of it. “All gentlemanly?”

“Trying to be, sweetheart. Are you ready?” You nod eagerly, as your friends watch you both a little cautiously, as you both walk out into the chilled snow night, nearly christmas, your house has little snowmen and lights, brightening the cool, clear night sky, as you see your breath while you walk to his car.

“It’s so warm, thank you!” You say once you’ve slid into the still running car, nice and toasty, he slides in, a hand on your thigh over your fleece leggings, leaning close to you, so close you taste his sweet breath.

“Are you ready for an actual date with me?” He teases, and you nod, when he eyes your glossy lips. “I need to know that flavor, for scientific purposes.”

“Oh, scientific?” You tease back, he just smirks, and you press a kiss, a quick one, that makes his arm wrap around you, hand at the small of your back, exhaling against them.

“Cherry vanilla.”

“You’re insane, yes!” He’s smirking a bit, big hand under your puffy jacket, pressing on the soft cotton of your sweater, as your arms wrap his neck. “So where is this date?”

“Surprise. Are you ready to go?” His thumb caresses your jaw, studying your heart wrenching beauty in the quiet car, humming with the motor, heat pouring on both of you, though the heat from your bodies far surpasses it.

“I’m ready, Dr. Gojo.”

To know him, to actually know him.

You’re more than ready.

And Satoru, with your taste on his lips, scent filling his car, the sight of you along with the feel of your thigh under his palm, and just how beautiful you are, you fill his every fucking sense. All he can think, over and over, is that he can’t fuck this up, he can’t fuck this chance at you up.

He has to be real, he has to open, finally, and hope that you’ll accept him, because he thinks it just might take him out if you don’t. Little does he know, the words of love threaten to spill with every breath, and you know it’s toxic, maybe bad patterns, but you’d take this man any damn way he was.

I am backkk, I know a few of you were really interested in this so I hope you enjoy where it goes. DON'T worry- Choso will be FINE he is a Denny Duquette reference (this is a Grey's AU aha) but a happy ending for him. I look forward to your comments and now these shouldn't be so far apart- I'm back on track hehe

Taglist #1 (open still!) @lost-resonance @lostfracturess @unfortunately-tia @allofffmypeaches @makingtimemine @antisocialinlw @meg3mis @zoeyflower @wstaley2 @bunheadusa @blue-musingss @ameliariddle @labelt-san @jkslaugh97 @shadeowz @gojo1228 @jaeminaur @httpstoyosi @angel1of-death @seeing-stars-alt @bol0-de-morang0 @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @trishiepo0 @inthedarkshadows000 @gina239 @san-it-is-i-guess @pelicanpizza @gojo1228 @ducky1232 @inthedarkshadows000 @eclecticmentalitypersona @burguhndy @levislug @addehehe @sluttyofgojo @msniks @xixflower @ambiguouslady42 @kiaraandrea @jjknanamin @suguruscousin @silverfangmarks @atiny-99 @thatssoambs @kanekisheart @mahalsuya @aldebrana

defiance | king!sukuna x concubine!reader master list

chapter sixteen: dream's over

summary: a psychic shares her vision with the king, saying that his soulmate would replace all 5 of his concubines one day. he had her banned from the premises for that absurd prediction. it wasn't until months later when he started believing the old bitch, after one cute yet disobedient servant started working at the shrine.

genre: female reader, heian era au but incredibly historically inaccurate, 18+, grumpy x sunshine, fluff, smut, so much crack, angst, mutual pining, might be seen as dubcon but she wants him lol, pregnancy, no he wont have two sets of arms, and no he wont have two dicks, srry srry srry

fic warnings: profanity, explicit smut, ooc, mentions of grooming, graphic depictions of violence, suicide, more will be added as story progresses

word count: 4.4k

notes: i really haven't update in a month and?? how time FLIES. anyways, i hope you sexies enjoy this chapter. we get some more domestic sukuna and more info on these frequent meetings he's been having ((:

Sukuna has decided to throw a small festival as a way to celebrate your pregnancy now that you are 7 months along. 

You’re not really sure what he means by small, and you honestly don’t believe him because he only throws festivals strictly for the purpose of receiving gifts and blessings. Knowing this was meant for you and your unborn child, you doubt it’ll be anything but small, he probably only told you that so there’d be no pushback on your end. 

But no pushback at all, you’re on the same boat as him when it comes to gifts and blessings for the baby. The more the merrier.

The festival’s a couple weeks away but preparations have already started around a week ago since the servants needed to start drying and pickling all sorts of different foods. 

As for you, you were in the dressing room of your shared chambers with Sukuna, waiting for the tailor to arrive. 

Renovations had finally finished and you both were able to move back in. At first you insisted that the expansion wasn’t that necessary but you can appreciate it now. 

There was now a courtyard, some extra rooms, an expansion on the greenhouse, along with the koi pond and sandbox in the back that Sukuna tries hard not to act too excited about. 

It was more of a small compound now within the estate, providing extra privacy which brought you ease— you’ve been waking up with feelings of dread over nothing in particular lately.

It wasn’t anything alarming since there really wasn’t anything to be worried about, but the feeling still put you on edge. 

“I didn’t pay that old hag to take her fucking time to get here,” the king groans, pulling you out of your thoughts and making you click your tongue at his impatience. 

“What time is she supposed to be here?” You ask, even though you already knew the answer. 

“11.” He scoffs.

“It’s 10:52,” you let him know, making his eyes roll into the back of his head because he believes hired help should always be 30 minutes early. “Patience is a virtue, Kuna.” 

“I practically own that woman, I don’t need patience,” He quickly retorts. You can’t help but laugh when he gets all pouty like this, knowing he’ll go back to his quiet, serious self once the woman and her assistant arrive. 

“And who are you to talk, hm?” He adds. “You had a servant crying and throwing up for not bringing you your lunch on time last week.” He said, pointing his finger at you.

He smirked at the thought of what you could’ve possibly said to the girl since it was still a mystery.

You and the servant refuse to say what atrocities came out of your mouth that day, which makes him even more curious because it couldn’t have been anything worse than the things you have said to him throughout your pregnancy. 

But with the way you’re glaring at him for bringing it up again, it was probably something 100 times worse than what he’s ever had the displeasure of experiencing.

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about that again,” you nearly scolded him.

“I’ll let it go,” he leaned back and said. “If you allow me to complain about that bitch who is now two minutes late. I fucking told you, she doesn’t need people being patient with her. What she needs is for you to repeat whatever the fuck you said to that servant so she can start crying and throwing up too—“

“The tailor is here, My Lady!” Hayami yelled out from the front of the house, cutting Sukuna off mid-rant because the whole entire house could hear him, and so would the tailor had he kept going. 

“Okay let her in!” You yell back and the father of your child genuinely looks wounded from how powerless he’s become against you and your ladies in waiting. 

“So you all are just going to interrupt me like that?” He whispers but keeps his argumentative tone. 

“Yes,” you break it to him. “Now sit down and don’t mention anything about her being late.” 

The tailor warmly greets you both when she comes into the room, congratulating you both over the shrine's newest addition. 

You both thank her and Sukuna surprisingly starts up small talk with the woman. 

Your thoughts on how oddly respectful he was being quickly came to a halt when “the journey here must’ve been pretty taxing, huh?” came out of his fucking mouth. The poor tailor didn’t know he was just having a mini tantrum because you had hurt his feelings not too long ago.

You pinched the low of his back the moment he said that, causing his smile to grow even wider because it fucking hurt— which scared the woman since the king experiencing any other emotion aside from homicidal rage was quite literally unheard of.

Seriously, she doesn’t know how you get along with him. She’s honestly suspicious of you too.

Maybe the rumors were true and you were a witch. 

