Hi guys, while scrolling through the sukuna x reader tag i read a fic titled "08:03 am" and realized that it sounded like something I've read some time ago. I then decided to scroll through the writer's account and noticed a bunch of fics that i had scrolled past or read. This user is basically stealing other writers' works and posting it as their own, even going as far as saying that they're so "nervous to post their first work" (also stolen btw!).
Their whole account is literally just stolen works, no matter how far you scroll. I wanted to share this on here in case one doesn't know what's going on, even if that account doesn't gain followers or attention. I'll post some of the screenshots I took and tag 2 writers i remember the name of. They're not only posting fics ablut sukuna tho, i've found some of Gojo as well.
The user is @/tokyojujutsus
For "08:03am" original writer is @kissunarin
For "You know I'm no good" original writer is @mononijikayu
For "sukuna x nerd!reader making out the first time" original writer is @sweetieelilii
I can't find the Rest, but feel welcome to tag them as well!! If you want me to remove your tag or a screenshot with your fic from this post, please message me as well and i'll do so. I only wanted to bring attention to this and apologize if you didn't want your user mentioned ! Therr's literally everything wrong with stealing someone's work and claiming it as your own.
he wants to be you
narrator! gojo satoru x tyler durden! male reader
tw : fight club AU, physical violence, illegal underground fighting, injuries & blood (non-graphic but present), self-destructive behavior, toxic/unhealthy relationship dynamics, manipulation, power imbalance(?), moral instability, themes of obsession, identity loss, recklessness, criminal-adjacent behavior, toxic masculinity, extremism, anti-consumerist radicalization themes, cult-like group dynamics, psychological deterioration
art : @/adrawnymous on threads (not sure)
he met you at a very strange time in his life.
gojo satoru was a nobody. a contrast to his past that overweighed his current loneliness, and yet he chose to stick to the illusion.
he worked enough to afford designers that were plastered all over his apartment. he didn't like them, no. it was a mask, something for him to cover up the void-- to fill up the space that is left. in his room and life.
and then he met you.
you were everything he wasn't-- he should be glad about it, because you were broke, you lived in an abandoned house that he was so sure is haunted, and made a living out of making soaps, trying to sell it to strangers in airplanes, at least that's what happened to gojo.
he thought you were a lunatic at first, wearing shades inside the plane, sitting on his seat. but the more he talked with you that day, the more he understood-- and the more he envied.
you were broke, yes, but you were free. you had time, a commanding presence, and most of it all, you did not care. that's when he first felt it, a connection, a slight hum in his chest. because he realized that you were everything he wanted to be.
you acted out of impulse with no care, you embraced the consequences and played with luck like it was a toy. and the moment he stepped out the plane? he was right back in your hold once again.
called you once he saw his now burnt out apartment, didn't know why he called you in the first place when he could've called someone else he knew, but you didn't turn him down, instead, you invited him for a drink.
gojo decided then that the day he met you, in the plane, was when his life turned around. with no place to stay, he was stuck with you in the same abandoned house he claimed was haunted.
the more he was perched in your orbit, the more he lingered around, the space he loathed slowly started to fill up-- even when he lost his job, especially when he lost his job. it made him feel reckless, like he had his life in control now.
it was easy for him to follow you around, you were charismatic, and everything about you felt so.. put together despite how much of a mess you are.
the envy coiled into something deeper, his gazes lingered more, his touches fairy like. and when gojo got to know about fight club, the bond you two shared rooted deeply within.
the envy had faded into admiration which now shared a very thin line with obsession. and the first rule you told him in the kitchen, barefoot on cracked tile, was spoken like a joke
"you donât talk about it, satoru.â
the white haired man laughed, leaning against the counter, watching you carve a bar of soap with a pocketknife like a surgeon, âyou sure you aren't takin' me to a cult?â you didnât answer right away, instead you slid the finished bar across to him.
it was uneven, pink, and smelled aggressively like cheap citrus. he turned it over in his hand. âthe place iâm taking you tonight,â you said finally, "you donât talk about it. you donât write about it. you donât even think about it too loud."
he squinted his eyes in confusion, a small click of tongue before he finally replied, "you're fuckin' insane," but he followed you either way.
the building was a carcass of concrete and rust, tucked behind a strip of warehouses like something ashamed of itself.
the air around it buzzed with noise-- filled with laughter too sharp, and the low thud of bodies hitting bodies. gojo felt it in his teeth before he even stepped inside.
the basement smelled like sweat and iron. a circle of men crowded the center, their faces lit with a hunger that made gojo's stomach twist. a punch landed, he heard someone groan and the crowd leaned in like flowers toward sunlight.
you didnât look at him, you were watching the fight with a focus that bordered on reverence, he didn't like that, he never indulged in fights yet something in his bones buzzed and adrenaline rushed through,
"thatâs it?â he asked. âthey just.. hit each other?â you grinned. âthatâs it.â
god, he shouldâve left. he knew he should've.
every rational piece of him screamed to turn around, go back to the haunted house, go back to his hollow apartment, go back to being nobody in designer clothes. this place was animalistic, it stripped the air down to something primitive
but you stepped into the circle when the fight ended and so he stayed.
the crowd shifted for you instinctively, gojo felt the change like pressure in the room. they knew you, not by your name-- he doubted names mattered here, but they knew what you were capable of.
you rolled your shoulders, loose, smiling like this was a party and you were the host.
your opponent was much bigger-- older. as he cracked his knuckles and spat to the side, you looked back at gojo once before the first punch you took snapped your head sideways.
the sound echoed, and gojo's chest tightened, a reflexive jolt of anger he didnât recognize as his own. you laughed through the blood in your mouth. laughed like this whole thing was a joke, and then you moved.
it wasnât pretty but it was efficient in a way that felt personal. you hit like you were erasing something. every strike carried a story gojo wasnât privy to. the crowd roared with each connection, but he couldnât hear them anymore.
all he saw was you-- alive in a way you never were in daylight, stripped down to intent. when you finally dropped the man, you didnât celebrate. you just stood there, chest heaving, eyes bright, you looked relieved.
you pointed at the blue eyed man, and the circle turned to him.
his first instinct was to refuse, his second was to run, but underneath both was that hum again-- that same hum from the plane, from the burnt apartment, from every reckless step heâd taken since meeting you.
it pulled him forward and he stepped in.
the man they gave him was lean, twitchy. gojo barely registered his face before the first hit landed. pain bloomed, it was shocking how immediate it was, nevertheless, he hit back and something in him cracked open along with it.
all the quiet resentment, the loneliness heâd lacquered over with expensive furniture, the envy heâd swallowed every time he watched you live without fear-- it surged to the surface and poured into his fists.
he wasnât graceful by no means, nor was he skilled. but he was furious in a way that felt clean.
when he went down, the concrete kissed his spine and the ceiling spun, he tasted iron and started laughing, he didnât know why. hands dragged him up. the fight was over and heâd lost.
it didnât matter. the crowd clapped his shoulder like heâd been baptized. his face throbbed, his ribs screamed. yet he felt.. lighter.
you were in front of him, split lip, eye already darkening. you looked delighted, "well?â you asked with a tilt of your head. the white haired man touched his bleeding nose.
he waited for shame, for regret, even for the creeping horror of what heâd just done.
but none of it came.
âi get it,â he said softly. your grin widened, feral and proud as you threw an arm around his shoulders and dragged him back into the noise, into the sweat and laughter and raw, beating heart of the basement.
that night, limping home beside you, gojo satoru realized something irreversible had settled into him, but the first thing he noticed on the walk back, was that you didnât ask if he was okay.
most people wouldâve-- a normal person wouldâve hovered, fussed over the swelling, and apologized for dragging him into something brutal and underground.
but you didnât even look at his face.
you were humming, lip still split, hands shoved in your pockets, stepping over puddles like you were walking out of a movie theater instead of a basement where heâd just been beaten into clarity.
âyour stance was terrible,â you finally said, gojo laughed through the ache in his ribs. âno shit, i got knocked flat.â you hummed in reply-- a silent motion of approval, and he was fine with that.
your house greeted you like a mouth with broken teeth, you kicked your shoes off and tracked blood across the floor without a second thought. gojo followed, dizzy, watching you move through the wreckage of your life with practiced ease.
the place was worse than he remembered. soap molds stacked beside empty bottles, clothes draped over a chair like shed skin, a worn out mattress on the floor.
you tossed him a literal rag, "for your face,â you said. âdon't drip the soap too much. customers hate when there's no logo.â
he stared at you. âyouâre worried about customer satisfaction right now?â he didn't even bother asking you why you would sell a used soap-- too used to your cheap tricks by now.
âiâm always worried about customer satisfaction,â you replied, dead serious. âthatâs capitalism for ya.â you grinned after you said it, blood in your teeth, and he felt that hum again-- louder this time, almost closer to a roar.
you were a disaster, a walking liability. a person held together by impulse and bad decisions and a charisma so sharp it bordered on violent, and he couldnât-- wouldn't look away.
the fights became a routine, that was the frightening part, not the pain or the bruises blooming like ink under his skin. it was the routine that frightened him.
youâd disappear for hours, come back with cash or nothing, sometimes with a split knuckle, sometimes with a stranger trailing behind you whoâd crash on your bed and leave before sunrise.
you lied easily, casually, he caught you once, selling the same bar of soap he used to three different people in the same afternoon,
"you're scamming them,â he said, watching the people shuffle away. you shrugged. âhow will they know it's used,â
âthatâs not--â
âlegal?â you offered. âmoral? damn, satoru, relax. theyâll survive. people love being fooled, it makes them feel chosen.â you said it with a pat on his cheek, it was such good conviction he almost believed it.
and perhaps that was your talent. you bent reality around yourself until it felt negotiable. fight club fed that part of you, or maybe it was the other way around.
in the basement, you were gospel. people gravitated to you after fights, hanging on your words like you were preaching salvation instead of chaos.
you remembered names when it benefited you, and forgot them when it didnât. you could look a man in the eye after breaking his nose and make him feel honored for it.
and gojo-- god, gojo continued to orbit around you, knowing where you came from, how your silly little 'consequences' weren't so silly anymore and that he should be wary of your impulses.
you weren't some quirky guy, and he didn't want to be you.
yet he started skipping interviews, he started ignoring calls, bruises became easier to explain than ambition and every time he stepped into the circle, every time his fist connected with bone,
he felt closer to the version of himself heâd glimpsed the night he met you. the version that didnât care. the same version that burned instead of rotted.
you saw it happening and did nothing to stop it, you never pushed him too, it was only a matter of time he did. you simply watched him unravel and smiled like youâd predicted it-- because you did.
one night, after a fight that left him shaking, you sat beside him on the basement floor while the crowd thinned. his knuckles were raw, and your shoulder was dislocated-- he could see the wrong angle of it. yet you stayed composed, like it was normal to walk around with a broken arm.
âyouâre changing,â you said softly, cracking the knuckles, while giving small nods to every member who passed by you, satoru laughed weakly, "i lost my job. lives with a man who lies for a living, and fight strangers for fun. yeah-- iâd hope so.â
you turned your head, studying him like a specimen, "i didn't mean it that way,â you murmured. âyouâre shedding," the word settled in his stomach, and he paused-- shedding? âas in shedding my hair? look man, life's been a roller-coaster, i'm not surpr--â he was cut off by your words.
âno, satoru, you're shedding the part of you that was pretending to be alive.â you smiled, yet held nothing in your eyes, and then, with your good arm, you reached over and pressed your thumb into the bruise forming under his eye, hard.
he hissed and pulled away, you didnât apologize, you just watched his reaction, fascinated, "there you are,â you whispered. and the worst part-- the part he would never admit, was that he felt seen.
an: this chapter is heavy buuuttttt Satoru is perfect and I love him <3 I'm sorry this took awhile but I finally got a new phone yayyy so updates will be easier!
my masterlist story masterlist
The happiness from meeting Satoru is short-lived unfortunately. You don't text him again yet. You're not sure what you're looking for there, but you don't even have time to think about that. You have to have dinner with your parents today, and judging by the loud groan you just heard from Sukuna's room, he just received the reminder.
You hear loud footsteps thudding down the hall and you jump up from bed so you won't be sitting when he inevitably bursts in. Why would he knock? He doesn't care about your privacy.
The door flies open and he glares at you, eyes piercing and fiery.
âWhy the fuck are we having dinner with your parents? They said it's urgent.â He demands.
âI just called my mother yesterday after I left the house.â You choose to leave out the part where you'd accidentally let it slip that you haven't been intimate. He's already pissed, and you don't want to add fuel to that flame.
âYou blubbered to your fucking mommy? Jesus Christ.â He says with a condescending laugh. âWhatever. I'll go, but only so I can see that stupid look on your face when they scold you. I swear, you still act like a child.â
You want to argue back, to get angry, but the words dry up in your throat. You don't want to make things worse right now, not when you're already dreading the dinner. You grit your teeth and stay silent, and Sukuna takes a few steps forward.
âOh, now you have nothing to say?â He sneers.
âI'm sorry you got roped into the dinner. I'm sure it won't be too long.â You say, not looking at him.
âGood. Because I've already got plans for drinks and getting my dick sucked on the drive home.â
He says with a scoff as he turns away, and you find yourself a little grateful that he didn't choose to argue any further.
He leaves your room, heading straight out of the house. You hear the door slam as he leaves, and you slowly cross your bedroom to close the door.
You look through your clothes to pick an outfit for later. It will have to be pretty, and impossibly tight and suffocating if your mother is to be pleased.
Just as you find the outfit you're sure will make her happy, you hear a notification from your phone.
Park nerd: [Just checking in. Are you feeling any better?]
[I'm okay. How are you?]
Park nerd: [Better now that I'm talking to my new friend.]
[You're sweet. Thank you for checking in. It's really nice.]
Park nerd: [Of course. If you ever find yourself needing company, just let me know. Anytime.]
[Okay..I will. Thank you, Satoru.]
You feel a little better after receiving Satoruâs messages. Knowing someone cares, and is willing to check up on you, fills you with such an unfamiliar feeling. It's comforting, and as much as you don't want to allow it, you need it.
You spend your day preparing for the dinner, making sure not a single hair is out of place, and praying that Sukuna will be on his best behavior.
The day passes far too quickly and soon it's time to leave. The driver is waiting outside, and much to your surprise Sukuna decides to ride in the same car as you. Of course, it's only to message the woman he's meeting later right next to you.
You don't even give him the satisfaction of paying attention, though. Not tonight.
The moment you arrive at your parents home, your mother looks you up and down with distaste. Her gaze is sharp and judgemental.
âWell, I suppose the dress is adequate.â She says, looking at Sukuna next. âThank you so much for attending dinner, Sukuna.â She praises.
âCome on now, call me Ryomen. We're family now, yeah?â He drawls, just to get under your skin.
âMake yourself at home, Veronica will take your coat.â She says, stepping aside and grabbing you by your elbow to force you to do the same. Sukuna walks past you, dropping his coat into Veronica's hands. She'd always been nice to you, though she'd had a fire about her nobody could extinguish. However, she'd served your family well for years, and she'd remained loyal to them.
She takes his coat to hang it in a closet, and your mother closes the front door.