But she doesn’t care, it’s none of her business and Sukuna’s paying her a rather generous amount for today. It’s safe to say that she’d gladly serve you even if you just so happened to be satan reincarnated with just how much money she was making today.

The fitting was.. interesting— for all three of you. 

The woman wasn’t expecting you both to act so domestic around each other. 

As for you and Sukuna, you just couldn’t get on the same page as this woman. You’re pretty sure she thinks you’re someone who got pregnant the night you lost your virginity with the outfits she’s suggesting for you and you can tell the king’s going to pop a vein because of it. 

“She’s pregnant, not a nun, stop trying to fucking dress her like one,” Sukuna grumbles with his head in his hands after the third fitting.

You don’t snap at him this time and you’re actually grateful for his attitude because you didn’t have the heart to say anything to the woman. 

“Right, my king,” she immediately stiffens up. “I apologize.” 

After a few more outfits you were able to finally decide on which one you liked. It was still modest compared to some of the things you’ve worn around the shrine before, it was something acceptable for both you and Sukuna. 

Once the tailor finally leaves after 3 grueling hours, Sukuna slams the doors shut without even saying goodbye, leaving the two of you alone again.

“Pinching me in front of her, really?” He clicked his tongue. You honestly forgot you even did that, but you’re not surprised he hasn’t let it go.

“She did not see that, she probably just thought my hand was on your back,” you say, not taking him too seriously.

“You still broke skin.” 

“Doubt it. Turn around and let me see,” you nearly demand. 

“And now you’re ordering me to turn around like I’m some brood whore for the night,” he retorts and you burst out laughing from how dramatic he’s being. 

“Oh you think this is funny?!” He nearly starts laughing with you as he cups his hands around your jaw. 

“I think it’s hilarious my king,” you say back.

“I remember every time you disrespect me, you know?” His question is more of a statement, a rather threatening one. 

“Do you now?” You ask, rubbing your thumbs over his hands, entertaining his antics. 

“I do,” he promises. “I bottle them up and throw them in the part of my brain that’ll magically unlock once that’s brats out of you.” 

“I’m sure you do, my love.” You reach out to cup his check with one hand. “Let’s hope you follow through with these statements given the fact I haven’t gotten this side of you in a very long time.” 

“Oh you’ll get it all.” His entire demeanor lights up as he continues to eye you up and down like you’re some kind of prey. 

And to think you would’ve crumbled under his gaze at one point, now you’re nearly making him promise to fuck you up once the time comes. 

He’s created a monster and is quite pleased with that. 

He pulls you into his embrace and starts whispering some more lewd things in your ear, just because it makes you giggle more than anything and he loves to see it. 

And also because there’s a part of him that thinks the baby will hear it if he doesn’t whisper. 

But he keeps that theory to himself because he knows you’ll make fun of him for it and you make fun of him enough. 

“Sorry to interrupt bu—“ Hayami comes to the door knocking, unaware of the little moment you two are having. 

“You women do NOT get enough days off, do you?!” He snaps, nearly throwing his head back.

“We do not, my king,” Hayami chirps, keeping her cheerful tone because she’s not really that scared of him anymore. “Kaori is here to visit you,” she turns her attention to you and says. 

Sukuna lets out a long sigh into the crook of your neck and mutters something along the lines of wanting to get rid of her already. 

You pat his back because all he wanted to do was to get some extra time with you before he goes off and does whatever he does. 

Unfortunately, you still aren’t 100% sure what  exactly he does, you just know there’s a lot of paperwork and random yelling involved.

“Can you lead her to the sun room and let her know I'll meet her there shortly?” You ask, trying to somewhat meet the man holding on to you halfway. 

“Of course, I’ll get some tea and snacks prepared as well.” Hayami says before making her way back to the entrance of the house. 

It takes some time getting Sukuna off your back, but you eventually get him to put one foot in front of the other towards his office.. the office that was literally just upstairs. 

He drags his feet to get there of course, wishing you’d tell Kaori to fuck off so you could hang out with him instead while he signs off on different bills and contracts and whatnot. 

But you promised you’ll come back right after and he’s holding you to that, even though there’s not much of a consequence if you don’t.

You let out a little sigh once you hear the door to his office fully shut and can’t help but laugh to yourself. The longer you’re with him, the more clingy he gets. 

The king’s a smart man and you’re sure he is aware of how clingy he is, he just doesn’t care how he acts around you anymore. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” you apologize to Kaori, who’s been waiting for over 20 minutes now since she’s sat down. 

Had you not held such a high position in the estate, she would’ve ripped your head off by now for the disrespect— preoccupied with the king or not. 

But you’d never know that.

“It’s no worries at all!” She assures you before squeezing your hands. “I’m sure it’s a lot dealing with King Sukuna’s.. moods.” 

“Yeah,” you exhaled as you said it. 

You and your ladies in waiting have resorted to placing any and all sorts of blame on Sukuna and his infamous temper, even though he never gets mad at you and is surprisingly respectful to your attendants. 

It’s just more believable for others to hear that he’s having a meltdown, rather than something as simple as him refusing to get out of bed with you because you were extra warm on a cold morning. 

“Thank you for being so understanding,” you try to say with a straight face. “What can I help you with?” 

“Nothing at all,” she perks up. “I just wanted to bring some goodies for you,” she smiles and opens a box full of mini cakes and candies. “I’m sure the baby would love these!” 

“Oh no, I’m so sorry— I’m not allowed to eat these,” you reveal and she tries her hardest not to raise a brow at you.

Sukuna forbade you from eating anything that wasn’t made by Hayami, Miya, or Akari. It’s honestly the one rule that you’re completely on board with, given the long history of queens, consorts, and concubines experiencing attempted poisonings in the past. 

“That’s a little harsh of him, don’t you think?” The concubine nearly pouts at your decline. 

“Not really. I feel bad having to decline of course, but if following that rule brings him some peace of mind then I don’t mind.” You say. 

“I’m sure he appreciates all the sacrifices you make for him,” her lips thin after the words leave her mouth. 

“I’d hope so,” you say sympathetically, you really do feel bad for turning her down. “Ladies! Would you like some cakes?” You turn around and call out.

“Of course!” Miya pokes her head into the green room. “These look yummy Lady Kaori, did you make these yourself?” 

“Yes, but with the help of my attendants of course,” she gestures to the two women who have come with her today. 

“We can’t wait to try them! I’ll go ahead and take these to the back to share with the girls, thank you again!” Miya says as she offers her one last smile before leaving. 

“I’m glad someone was able to take them, you must’ve worked hard making them,” you say as you both get up from the table. 

“Oh it was nothing,” she brushes you off. “I’m just glad someone’s able to eat them!” She forces out a laugh and you try to laugh with her. 

But it’s uncomfortable because she is clearly offended, even though they’re Sukuna’s rules, not yours. 

“I’ll get going, let me know if you need anything.” She says before turning on her heel to leave your chambers. 

“Thank you, I will.” 

Once she and her attendants finally leave, you head to the back to find the girls, who are most likely hanging out in the kitchen. 

Which they were, the three of them were just hanging around and talking. 

“How were the cakes?” You ask as you lean against the counter. 

“No clue,” Akari says.

“If she does ask, tell her they were great,” Hayami follows, giving you a little wink.

“Wait, did you throw them away?” 

“Duh.” Hayami says. “Miya just took them so you wouldn’t be in an uncomfortable situation. If you’re banned from eating outside food, then we’re definitely not going to be eating food that’s gifted to you either. We don’t want to get poisoned.” 

“You really think Kaori would try to poison me?” You ask, genuinely concerned. 

“Not sure, but we’re not trusting anyone right now.” Miya adds to the conversation. 

“Fair enough,” you let it go. “Just burn them, or bury them— something. I don’t want any servants peeking through the trash and seeing that. It’s been peaceful around here and I'd like to keep it that way.” 