âLet me look at you.â She says. Her tone isn't maternal. It's not motherly. It's controlling, vicious, mean.
She assesses you for any flaws, scrutinizing everything. âYour eyes are puffy. You should wear more makeup, we didn't raise you to look so dull.â
âI've just been tired.â You say, which only makes her angry.
âYou have no reason to be tired. It's not like you're with child, or fulfilling your duties. This sort of attitude is exactly why your marriage is failing. It's pathetic.â She grips your shoulder hard, pressing her fingers in and digging her nails into your skin.
âGet into the kitchen and help finish up dinner. Maybe it will make your husband take interest in you.â She says, pulling you along until you're in front of the kitchen, before shoving you forward. You enter the kitchen and help finish up the food, before preparing a plate for Sukuna. You hear your parents talking with him, echoing down the hall. They say some things about business, then about you. You're trying not to listen, but then something catches your attention.
âRyomen, please tell us if there's anything we need to do to polish our daughter any more.â Your father says, earning a laugh from Sukuna.
âWell, I would've liked a warning about her inability to have kids.â He says flippantly, before rolling his eyes. âBut, there's always other ways to ensure we have an heir for the company after me.â
Your mother makes a surprised sound. âSo you *have been intimate?â
âNot that it's any of your business, but yeah. Why? Ya think otherwise?â He presses, and now you know now what his game is. He came to this dinner to try to humiliate you. He wants to paint you as broken to the people who have always tried to destroy you the most.
âGo pour us more drinks, woman. Clearly you've disrespected Ryomen.â
âMy apologies, Mr. Sukuna.â Your mother says, refilling their glasses, right as you enter the room with the food. Your hands shake slightly, the adrenaline from what you'd just heard buzzing through you. You set down the plate in front of Sukuna and he reaches up, grabbing the back of your neck to pull you down.
He forces you into a sloppy kiss, one that makes both your parents make noises of disapproval, before he digs into the food. You just feel gross. His tongue in your mouth was the most unwanted intrusion you could've imagined, and he tastes like scotch. At least when he did that at your wedding you had a little hope, that maybe in the least it meant he was attracted to you. This time it was just a slap in the face, just as he intended it to be.
Your mother serves your father, before grabbing your arm and excusing you both.
âMother, I thought we were going to ea-â She cuts you off with a sharp pinch to your arm.
âNo, we're going to talk.â
âRyomen, your father says he'll be ready to hand over the company soon. I'm sure your excited.â Your father starts, not even batting and eye at you being dragged off. âHe's really impressed with your progress, settling down and marrying. Though, I know a man has to have some pleasure in life.â
âYeah, well, there comes a time, right?â Sukuna replies, glancing at you as your mother hauls you off. You can feel his gaze on you, the sick satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
She pulls you off into a room, your old bedroom. There's not much in it now, after your belongings have been moved to Sukuna's home. As soon as she opens the door and shoves you inside, you know you're in trouble.
You stumble and she barks out a laugh.
âOh, don't start now. Stand up like a damn respectable woman and not some bumbling fool.â
You straighten up, trying to stand steadily, but as soon as you do there's a sickening SLAP! as her hand collides with your cheek. It burns and you stumble again but don't fall. The same can't be said for your tears, they immediately trail down your cheeks. Her ring leaves a bruise on your face, the sting a familiar feeling from your lifetime being pushed around in this home.
âYou lied. You said you hadn't consummated your marriage because you were embarrassed of yourself? Trying to paint him to be some mean man. He even said he'd try alternative methods. It's obvious he's not the playboy he once was and yet you can't even try!â She barks, loud enough to make you flinch but not so loud that the men will be able to hear. He's lying through his teeth, and she's eating it up. How can she be so blind?
âHe's lying! I'm still a virgin-â You insist, sentence going unfinished as it often does in this house. She grabs a fistful of your hair to force your gaze to hers. She leans in close, her expensive perfume seeming to suffocate you.
âI've had enough of you, and your lies, and your whining. You've had everything laid out for you, don't ruin it now.â She says, before shoving you back and releasing your head. You try to take shaky breaths, as she storms towards the door. You're just grateful this is far as she went today.
I'mShe pauses at the door, glancing over her shoulder. âFix your hair. You look atrocious.â
Her voice is cold and grating, and before you can even react she's gone. You're left trembling in your old bedroom, flashing through every other time this has happened to you. You head to the bathroom, fixing your hair. There's no makeup to cover the mark, but you're sure Sukuna won't pay it any mind. It's not like he cares about you anyway.
You return to the table, and though they all look at you for a quick moment,nobody comments on the mark on your face. Sukuna has finished eating, and he throws back the rest of his scotch with a gulp.
âI've got business to attend to.â He says, standing up without any more explanation.
âWe'll be sure to tell your father how well you're treating our daughter. You truly deserve the company, Ryomen.â Your father says, shaking his hand.
âHow *well he's treating youâ, as if demeaning and humiliating you at every turn should be praised. You know you should just stand and follow, and since your mother has already slapped you once today you don't push your luck. Sukuna walks towards the door, and you follow, playing the obedient wife.
As soon as you get into the car, he's on his phone. Though, he still manages to take the opportunity to make fun of you.
âYou've got a bruise there.â He comments, not bothered in the slightest.
âYes, I know.â You snap, finally fed up with everything crashing onto you.
âOh? She's got some lip on her today, I see. Is that why mommy hit you?â He teases, and you just scoff and look away. Fucking asshole.
âNo, she hit me because you lied and said I'm having fertility problems.â
âYou're the one who made our sex life her business.â
âIt was an accident, Sukuna. Either way it doesn't matter. Clearly you can do no wrong.â
âStop bitching at me. You're lucky you get to live so peacefully in my home.â He retorts, and you choose to bite your tongue, if only so he'll lose interest and go back to messaging his new fling.
Sure enough, he does, and you're awarded silence for the rest of the drive. As soon as his car stops, you're getting out. He doesn't follow, he just watches before slamming the door as soon as you're out of the car. The car pulls off, probably to take him to see the woman he'd been texting.
You can barely breathe in the too-tight dress, and your face still stings. You can't get into your bedroom fast enough, fingers fumbling with the lacing on your dress as fast as you can. The dress eventually falls, pooling at your feet, and you take your first deep breath of the night. It immediately turns into a hiccuped sob, and you bury your face in your hands for a moment. You feel suffocated still, even though the dress is on the ground. The house isn't any more refreshing, and you know you need to get out right now. If you don't, you may just spiral.
You throw on sweatpants and a hoodie, taking off your wedding ring for the first time ever. After the day you've had, you want to be as undetectable as possible. Paparazzi would destroy the last of your patience, and you just want peace. You make quick work of removing your makeup, most of it smudged already from the crying.
You storm down the stairs, out of the house, walking down the street as tears begin to fall from your eyes. You wipe them away quickly before it can get out of hand, cursing each drop that escapes. Throwing the hood of your hoodie up over your head, you walk with your eyes cast downward.
You're walking down random streets, when you make it back to the park you'd met Satoru in. You remember his eyes, his voice, the way he was so comforting. You remember how he kept saying if you ever need someone to talk to to call, so before you can talk yourself out of it, you dial his number and hold the phone up to your ear.
It rings twice before he answers, sounding just as excitable as a golden retriever.
âHi!â He chirps into the phone, and you can *hear his smile in his voice. âI mean, hey, how are you?â He corrects, nervously.
You giggle, despite your mood. He's like a puppy, wagging his tail and jumping up at the first sign of attention.
âHey, Satoru.â Your voice is small, quiet, and you're not even sure how to approach this. You've never had a friend, especially not a friend who looks like him. And despite the fact that you're stuck in a marriage on paper, you can't help but find him both attractive and intriguing.
âYou sound sad. Are you okay?â He asks. He doesn't sound judgy, he sounds concerned. Like he's hoping you'll say you're okay. You sigh, wanting to lie, but something tells you to be honest.
âI am sad, to be honest. It's been a day. You said I could reach outâ You hear a bit of wind whistling around him. He must be outdoors. âI'm sorry if it's not a good time or anything..â You say, wandering through the park until you find the tree you'd sat under last time.
âAny time is good. Do you want to talk? Where are you right now?â He replies quickly, focused fully on you.
âI'm actually at the park. In the spot you said was yours.â You say, resting your cheek on your knees as you sit.
âOh really? Would you be mad at company?â He questions, a teasing tilt to his voice.
âIt's okay, don't go out of your way!â You say quickly, hoping he doesn't think you need him to trouble himself in any way for you. âI just wanted to distract myself.â
âWell, I'd love to go out of my way if it puts a smile on your face. But, it's not a problem at all. I'm actually about to be at the park now.â
âReally? Playing your games?â
âYep, I'll be at the tree soon. I was actually listening to a podcast about upcoming game releases.â
âThat sounds nerdy. Maybe if you tell me about it, it'll be a good distraction.â
You don't hear his reply through the phone, you hear it right next to you as the dial tone clicks. He's dressed casually, comfortably just like you. He's obviously trying to hide again, with sunglasses covering his eyes even though it's getting dark out. He crouches down immediately, getting to your level so you don't have to look up to him.
âHey.â He says, before taking off his sunglasses. He quickly drops them on the ground when he truly looks at your face, though, his voice softening. âHey⊠What happened? You have a bruise on your face.â He reaches out like he wants to touch you, but he freezes.
You shake your head. âIt doesn't really matter, I just didn't want to be home alone right now.â You tug your hoodie down a bit more, and he notices your missing ring. Concern flashes over his face as he tries to put the pieces together.
âWait, he didn't do this to you, did he? Your husband?!â He asks, and for that moment you can see true rage swirling in his baby blue eyes.
âNo, Sukuna didn't hit me.â You rush out, not wanting him to think that. It wasn't Sukuna who dealt the blow, and with how he's reacted the time you'd confronted him you're not sure if rumors like that would push him over the edge.
âSukuna?â He questions, and you realize you've let too much slip. You slap a hand over your mouth, but the words are already out. You take a nervous breath.
â...yeah. Do you know the family?â You say, nervously. You're hoping he's not some old friend, but his tone of voice when he asked tells you he's not exactly a big fan.
âEveryone knows of them. I heard through my family that Ryomen got married. To you?â He asks, curious and soft. No pressure, just soft concern.
âYeah. He's the husband I mentioned. It was arranged for us..â
âYou called him Sukuna. If you're his wife shouldn't you be a little less formal?â He asks, absentmindedly, as if it wasn't supposed to be spoken out loud. âShit, I'm sorry that's not really my business.â
He's still crouched in front of you, now resting a knee on the ground so he can stay at your level. He doesn't touch you.
You sigh. You shouldn't talk about it. You really shouldn't, especially not knowing much about Satoru. But he's kind, and accepting, and his voice is so warm.
âHe doesn't let me call him that.â
âHe doesn't even let you call him by his given name? Is it, like, a personal âhe doesn't like it' thing?â
He's curious, and you can't blame him.
âNo. He just doesn't like me.â You confess. You feel defeated, but when you glance at Satoru he's looking at you with such tenderness.
âAnd you promise he's not the one who hit you?â
âNo, that was my mother. We were at dinner andâŠI don't know if I should talk about it.â
âNo pressure. I'm just worried, is all. Just know, anything you say to me will be safe.â
Your resolve finally cracks. He actually wants to know what's going on, and it's been so long since someone cared that you can't resist anymore.
âDo youâŠwant a hug?â He offers, and your brows furrow for a moment.
âYes?â You sound unsure, and apprehensive. He doesn't push, but you nod anyway. âYeah, I think that will help.â You say, and he quickly leans in and wraps his arms around you gently. You return the motion, and suddenly you feel warmth. It's building inside like a fire being stoked, and you breathe a sigh of relief. It feels easier to talk now, so you do, but you don't let go.
âSukuna didn't want the marriage. I tried at first but his constant hookups just got to be too much. I accidentally told my mom that he refused to be..intimate with me.â You say, stumbling over your words a bit, even though they continue flowing out. âMy mother called a dinner basically to judge why my husband doesn't want me. But tonight he lied and said we haven't had children yet because I'mâŠhaving trouble conceiving.â
Satoru pulls back for a moment, looking at you in shock.
âAnd your mother hit you for that?!â He asks, and you nod slowly.
âShe said I was lying to make him seem mean when he's not. He's offâŠmeeting another girl. He said he was gonna get drinks and thenâŠdo stuff in the car, it doesn't matter. I just needed to get out of there.â
âIt seems like he's worse than I thought.â He mumbles, examining the bruise on your cheek. âYou deserve better than this. Why don't you get out of that marriage? Your family is stuck in a partnership with his?â
You nod. âYeah, my brother caused some problems. And now, I'm all they have. If I ruin this, ruin the family, I don't even want to know what they'll do. His parents hoped he'd stop being a playboy, I think, so I tried to play a good wife. But he won't even eat the food I cook, and the last time I came here it was after he was with a woman with his door wide open!â
You sigh, realizing you're just unloading on him.
âI'm really sorry. I shouldn't be telling you all this.â
He gently places a hand on your head and ruffles your hair gently. âDon't worry about it. You need to let it out sometimes.â He reaches into his backpack and pulls out his switch. âLooks like you need a distraction. You can talk more if you want, or we can sit together while you play.â
You take the console as you settle against the tree. He sits next to you, close enough that his leg brushes you.
âI just want to hear about the podcast you said you were listening to. I don't want to think about my family or Sukuna or that stupid marriageâ You reply.
He smiles. âAlright, games it is. But, I'm gonna help you out of this.â
âWhat could you possibly do?â You ask. There's not many families on par with the Sukuna family. Except for the Gojos, but you'd never even been allowed to learn much about them. Your parents had a partnership with the Sukunaâs. All you know is they have a son the women all fawn over. You've heard he has beautiful blue eyes, so bright some even think it's a bit creepy. You'd never actually seen him, though. You're sheltered as it is, and your family didn't get to attend most high profile events. They treat their families name as if it's a curse word in your home.
âStop thinking about it, beautiful.â He interrupts your thoughts before you can start drawing any more conclusions. His voice is smooth but he blushes as the words leave his lips. Your cheeks warm, too, and this time you don't feel guilty about it. Sukuna hasn't felt guilty for a moment in your relationship, so why should you? âJust trust that I'll help you. For now, just forget about the noise.â
You lean into his shoulder and play, listening as he begins to rattle on about the games he's excited for. It's calming, hearing him nerd out about everything he's interested in. Eventually, you know it's time to head home, even if your soul aches to stay in this comfortable bubble all night.
âI should get back before it's late.â
âYou're gonna be okay? You can always stay at my place.â He offers, but you shake your head.
âIt's okay. I'm just gonna go straight to bed. Thank you for coming. It really helped to talk to you.â You reply, offering his switch back to him. He pushes your hand back to you.
âKeep it for a few days. It helps you feel a little better, right?â
âYeah, but it's yours.â
âThen keep it until we see each other again, and I'll give you your own.â
âSatoru! I can buy my own.â You protest, but he laughs.
âBut then it won't be as special, silly. Now put that in your pocket and let's go.â He says, offering his hand to help you up.
You slip it into your pocket and take his hand. Once your standing, he rifles through his bag for a minute before handing you a charger for the console. You slip it in your pocket and start the walk towards Sukuna's house.