—-

“You’re starting the hearings early today,” you offer the king a faint smile, as he frantically moves back and forth around the room– trying to get himself ready for the shitshow that’ll become of his day. 

“Kuna,” you impatiently snap your fingers while trying to get the man’s attention.

“Hm? Oh– yeah,” he stops for a second and just nods.

“Were you even listening to me?” You cross your arms, nearly squinting at him because he’s failing miserably at whatever he’s hiding right now.

“No, I’m sorry– what were you saying sweetheart?” 

“The hearings,” you nearly grit your teeth. “Awfully early for them, no?”

“No-” he shakes his head. “No hearings today,” he corrects you and it honestly pains him to do so. He’d much rather have a hearing today. 

“Then what are you in such a rush for? The sun’s barely out. And why won’t you look at me?” You begin to raise your voice at him and it doesn’t even register in his head that you’re frustrated with his lack of communication this morning.

He swiftly puts on his haori and walks up to you, his hands now cupping your cheeks as he just stares at you for a moment. 

He’s worried, you can see it in his eyes– distant but nearly pleading for help and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look this defeated before. 

“Promise you won’t freak out?” He asks. 

“I won’t. What’s going on?” You nearly plead, knowing nothing good was going to come out of what he was going to say.

One hour later—

“And he’s how old?” Sukuna nearly chokes out as he demands Uraume for clarification. 

The rooms filled with all of the district's shoguns, their advisors, and all high ranking generals— all equally as stunned as Sukuna himself.

Today was their third meeting since Uraume started spying on the west border, with this recent mission uncovering even more details on what they've been planning for a while now.

“Seven, my king.” 

The rooms quiet for a moment after that, except for a quiet “no fucking way” that came from one of the younger generals. Speaking out of turn like that is a punishable offense, except nobody really gives a shit right now, he said what everyone else was thinking.

The western region, or rather the Zen’in clan, hasn’t gone against the peace treaty in years— hundreds of years actually. 

The fact that they’re planning on breaking it now is a surprise in itself, not to mention the absolute trump card they’re using as leverage, in the form of a literal child. 

“General Toji, you grew up under that clan, care to share more about them?” The king basically calls the man out as all the attendees turned their attention to the high ranked general.

“..Yeah,” he husks out. “I’m pretty sure the seven year old’s my son,” he admits rather regrettably, also carrying a stunned look on his face.

“Of course that’s your fucking spawn,” Sukuna groans to himself, causing everyone in his vicinity, especially Toji, to tense up. 

His unseriousness served as a reminder that he was capable of murder without thinking twice about it, father to be or not. 

It left Toji to wonder if he should’ve just kept his mouth shut about that one little fact, but they’d find out soon enough if they did more research on the boy. He never exactly tried to hide the fact that Megumi was his anyway, the courtesan he got pregnant just opted to sell the boy back to the clan and he let it be since he thought the boy would be taken care of if they were willing to pay as much as they did for him.

“How did the boy end up there?” Sukuna asked while rubbing his eye, clearly irritated that this is now a fact. 

“Got a courtesan pregnant, she said she wanted to terminate the pregnancy so I gave her money for that. By the time I found out she got money from me and the clan for selling the boy to them, it was already too late.” Toji's knuckles were nearly white as he explained everything as briefly as possible. 

He knew his family was cruel, he just never thought they’d convince a child to sacrifice their life in a war, let alone his own flesh and blood. 

He’s angry, he’s hurt— he’s also one of the most respected generals in the region, so he reminded himself to get it the fuck together in front of the psychopath that was unfortunately crowned as king at 19 and has done a terrifyingly great job at ruling the region through fear. 

There was no room for weakness or mistakes in the presence of Sukuna, so man up.

“I understand that this might be a conflict of interest, but I have no intentions of betraying the region or the crown,” Toji says, feeling the need to remind the clans and the king. “I left them for a reason, and it was lo-”

“No need to state those reasons,” Sukuna cuts him off, unsure if the general was about to tell a sob story to sound convincing or not. He honestly didn’t care either way. “You need to tell me everything you know about the ten shadows technique.”

—

The meeting lasted around 9 hours, give or take. Today is one of those days where he seriously wonders why massacring entire villages is looked down upon, when acts like that have the power to prevent situations like this. 

Sukuna is usually the last one to leave, alongside Uraume and Mariko, it’s actually one of the very few formalities he really sticks to in the world of nobility, but not today. 

He held on tightly to the last of his composure as he b-lined it to the exit, trying his hardest not to look like he’s storming out of the room, even though he probably did end up looking like he was. 

By now everyone knew one of his concubines was pregnant and that he’s been less.. violent lately because of it. 

Many of the attendees have actually found themselves empathizing with the young king, especially after watching his face drop at the realization that yeah, the Zenin’s are planning an attack. They all knew the threat of war mercilessly ripped him out of the daydream he was in, forcing him back into the dreadful reality that he called his life. 

Several ground shaking explosions followed not too long after he stormed out of the room and off to god knows wherever he went off to. 

Some even heard the faint noise of yelling and cursing off in the direction he went in, his threats to no one in particular echoing off the trees and mountains, making their way back to whoever had a good pair of ears on them. 

The world feels like it’s slowly closing in on him and he’s convinced he might just completely lose his mind before midnight— throwing away the very thorough plan he and all the other generals just spent hours curating. 

Instead, opting to charge that clan alone, head on. 

But he can’t and he knows it, which makes it all the more infuriating because for once in his life he’s facing an actual threat. 

The threat being that final shikigami Toji’s hidden demon child has the power to conjure up. 

If he fucks up, this might just actually be the end of the line for him, he doesn’t like the thought of that— hence why he blows up yet another hill. 

The shockwaves made it to the shrine about 2.5 seconds after that. 

He takes a look at the view in front of him and realizes he’s completely flattened acres of land. Maybe once this is all over, he could have the shrine extended. 

If there’s even anyone left.

If you asked him how he truly felt about it all, the news broke him. 

He truly felt like something from above came down and clipped multiple different wires in his brain.

This wasn’t the typical anger where he considers rounding up prisoners and hunting them down like animals to blow off some steam, and it ends there. 

This was the type of anger where he wanted to drop to his knees and scream at god for doing this shit to him, again– a war, at quite possibly the worst fucking time ever. 

And he did, he doesn’t care if people can hear him at the moment. 

All he wanted was to enjoy these last couple months with you, and welcome his child in the peaceful-enough nation he created. 

But no, now the nation will be baptized in blood, win or lose.

Not to mention the fact that you were at your most vulnerable right now, you can’t even fully get dressed by yourself anymore without some sort of assistance. Now you were really a target and he can’t be in two places at once.

He already knows that he’ll look back at this years from now, whether it’s an immediate win or one that’s drawn out, and he will fucking seethe. 

It’s time ripped away from his grasp, he could have more kids, enjoy the pregnancies and newborn stages with them but he’ll feel nothing but rage when he looks at this one, knowing this one got fucked with. 

This is the type of resentment that will forever marinate in his heart and he’s not sure if death to that god forsaken clan will ever be enough for him. 

Maybe it’s a good thing, some extra fuel to really brutalize those people. 

Many will say watching him in battle years ago was terrifying, and they may think he’s somehow mellowed out by now. 

No. He’s learned to redirect it, compartmentalize it. There is now strategy to that power.

And just like always, he remembers the role he plays in this world and what’s required of him, since most people just aren’t capable of the things he was born to do.

His existence is a curse within itself and he knows most people wished he’d never been born, rightfully so. 

But those same people should really thank him one day, because this entire region would’ve been annihilated by now without him.

He was made for this.

So he takes one last deep breath, loosens his fist, and starts to make his way back to you, because that’s all he really can do right now.

Bracing himself, knowing you probably sat there all day hoping he’d come back with good news, yet you most likely heard the commotion he created and realized he’d be coming back with anything but that.

And when he did return, you both just looked at each other and knew. 

Barely any words were exchanged between the two of you. The meeting ruined his appetite for the night so he skipped dinner. He tried to get you to eat but you weren’t hungry either and he didn’t push it because he was too tired to try to argue with you.

He stayed up that night while you eventually fell asleep in his arms. For the first time in the last 7 months, he sort of wished you weren’t carrying his child. 

It was for the most selfish reason too, he just missed laying on top of you, resting his head on your chest while listening to your shallow breaths— it was the one thing that put him to sleep. 

And with how uncertain the future was looking right now, a part of him began to mourn that feeling because he truly doesn’t know when he’d be able to feel moments of peace like that again.

notes: so sorry for the news! hope u enjoyed the read! <3 pls leave a like, comment, and subscribe for more videos

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Houndtooth | ⇦ Chapter 9 / 10

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut

18+ mdni - cw: physical violence, references to SA - 7.2k words

𝐈𝐗. 𝐂𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭 / 𝐗. 𝐓𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬

an: I combined chaps 9/10 as 9 was only 2k-ish words long. Want to get all the Ao3 chaps up here quickly :)

You smell that sour iron, metallic and hot, miasma oozing from the pool of blood on the floor before you. Or is it your own blood you can scent? Coating your teeth, sticky on your lips? 

It doesn’t ache, though, the split in your gums, nor the chip in your tooth. Roaring adrenaline still floods every nerve ending. Too many abhorrent sensations overwhelm you. Too many storming thoughts torment you. 

You can still see the sneering grin of that American commander, his cocksure laughter and cloying drawl that convinced you he thought he was charming you. And how quickly that smile sunk into a cruel satisfaction when you spat a hunk of acrid saliva onto his cheek. You had given him an excuse. Fuelled his retaliation. 

You can still feel the wrenching of your babydoll’s silk seams, cutting into your flesh as it was yanked from you. Can still hear the shrill zip of the satin being torn into shards. Still feel the shiver down your spine at your exposure, at the rapacious sneering of your tormentors.

Still feel the fingertips on your skin. Their dents in your flesh. Their intentions in their wake. 

Still feel the searing agony in your scalp. Your skin being separated from skull as you were hung by your hair, the sound of it crackling as its connecting tissues began to split. 

Still feel the knuckles on your cheekbone. Your tongue between your teeth. Can hear the ringing in your ears, the throbbing of your shaken brain.

You ruminate on the cold hard edges of that gun, the weight of its possibilities in your palms - the possibilities you had quickly forsaken, handing off your last resort to your only hope. You can still hear the thunder of that gunshot, the two times it had been unloaded into your worse aggressors by your reticent captor. Was he protecting you as a person or as a possession? 

You reminisce on the sickly sweet satisfaction that doused you as you watched, in awestruck, shock-ridden silence, your hunter hurling fist after hurling first into the smug head of your torturer. 

You can still see his face. The skin beneath the skull. It had inexplicably surprised you that he had a face at all, that he was a man and not some hideous beast. You had imagined him with fangs, you imagined those honey-brown eyes peered through a coat of slick fur, that his tongue was forked behind those pointed teeth. But now you know for certain that he is human, his face lingering behind your eyelids as plainly and brightly as it was first revealed to you. 

He had softer eyes than you had expected, than the slit in his mask exposed; they were weary and heavy, dark with both greasepaint and a potently resentful exhaustion. His nose was sturdy, thick at the bridge, perhaps once broken by a fist and healed slightly crooked. His lips were full and pale, marred by a pink scar from a split lip. And other scars littered his pale freckled skin, slices and welts, carving through a tawny shadow of overgrown stubble that coated his jaw, through thick but fair brows that permanently furrowed above his eyes. 

He may have been once a good looking man, in his youth, before whatever hatred he’s laden with began to seep through and stain him. You saw his face and thus suddenly a glimpse of his distant humanity, however cryptic and transient it may be. You saw his face and now fabricate a past, a reason - there must be a reason, that he has become such a laconic, violent creature. He must have been entirely human, once. 

You wonder if he thinks the same thing of you. That you’ve been just as stained by the pessimistic hatred that pumps through your thinning vessels, dark and coagulated. Made ugly by it. Made into a creature much the same, running on base instinct alone. Maybe that’s why he seems to hold such visceral disdain for you. Why his eyes are always so heavy with contempt when they stick to you for too long. 

But his unmasked expression was novel. As if the bitterness in his eyes gained a new, a different meaning in the context of the rest of his features. Told a different story, when you could see the curl of his vaguely concerned brows, the jutting of his angered jaw, sour and furious after beating the sadistic American cunt to near-death. 

No, instead, he looked… sorry. Sorry that you had to bear witness to his face, his behaviour, had to see him at all. Sorry that you seemed to draw hope from it. 

But you did, anyway. You hope that if he looks human, he might act human. That it was sympathy in his poignant glare and not pity. 

You know you’re concussed. You know the feeling well; the throbbing, the ache, the vertigo. So you fight the dragging urge to sleep, so heavy on your shoulders that you couldn’t bring yourself to stand even if you tried. You haven’t left your spot on the floor, back gritting against the cold wall, knees against your chest. The blood on the floor can’t reach you, here. 

You fear your nudity. You fear exposing yourself any further than you are already by moving from your cocoon. Might there be cameras in here? Who could unlock your door and step in to leer at you? You’re not foolish enough to forget that no amount of clothing deters a predator with his sights on you. But you know how they use your bareness as an excuse. 

So when shadows of boots peer through the crack under your cell door, and precede the heavy clatter of keys in the lock, you only tighten the knot your body is in. 

It’s your hunter. 

Riley, you remind yourself.

His mask is still on. He locks the door behind him, his back to you still. 

You take a short breath, bracing to speak - but you spot his arm full, with what you’re not yet sure, and bite your tongue. He turns finally, hesitantly, squinting eyes almost fighting their immediate focus on you.

Seems he bears gifts. In one vascular hand he holds an unbranded plastic water bottle, almost dwarfed in his straining grip, in the other a large chunk of black cloth. 

You tilt your head back to follow him apprehensively as he approaches you, as he wordlessly hands you the fabric item first. 

You mustn’t respond in time, because with a frustrated shake he jabs it at you. “Fuck’s sake, take it.” 

Snatching it from him petulantly, you unravel it to reveal a hooded sweatshirt. Thick, black, vastly too big for you. Which is likely on purpose, given he hasn’t brought you trousers to pair with it. Still, you find yourself grateful. Only reminded of the bitter cold in your cell when an alternative warmth is presented to you. 

You do your best to stay tucked-in as you pull it over your head; though you don’t doubt some amount of nipple slipped out from behind your knees, as you struggled to find the neckhole in the tent of black fleece. You grit your teeth, suppose he’s already seen it all. 

The hoodie smells of dust and tobacco, like it might have sat in storage for months without a wash since the last person wore it. Once you adjust it over yourself, long enough to cover everything, you feel the tight snarl in the pit of your stomach loosen, if only slightly. Concealed, finally.

“Thanks,” you mutter, as he then hands you the bottle of water. You take it with fury and tear off the royal blue cap, swilling it with sincere desperation, teeth clamping into the ridges of the screw top. The water is stale, tainted with the ghosts of ammonia and salt - but it could be toilet water, for all you care, you’d been completely unaware of your thirst until the first drop touched your tongue. 

He crosses his arms, again, the disgruntled mammoth, ever impatient with you. 

“You know what’s going to happen next, don’t you.” 

Whatever threat he may have been trying to convey was lost in his tone, hoarse and bizarrely sincere. A solemn reminder. 