âYou didn't have to walk me, you know.â You say, and he chuckles at you.
âAnd have you all alone in the dark? No thanks. I've got a family driver waiting for me nearby.â
âThat's sweet.â You say.
You're turning a corner, when suddenly he grabs you and pulls you back. He brings your face into his chest, and you're about to ask what's gotten into him when you hear the flashes of a camera shutter.
âSmile for the camera! Is that your girlfriend?â You hear a paparazzi shout.
âFuck, I should've kept my glasses on. And my hoodie.â He mutters to himself, turning away so you're hidden from view.
âC'mon man, I'm just trying to have a chill night!â Satoru calls out, feigning nonchalance. âThis is my friend. She's just a little camera shy!â He calls out, leaning into you after to whisper in your ear. âRun on 3.â He says. You see the flash of the camera again but you're hidden from view.
He counts down from 3, and you bolt like he said.
âWait!â The paparazzi shoots, trying to chase after you. You hear as you get further from him. Suddenly, you hear Gojo's voice. âIjichi, change of plans. Meet me at the intersection I'm approaching.â
You hear a nervous voice through the phone, shouting about how he can't always just track Satoruâs location on a whim, but soon Satoru says âthanksâ and hangs up.
âTurn on the next street, he's probably gonna give up but let's get to a car.â He instructs.
âGot it!â You say, feeling light as a feather. The wind rushes past you as you run and you realize you haven't felt this free in awhile. Running from paparazzi with a boy, after having fun in the park for hours.
âStop here!â He says, and you slow to a stop. You're out of breath, but you giggle anyway. Satoru starts laughing too, as you both lean up against a wall to catch your breath.
âYou run pretty fast.â He comments, through his laughs.
âYou think he got a good picture?â You ask, but you're not as scared as you should be.
âNah, not of your face. Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you.â
Just then, a black car pulls up, the driver window rolling down to reveal a man wearing glasses. He looks perpetually stressed, judging by some of the lines on his face.
âSatoru, are you running from the paparazzi again?â He asks, pushing his glasses up. Satoru laughs and winks at him, opening the door for you.
âAlways, Ijichi. We've gotta drop off my friend here. And no, I'm not answering any questions.â
âI don't want to know anything. The less I know, the less your mother can interrogate me.â
You climb in the car and buckle your seatbelt.
âThank you. I really appreciate it.â You say, smiling softly.
âYou're thanking me? You're welcome! Satoru, you should take some notes from your friend on how to treat your drivers!â
âYou're not just my driver.â
âThen you should respect me the most!â
âNo, actually, I should respect *Kento more, considering he manages my finances.â
âI suppose you have a point.â
You giggle, and it pulls them out of their argument. Ijichi starts driving towards the intersection you mention. You don't want to go directly to Sukuna's house, but a street away won't hurt. Soon, you're arriving, saying goodbye to Satoru to return back home.
Sukuna isn't there, so you make a meal and prepare for bed afterwards. While in bed, you decide to Google the Gojo family. They'd been kept away from you, you'd been sheltered from everyone but approved people, and you're curious.
You Google âGojo family sonâ and the first photo to show up makes your jaw drop.
It's you and Satoru, you're covered completely, but you can tell. It's the photo from tonight, already circulating with headlines of âSATORU GOJO SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY GIRL! CANCELS STREAM BECAUSE OF HER!â
Your Satoru is Satoru Gojo?
You open the link to a clip of his stream, and you watch for a moment. He's talking about you. And the way he's talking makes you feel warm all over.
âSeriously, if I see anyone talking shit in the chat I'm turning it off. I know you were excited for a new review but you're gonna have to deal with a playthrough today. If you guys could see her you'd get it. I'd give her my switch, I'd give her anything.â He says with a laugh. There's floods of comments asking if he's found the one finally, if he's in love, if he's finally got a girlfriend.
âShe's not my girlfriend or anything. We've only met a couple times. But she's kinda perfect. It was worth getting a few of you guys pissed at me. That's all I can say, okay? Let's get to the game.â
You smile, heart fluttering in your chest. You throw a pillow over your face, letting his words sink in.
frieren art credit : ć±±ç°éäșșă»ăąăăă«ă”/ć°ćŠé€š main m.list | series m.list | april [next chapter]
teen!fem!reader x teen!gojo
fluff. angst. slowburn. use of reader as a name. pov alternating. canon divergent. war, murder and injuries. maybe graphic violence. fighting. reader is physically weak. slice of life (somewhat). very self indulgent. jjk spoilers. this chapter specifically include's gojo's pov.
to preface : you, an apprentice mage from the west returns to japan temporarily after the jujutsu higher-ups call for you to assist them in missions and assassinations. while they lack accommodations to support you independently, you are an apprentice who is still learning, yes? might as well enroll into jujutsu high to learn your home country's magicâplus it serves as a facade, so students won't question your unfamiliar presence; they say. thus, on april 1st 2007, you enrolled in jujutsu tech as a third year while knowing nothing about jujutsu.
!!!!please read the series' masterlist description and tags before proceeding!!!!
wc : 4.7k
Today ends late again. Youâre panting against a tree, holding your staff in exhaustion when your eyes desire to shut. Body slowly moving in caution to avoid more strain. It renders useless when everything is numb.
Have you not always hated war since the beginning, how the blood seeps into your boots and your robes, stiff and dry that irritates the skin? Yet here your legs drag you southward once more, limbs hanging loose and bruised, dragging your splintered staff along the dark red mud with a bloodied left hand.
You wonder what to do for the free few hours given. The next mission entails the east trench congested with multiple cursesâ
Schlop. Something cracked and the ground seems to darken red beneath your heel.
Your left foot feels slightly wet, and what it steps on feels soft and jelly. Grimacing at the putrid sensation, you forcefully pulling your eyes up ahead down the uneven road. Donât look. No one wants to see rotten remains as a bump in a road. Your left foot continues to apply pressure regardless, an instinctive motor fueled by the need of an abode.
Breathe in, breathe out, even if it smells a littleâthus off you go. Retreat behind the frontlines to the camps, and be relieved that you, an apprentice mage had returned alive from the brutal frontlines once more. You think a small ritualistic celebration is to be held later. Your cold dry skin starts to sweat a little from this rushing thought and feeling, starting a little jog.
Alas, the smell of flesh transitions into smoke. Youâre nearer, being able to see the ashes falling down like smoke. Blood rushes in your limbs and face as your eyes widen from a person in your uniform walking slowly southward. Perhaps they are injured, left hand holding their stomach, right hand holding a staff. A low ring thrums in your ears, having to blink twice before your eyes couldnât bear the weight anymore, forcinv yourself to look closer at the figure. Another apprentice? How could this be, lest Serie permits it. Regardless, you were unsettled to have found an equal. A small flicker of hopeâ
Those horns on their head shine.
Your back straightens immediately as your eyes darken, murmuring softly under your breath with the staff pointed at it. A motor memory youâve enacted countless times. A small magic circle was summoned, and with a sigh exhaled deep from the bonesâthe demon was decapitated cleanly. Little to no blood spilled.
Dragging your weight with tired disgust and hatred, you reach to the corpse just to scowl at it. Its body frays quickly as ash lifts from its skin, carried away by the wind. The scents of ash seemed more putrid and understandable now. â..Demon,â you huffed lightly and continue on towards the camps.
You speculate on how the trenches will be tomorrow. But for now you have reached the camps, smelly and in poor condition. What is actually consumable currently? Your poor stomach aches with persistence. Resting sounds nice in this cold temperature.
It had been too long since you have seen an actual human whilst in the frontlines. Isnât everyone supposed to fight together? Nurses carrying stretchers of bodies that emits a rotting smell, cries and shouts a common denominator of a usual morning. Morning. Itâs early morning. You hope the sun will not rise now.
You went off to curtly report to the acting commander, walking fast like they always do to avoid the gazes of the poor. Locking eyes with one feels perturbing and your jaw raises slightly higher and your pace quickens. Perhaps that the attire you wore is eyecatching, with the way that blood is still dripping off your fabrics, and the emblem hanging of the capelet you wore resembles something controversial.
After your report, you stopped yourself in front of an abandoned church. This was your temporary home. There was a small chatter behind the door, and you think you know why. Unlocking the door and rushing in, your body instinctively looked for a bench to lie on, your left hand releasing the staff as it clatters to the floor with an echo.
The radio was cracking from the lack of signal, as a voice reports out the updates regarding the frontlines. Mindless propaganda and falsities to ease the heart, you thought bitterly as you took off your capelet and finally lie down on a wooden bench. Your eyelids relaxes, vision blurry and stinging from tears and exhaustion. This is for today. The tea stock has ran out, your flip phone is dead, and you are painfully alone here. Your limbs are numb and the ears are itching, body twitching slightly and uncontrollably. No, the ritual is incomplete and hurting. But you chose all of this.
ââ..The Prodigal has ..slaughteredâinvading curses ..ââ
You chose this.
âd..Emoân sightings has beenânear campsites.. Ashesââ
Your eyes close, zoning everything out in a need of rest.
â
âImmediate reassignmentâ..â The radio shrieks, ringing in a high pitch that pesters your slumber. Itâs familiar, that specific pitch making your skin prickle and cold.
Gasping for air, your body tightens and sits up, left arm already reaching for your staff as the radio rings painfully. The light shining down from the windows blinds you, forcing you to squint and rub your eyes with bloodied hands.
Had it been noon now? Your clothes are completely dry in blood, limbs sore and unmovable. The sun had risen while you were unconscious. Itâs better to catch up.
ââProdigal. Respond.â The radio abruptly turns clear. No wonder it has been crackling since yesterday, and you sigh of relief that you werenât actually losing connection from the news source. Itâd be troublesome to steal another radio from a civilian.
You blankly stare at the radio, anticipating your next order with your left hand twitching furiously from not grasping your staff. Your mouth opens: âProdigal, Receiving.â Voice rasp and dry from the lack of water, your throat almost revulsing in reflex.
âGreat Mage orders presence. Abort and return to capital. Immediate reassignmentââ
The audio loops continuously.
You sniffle. Everything reeks, your dirt blood clothes, still-soaked boots, and unclean wounds. Slowly you stand up and cast a spell to clean yourself up, good as new, ready for another command. There isnât any stain on your white uniform. The fabric is stiff regardless.
Picking up the splintered staff and your dead flipphone, you finally depart without a word, immediately going back without supper. Theyâll know the Prodigal returns to her master. The path towards the capital will be packed, itâs better to reroute near the frontlines. The thought makes your hand twitch.
â
Itâs inexplicably dirty. While you do know civillians migrate here and there often, you didnât expect for the road to be this bloodied. Blood, again. Your boots slosh against the wet red mud, a familiar sensation you ought to get used to. It is midday, yet the road is grim in contrast to the bright blue sky. You dislike how the light reveals what lies there on the ground. Ignore it, ignore it! You choose to look up at the sky and the distant skyscrapers.
A few hours into the mindless walking with your legs sore, the path transitions into bricks, then cement. And there was buildings once more. Youâre nearing the capital. You can already anticipate honks of cars and the stares due to your uniform. Your ears could already anticipate a heavy strain, twitching like a butterfly flapping itâs wings. A familiar black car awaits you on a bridge, thus you enter it. The driver shifts a little at the rancid scent of blood, pressing the engine which works harder to drive you to the citadel centered as a heart of the capital. You donât bother to see who it is.
You choose to avoid gazing at the tall foreign buildings closely from below. Structures like that do not have room for people like you. Fiddling with a splinter on your staff to ease the boredom and impending dread, your hands slowly turn clammy and pale as the car approaches the citadel. Even with a poker face, your trembling hands werenât able to hide themselves. Both of your hands grip tightly the staff in retaliation.
The car door opens for you, and you slowly come out and enter the citadel through a hidden passage swiftly, avoiding to absorb in the huge structure. A shiver goes through you the moment you make a step in. That restrained mana.. she is close.
The boots make squeaky sounds when in contact with the marble floor. They left dark stains, but you choose not to stop. You reach the courtyard in the middle, rush to the back, then arrive at the gardens. Finally. Your stance relaxes, the end of your staff touches the brick floor with a small clack. It smells of petrichor and floral, the passage to the center packed with flowers and leaves. You hesitate as your right foot hovers from the ground, almost stepping on a fallen flower. However her presence seems to pull your attention immediately.
Serie.
Your foot falls into rhythm without thinking, the flower crumpling flat and glistens with blood from your boots. The cramped path made rustling noises because you kept nudging against the leaves, but at least you have arrived in this abode. She was sitting on a chair, one hand holding a cup of tea. There was another on the opposite side of the table, the steam still visible. And in the middle was an assortment of sweet desserts, untouched and cold.
âIt has been a while, Reader.â She smiled, facing you as a hand sets her cup down. Her eyes glint with enigma. You do not want to even face it. âHow is the frontlines treating you? You seem rather dull after.â She jabbed lightly, blinking up and down to examine your rumpled and dirty clothing.
You place your staff on the floor, then sit down on the other chair. Both the chair and table were both cold to the touch, your hands searching for the warmth of the cup. It was odd, truly. You felt relieved to be in her presence even if it was cold. The fast tempo slows by her command, and it gave you a moment of reprieve.
âIt is alright. I simply miss the tea here rather than up north.â Lying straight through your teeth again, you know that she already knows. Somewhat. The tea was still too hot for your taste, you deciding to wait until it is moderate as you swallow your saliva.
Serie simply blinks with an amused smile, examining you more closely. Sheâs eyeing your face and ears as her eyes narrow with precision and relative coldness. âHave you continued your regimen as scheduled?â
â..No.â You truthfully told instead, shrinking a little in her gaze.
It was frustrating to focus with how your left hand continue to shake furiously without something to grip on. Youâre supposed to get used to it. Itâs inconvenient, truly. Youâre incapable of cupping only warm thing here. However, she seems to turn a blind eye, seemingly directing the conversation to the main point.
âThere is a special letter for you.â
She tosses it on the table almost too casually, looking away to the flora when it reached on your end. Her action was somehow out of character, making you decide whether to probe or not.
You choose to.
âHave you read it yet, Master?â softly you asked, eyes narrowing when she chose to look away as if itâs private.
âPlease do summarizeââ Your eyes wander down to the appearance of the letter, and the seal. That seal. The Jujutsu Society Seal. For a moment, you stop just to mull this over, fingers pressing against the hot teacup that it could hurt. You recognize that seal a little too fast.
â..That,â You start, feeling your heart sinking slowly and heavily. Placing your warm cup down before you could possibly drop it.
â..is not what I expected.â Had your Master sold you back to them now?
âThey request you, specifically, to aid them on missions.â
âIs it because Iâm most familiar with them?â You could not hide the bewilderment from your face. Your left hand twitches furiously as if in a tantrum, hurriedly you hide it under the table.
ââŠIt is part of the contract.â She looks down at her teacup, watching the steam thinning. It persists against the cold weather. How she states it is oddly gentle, as if intended to pacify you.
Your frown eased at her stiff composure, and after a long dreaded silence, you nod to this obligation. As if you can nod and everything will be fine. The letter sits there on the table untouched. You refuse to touch that thing despite your agreement.