“If I don’t spy for you?” 

He curtly nods. 

“You told me already,” you murmur, surprising yourself with the defeat in your voice. “You’ll kill me.” 

His chest swells with a laboured sigh, near a grunt. 

“If you’ve got a deathwish, you should’ve put that gun in your mouth and pulled the trigger,” he retorts, monotonous yet severe. “Because it’ll be a long time before you get the bullet you want.” 

You pull the sleeves of your hoodie over your wrists, tucking in your palms, a nervous habit. Your hands are cold. Fingers are blue. “What do you mean.” 

“You had a go of it already. You don’t need me to remind you.” 

Your stare drifts through him, blurred and dizzy. You still taste the blood.

Exhaustion trumps your better judgement, obfuscates your ability to consider your words too carefully. “Then why don’t you just shoot me. You keep saying you will. You haven’t yet.” 

“I don’t like wasting bullets,” he grouses, “and I don’t like being wrong.” 

“Wrong about what?” 

He seems to hesitate before he speaks. Breathes irefully, like you’re the one pestering him. “I was certain you’d be useful. And I convinced my boss to take you instead of assassinating you in your bathroom.” 

“Sorry to disappoint you,” you grumble. 

He chuffs. “You don’t want to die, Mia. You’d have fuckin’ shot yourself. And you didn’t.” 

He was right. 

You had only briefly considered it, in reality; imagined the cold tip of its mouth on your temple, imagined your fingertip caressing the stiff trigger. You considered the torment that might have lay ahead of you, the dogs that might salivate at the sight of you, might chase you, might catch you in their teeth. 

You even envisioned holding the gun outward, pointing it at your masked captor, tugging that trigger as many times as the weapon would allow you to. Firing holes through his thick, heaving body, watching how many it took to bring him down. 

But even as that pistol sat heavy in your hands, you couldn’t help but fantasise about the faint chance of  going home. A possibility that would be quashed no matter where you sent the bullet. 

You couldn’t help but daydream about walking down the cobbles of your hometown even though you had no great fondness for it, about sitting on a café chair in the morning sunlight on one of three days a year it didn’t rain, about wearing your old wellies and trudging through the grass, petting old ewes.

And you weren’t going to die for your fucking husband, nor his sadistic coconspirators. 

Spotting your silence, perhaps sniffing out your lapse in conviction, he once again makes his offer. “Like I said, quid pro quo,” he repeats, voice low and dry, you can hear his confidence in his chest. “You help me, I help you.” 

“How,” you spit. “How will you help me.” 

“You get the intel we need, and we’ll get you on a plane home. You’d have a clean slate. New name, new address. Mia Zakhaev will’ve never existed.”

You snort at that. She never did. 

“You’d be sending a corpse home,” you growl, feeling the terror creeping up the back of your throat. “If there’s one left. There probably won’t be once they find me out. And that’s only assuming your fucking men don’t get to me first.”  

“My men won’t touch you,” he says coarsely. “You’d have protections as an informant.”  

“Yeah? Well I don’t have many fucking protections from the men that you want me to spy on,” you bark, voice breaking, your sudden loudness makes you dizzy. Your sore eyes swell, their supply of tears seemingly replenished by the water he had provided you. 

“You wouldn’t-” he starts, but your tired, terrified anger lurches from your throat and viciously interrupts him. 

“You have - you have no idea what these animals do. What I’ve seen them do.”

You hear him spitefully suck his teeth. “I know exactly what they do.” 

Taking a moment to breathe, to gather yourself, your eyes finally shudder up to meet his. “Then you know I won’t last an hour with them.” 

“You wouldn’t be sent in alone,” he rumbles, taking an irate pause. “You’d have protection.” 

“Can’t say I feel any safer around your men,” you retort through a croak. 

“Not them,” he grits amidst a reluctant sigh. “Me.” 

Despite what Ghost believed to be an inborn skill in reading people, your expression continues to elude him. Is it disappointment in your glistening eyes? Terror? Or is it relief? Hope? 

You swiftly look at the floor again, perhaps at the pool of blood Ghost nonchalantly stands in. Not the first time he’d trail red footprints. Not even the first time within the walls of this very compound.

It must be confusing for you, having him condemn you and then help you. Harbouring a hatred for him almost as potent as your awareness that he’s your only option. But it won’t be as confusing for you, as it is for him. He felt sick and bitter as he handed you that sweatshirt, one he had quietly dug from an empty storage room, had carried to you in the dark so that he wouldn’t be seen doing you a favour. 

Earlier this very night he would have left you naked and bloody. He wouldn’t have intervened whatever creative technique Graves had to make a spy of you. Graves wouldn’t have needed to touch you at all - he would have done it himself. 

That’s how disgusted by you he was. When he knew you as a conniving, vapid sadist. As a warlord’s avaricious consort. As a slithery creature complicit in the suffering inflicted by your kind. 

But at every step, you seem to have confuted him. 

Perhaps you’re that good of a liar. A talented actress. You would have to have been quite the thespian, to fulfil the role of Victor Zakhaev’s loving wife. And Ghost can see your attempts to decipher him, to write a script based on your readings so that you might have him play the part that would serve you. 

It’s what he’d expect. From you, and from anybody. Honesty has been a rarity in his sordid life, something so elusive he struggles to believe that anyone truly has the capacity for it. Even himself. 

“If I do this,” you breathe, hesitating. You glare directly downward, sucking on your words as you fail to spill them out. “If I do it, and they catch me, will you - will you get me out?” 

He sucks in a wary gulp of air. “I can try.” 

Your glower shifts to him, dark and tired, peered up from under your stiff brows. “And if they don’t, when can I go home?” 

“Once you get the intel we need.” 

Quiet, reluctant, you seem to despair every word you release. “And you promise I can go home? I can just - disappear? Like none of this ever happened?” 

He nods stiffly. “Like I said. Clean slate.” 

You shiver. 

“Okay,” you murmur, “I’ll… I’ll do it.” 

~

The lieutenant had decided to let you sleep. 

He hadn’t said such a thing, of course, it wasn’t a favour that he had offered you. After you had obligated yourself to their scheme, he nodded curtly and left without another word. You weren’t sure, at the time, whether he had let you be out of some charitable sympathy. But, despite the effort, you hadn’t carefully deconstructed his actions nor his words, like you would have in a more alert, more conscious state. 

After every physical and psychological torment that had been inflicted on you in the ten hours since your abduction, your mind had atrophied into grey milk. Runny, formless, utterly incapable of amassing a single thought or sensible decision. And despite your wounds, visible and otherwise, you fell into a hollow, dreamless sleep the second your feeble body made its way to the deteriorated mattress. You lay as close to the wall as possible, facing it in the hopes you could cast away the savagery that stained the floor behind you. 

Your sleep had functioned more as a system failure than a recuperation, and so, as you wake up, you feel as though you had not slept at all. Despite being damp with sweat and panic, your skin pricks in the dry cold of your cell. You have no indication of how much time had passed, how long you had slept, what time it is - your cell has no windows, after all. The sun might have risen and set already, or it might still be the same unending night. With a painful, irrepressible yawn, grinding your bruised jawbone against your skull, you wonder if only a single hour had gone by in your slumber. 

There’s a throbbing in your head, radiating and sharp; the forceful ache thumps out from the swollen bruise on your temple and bounces off the back of your skull. You feel your heart racing behind your ribs, pathetic little beats, it seems as if it barely pumps your blood an inch at each twitch. Anxiety, you’re sure, instant panic at the reminder of your imprisonment once you open your eyes; but you know that fluttering as a different omen, one foretelling a self-inflicted sickness. 

You hadn’t taken an oxycontin since the evening of your abduction. Four hours before your hunter had broken into your home, sadistically assassinated each of your sentries, and stolen you from your sanctuary. Unable to know for sure how long it had been since then, you suppose at least twenty hours. Perhaps more, perhaps less. 

Your oxycodone, though not prescribed, is controlled-release, long-acting - which has spared you, at least, a quick descent into withdrawal immediately after your abduction. But its arrival is inevitable, however prolonged it may be. They must have something in the compound, you think, you pray. If they’re soldiers, like they say - there must be analgesics, maybe some codeine, or surely some vicodin. You could ask the Lieutenant, maybe, you are in pain, after all. Or you could ask, beg, the Captain, the one who pretends to be so caring and so noble - an injured, beaten woman, surely he would not stand to see you in such agony? 

But just as the flustered panic sets in, there’s a loud, pounding knock on your cell door. Thud, thud, thud. You jump, shooting upright from where you lay flat on your creaking bed, and before you are given the opportunity to speak or dispute, the door is unlocked and thrown open. Three men file in, you dread, three of them - soldiers, in grey and black. You spot the union jack patches on their bulky vests, and find yourself feeling some inkling of relief - not the Americans that had brutalised you - though you recognise none of them. 

They waste no time, organised and hasty, two of them march towards you and the other stands guard by the door. You squeak in terror, backing up to the wall on instinct - they offer no comfort, no patience as they take you by your arms and pull you uncaringly from the bed. You’re tossed and spun, hands tugged behind your back and cuffed with another cable tie as if you present any danger to them. 

“C’mon,” one grunts, the only word spoken to you. His tone just barely encouraging, like he is instructing lumbering livestock to file obediently through his gate. 

Hyperventilating, you try to look over your shoulder - before, once again, a black cotton bag is pulled over your head. Blinded and incapacitated, they are swift to twist you and yank you, dragging you by your arms; you stumble over bare feet and feel the stickiness of undried blood on your soles. 

“Where are you taking me,” you whimper, not expecting an answer but disputing all the same. They won’t hurt you now, right? You are doing what they wanted. You agreed to their terms. What more can they take from you? 

“A meeting,” one says stiffly, the one on your right. Your feet do their best to take steps as they cart you out of the cell, presumably down the maze of hallways. You hear the echoes of their boots in the labyrinthine cement tunnels. 

Your instinct is to ask, with who? But, you can guess, can’t you. If not the Lieutenant, then the Captain, who you suppose had orchestrated the scheme in the first place. Though you begrudge their needless brutality, you follow their physical instruction without further complaint. 

They’re not the American soldiers in black, you remind yourself - so surely, you pray, they aren’t taking you to the Commander for some form of comeuppance. His business with you was unfinished, you suspect, there is no way he is done with you. 

But your violent escorts come to a halt, and you hear them knock on a door right in front of you. There’s murmuring emanating from behind it, the dull thuds of boots approach before the sound of it opening.

A grunt, a sigh, you hear the ire in the man’s breath, whoever it is. “Right. Bring ‘er in.” 

The Scotsman. You don’t have much of a read on this one, you recall, besides the salivating, dog-like hunger that oozes from him. Though it is less potent, now, you suppose you must appear far less appealing in a dusty, poorly fitting sweatshirt, than in your priceless silk lingerie. 

You’re shoved unceremoniously into the room, almost tripping over your feet before a firm hand lands on your shoulder. Far from a gentlemanly gesture, he then pulls you by your bicep, pushing you downwards until your ass lands in a cold, seemingly plastic, chair. You hear the door shut behind you. 

Before you can speak, the sack is pulled roughly from your head, yanking a few of your hairs with it, and the stark brightness of the room forces you to squint. 

“Jesus,” the Scotsman scoffs, as he sees you, before going to sit in another chair. “Graves is a fucken’ animal.” 

As your eyes adjust to the light, your glare shoots around the room - there are four of them, around a table, you have been seated at the head. You recognise three, the Captain, the Scotsman, and unsurprisingly, the Lieutenant. The fourth, you guess, must be the sergeant - the one you had heard on the helicopter, but who you have not yet seen. He looks somewhat less jaded than the others, and disturbed by the sight of you. A grimace of shame dents in his brow when you meet his eye, and he turns his head to look at some paper on the table. 

There’s a window in the room, and while you had just earlier been wishing for one, you now scorn the daylight that glows from behind it. A reminder of the outside world, you feel it glaring in at you, taunting you with freedom. You wonder how many storeys high the building is. You can’t see any trees. The grey sky obfuscates the time of day - it could be morning, or afternoon, for all you can tell. 

“How the fuck is this gunna work if she looks like that?” The Scotsman gripes, gesturing at you with his thumb.

Leaning back cavalierly in his seat, with his arms crossed, Lieutenant Riley snorts spitefully. “Ask the Cap.” 

The Captain stands, then, at the other end of the table, he leans on his knuckles against the synthetic wooden surface. “D’ya sleep alright, Mia?” He asks suddenly, directly to you, as though casting silence on the others. 

There’s an itch under your left ear, it makes your eye twitch, and you cannot scratch it. Vexed, tired, you simply scowl. “No.” 

He seems to find humour in that, huffing as if quietly laughing. “Of course not,” he admits with a sigh, “you poor thing. I’m sorry about all of this, I truly am.” 

You spot the Lieutenant scowling at him, eyes lidded darkly, he radiates a fury that you can taste from where you sit. You decide not to answer, not yet, you wait in uncomfortable silence for the Captain to get to the point. 

“I was told you’ve considered helping us,” he says, a cautiousness in his throat. “S’that right?” 

You swallow. “I was told I could go home,” you answer quietly.

“And you will,” he nods sincerely, “if you do what we tell you to do. If you get us what we need.” 

“What do you need,” you ask, shuffling in your seat, doing your best to only subtly stretch your shoulders - they ache from where they are pulled behind your back, you feel your cold fingertips swell. 

He laughs, then, a self-deprecating chortle, as he sits himself back in his seat and tugs himself forward. “Ah, well - of course, that would be helpful to know, wouldn’t it?” 

His casual amusement unsettles you deeply, you glare at him in anxious anticipation. “It would,” you croak. 

“We’ve asked you about Makarov, haven’t we,” he explains. “I don’t think you were honest with me about how well you know him, eh? Not according to Riley, here. Sounds like you’ve had a few run-ins with him, have you?” 

You say nothing. 

“Well, love, he’s who we’re after - if you hadn’t guessed already. Your husband was, let’s say, one on a long list. We would like to apprehend him, definitely, but you see - he’s like a virus, this man. He has infected plenty of other men with his ideas. If we take him out, well, it’ll be hard for us to figure out who else his plans may have spread to. He wouldn’t be as lovely and cooperative as you have been.” 

You feel the knit form in your brow, viciously upset by his comment. Cooperative? As if you had a fucking choice in any of it. As if you could have defied them any more than you had already tried to. As if you’d be gifted the option of a swift execution if you failed to comply. 

“So,” he continues nonchalantly, “ideally, we’d like to get as much information from him as we can while he’s in his natural habitat, so to speak. We want to know what he is planning, and who else is involved, so we can intercept it this time.” 

This time. You find yourself stuck on that. How many other times have there been? What else have they done? What else had your husband helped commit? You suck deep a careful breath in the subsequent silence, he evidently waits for you to offer some input. 

“You think he would tell me anything?” You mutter doubtfully,  “that he’d tell me anything about this plan?” 

“Well, love,” he grunts, “for your sake, I hope he does.” 

“You won’t ask him directly,” the Scotsman suddenly speaks. You didn’t expect him to participate much in the scheming, he seems to you as thick as a plank. “That’d be a bit obvious.” 

“Couldn’t we bug the place?” The Sergeant asks, speaking up for the first time since you had entered the room. 