âRead it.â She ordered, taking a sip.
Seeing you freezing despite her command, she sighed softly and gently took it back. The envelope was thrown away carelessly to the floor, along with the insignia seal. A small disapproving glance to your blood drained face, she unfolds the inner paper and skims over a few paragraphs, before finally spotting what she wants to remark. She reads without inflection.
âAs per the contract of custodial agreement,â she recites lamely, âthe asset shall be subject to immediate recall upon formal declaration of emergency.â Her eyes gave a small assesment to your figure.
Another silence follows. A hum drones painfully, your heart beat is felt in your ears.
âWho shall replace me in the frontlines?â Managing to squeak out from astonishment, you ask about the frontlines for that worries you most.
âLernen.â Serie hums.
âHim?â The word slips out almost too immediately before you could temper it, but the name makes you perk up. You wince internally but continuing to question nonetheless. âDoes he not lack endurance?â
âYour senior brother,â she corrects, placing her cup down with a small clink, âwho lacks your hesitance.â
While your frown does ease, your heart does not with these circumstances. Itâs hard to comply, really. But if itâs for her sake⊠your eyes attract back to her, but she only reminds of the duty vowed. You almost grimace at the thought of returning there, not after everything here, after you tried so hard integrated yourself with magic so deeply in the wake of their choice.
ââŠVery well.â Saliva was swallowed hard and your head nods again, just with her voice is enough to pressure you. Your parched throat needs something to ease itself. The tea. Avoiding to see her, your neck cranes down to look at the amber liquid in the cup, and how no steam is emitting anymore. Itâs too still.
âReader.â
The tea had served as a reminder that you havenât consumed anything yet. With a blink, your back slowly straightens up, then eyes lock to the Great Mage. Your right hand was reaching the untouched dessert.
âYou,â Serie looks at you dead in the eyes.
But your stomach isnât bothering you anymore.
âYou will depart by my order.â
âYouâll stay,â His father accuses him with a tired glare.
âHm, is that so?â Satoru huffed with a smug grin, giving a glance with those eyes, buttoning his uniform quickly.
The former freezes just at the gaze, sensing the slight threat behind it. Those eyes again. The clanâs treasure, not his son. Its almost comical with how the amusement Satoru had, terrified his own father.
âSimply wasting what weâve built,â he mumbled, subtly scorning who, Satoru does not know. With the miserable failure, the father turns behind with a scoff.
Satoruâs eyes thin at the shrinking figure, grabbing his glasses roughly than needed. He slings his bag on his left shoulder, and slides the door shut as he looked up at the morning sky.
âA coward,â Satoru uttered under his breath with a bitter edge. Today will be a long day, a sigh leaves him as he walks down the stairs of his clanâs smaller estate resided near Jujutsu Tech.
Satoru was willing to saunter to school; at a slow pace at that. He is going to be late for the new term ceremony again if he keeps doing this, but he chooses to. While admiring the spring cherry blossoms, his hand rummaged through his bag in search of something before he stops to actually look inside.
..The weather is cold, and he forgot his scarf again. He huffs in annoyance, shoving his hands into his pockets and gradually walking at a fast pace. Neck is tingling from the cold, he better seek warmth fast. He now is a third year, a Junior. Thus only two years left before he graduates from Jujutsu High. Two years left before he is bound again. Classes will probably be as usual with Suguru and Shoko. New students are most unlikely, but he hopes there will be.
Speaking of new students, Amanai wouldâve been a first year here. ..No, she wonât. Bile creeps up along the reminiscence, but his throat cleared faster. His pace hastens to clear the thought.
Satoru recalls of those higher ups scolding them both for quote unquote, âfailing to retrieve the product backâ, how Suguru seemed.. out of it. His eyes glared at nothing, fists tightening slowly that it almost bled. Breathe. He slowly took a deep breath, looking down at the sunlight bleeding on the ground through the trees. It did little to calm his heart. Nothing ever did; when being the Strongest does nothing. But he has an equal by his side, right?
The elders are corrupting the Jujutsu Society for their musings, and he shall be the one to reform itâhe believed. Satoru is convinced that he still has time. There is no need for sweet promises anymore, he traced off to the moving figures of the higher ups, then to the decorative garden.
A petal from the cherry blossoms fell in the still pond, creating small ripples as it turns and wanders. He looks away before itâll sink.
Had he been too stupid when it came her? Nothing had really changed due to their failure, Tengen had adapted without needing a vessel even if theyâre now more than a human. It doesnât matter to him. It does not. That mission was dragging in his head for months, there is no need to linger on. Everyone adapts. Hands shifted in his pockets for warmth as he chooses to stride under the sunlight, Satoru had arrived to the entrance of the school now.
The footsteps stutter when he finally sees Shoko and Suguru in the courtyard hanging out, seated up on a bench. Giving a bitter glance to Suguru, his wistful look morphs into a cheery smile. âYo!â His pace quickens, smiling happy with a light skip.
âSatoru.â Geto greets first and smiles.
âOh, Gojo.â Shoko blinked, fiddling with her cigarette pack.
The air was mildly colder when he joined in, a new presence that brings melancholy along his steps. It was awkward. Satoru looked at the two of them in a silent intrigue, examining how Shoko seemed rather tense and deep in thought while Suguru, seemed lighter despite everything. His eyes widen. The burden felt lighter in his heart.
Satoru grins at the chance to tease. âYou seem out of it,â he remarked at Shoko, head tilted to see what she was holding.
Sighing, Shoko looked at the cigarette pack intently as her arm raised up, about to throw it. âIâm thinking of quitting.â
âFirst, donât litter,â Suguru hums tiredly as he stares off a distance, shifting a little to make room for Satoru. His gaze seemed fixed.
âBig talk,â Satoru blinked, now amused by her sudden conscience. âWhat made you change?â
Her brown eyes glanced at the two figures with a click of her tongue. âSmokerâs cough,â she sighed, hesitance in her action, her hand gently placing the pack on the armchair.
âFigures,â both guys replied. They freeze a little at the synchronization, glancing at eachother before the laughter broke.
The three had found themselves in the familiarity once more, ambience warmer and upbeat than before. It had been many weeks since theyâve last met again.
âWhat did you guys do on holiday?â Suguruâs back eased a little against the bench, his previous tension melted by warmth.
Satoru huffed, his hands sliding beneath his arms and shoulder hunching from coldness. âTch, training as always,â with exasperation he answered.
Shoko murmured in thought. âMm, It was simply visiting my family,â
Suguru seemed to hesitate, posture straightening again. Heâs quiet again. âI went to therapy.â He gave his answer in a mutter, a laden confession.
âNice.â Her eyes softened, carried by a small lilt even as her eyes evaded looking at him.
It was silent for a while, until Satoru had something in mind to express. âYou never really told us you struggled,â he peeked at Suguru over the rim of his glasses.
Silence returns.
âBah, Iâm thirsty! Lets go to the vending machine.â Satoru diverted after a long moment, clearing his dry throat from the cold. He rose without warning, walking in faith that they will follow along.
â..But they only have soda,â Shoko questioned, walking along with Suguru.
âYeah, and?â The white haired glanced at her with a quirked brow.
âI thought you didnât like soda.â
âSince when? Have you forgotten me, Shoko?â
âSince forever,â Suguru added in mirth, a dry chuckle leaving his throat.
Satoru frowned. He swears that he liked that drink, recalling his past preference. Though the last time he drank soda was a few months back, at a beach.. right. She was whining about needing a drink, but then bought too much for her own good. Amanai gave everyone a soda, including him too. They seem to be having fun while drinking it, that Satoru canât help but follow. Reluctance passed easily with gaiety, along the sweet sizzly flavour in his mouth. Amanai.. she liked soda first.
His eyes wore down just at the thought, snapping back up by the cold breeze.
âYouâre making me not want it anymore.â He mock sulked, but seeing the machine closer his legs quicken.
Suguru smiled fondly. âThatâs too bad.â
âWhatâs hydrating here?â Vibrant blue eyes blinked at the soda display, the glass reflecting his figure.
Shoko halts beside the vending machine, pondering on which to select. Her eyes catch a glimpse of blond hair, tracing away to the seated figure. Nanami rested on a wooden bench beside the machine, his eyes blankly staring at a can soda grasped tight in his palm.
âNanami,â She nodded to him, turning back to the vending machine while her hand busies itself in her side pocket.
Nanami returned the gesture, only a silent grunt coming out. Pondering on what, Satoru was intrigued.
Shokoâs busy hand searched in the pocket, finding nothing inside as it shifted through. âUgh, I forgot my cigarettes,â she groaned, arms now hanged uselessly in demotivation.
âYou just.. said you wanted to quit earlier.â Suguru questioned with tame interest, seating himself beside Nanami uninvited. He glanced onceâthen twice at the can Nanami held onto. âThatâs Haibaraâs favourite soda,â he blurted, purple pupils shrinking at the reminder that eventually it looks through instead.
âIt was,â Nanami dryly replied, his other hand moving to open the can. It was opened with a click;, sizzles bubbling up.
Satoru observes silently, only for the trance was interrupted when Shoko told him to move aside for blocking the machine.
âMove, I cant see anything,â she rolled her eyes, scouting the selections of sweet drinks, just to choose a coffee drink instead.
âSeriously?â The blue eyed snickered at her drink of choice. âBoring like you,â he quipped, selecting a sweet cider soda.
âYouâre one to talk, no-forehead.â
He chugged his soda down, sighing at the feel of the cool drink.
Satoru could discern Suguruâs bitterness with a glance. And for a moment, hesitance to join and break it slips in. He sighed, tossing the emptied can to the trash bin. He wishes to be spoken to, too.
â
The trio enters the class whilst conversing smoothly, all of them sitting beside eachother. Yaga sensei enters the class and everyone pays attention.
âGood morning everyone. Let me just cut straight to the point. We have a new student coming in, and I expect all of you to put up your best impression. Especially you, Gojo.â The teacher huffed, arms crossed out with that classic stern expeession.
âReader, enter the class.â Yaga turns to the front closed door, as it slowly opens and a girl comes in. She seems stiff. Her left hand is twitching, now abruptly hiding behind her back.
âHello. I am Reader.â
Wow, stiffer than he thought. But that reminds him of something else, his eyes narrowing at the thought.
Is she one of the newcomers the elder mentioned of earlier, Satoru pondered, looking up and down. His finger pulled his glasses down just the slight to assess her with his Six Eyes.
Itâs abnormal. Her cursed energy seems⊠âpurerâ than the average cursed energy. While she has little, it seems to be subtly fluctuating and rather.. dense? Satoru was intrigued by the new variable.
She deliberately sits behind, now closest to the back door. The girl frequently glance at the surroundings, scrutinizing everything. Unrestless she seems. What she does only makes her suspicious, he thought, eyes narrowing to focus closer. Then with a loud pang, the front table was slammed by Yaga-senseiâs hand to gather everyoneâs attention back. Satoru faced back to the teacher whilst her foreign presence lingers behind his mind, brushing it off for now.
Yaga-sensei starts to summarize for the third year course, then starts teaching. However the whole time the new student was deadly silent and.. sheâs not paying attention at all. Odd.
â
After Yaga had left, they had a few minutes before the first class starts. Suguru suggested to converse with the new student as a way to welcome her, especially with how odd her demeanor was.
âShe appears.. cautious,â Shoko commented.
âSo we have to ease her up,â He replied.
âHer cursed energy is weird,â another comment came, from Satoru this time.
âWhatever, letâs go.â Suguru stood up unamused, walking to her table.
Satoru, however, lingered behind to watch the student first. He slid off his black glasses to analyze her better.
Wait. Thatâs not cursed energy. It was as if replaced with some sort of bizzare variant thatâs similar to it in medium, however itâs too controlled. More questions seemingly to bloom in his mind, his stare penetrating through the black glasses.
Suguru was the first to greet her with a polite smile. âHello.â
She curtly nods, her face hardens even more when they choose to approach her.
ââŠâ Okay, too silent.
âI hope you have a good time here,â he continued, smile weakening.
Shoko stops for a moment. âReader, yes?â
The girl nodded again. âYes, and you are..?â she spoke again, rather slowly.
Satoru had to resist furrowing his brows.
âShoko Ieri.â She smiled.
âIâm Geto Suguru.â He added along, hand rested lightly against his chest in a form of courtesy.
Satoru was baffled how she continuously does not put effort into conversing.
This girl was playing with some random wooden stick on her left hand, silently listening in the conversation. How absurd, she seems to be avoidingâwith how her left hand trembles and ignoring his gaze especially. Maybe Satoru is just judging to much, but his blue stare leaving her unruffled.
Shoko and Suguru seemed to be glancing at him. Ah, he hasnât introduced himself yet.
âIâm Gojo Satoru, the Strongest.â With that catchphrase recited, Satoru grinned as his hand supports his leaning weight against her table.
She looks at Satoru from her stilling hand, blinking slowly while her right eye twitched. His name perhaps clicked something in her brain. So thatâs the trigger to reverence, he concluded to, anticipating it already.
She locks eyes with him for a moment, simply staring.
âMany want you dead.â
â..Huh?â
ely anecdotes : late because my family was looking for some new villas. this was stressful yet fun to write! but its just the prologue and im already pressured huhu. there might be some inaccuracies on gojo's end, i believe its easy to tell i had a hard time writing him. gojo is very hard to comprehend in my opinion. can you tell i got lazy in his section?
p.s. i forgot to add so much more different tags in the serie's m.list huhu, so i had to put up a disclaimer.
⥠â đđđđđđđđ: The wife of Ryomen Sukuna, the richest man in town, has gone missing, and Detective Gojo is on the case. Detective Gojo also doesnât particularly like your husband.
⥠â đđđđđđđ: Entrepreneur! Sukuna x reader x Detective! Gojo || heavy angst, fem reader, mentions of death/murder, kidnapping, drugs, drinking, torture, suicide attempt, descriptions of injuries, overall violence & violence against reader, extremely corrupt justice system, very suggestive, everyone has a secret, and everyone just loves you, honestlyâŠ
He didnât engage in many social gatherings in general beyond work related potlucks or a celebratory drink after a solving a big case â only the ones in which everyone lived, victims safe and sound in their beds, be it the ones within their rooms or a hospital â but parties, real ones, where people danced and drank until they werenât capable of solving problems such as four times seven, let alone a murder case, made the corner of his lips fall into a frown.
It was a surprise party thrown by the new guy, Takuma Ino.
He had delusions of becoming a real-life Sherlock Holmes and figured getting on the good side of the man everyone was certain would be the big boss around here once Masamichi Yaga retired or grew too tired was the perfect place to start.
Sometime within the past month or so, it had changed from Takuma dumping out Kentoâs half-cold coffee and refilling it with freshly brewed joe to, apparently, throwing a party at his own house â he decorated it as a frat boy would, Kento thought â in celebration of Kentoâs birthday.
Coworkers and acquaintances buzzed around Takuma Inoâs living room with alcohol that was much too strong for Kentoâs taste, music loud enough to make his brewing headache worse, and, worst of all, little bags ranging from white powders to green nuggets to round pills.
And come morning, weâre supposed to arrest people for having drugs in their possession, Kento thought, shaking his head.
He would have left.
He would have told everyone that he wasnât a fan of parties, that after working his ass off through a slew of sleepless nights and caffeine-fueled days to reunite a missing little boy with his parents successfully, he needed to rest.
But he stayed.
All because you were there.
Kento walked past a slumped over white-haired man dangling across the couch who he knew to be Satoru â shook his head in disappointment at his impaired state â and made his way over to where you stood by the makeshift bar and buffet, or rather, a wide variety of tall glass bottles and little cans, along with chips, pizza, meaty sliders stacked high, and wings, all spread out along a foldable table.
Kento walking past where Satoru laid made the off-duty detective loll his head to the side to see who was walking so close to the couch.
Those unfocused, bleary eyes with shades of unfading red surrounding the blue of them followed Kento, and eventually, they drifted away from Kento himself, and towards the beautiful woman now standing at his side.
âHoly shit. That womanâs beautiful. Fuck, sheâs hot.â Satoruâs breath was heavy with undigested liquor, mind perhaps fogged from the illegal party favors being passed around. Suguru, who sat in the chair diagonal from the couch and made it his personal responsibility to watch over his friend, wasnât certain what all was running through Satoruâs system. âSee-Suguru, see that- see that woman?â
Suguru turned his head, then turned it back. His black eyes reflected admiration. âYes.â
âSheâs hot. Sheâs so . . . now that is a woman I want.â
âSheâs married.â
âPft,â Satoru slowly waved his hand dismissively, his right leg tossed across the back cushions of the couch. âMarrieddd shmarrieddd.â
Suguru knew it was rather useless to talk some sense into the man given his current state, but he tried anyway. âSatoru, sheâs married to Ryomen Sukuna.â
âRelaxxx, Iâm just sayinâ sheâs hot. Sheâs . . . was-whatâs she doing here anyway? I donât know her. You know âer?â
âNo, I donât. She could be friends with Kento. Itâs his birthday party. Takuma, maybe.â Suguru sat back in his chair, sipping on a glass of beer.
Rolling over â and nearly rolling off the couch itself â Satoru craned his head back to stare Suguru in the eye, and ran his hand slowly through his messy white hair. âNo woman that hot is just friends with any guy, bet you-I bet you tennnn . . . twenty . . . thirty . . . forty . . . forty dollars he wants to fuck her. I bet he does.â
âYouâve had too much to drink. Iâm hoping alcohol is all youâve had.â
âPleaseee, you think Iâm wrong? Iâm never wrong, Iâm so smart. I know everything. Iâm the best-best detective in town. Better than you. God, sheâs so fucking hot. Sukuna sh-s . . . he should keep âer locked up somewhere. I bet every guy in here wants a piece of that, women too, probably. You think Shoko likes women? I heard she . . . Suguru, I bet you wanna fuck Sukunaâs wife too, yeah? You want her too, don'tcha? Youâll have to fight me for her.â
Suguru felt his cheeks grow warm, reddening upon hearing the words his drunken friend dared to speak, and he took another sip of alcohol, not because he wanted it, but because he needed to give his hands something to do, his mind something to focus on. He gulped. âIf you flirt with that woman, youâll probably die.â
âNo one dies from flirting, dumbass. âS not even possible.â
âThatâs not what I . . .â
Suguruâs words fizzled out, dying on his tongue like a flat soda, all because you started to walk by.
Satoruâs head snapped in your direction like a dog hearing a whistle.
You were stumbling in your black heels. Your clumsy, unsteady body would have been one with the wooden floor beneath your feet if it werenât for Kentoâs large hands gripping your shoulder, guiding you towards the exit.
âLetâs get you home. I donât think your husband will be happy to know how much alcohol youâve had,â he said.
âBut itâs my birthday, Kenny!â Your little whine came with yet another stumble.
âNo, itâs my birthday.â
If Kento didnât value his life, he would have scooped you up bridal style, but should Sukuna get word of him performing such an intimate gesture with you, he was certain heâd end up with a bullet hole in his head.
Instead, he only guided you towards the front door as best as he could, redirecting your attention towards the exit when you felt the urge to wander off.
Satoru hopped to his feet unsteadily.
With worried eyes, Suguru looked up at the swaying man, and he said, âSatoru, donât.â
âBut I want her.â
There was a piece of Suguruâs soul that had yet darkened â and it wouldnât yet, not for a few minutes, at least â and that piece of unpoisoned spirit still had the ability to care about others. It still viewed Satoru Gojo as a friend. It would have never led him to kidnap an innocent woman. To frame someone else. To despise living in someoneâs shadow. To let the years of witnessing the aftermath of the cruelest crimes seep into his mind in the dead of night and corrupt him.
Suguru rose to his feet because, right now, he did not want to see Satoru flirt with the wrong woman and get himself killed. He had heard too many stories about Ryomen Sukuna doing that to a mouthy fellow once or twice.
But, there was a part of him that was looking out for you too. Right now, he did not want to see a drunk, married woman endure what he would assume would be the raunchy pick-up lines from a drunk, unmarried man.
âOh my god, move, you cockblock,â Satoru started to shove past the friend that planted himself in front of him like a boulder. Over Suguruâs shoulder, Satoru watched the object of his affection move further, further, and further away. âShe doesnât even want youuu, Su. She's mine.â
âGet ahold of yourself, Satoru,â Suguru tried again, but it was pointless.
The only reason Kento stepped away from you was because he thought Satoru was trying to make his way through, that his impaired state led him to pick the oddest route to, say, the bathroom or a hallway, and that he would simply squeeze between you two and scooch on by with an apologetic mumble of excuse me, sorry.
Kento wasnât smiling to begin with, but the corners of his lips dipped into an even deeper frown, blonde eyebrows pinched themselves a bit closer together, all upon witnessing Satoru plant himself behind you.
He wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you close, back against chest. Then, those lips that slurred words slipped out from in between hovered above your ear, warm, liquor-coated breath patting against the shell of it.
âYou let me know if that ring ever comes off, yeah? âCause . . . âcause I want you all to myself. I want to take off this dress and-â
A large hand gripped his upper arm.
âEnough,â Suguru said, pulling him away from you. His eyes flickered from Satoru to Kento. âKento, get her out of here.â
Kento didnât waste a second. Now, he was moving with haste, ignoring Satoruâs protests.
When you were out of sight, and therefore, Satoruâs hope and dreams had been crushed and destroyed right before his eyes, he turned his head towards Suguru. No longer were his blue eyes filled with lust, but with anger.
Even so, Suguru did not expect to feel Satoruâs hands on his chest, to be pushed until the back of his legs collided with a coffee table and he nearly fell over it.
If the pushing didnât catch the attention of nearby partygoers, Satoruâs loudly spoken words did.
âWill you just fuck off, Suguru? God, youâre always doing shit like this. Always, always, always, always. Not my fault if no one fucking wants you. Doesnât mean you gotta-you gotta fucking get in the way when . . . youâre just doing this âcause you want her, donât want me to have her, jealous âcause you know I have a chance. Youâre such a-a fucking . . . just a fucking loser.â
Suguru Geto smiled. It wasnât a happy grin. It was a twist of his face that resembled one, yes, one seen when he greeted his coworkers in the morning or expressed his thanks towards cashiers and servers, but there was something about this grin that, even given his current state of a general lack of social awareness, made a shiver shoot down Satoruâs spine.
Suguru tilted his head a bit. A black strand of his dark hair shifted across his face.
He whispered, âAlright.â
Satoru awakened that morning with a pounding headache, nausea, and regret swirling around in his empty stomach, and without memory of what had taken place the night before.
Oh, but Suguru remembered.
The coworkers who attended the birthday party would forget momentarily for the week or so that followed, up until they saw Suguru himself on the television in the open office space at work accuse Satoru of being behind all of it, and then, they would remember.
They would think to themselves, Wait, Satoru does know the victim, I remember! He wrapped his arm around Ryomen Sukunaâs wife! Suguru and Kento tried to get him away from her, then Satoru pushed and yelled at Suguru, all because Suguru wanted to protect her from him. I saw it all!
How humorous it was to think that, in a lot of ways, what had happened to you, to Satoru, all began with a night he couldnât remember.
â
CURRENTLY
It was horrifyingly funny â how the small towel that was dragged across your dirt-covered forehead was plush, soft, and warm. It reminded you of the expensive washcloths your husband stocked the bathrooms of his resorts with.
It was horrifyingly funny â how, the dark-haired man who had you lying on a dirty, cold floor cleaned your face with a towel you had only associated with steamy spas, hot showers that soothed every muscle, and comfortable lounge chairs before now.
The layers of grime were wiped off your skin. It turned that white, luxurious towel into an unforgiving shade of black, but the blank eyes that stared at you and yet, reflected nothing, were darker.
Suguruâs fingertips curled around your chin. He dragged the towel across your left eyelid, voice soft and gentle as he spoke. âTell me, did you grow up relatively normal, sweetheart? Did you hear about a certain fairytale, Beauty and the Beast?â
You didnât answer.
That was unsurprising to him. Rarely did you ever speak.
And he continued on. The towel graced your cheek. âHere I go, asking questions I already know the answer to. Youâre a fan of Belle. In your diary, one year and three months ago, you wrote about coming across an interesting discussion post online analyzing the film. What is rather interesting about the story is that many, many people question whether Belleâs predicament is actually that of Stockholm Syndrome. Some say it is, because she falls in love with the very beast who held her captive. Others disagree, stating that she had more freedom than a typical person held captive and didnât fall for the beast until he changed his ways. I see both sides. In a way, I, myself, am both. I want you to love me even if I hurt you. I donât know why, I just . . . youâre so beautiful when you cry. And yet, here I am, cleaning you a bit, all because I want you to love me, and I donât think you ever will if I continue to punish you.â He brushed the soft cotton material across your trembling lips. âBut, maybe there is a chance. At best, youâre a woman who was a fan of a story detailing a mean monster who takes a beautiful, kind woman captive and they fall in love. Your husband is a murderer, a torturer, with more money than he could ever spend in a thousand lifetimes. So, tell me . . .â
The hand that held the towel was empty for a moment, dirty washcloth dropping to the floor with a tiny thud, but that hand wasnât void of something for long, as he then wrapped his fingers around your neck, squeezing. âIs it totally unbelievable to think that youâd love me, even when I treat you this way?â
Tears started to build up in the reddened waterline of your eyes, though not yet falling. The only form of breath you knew was his, the gentle pat of his air against your cheek, but to your screaming lungs, breathing was nothing but a memory now, one your body squirmed and twisted and kicked and clawed to get back to.
Suguru tilted his head, dark hair shifting from across his shoulder.
âHm, I guess not. In the first few pages of your diary, you bragged about how great sex with that man happens to be, but how it took quite a long time before he found the courage to be a little rough with you in bed. Manhandling, was it?â He squeezed tighter. âSo, you married a man who treats you gently, too gently, hm? But this is too much for you?â Tighter. âWhich is it? Do you like being treated gently or harshly? Make up your mind.â
The nails that dug into the flesh of your neck didnât pull away until your tears came into contact with his fingers. They had traveled from your bloodshot eyes to his hand, dripping onto his skin, and he smiled.
Oh, how terrifying that grin was.
âThere they go. So pretty. So, so, pretty.â He watched your tears like a man under religious psychosis might eye holy water, and he whispered, âCan I tell you a secret? You know how, sometimes, a child does not want a toy until they see another child playing with it? Then, they get jealous? They might cry, lash out? Well, that is how I feel about you in a lot of ways. You always belonged to Ryomen Sukuna. That was fine with me, but, it wasnât until I realized my best friendâs affection for you that I realized I wanted to view you in a romantic light as well. I imagine itâs because he always gets everything. Credit, admiration, when Iâm the detective who usually deserves it. So, part of me must want something he wanted, hm? Itâs odd and also funny, though, because part of me also hates you deeply. Itâs because of who you are as a person. Your role in this town. Your husband terrorizes, kills â and as a detective, Iâve seen it all. Iâve seen the crime scenes he leaves behind, I work for and with the people he pays off to keep their mouths shut â and yet, what do you do? You bake cookies. You feed the homeless. You walk around like youâre this-this innocent angel and it . . .â
He didnât realize his hand had found your neck once again until your eyes fluttered closed.
âPlease forgive me,â he said, words barely audible as you gasped for air, drowning them out with noises that sounded almost inhuman; it was the wheezing, sobbing, and gasping of someone who not only couldnât breathe, but couldnât handle this brand of torture much longer.
âF-Forgive you?â You mumbled, throat angry and aching with every gentle word.
âMhm. You see, after I kill you in a few days, I . . . I have to keep your body here, with me. I wonât be able to let go of you, sweetheart. I love you too much. Iâm sorry.â He stroked the tears that continued their journey down your face. âThere you go, keep crying, darling.â
âPlease stop hurting me.â
He laughed. Then, it stopped suddenly as he peered down at his wrist and caught a glimpse of his watch. âOh, look at the time. Itâs two A.M., sweetheart. Time to go upstairs.â
Time to go upstairs.
Time to go . . . upstairs.
Oh, how you wished he said it was time for you to die instead, for death would have been easier. Quicker. No, more than that. It would have been a great, treasured relief from what awaited you upstairs.
Youâd happily accept a gunshot to the head, a knife to the heart, or a plunge into deep waters with screamless smiles and a parting thought towards Ryomen: see you in the afterlife, my love.
Suguru reached out. You jerked away, shaking your head rapidly.
âNo, Iâm begging . . . Iâm begging you.â Your tears soaked your skin, increasing the speed at which they fell from your eyes, and you tried â without hope, but even so â to scramble away from the smiling man, shoving yourself into the furthest corner of the depressing, dirty room as if it was a paradise you refused to be dragged out of.
In a lot of ways, it was. Compared to going upstairs, it was.
Suguru unlocked the rattling chain around your ankle.
He saw it. The way you instantly tried to bend your leg and get one foot underneath you to push yourself off the ground and make a break for the door, but that devastatingly familiar hand wrapped around your ankle much like the chain had done moments before, and he yanked you back down. Your body smacked the ground hard enough to decorate your weak body in new bruises and to create aches that would last for days. But that was nothing new nowadays.
Despite the waves of throbs that coursed through your body, despite the tears that blurred your vision, despite the tightening hand around your ankle, you tried to crawl.
Your nails scraped against the ground that yielded nothing to hold on to. Your free leg had a bullet hole in it that sent an explosion of throbbing, nauseating pain through your thigh with every kick. And while you kicked air for the most part, every now and then, it would connect with Suguruâs body, but not so much so that he stopped dragging you out of the room.
âNo, no, please! Please, leave me alone, please, please, please, no!â
It was pathetic, truly. Your attempts to fight him off had only made him laugh like he was kicked back on a couch with a beer, watching a comedy skit on television.
But what was even more pathetic, more hopeless, more pointless, than fighting, was the unlikely scenarios your mind cooked up: Ryomen Sukuna bursting into the room at the last minute, killing this man, and saving you from what you were about to endure upstairs.
You imagined it all. The sweet way heâd talk to you. The cuddles you needed more than you needed to breathe. The warm food arranged on a plate. The next few episodes of a show you were both watching together before your disappearance ready to be played on the living room television above the fireplace keeping you oh so warm, but not as warm as his muscular body wrapped around yours. Heâd kiss your cheek. Heâd hold you. Heâd hold you, Heâd . . .