“They’ll have RF detectors,” Riley remarks bluntly, shaking his head. “At least.”

“So, you…” you hesitate, thinking aloud, “you want me to eavesdrop?”

“Assuming they talk about anything of value,” the Captain agrees. “But you’ll prompt them where necessary, won’t you?” 

“You know them, Mia,” the Scotsman interjects, again, and you begin to question your first assumption about his stupidity. “So, if you think there is a better way, a… safer way to get the intel we want, then say so. We want to help you, help us.” 

You stare at him, doubt on your tongue. You know, in the pit of you, that if your cover is blown, they will leave you to die - simply another failed scheme, and they will move on to the next one. But he is right, in that, of course, you want to find the safest way to fulfil their ploy and guarantee your freedom. Desperately. Your eyes flit between the four men before you, who shoot glances at each other before looking at you expectantly, as if you might have some suggestion. 

And in the silence it dawns on you quickly the fact that you will soon have to face them again. Have to be seen by, have to walk amongst, have to talk to the very men you had denied your fear of for as long as you had known them. Then, when you were a wife, they feigned respect, they kept their tasteful distance. Now, you’d be a widow, a ripe fruit hanging from a low branch. That in itself sends painful pricks down the nape of your neck, but the thought of having to question them about their clandestine crimes, even daring to speak to them - you know, with conviction, that it will be your death sentence. 

“I can’t ask him,” you utter, shaking your head twitchily. “There’s no- they will know, straight away, if I ask them anything about it. Even if I just - even if I express interest in what they are talking about, they will know. And if they don’t think I’m a rat, they will still think I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. As a wife - a widow. They’ll say it’s not my place.” 

“I’m sure it’s not abnormal for their wives to ask innocent questions,” The Captain shrugs, artificial support in his tone, as if he is providing you some reassurance. “They’ll be more receptive after a few drinks.” 

“Are you stupid?” You anxiously blurt, immediately regretting your sudden insult, but quietly relishing in the minor outburst of long-craved aggression. He simply looks surprised, almost amused, like he thinks it was cute. “You’ve been spying on these men for - for so long, and you don’t know anything about them, do you?” 

“That’s what we’ve got you for,” the Scotsman retorts.

“They won’t just give me a scolding, a slap on the wrist, if I displease them - if I disobey them - do you think they are forgiving?” You assert eagerly, angrily. “My friend Sasha, she raised her voice at her husband in front of the rest, and so he poured boiling water on her face. I went to her funeral two months ago. One of them beat his nineteen-year-old girlfriend to death for denting his car. They held Alena’s hand to a stove after she smacked her husband, they had to cut her hand off. She was lucky. And Vladimir-”

You stop yourself, stumbling on your tongue. You sweat with stress and hot terror as you remember each horror you had to witness or hear of, each of them long buried and desperately ignored so that you could bear to live in your bubble of fragile safety among the monsters that had enacted them.

“Vladimir what?” Riley queries rigidly. 

Glaring at him, you shift uneasily in your seat, your brow knots in worry as you struggle to let loose the words. “He’s the… he’s the worst of them.” 

“What’d he do?” 

“He-” you bite off with a groan, frustrated with your frightened inability to even describe what kind of a man, what kind of a beast, he is; you feel your heart shrivel at the thought of him. “He hurts, he kills, anyone. Anyone. If he wants, if he decides to.” 

They remain silent. Expectant. You involuntarily elaborate, as your sore eyes begin to well. 

“I - I saw him murder one of my maids, in my home. He was a guest, in my home, and he pulled her by the hair into the kitchen and slit her throat - and he never explained why, he just left her body there and went back to dinner. Nobody even asked him why… God forbid I asked him, or even showed that I was upset by it, he would’ve… he… I couldn’t ask. I couldn’t. I knew what, I knew what he’d do. Because, h-he - there’s nobody he won’t hurt. Even, last year, he tried to sleep with Vasiliev’s wife, and s-she rebuffed him - so he had her put in acid. He put her in acid. He put her in while she was awake and then left her in the barrel on her driveway.”

A disturbed quiet settles in the room, as you suck down a wet and quivering breath. You contort your shoulder to wipe the errant tears that had dribbled down your cheek. The four of them seem to take the moment to consider, a thick air of disgust and guilt seeps from each of them. The Scotsman rubs his eyebrow, the Sergeant holds his hands to his forehead, the Captain drums his knuckles against the table in disquieted thought. 

The Lieutenant, though, had not turned his eyes from you. He keeps his thick arms crossed, glower low and sharp through the hole in his mask. 

“Did he ever threaten you?” He asks severely, voice hoarse. Despite emphasising you, evidently asking about you specifically, no concern for you could be gleaned from his tone. If any concern, at all, merely a worry that such a thing might in some way affect his mission. You wonder if he had deduced from your terror that Vladimir might have turned his sights on you. Clever man. 

Worriedly biting your tongue, you sniff back the frightened tears that threaten their persistence. “Not explicitly,” you mumble. “But he - he would remind me of her. He’d remind me of what he did to her, if I didn’t do what he wanted.” 

“What did he want?” The Captain questions, leaning on his elbows, interlocking his fingers as though still plotting something unspoken. 

You scowl at him, red eyes laser in his direction. “If you’re asking whether he wanted to fuck me too, then no - he didn’t.” 

“No?” He queries gently, frowning in apparent doubt. 

“No,” you spit, tearful, “he didn’t. And he wouldn’t have tried. Victor was protective.” 

“I bet,” the Scotsman chuffs, and your lips curl in disgust. 

“So he didn’t hurt you, then, I take it?” Asks the Captain. 

Your eyes shoot briefly to Riley, the man still scowling behind his mask, he bounces his leg as though irritated. “Why does it matter,” you bite. 

“Because if he’s going to throw you in acid the second we send you back, then it won’t be a very successful mission, will it?” The Captain explains, condescension dripping from his tone. 

You shut your eyes for a short moment, frustration and fear thundering in your temples, you take the second to breathe deeply. “No, he didn’t hurt me.” 

“He must have liked you then.” 

You weakly shake your head. “He doesn’t like anyone who isn’t useful to him.” 

The Captain again drums the wooden surface with the tips of his fingers. “Well, you could make yourself useful to him,” he suggests wryly, “couldn’t you.” 

You grimace, sniff, glaring at him like he had smacked you. Another fucking use - such an apparently short list of uses you serve, and yet all of these dogs seem find you useful for one thing or another. You know what he is implying. 

“I just told you what he did to the last woman he thought might be useful.” You snap with sore venom. 

“Then what do you suggest, Mia,” the Scotsman asks bluntly. 

You inhale deeply, warily, staring at the centre of the table as you do your best to separate your terror from the reality of your situation. 

“I can eavesdrop,” you hesitantly insist, “they think I don’t speak Russian very well, so I can listen. I’m - I’m sure that they’ll have a lot to talk about after… after Victor’s death. But - they’re going to have questions. They’ll ask where I have been, where I was. Where his body is. They’ll ask about, about everything. I’ll n-need a story.” 

“Don’t you worry about that,” the Captain asserts, “we’ll sort one out.”  

You swallow, you wonder if they can see you shaking, now that your tentative future encroaches on you so violently. “How?” 

He seems to mull over his words before he replies, perhaps deciding whether you are even allowed to be privy to his plan.

“We’ll plant you back at your estate. Zakhaev, too. It’ll look like a botched assassination.” 

The tears threaten their swell, at his mention - at the thought of having to lay eyes on your husband’s cold body. You see his face erupting from the inside out, then, in an instant; you see the crater left by the bullet that tore through from the back of his skull, the pieces of brain and bone and meat that hung in strands from the hole, having turned black and dry in the hours since his murder. You wonder if they had left his corpse there, buckled over and dripping, still tied to that seat, festering under the fluorescent light. 