But he never appeared.
You hated yourself for the scenario your mind cooked up next: Ryomen Sukuna sitting on that same couch with another lover.
That fucking wife of mine was driving me crazy. Iâm glad sheâs gone, heâd say. What stupid bitch lets herself get kidnapped?
Heâd never say it. Never. You knew it, but even so, he hadnât found you yet, had he? Perhaps he wasnât looking. Perhaps he had given up. Perhaps the entire town did, from your friends to that white-haired detective.
Was everyone relieved to know that you were gone? Had you annoyed everyone during your time within their presence by talking too much about your favorite song? Sending too many texts? Pictures of latte art that impressed you? Did they secretly celebrate your disappearance? Did no one want you around except for the man who currently tossed your weak body over his shoulder?
No.
It couldnât have been the truth. It couldnât have.
But why hadnât anyone saved you?
Why did this have to happen to you? Why? Why? God, why?
You caught the door frame, fingers curling around the decaying wood, though it was pointless. With every step, he pulled you away. With every step, you cried louder and begged harder. With every step, you screamed for your husband to come and save you, until your sore throat, raw from the endless shouting, could only manage to mumble a weak: âSukuna, please . . . please save me.â
â
There was a burning ache so great, so terrible, that instead of screaming out, Satoru Gojo could only snap his tired blue eyes open and silently scream. His face reddened. He nearly swallowed his own tongue, choked on his own spit.
An unpleasant, wet warmth followed, soaking the side of his leg and thus, his pants. He groaned. His trembling fingers found the source of the wetness, of the burning ache, and it was a hole. A perfect, sizzling, bullet-sized hole right in the side of his calf.
Sitting up with a whine, he yanked his fingers back â touching it made it hurt like hell â and he stared at the fresh blood.
Funnily enough, it sat on top of your blood â which still stained his fingers hours later â like a fresh coat of paint.
âWhat-â Satoru groaned again, but as he darted his eyes to the side, the question he was tempted to ask fizzled away from his mind and throat.
The source of pain was standing right outside of his jail cell.
Ryomen Sukuna peered at him with unblinking eyes. He raised the gun he used to fire a bullet in Satoruâs leg at his sweaty head now.
âYou couldnât wake me with a simple good morning?â Satoru joked breathlessly without humor, chest and shoulders rising and falling. Tears fell from his eyes. To think that being shot hurt this much only worsened the guilt he felt over shooting you.
Perhaps, getting shot in the head wouldnât be such a bad thing. Heâd then be free of it.
He sat up as best as he could along the bench â it certainly wasnât a goddamn bed â and he laughed, smearing his blood between his fingertips, mixing it with the dried specs of yours.
âI thought youâd kill me soon as I step outside of this place,â Satoru paused. âI didnât think youâd actually . . . youâd actually find your way in here.â
It made sense.
Sukuna shoved money into the pockets of everyone he could benefit from, be it a line of customers in front of him at the grocery store when he didnât feel like standing around and rolling his eyes, waiting for a slow cashier to get a move on, or those who worked for law enforcement.
And right now, it was the middle of the night. Aside from the bare minimum staff needed to respond to 3 A.M. emergencies or watch over those who were locked within the holding cell on the property, such as Satoru, everyone else had gone home.
Oh, he could see it now: Ryomen handing Slackoff Shane a couple thousand to let him creep down the hallways of the department and keep his gum-chewing mouth shut and half-lidded eyes closed.
A puddle of blood started to pool around Satoruâs foot, soaking his shoes, socks, and staining the floor.
He shot me in the leg because I shot her in the leg, Satoru thought. To know that I put that woman through this much pain . . . maybe I should let Ryomen fucking kill me. My lifeâs over already, isnât it?
âTell me where my wife is.â
âI donât know,â Satoru mumbled. Oh, how funny it was, to think that just a little while ago, he was the one questioning Sukuna.
A short, dry laugh escaped the man with the gun. He shook his head.
âIâve thought about all the ways I could torture you, detective. Cut you up, fill you with bullet holes, yank out your teeth and nails, maybe. But, how about we make a deal? You tell me where she is, and I wonât make you suffer. Iâll make it nice and quick. Youâll be reunited with your golden retriever, Max, a basic fucking name by the way, who died eight years ago. Youâll see your grandmother, your father, and your favorite aunt. Remember that homemade apple pie you used to love?â
âDid you learn all that by stalking me online or looking through my house? Guess it doesnât matter. Digging through my past wonât help you find your wife, âcause I donât have her.â Satoru looked Ryomen in the eyes with a sorrow-filled gaze. âI didnât do it. It was Suguru. Heâs framing me.â
âI saw the pictures-â
âCâmon, Ryomen, you know how this goddamn shitty-â Satoru laughed with sorrow. âYou know how framing works better than anyone. Illegal, diabolical bullshit is your area of expertise, isnât it? Heâs framing me. Heâs framing me, heâs framing me, heâs framing me. He made me shoot her in the leg, he- I . . . did you or anyone even bother to question why Iâd have a woman I supposedly kidnapped in the front seat of my car where anyone could see her? Wrapped in a blanket? Eating fucking potato chips? Did anyone see how I looked scared outta my goddamn mind in those photos? Thereâs so much about it that doesnât make sense, but no one cares, right? No one cares because itâs easier to blame me!â
âHuh,â Ryomen paused. âSounds familiar, like how you wanted to blame me more than you wanted to find her. Makes me wonder if thatâs what this is all about. Kidnapped my wife just to blame me, just to get a bad guy off the streets. Whatâd I do to you? Kill your friend? Fire your cousin?â
âRyomen, you gotta believe me-â
âYouâre the one who told me people donât tell the truth when they have a gun to their face, right?â Ryomen moved the gun around, thinking, wondering, pondering over which body party to shoot next.
A frown graced Satoruâs face of pure exhaustion. âI was leaving Kentoâs house when I found her. She ran out from god knows where, I almost accidentally hit her with my car but I didnât. I picked her up, went to the gas station, told Suguru about it all because heâs my partner, and next thing I know, Iâm driving to the hospital and his car comes outta nowhere. He had a gun to my back and forced me to shoot her and put her in his car. She was hungry, sick, beaten black and blue, and . . .â A tear rolled down Satoruâs cheek, one that was created upon the sound of your screams replaying in his memory. âShe told me she ran away, she, uh, said she knew you werenât the person who was doing this to her because your hands felt different. At one point, she was scared outta her mind over the idea of me going into the gas station, but not so scared that sheâd turn down the idea of snacks.â He paused yet again, reminiscent. âI was about to call you before Suguru showed up, I swear I was. She asked once, then was too shy to ask again, but . . . all she wanted was for me to call you. She just wanted you more than anything. You gotta believe me. If you donât, heâll get away with it all and youâll never save her.â
There was a look within Ryomenâs cold stare, one that Satoru couldnât quite understand the meaning behind. Was it sympathy? Belief? Anger so great, it made his eyes glassy?
In truth, the look was one of uncertainty. After all, Satoruâs description of your behavior was composed of you in every way.
You would shove aside your fear in favor of your favorite chips.
You would desire hearing Sukunaâs voice more than anything else in the world, but feel too shy to ask twice.
âEh, I could always kill you later if I find out youâre lying to my face. Itâs not like youâll be going somewhere anytime soon, punkass.â Ryomen lowered his gun. âSo, your coworker wants my wife because heâs fucked up. Why does he wanna frame you, though? What arenât you telling me?â
Satoruâs leg started to shake.
Ryomenâs eyes darted down to it, noting his nervous habit, and he knew he was on to something.
That gun was raised just as quickly as it was lowered moments before.
âTalk,â he demanded.
âHeâs after my job. Weâre both detectives, yeah, but Iâm the one who-who gets all the credit and attention and pats on the back after we solve a case. Truth is, heâs smarter than me, but heâs less of a partner and more of a glorified assistant, you know? It must be frustrating to know youâre the brains behind cracking every big case, but someone else steals the spotlight. Itâs like someone copying your essay and writing their name at the top.â
Oh, what a lie.
Well, there was a bit of truth to it â Suguru did live in Satoruâs shadow. He often was the key to solving the big cases, but news articles and congratulatory words often uplifted Detective Satoru Gojo, not his quiet partner.
But the jail cell had given Satoru time to use his tactical brilliance to pick apart every little conversation he held with Suguru over the last few days, from the soft accusations to the way Suguru eyed him with side-eye glances whenever Satoru spoke of you, and he knew.
He knew that Suguru knew everything. That the thought of you, the idea of you, made Satoruâs heart skip a beat.
It would make a lump form in his throat. Sometimes, and he hated himself for it, truly, it would make his pants feel tight as his cock would harden at the sight of your pictures.
Heâd force himself to quickly rub one out â and try to do so without thinking about you â only so he could get back to work without a hard bulge being visible to all of his coworkers, and push the feelings and thoughts away as if they were intrusive and not a reflection of his true feelings for a helpless victim.
And that was why. Part of it, at least.
Uncomplex scripts for mystery movies and simple dialogue for novels within the same genre often would have one believe that sick, twisted people who do sick, twisted things have one motive. One reason why they shot their spouses or snatched up a person in a deserted parking lot.
But years in the field had taught Satoru that such things werenât always the case, and weren't always so simple.
Two things, multiple things, could be true at once.
That was what was happening now, he knew it, though he was still trying to put the puzzle together. At least he had all the pieces. In his mind, he imagined himself looking at a checklist and ticking off the boxes of everything that reigned true.
Did Suguru Geto hate living in Satoru Gojoâs shadow? Check.
Did Suguru Geto know Satoru Gojo wanted you? Check.
Did Suguru Geto want you all to himself? Check.
And there it was. The puzzle complete. He could have it all this way. He could have you all to himself and ruin Satoru, the man he hated for more reasons than one, all at the same time.
âDoes Suguru even care that Kento, his coworker for years, an innocent man, died because of what he's done?â Satoru mumbled to himself.
âWhat the hell are you mumbling about?â Ryomen grimaced.
âNothing, uh,â Satoru snapped back to reality, hoping and praying that Ryomen bought the half-truth he told.
Because if Ryomen Sukuna knew that Satoru was yet another man who looked at his wife with lust glistening within those blue irises of his, he was as good as dead. Whether or not he was the kidnapper wouldnât matter, not to Sukuna.
Sukuna looked at Satoru with an unreadable expression, but in the end, he lowered his gun.
âPiece of shitâs your partner. Any idea where heâd keep her?â Sukuna ran a hand down his exhausted face. âYou said heâs the smart one, but thereâs gotta be some part of your brain that fucking works, yeah? Tell me something, detective.â
âI donât know right now, but, if you get me outta here, Iâll help you. I know the general direction he drove off with her. You know how criminals think, I know how detectives think. We could . . . make a . . . god, did you have to fucking shoot me?â Satoru paused, his mind unable to focus on anything except the pain in his leg. âWe could make a pretty good team.â
Sukuna scoffed. âNot with that leg of yours. Besides, I doubt youâll be able to stomach anything Iâm about to do.â
He started to walk away, and with him, Satoruâs only chance of freedom.
âWait,â Satoru called out, his voice echoing down the quiet halls. âYou need me. Iâm your best chance and you know it. Iâll use a wheelchair, stay in the passenger seat of a car, doesnât goddamn matter to me, just . . . you need me. She needs me.â
His footsteps came to a halt. âDonât you ever say my wife fucking needs you. Who the hell do you think you are? And I donât need help from anyone.â
âRyomen-â
âYou had her and you fucking lost her.â He never turned back to face Satoru, to glare at him through the bars of his cell as he spoke, and Satoru was grateful for it. As much as he hated Ryomen, seeing the shine of teary anger and grief gloss over his eyes would have been too much. Sukuna continued, âMaybe you didnât take her, maybe youâre a good guy getting framed by your buddy, but you still lost her. I should kill you just for that right there! And you think Iâm gonna let you help? Help?â
âSheâs in the woods.â
Now, as if it couldnât be helped, he turned to face him. But Satoruâs eyes were glued to the bloodied floor below him. Not to avoid Sukunaâs gaze necessarily, though that was a bonus, but because his mind was overworking itself, and he was lost in thought, thinking, thinking, and thinking.
âWhat?â
âSuguruâs a big nature guy. He doesnât head to bars or arcades or the movie theater after work unless me or Shoko invites him. Anything you can do in town? Heâs not interested for the most part. He goes on hikes or swims in lakes or reads books underneath trees. Heâs always been great at investigations that took place in the woods, ya know.â Satoru heard footsteps. He looked up to see that not only had Sukuna turned his back to him again, but he had started to walk away.
Satoru tried to hop to his feet, but the worst pain he ever felt shot through his leg, and his knee buckled, forcing him back down on the bench. Not that it mattered. The only places he could go were from one side of the cell to the other.
âWait, Iâm not making this up,â Satoru called out, desperation coating his vocal cords. âYouâve investigated every building in the city. Kentoâs situation is a clear sign youâve started going through peopleâs homes when theyâre out and about for the day. But I bet you havenât checked the woods, have you? Because you assume that if you find her in the woods, then youâre too late, because everyone knows you only check the woods when youâre looking for a buried, dead body.â
âSheâs alive.â
âShe is, but for how long? Seriously, how long?â Satoru released a shaky breath. âLet me help.â
Sukunaâs bruised fist clenched and unclenched repeatedly at his side. Hearing the desperation in the voice belonging to the supposed best detective in town gave him pause. He truly considered tossing money at someone to give him a key, all to free the person he had shot just moments before, but memories of that news broadcast flashed throughout his mind.
Oh, he thought he was going to have a heart attack when Toji Fushiguro approached him, his phone in hand.
Sukuna was in the middle of sorting out some cold hard cash into multiple brief cases that would soon be handed off to shady individuals in law enforcement who would then swear on their lives that they had no idea who paid someone to escort Kento Nanami out of the building, all the while a car drove by and someone leaned a gun out of the passenger seat window and shot the man in the head.
âFor a man with a son whoâs about to drain your pockets dry getting ready for college, you sure arenât working hard,â Sukuna said, glancing up from one of the briefcases to see the black-haired man gazing at his phone instead of helping him sort money.
âRyo, you'd better come see this.â
Toji walked over, and there it was. The news broadcast. Sukuna saw your photographed self on the little screen, scared, dirty, thinner than you were supposed to be . . . and the gun. The pained look on your face. The blood. And Satoru Gojo, the best detective in town, causing it all.
He cried.
He flipped over a table, green cash flowing in the air and briefcases tumbling to the ground, and he cried.
Sukunaâs fist shook at the memory.
Even if he was forced, none of this would have happened, Sukuna figured, if the white-haired man had any balls to begin with. If he never, not once, let his guard down.
Without casting yet another look his way, Sukuna mumbled, âSomeone will come by and take care of that leg.â
And with that, he was gone.
â
Left Kento Nanamiâs house. Stopped at the gas station. On the way to the hospital.
Those were the little details Satoru told Sukuna, and he replayed them in his head as he drove his car down the road.
There were around three gas stations between Kentoâs house and the hospital.
Based on the background scenery which more than likely consisted of trees rather than fast food restaurants and dentist offices, which hinted at which road Satoru might have been on when he was stopped by Suguru â and common sense â Satoru stopped at the first gas station that would appear a little ways down the road when one left Kentoâs neighborhood.
After his little visit with Satoru, Sukuna stopped and picked up Toji, who now sat in the passenger seat of his car despite the early morning hour.
Toji was his right-hand man above all else. But, in truth, he was also the closest thing Sukuna had to a friend. A best friend.
And that was why he didnât bother to wipe away the single tear that fell from his eyes though he was in the presence of another manâs company.
Toji saw Sukunaâs knuckles, trembling with sheer anger, turn white as he gripped the steering wheel. Then, though it was relatively dark as the sun hadnât yet truly risen, he turned his head and, thanks to the various lights from Sukunaâs navigation system, was able to see that tear.
âGonna take her to that fancy steakhouse she likes?â Toji broke the silence. He turned his head to look out the window as if to give Sukuna as much privacy to cry as he could. Then, though he wasnât the best at comforting people â he was the sort of man to tell people to suck it up â he spoke. âBet youâre planning a buncha ways to pamper her once you get her back. Spas, a nice, long vacation, Iâm bettinâ somewhere out the country.â
âShe wants to go to Greece,â Sukuna said. âShe doesnât like to ask me for stuff directly. Shy type, even after all these years. Sheâll leave little hints, though, like change her lock screen to a picture of where she wants to go. But I doubt thatâs what sheâd want to now.â
âWhy?â
âItâs my fault sheâs missing when you sit and think about it. We were having a great night. Then, we got into a big fight, one I didnât tell the police about because I didnât wanna make myself look worse. Dumb idea on my part, but I knew theyâd just target me even more if they knew about our fight and not look hard enough for the guy who really had her. But I donât even know how the fight happened. She told me I was too overprotective, that she was sick of me hurting people most of all, and you know what I told her? I told her, fine. Iâll stop giving a damn about you. I didnât mean it, you know how I am when I get pissed off. She wanted me to be less protective, so I got rid of our security, turned off the cameras around the house, just put on this . . . whole fucking show to show her that I didnât care. It didnât even last an hour. Hell, not even half of one. I tried to find her and apologize, but she left the house. I shouldâve followed her. I didnât, âcause our entire argument was about me being overprotective in the first place, but . . . damn it. Damn it. What kinda man just lets his wife leave like that?â
Toji waited a moment before speaking again, taking in Sukunaâs words. âI doubt sheâs gonna care about a fight you two had after all sheâs been through. All couples fight.â
âIf I werenât being a fucking asshole, she never wouldâve left the house. What if that sick freak kills her, and the last thing I said to my own wife, the love of my fucking life, was that I donât care about her?â
âStop blaming yourself. Some fuckinâ crazy guy snatched her up. Heâs the only one anyone should blame.â Toji looked at the side of Sukunaâs face. âTrust me, sheâs not mad about that fight anymore. Not durinâ all this.â
âThink sheâll be mad that I killed Nanami? Huh?â Sukuna glanced at him and away from the road. âNot only did I kill an innocent man, but her goddamn friend.â
âIâll take the blame.â
Sukuna frowned in surprise.
Toji shrugged. âWhat? Hell, I was drivinâ you, wasnât I? Weâll think of a reason why later. Some kinda accident or misunderstanding, I donât know. Just tell âer it was me.â
âYouâre fine with my wife thinking you killed her friend? Why?â
âWhen we find her and all of this shit is over, sheâll not only have to try and cope with whatever that bastardâs done to her, but sheâll have to grieve her friend on top of it all. You wanna add on to her suffering by havinâ her know you, her own husband, did it? Besides, itâs not like either one of us will go to prison for it, so Iâm not gettinâ you out of a life sentence or nothinâ, just givinâ your wife one little less thing to grieve about.â
âItâs a fucked up lie.â
âTell âer the truth in due time if you want, just not when you get âer back,â Toji spoke with a softness Sukuna wasnât used to hearing from him. âIâm bettinâ sheâs tryinâ to make it through by holdinâ on to the thought of you. You donât wanna ruin that by givinâ her something to hate âcha for. Then sheâll have no one. That kinda thing can be someoneâs final straw in life, ya know?â
That familiar silence arrived once again.
One could barely consider it a smile, but a whisper of a grin tugged at Sukunaâs lips.
âI think you just earned yourself a raise,â he said. âTell Megumi when he heads to college, he can afford that VIP, MVP meal plan, or whatever that overpriced oneâs called. Iâll make a phone call and get him his own dorm room, roommate-free.â
âYou beinâ for real?â
âOf course I am.â
Toji smiled. âThanks, man.â
â
The owner of the gas station first glanced out of the windows to admire the incredibly nice car pulling into the parking lot, then furrowed his brows as he questioned what such a person might need from a gas station at this hour. But, as he shrugged his shoulders and thought, well, weâre open twenty-four-seven for a reason, he caught a glimpse of the man stepping out of the vehicle.
It was him.
The bell above the door chimed as Ryomen Sukuna stepped in, Toji lingering behind him.
âO-Oh, Mr. Sukuna, welcome!â The store owner laughed nervously, gripping the handle of his broom with such force that it was rather fortunate it didnât break. âWould you like some snacks or a soda?â
âI need to take a look at your outdoor camera footage.â
âOf course! Whatever you need.â
âYeah, yeah, get a move on, old man. Iâm in a hurry.â
High-quality footage of cars and people zooming in and out of the gas station was displayed on a screen in a backroom. Sukuna directed the nervous man to what he assumed would be the proper time, and together, with Toji watching just as eagerly, they waited.
Then, that familiar head of white hair was shown emerging from a car.
âStop, stop, rewind,â Sukun commanded.
The store owner went back to the very moment Satoruâs car pulled in next to a gas pump.
âThere she is,â Sukuna whispered, his heart pounding rapidly at the sight of you in the passenger seat.
âDefinitely doesnât look like sheâs scared of him,â Toji commented. âThat all the proof you need?â
Sukuna watched it all. Studied his and your mannerisms. It certainly wasnât that of a kidnapper and his victim.
Satoru was telling the truth.
He was almost done watching the footage when he saw it. Satoruâs thumb graced your cheek to wipe away your tear, his touch lingering a bit too long for it to be a simple moment in which a detective comforts a victim.
A familiar heat of anger washed over him, that typical seed of jealousy being planted that had always, without fail, resulted in Sukuna hurting or killing someone, but he couldnât afford to worry about such trivial matters right now.
The desire to punch Satoru in the face for stroking his wifeâs cheek would have to be swallowed down and replaced by something greater; the need, want, desire, and desperation to torture and kill Suguru Geto.
âLetâs go,â Sukuna said to Toji.
And with that, the men left and headed for Sukunaâs home.
â
Ryomen would have been a goddamn liar if he said he cared about the innocent lives that would be lost tonight.
Sorry, but as he flickered his eyes between the hundreds of guns in his home armory, such a thought never crossed his mind.
One thing, however, did: I donât need any fucking guns. I need bombs.
Yes. Bombs would do. Bombs would teach everyone a lesson: this is what happens when you mess with his wife.
â
Satoru Gojo knew what the rumblings were without witnessing the explosion of orange flames decorating the night sky, or the tsunami of debris from collapsing buildings in the heart of the city.
Even from within his cell â though it wasnât surprising, given that the department was right within the portion of town that was being destroyed â Satoru could hear the screams.
âWhat was that?â An officer who parked his ass behind the front desk and refused to give Satoru any water â he never liked the white-haired detective even before accusations â rose to his feet.
His fellow coworkers rushed to the nearest windows like scrambling ants.
Satoru only sighed.
It could have been a result of the strong pharmaceutical drugs one of Sukunaâs little minions had given him running through his veins â which helped out tremendously when it came to his patched up bullet wound but also made his head incredibly foggy â but Satoru could not find the energy to give a damn.
He watched as his coworkers made calls to the bomb squad, paramedics, the fire department, gathered their guns and gear, and tried to make sense of what the hell was happening when yet another rumbling occurred.
This one knocked over the parked-ass officerâs coffee mug. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered steadily, then shut off completely.
Now, the only source of light came from the growing fires that took place within the streets outside.
âDear god,â a female detective gulped. âSukunaâs lost it.â
âHow do you know heâs behind this?â Another person asked as they dragged the woman away from the window, sweat trickling down from his forehead. His name was Jimmy or Jeremy or something like that. Satoru couldnât remember.
âItâs his town. Who else would do something like this?â The woman started to tremble. âHeâs sending us a message. His wife is missing and heâs punishing us for it. And itâs all Detective Gojoâs fault.â
Eyes were on Satoru. He sighed again.
âFor the eightieth time, Iâm innocent.â He paused. âAlso, kinda cruel to leave a guy in a cell when the townâs being blown to bits, right? Anyone got a key?â He lazily folded his arms across his chest.
Some scoffed. Others rolled their eyes.
âGuess not,â Satoru said.
The final, third explosion created a crack in the ceiling.
Bits of dust sprinkled down onto Satoru's head, but that was the worst of it.
For the department at least.
But, outside, the streets were alive with fires, cracks that divided roads, and buildings that had collapsed like a house of cards.
Even come morning, the air was still foggy from dying fires.
And even within a house hidden deep in the woods, Suguru Geto could smell the smoke.
â
âGood morning. You didnât sleep long. Was it peaceful, at least?â
You coughed. Slowly, your eyes opened to the sound of that voice you knew all too well. That was familiar.
The amount of sunlight shining into your eyes wasnât.
In truth, it wasnât all that bright. Nothing more than the morning sun shining through drawn kitchen curtains. But having been kept in the dark for . . . oh, who knew how long it had been, you certainly didnât . . . even the smallest amount of light would have made your eyeballs feel as if they were lit on fire.
The exposure made you squirm, though it was pointless. You werenât chained to a wall this time, but your wrists were tied together with rope, and the ache from the gunshot wound in your leg killed off a desire to run.
It took a while for your eyes to adjust. There was a wooden table in front of you. You were sitting in its matching chair.
âYouâre not hallucinating.â Suguru smiled, then continued to stir around cracked eggs in a bowl. âYouâre in the kitchen.â
A sizzling noise followed his words. He poured eggs into a skillet. The sound made you nearly jump out of your skin, and he laughed.
âArenât you just the cutest?â He started to scramble the eggs. On the counter nearest the sink â below the window that was the source of the nauseating light â coffee started to slowly drip into a pot. âYouâre probably wondering why youâre in the kitchen. Well, I needed someone to talk to, sweetheart. There are a lot of things on my mind. Your husband isnât exactly behaving as Iâd hoped, you see. I was certain heâd visit Satoru in jail, Satoru would convince him to release him, perhaps by using logic, or maybe, Sukuna would check for evidence that would suggest Satoru to be innocent, gas station footage perhaps, and they would work together to find us. I would have killed you then, you see. It would have been perfect. You dying when Satoru escapes from jail? It would have looked like he had done it. It would have been the perfect touch to those photos I took of him shooting you. But, heâs still in jail, and I imagine it will stay that way. Thatâs fine, it only means that, when I do kill you, I get to keep your corpse with me like Iâve wanted, and Satoru will spend the rest of his life in prison either way once I get rid of certain pieces of evidence. Though, to be honest, I think Iâm leaning towards a different plan entirely, one that I favor the most. A fate worse than death. But, Iâll keep the details a secret for now. I am such an indecisive man.â
Softly scrambled eggs were scooped out of a skillet and onto an orange glass plate. He grabbed a fork and approached you.
âCorrect me if Iâm wrong, but your last taste of food was unfilling chips Satoru bought you the night you escaped. Before that, it was whatever you last dined on before I kidnapped you, hm?â He ran his thumb over your trembling lips. âYou must be hungry. You poor, poor thing. Iâm sorry. I know youâre feeling feverish as well. My sweet girl just canât stop sneezing and coughing, can she? Iâm glad my immune system is relatively strong.â
He grabbed the fork. He gathered a bite of fluffy eggs onto it. And he raised it to his own mouth, never yours.
You were too dehydrated to soak your face in real tears, which was devastating, mainly because it was the closest you could come to washing your face, but had you still had the ability to sob, you would have. No longer were you a stranger to various forms of torture at the hands of Suguru Geto, and a few of them lasted without an end in sight. One of them being hunger.
âAnyway, Ryomen has bombed some buildings in town. Itâs his idea of sending a message. Quite the temper tantrum, hm?â He took yet another bite, then with a sigh, he set the plate down. âI truly try my best to only hurt you during upstairs time, but I have to break the rules right now and send your husband a message as well.â
With a jerk, your body was pulled out of the chair. You found yourself spread across the table as if you were an entree being served, but then, Suguru appeared within your line of vision, a knife in hand and an apron tied around his frame, and you realized that a better comparison would have been meat in the possession of a butcher.
He raised your shirt slowly.
You became aware of too many things then: how cold the kitchen was. How you were forced to take in your own odor. How it took him a moment to find the perfect spot along your stomach to press his knife into, as most of your skin was already bruised and battered.
He started to cut. Carve.
The sound of your screams had become his favorite genre of music as of late, jazz be damned.
There was too much blood at the moment to admire his artwork. It started to slide down the sides of your stomach and pool onto the table beneath you, but soon enough, the word MINE would reveal itself.
âBeautiful!â His smile brightened.
But he wasnât finished.
Right below your festering, untreated gunshot wound, he carved his initials into your thigh: S.G.
And now, should your body end up buried in the surrounding woods, stored away for him to look upon forever, or even someday lying beside your husband in the warmth of your bed years into the future, your skin would forever bear the markings he forced upon you.
MINE
S.G.
â
âAny chance the charges are fake?â
Satoru gasped at the sound of Shokoâs voice.
It was the dead of night yet again, this area of the building void of life, and he leaned up off the bench quickly and stared at the woman standing outside of his cell.
His blue eyes widened in surprise. âThey all are. Youâre staring at an innocent man right now.â
âAnd an injured one.â Her eyes darted down to the dried blood staining his pants. âWhat happened to you?â
âRyomen.â He said. Then, he gave her a certain look. One he often gave when he wanted the last bite of her food, or for her to distract his boss when he had shown up to work late and needed to sneak past his office. This time, however, it was more intense. More desperate.
âShoko . . .â
âNo. You can stop trying to bat your pretty eyelashes at me. The answerâs no.â
âShoko, please.â
âIâll lose my job. Worse, Iâll end up taking your spot right in that cell,â she folded her arms across her chest. âI donât even have a key.â
âYou know who does.â Satoru gave her a cheeky grin. âI could blackmail you, you know. I know about all the skeletons in your closet that could get you fired anyway. Counted them myself.â
Shoko frowned. âThreaten me all you want. No one would believe you if you told them the sky was blue right now, detective. Youâre screwed, big time.â
âBut you know I didnât do it. You wouldnât be talking to me right now if you genuinely believed I kidnapped someone. Listen, I donât have time for lawyers and investigations and theyâre gonna move me to a proper jail tomorrow and . . . I need to get out of here. I donât know if Ryomen will be able to find her or not, but I canât just fucking sit here, do nothing, and get blamed for all this. If you donât let me out, Shoko, you could be the reason an innocent woman dies.â
She couldnât decide if he was being dramatic or not. It wasnât her place to do so to begin with. It took her smoking an entire pack of cigarettes while pacing back and forth in her living room to decide that she didnât believe what she saw on the news that day, and it took an extra three cigarettes for her to calm down enough to decide that sheâd visit the man.