And you imagine having to step around the frigid bodies of your guards, the pools of blood that will stain every floor, of every room in your home - having to avoid getting it on your feet, and further staining the carpet with your footprints. Nausea churns in your fragile stomach, your skin shivers as you sip in quick and shallow breaths.

“Mia,” he grits, as though getting sick of your panic. 

He grounds you though, somehow, bitterly reminding you of your circumstances, of the deal you made, of the things you will need to do to go home. 

So you nod, hastily, once again using your shoulder to try and wipe off the stream of salty tears that dripped from your chin. “Okay,” you relent, shaking, “Okay. I can - there’s someone I can call to, to make it believable. But it… it’ll take time to clean out the house, for the, for the funeral, so-”

“We won’t have time for that,” Riley interjects, tone dull and irate. “Was he Orthodox? Is there a church? Cathedral? A place to hold it instead of the mansion?” 

Your husband was not a religious man. Not outwardly so, anyway. You suppose you can’t fathom committing the crimes that he had while still worshipping a supposedly benevolent God. 

“They wouldn’t - I don’t think they’d expect to hold the funeral at a church.” 

“Why’s that.” 

“When - when someone like Victor, someone important dies… it’s more of a business meeting, than a funeral. When his father was killed, they didn’t even have someone there to give a sermon.”  

The Lieutenant grunts in frustration, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb. 

“I could have them come to the estate in Kastovia,” you suggest sheepishly, now so surreally disconnected from your situation that it has begun to feel to you like you’re discussing the plot to a film. 

He scoffs at that, Riley, with an air of spiteful disgust. “Another one?” 

“It was - it was a gift, from Victor. He’d send me there when h-he had business I wasn’t allowed to be home for,” you ponder, barely murmuring. “It would make sense for me to go there after, after everything.” 

“Fine.” He retorts flatly. “Kastovia it is.” 

“Right, then,” the Captain muses, evidently enthused, satisfied with how the strategy has so far unfolded. “The Lieutenant will act as one of your hired guards. He’ll keep a close eye on you. And he speaks plenty of Russian, don’t you Riley, so he’ll fit right on in.” 

“No, he-” you interject dryly, but insistently, “...his Russian is bad. If he talks, they’ll know.” 

The Scotsman snorts at that, chuckling and shooting a mocking glance in the Lieutenant’s direction. Riley falls briefly silent, and it leaves you fretting viciously - had you angered him? Will he take that out on you later? You’ll be stuck with him. Only him. Nobody to hold him accountable, and nowhere to run. 

“She’s right,” he instead dismisses, through a grumble, and you let out a small breath of relief. “They’ll pick up on my accent. She’s not even Russian, and she did.” 

The Captain grunts in irritation, rocking his head back with a sigh. “Then, Christ, make up a story about your tongue being cut out. Fuck’s sake. It doesn’t matter, they won’t ask about it. I’m sure you’ve gone through plenty of bodyguards in your day, eh, Mia?” 

You nod restlessly. 

“Good,” the Captain barks, smacking the table with a satisfied hand. “Perfect. Let’s get you ready to go then, eh?” 

You feel your chest close on your ribs, your blood floods to your feet and renders you sick and dizzy. “Now?” You croak, barely, staring vacantly in his direction. 

“Not backing out, are you, love?” He questions, the casual friendliness in his tone belying a clear threat, you can see it in his piercing stare. 

You shake your head desperately, hyperventilating, you swallow dry. “No, no I’m - I’m just, I don’t think I’m ready-”

“‘Course you are,” he encourages you, and you watch as the Scotsman stands, black sack in his fist, he steps uncaringly towards you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll get you home. You just need to be brave, yeah?” 

You whimper, let loose a wet sob, as the sack is crudely tugged over your head, and you are plunged into the violent unknown once more. 

Ghost stays seated, leaning back deep in his chair, sourly thankful that Price had brought the ‘meeting’, as he called it, to a hasty end. He couldn’t stand to see the man feign charity and empathy for a moment longer, watching him leer at you while pretending to be a voice of comfort. Asking how you slept - who the fuck does he think he is? He was the one that had endorsed your beating, after all, he seemed to have no qualms about it then. The fucking hypocrite.  

He watches in resentful silence as Soap grabs you by your arms, his thick hands gripping you wrenchingly tight as he shuffles you through the door. He listens to you whine and cry quietly, to yourself, looks at your bruised and trembling legs as they stumble over each other on your way out of the room. In the lull, he rocks his head back in exasperated fury, glaring at the panelled ceiling and releasing a loud and hoarse sigh from this throat. 

“Not gonna lie,” Gaz grunts, reaching into the pocket of his trousers and plucking out a crumpled box of Richmond cigarettes, “I’m starting to feel bad for her.” 

Ghost scoffs. “Want a cookie, sergeant?” 

“Piss off,” comes Gaz’s quick retort, as he lights the cigarette he holds in the corner of his lips. “Just ‘cause you’re a sociopath doesn’t mean we all are.” 

“Remember what she is, yeah?” Price remarks dully, scooping up the folders and sat phone he had previously left spread across the table. 

“Yeah, yeah, Cap, she’s just a hooker,” Gaz mocked, groaning, “you’re not as chivalrous as you think you are, eh?” 

“God’s sake, Gaz,” Price grouses, lips twisting in a disapproving curl under his dense moustache. “Nothing to do with that. She’s a fuckin’ oligarch and she’s a terrorist. Don’t forget that.”

“Don’t you get the vibe she had nothing to do with any of it?” Gaz asks, cynicism in his tone. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Ghost cuts in, flat and hostile. “She married a warlord. Whatever happens to her now is her own fault.” 

Gaz snorts, shooting a scornful glance at Ghost before turning to the Captain. “You really gonna let this guy take the mission alone with her?” He asks derisively. 

“Ghost has the right attitude,” Price dismisses. “You feel guilty, you get attached, the whole fuckin’ mission shits the bed.” 

“If you think she’s a terrorist, why’d you offer to send her back to England, eh?” Gaz interrogates, punctuating his doubt with a drag of his cigarette. 

Ghost looks down at his hands as they knot into a single fist, and Price releases an awkward huff; an indignant silence between them seems to answer Gaz’s question. 

“You’re not serious,” he spits, agog at the realisation, “are you fucking serious?” 

“She’s a war criminal, as far as we know,” Price says, close to a murmur. “It’d be a threat to national security.” 

“Jesus,” Gaz vents, rubbing his jaw with tense fingers. “You’re both sick.” 

Ghost involuntarily clenches his jaw, gritting teeth. He didn’t consider himself as lying when he told you that they could get you a passport and send you home. If you succeed, if you prove your loyalty - he is sure that would convince Price that you are worthy of rescue. 

Rescue, he curses at himself - as if you need rescue. As he said, he reminds himself, you made your bed and now you are lying in it. You’re so good at it, clever girl, at twisting their impressions of you, at wringing pity from them by fluttering your eyes and letting loose your sparkling tears. Your bruises must hurt, he’s sure, but they must only help you, now - you can brandish them and whimper like a beaten puppy, you can whine and beg for comfort and protection. 

He tells himself, demands himself, not to fall for it. You had already swindled him once, tricking him into bringing you water and clothes by sitting naked and shaking on the floor of your cell. You just looked so wounded, so defeated, so desperate… 

“You keep her hopes up, won’t you, Simon?” Price orders apathetically. 

Ghost nods silently, running his tongue along his teeth. 

“And if she gets herself caught - leave her with ‘em. Get yourself out of there, they’ll take care of her.” 

There’s a sordid silence as Ghost glowers jadedly out of the window, watching the dark clouds of an encroaching snowstorm roll closer across the low-lying sky. 

He huffs. “Yes sir.”