But now, with no cigarettes and one hell of a headache, she had to make the biggest decision of all.
Her body stiffened.
âVery persuasive,â she whispered.
Shoko left. But, she returned, and when she returned, it was with that key. Satoru nearly cried upon seeing it within the grip of her polished dark blue nails.
She inserted it, and the cell opened with a squeak.
Though the pain meds helped, Satoru had to use all the strength he possessed within his injured, exhausted body to fight through the tormenting aches that shot through his leg when he rose to his feet.
âThanks,â he said through gritted teeth. âI . . . I owe you one.â
âI want that security footage cleared and a pack of cigarettes,â Shoko closed the cell. âIf I go down because of this, please believe me when I say I will dissect you.â
âI know better than to cross someone whose entire career revolves around picking apart bodies. Iâll toss in a new coffee mug,â Satoru said.
âI would never say no to my favorite brand of medium roast while youâre at it.â
Satoru nodded with a small smile and started to limp away.
âAre you going to kill Suguru?â
Her question made him pause.
But he didnât answer.
For a while, they both existed in silence.
But he didnât answer.
And that silence only ended due to the sound of him starting to walk off yet again.
â
Unbeknownst to them, Satoru and Sukuna were both combing through the woods at the exact same time, though not in the same area.
The detective had to first head home and find a flashlight and a spare gun he kept in his hallway closet. He didnât bother changing his clothes, even though the blood on his skin and pants irritated him so badly, he wanted to scratch his skin off to the bone, but he stopped for a moment to dig through his endless supply of work-appropriate buttoned shirts in search of a hoodie. His rushed movements made it so he couldnât find one.
Shit, he thought, then settled on a cap.
Anything that would make him stand out less in public was worth it.
But here, in the woods, he wasnât worried about coming across a random civilian who had seen the news. He was worried about coming across Suguru Geto or stepping on a hand belonging to your dead body.
All of the walking through the unsettling woods had awakened the pain in his leg. It ached badly enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he held them back.
Leaves crunched underneath his shoes as he approached a lake. It was Suguruâs favorite place for swimming or reading.
If thereâs an underground cellar somewhere, it would be around here, Satoru thought, shining his flashlight on the sticks and leaves below him. But heâd know Iâd check here, wouldnât he? No, no he wouldnât. He still thinks Iâm locked up, half-crazy because no one believes it when I say Iâm innocent, and the only people who know how much he loves the woods would be Shoko and me, so sheâs here. Sheâs here because heâs betting I wouldnât be . . . right?
It felt wrong.
His logic. It was flawed. It was wishful thinking.
But as he searched the surrounding area, desperation growing as he used his skillful eyes to scan for clues that would either lead him in the right direction or tell him he was too late, that wishful thinking was all he could hold on to.
He recognized the sound of those footsteps before he heard his voice. That was just how strong their bond used to be.
âSo, Ryomen let you out after all? Thatâs excellent news.â
Satoru whipped his head around to see the smiling man who spoke to him. He raised his gun, and this time, he swore to himself heâd never lower it.
âHe didnât,â Satoru's voice was calm, but his eyes widened in surprise. In hatred. âMind telling me why thatâs excellent news?â
Neither the flashlight shining into his eyes nor the gun aimed at his head seemed to bother Suguru in the slightest.
In fact, he turned his back to Satoru, and said, âCome with me. I want to show you something.â
âIâm not going anywhere with you, you goddamn bastard. Where the hell is-â
âIâm taking you to her.â He glanced over his shoulder. His smile widened. âUnless, of course, you decide to shoot me. You could do it. Clearly, youâre close to where she is if Iâm here. You could kill me and find her all on your own. You could be the hero, like always.â
The hand that held his gun started to tremble. Why? He wasnât certain. He wanted to blame it on the pain meds. The adrenaline. The lack of hearty, nutritious food. The lack of quality sleep. Thirst. His injured leg.
But, in truth, he was frightened.
âYou think I wonât do it? Let me guess, youâll lead me to her, have me do something horrible, all the while you take your pictures and create another sob story for everyone to watch on the news?â Satoru gritted his teeth.
âMaybe. Maybe not. You wouldnât have to worry about any of it, if you killed me here and now. Youâve had to shoot your fair share of people in this profession, Satoru. Youâre no stranger to killing. Why canât you do it?â
Satoru gave a bitter laugh. âSmiling with a gun aimed at you, huh? Let me guess. Youâre betting I wonât shoot you because youâre my friend. But, if I do, it ties in perfectly to the narrative youâve built. Satoru the kidnapper. Satoru the killer. Itâd make sense to everyone that I killed you, right? Because you claimed you saw me kidnap and shoot someone, then exposed me?â
Maybe there are more hidden cameras around, and a partner of his will come by and get the footage later, Satoru thought. âIs he really that crazy, though? Would he be willing to die just to frame me? What the hell is this guy up to? Do I shoot him? What if heâs right? What if I canât kill him because heâs my friend? What if-â
âInteresting theories,â Suguru replied, and only then did Satoru realize he wasnât thinking, but voicing his thoughts aloud. âHow about you do as I said, and just follow me?â
Suguru started to walk off with, apparently, little care if Satoru was following him, or if Satoru would put a bullet in his back.
And Satoru hesitated for what felt like forever. There was a thin line between curiosity and stupidity, and Satoru was certain he had ventured far into the side that would leave him full of regret over his dumb decision, but he followed him, telling himself with every step, so long as I keep my gun to him, itâll be fine.
It wasnât an underground cellar. No, it was a house, a brown, wooden, two-story home that was rather beautiful, unassuming, and nicely decorated on the outside.
âI didnât bring her here until she escaped.â Suguru spoke as if their current situation were the most ordinary one in the world. âI kept her in my deceased motherâs basement before. I thought it was far enough away from town, but, after what happened, I realized she was much too close to the city. But out here, if she escaped, she could run for miles before coming across another person. Iâd be able to catch her before then. Sounds thrilling, doesnât it? But I think I favor a different outcome entirely. It sounds more appealing by the second.â
Why are you telling me this? Satoru thought, but he didnât voice it.
They stepped into the house.
Suguru flicked on the light switch, and what stood out among the neat, tasteful decor â vases of flowers, pictures of painted scenery on the wall â was the dried blood stains on the wooden table within the open concept kitchen.
âItâs around three in the morning. She and I have what I like to call upstairs time around two. I havenât had the chance to bring her back down just yet. Sheâs still up there. Would you like to see her?â
He made his way towards the stairs, speaking to Satoru as if he had just adopted a new puppy and was eager to show his friend, and Satoruâs eyes could only widen at the other man's sheer insanity.
âWhat the hell is upstairs time?â Satoru questioned, though he, truly, did not want to know.
Suguru tilted his head a bit, smiling â though he had never stopped â and said, âIâm glad you asked. Upstairs time happens twice a day, and what happens during changes based on my mood.â He paused as he started to go upstairs, and Satoru followed. âUnfortunately, I wasnât in a great mood today.â
He led Satoru down a short hallway with many doors. Some led to bedrooms, others to hallway closets and bathrooms, but the smiling man guided him towards a closed door.
When he twisted the knob, opened it, and allowed Satoru to enter the room, Satoru was certain that he was staring at a dead body.
He subconsciously lowered his gun out of shock. His shoulders fell in defeat. Tears started to brim in the reddened waterline of his blue eyes.
âIsnât she beautiful?â Suguru whispered from behind him. âI would say Iâve committed the perfect crime.â
You were hanging from the ceiling by your bound wrists. He could only imagine the great, terrible ache in your shoulders, twisted in ways that looked inhuman, must have felt. The number of cuts and bruises along your skin seemed to have doubled since the last time Satoru saw you. Beneath the layers of dirt and dried blood along your bare legs, he could make out Suguruâs initials carved into your thigh, and with it, the infected, swollen, oozing bullet wound.
There was a thick pillow case fastened with rope draped over your cocked head.
That was the only reason Satoru had no idea that your eyes were wide open.
It wasnât just Satoruâs hand that trembled, but every part of him. Except for one thing: his resolve.
The choices he had to make that were filled with uncertainty, the conflicting options that he battled with before now, had seemingly melted away in an unwavering decision.
Heâd kill his best friend.
Satoru turned around before he could think it through and talk himself out of it, but before he could aim his gun at him and pull the trigger his finger was laced around, Suguru shot him first.
The sound of his knees hitting the ground created an unpleasant thud, but it was the sound of his gun falling out of his hand and sliding away that broke him.
âWhen will you learn to shoot me?â Suguru laughed.
He had shot him in his right bicep, and yet, despite the searing pain, Satoru tried to practically launch himself at his gun, but the smiling man got there first.
He stepped on the weapon lying uselessly on the ground and slid it to the side nearest the wall. âAht, aht, aht, nope. You had your chance.â
Warm blood seeped from the man who now had two gunshot wounds. Beads of sweat decorated his pale forehead. His chest rose and fell unsteadily, and, all the while, Suguru spoke to him calmly.
âYou should know that the woman hanging from the ceiling behind you is still alive, Satoru. But, interestingly enough, sheâs had no reaction to the noise around her. Not a shout, not so much as a little flinch. Something tells me she may not be alive for long. I wonder whatâll kill her first. Slow suffocation seems likely. If not that, it might take a while, but I imagine this worsening, untreated illness of hers, or her infected wound. Oh! Or, dehydration, starvation, blood loss, who knows?â He raised his gun at you. âI could also simply decide to kill her now-â
âNo.â
Suguru looked down and smiled at the bleeding detective.
âYou really care about her,â Suguru said, then lowered his gun.
The room was empty for the most part, with the exception of a rusty bucket in the corner. Suguru approached it. âSatoru, tell me. Would you rather have me chop off two of your fingers, or hers?â
âYou sick piece of-â
âPlease answer the question.â
âMine. Take mine, alright? Just donât . . . donât hurt her anymore.â
His response came without hesitation. Suguru raised his eyebrows in surprise, then hummed, as if satisfied with the response. He wrapped his hand around the handle of a knife within the bucket.
âInteresting. As you wish.â
He didnât approach Satoru, not yet.
He approached you first. Satoruâs body absentmindedly tried to move on its own as if wanting to stop Suguru from touching you, but his body had taken quite the hit, and right now, he could barely muster the energy to blink.
Suguru cut the rope around your neck that secured the pillow case around your head. He yanked it off.
âStill with us, sweetheart?â Suguru said. âYou remember Detective Gojo, hm? This kind man said he would willingly lose two fingers to keep you from losing any. Isnât that sweet?â
Your eyes werenât focused on him, or anyone. They only gazed at the floor with such hopelessness, near lifelessness, that you might as well have been dead already.
âI think you should witness this,â Suguru tapped his knife against your abdomen as if to get your attention.
Then, he approached Satoru with that very weapon.
â
Ryomen Sukuna and Toji Fushiguro had been walking through the woods for hours upon hours, weapons and flashlights drawn.
They had walked slowly, not wanting to overlook anything of great importance, but when the bright moonlight seemingly shone upon what appeared to be a house in the far-off distance, the two men didnât know what awaited them, but they started to run.
â
How . . . how much blood can a . . . can the human body lose? Lose? Clues? News? Booze? Snooze? Snooze . . . snooze, you lose! Satoru looked at the spot on his left hand where his index and middle fingers used to be, and he laughed at his thoughts â no, mumbles, perhaps. He wasnât certain anymore. He didnât care.
âLosing your marbles, are we? The way you ran towards the wall and collapsed against it after the first finger was pathetic. I thought youâd take it like a man, since you volunteered and all.â Suguru kneeled in the puddle of blood forming beneath Satoruâs exhausted, kneeling body. âYouâre in a tremendous amount of pain right now, Satoru, all for a woman who doesnât even remember your first name.â
Suguru tilted his head. âI have a closer relationship to her than you do, and yet, you willingly gave up two of your fingers to spare her. How romantic. Shall we keep play-â
The sound of a bullet being fired interrupted Suguru, but not because the noise technically interrupted his speech, but rather, because said bullet was being fired into him.
Satoru had wanted to shoot him in the chest.
But, after losing his first finger, when he purposely stumbled and staggered towards the wall and collapsed on top of his gun that Suguru kicked away after Satoru failed to shoot him earlier, the weapon was positioned awkwardly under his bent leg, and he had to shoot Suguru anywhere he could in order to beat the manâs quick reflexes and take him by surprise.
He wasnât certain where he shot him, truth be told. His blurry vision didnât show him much beyond the spew of blood and Suguruâs body staggering backward, but considering the man hadnât flat-out died, he clearly failed to hit a vital spot.
Suguru half-ran, half-dragged himself into the hallway as if to recuperate there.
Satoru slowly rose to his feet, putting weight on his uninjured leg first, and staggered in the direction of the blood trail the man was leaving behind.
He had collapsed nearest the steps when Satoru appeared in the dark hall. He struggled to reach for something, his own gun perhaps, when Satoru rushed towards him as quickly as his body would allow him to move, pressed his foot against his shoulder, and kicked him down the stairs.
He fell down the wooden steps without slowing. When his body tumbled off the very last one, Suguru didnât cry out in pain. He laughed.
Satoru descended the stairs with his gun drawn.
But, just before he could fire a bullet into his best friendâs skull, Ryomen Sukuna wrapped his large hand around his wrist.
Satoruâs eyes widened in surprise. He hadnât even heard the man kick the door open.
âDonât,â Sukuna whispered darkly, and he stared at him with frightening eyes, ones filled with such terrifying insanity, Satoru was certain the manâs face would appear in his nightmares for weeks. âI want him to suffer. Then, Iâll be the one to kill him. Heâs mine.â
Despite lying in a pool of his own blood, Suguru gazed at Sukuna and cheerfully said, âWelcome!â
Sukunaâs hand was no longer wrapped around Satoruâs wrist. Instead, it was pulled back, then swung right into Suguruâs grinning face, smashing his nose.
The next punch was fired into his jaw.
Satoru wasnât certain where the next few landed, as he had clumsily moved away from the scene and towards a chair at the kitchen table. He needed to sit down.
âWhere the hell is she?â Sukuna shouted in between the life-threatening punches he delivered. âWhere the fuck is my wife?â
Suguru didnât respond. He only stared at him, almost as if he enjoyed the sight of the angered man before him.
Though it hurt to do so, Satoru started to say, âSh-sheâs upstairs, but-â
He didnât get to finish before Sukuna was making his way up the stairs.
Toji was certain Suguru didnât have the energy to raise his left eyebrow, let alone raise a gun, but he snatched Suguruâs weapon away from him anyway.
But, even despite the beating, perhaps Suguru wasnât as worn out as one would assume, because as Sukuna climbed the steps and opened each and every door in search of you, Suguru shouted.
âDid you ever question why I didnât decide to move her somewhere far, far away? Did you ever question why I did not bother to kill the one person who could easily tell you that it was me all along? Who knows where I like to spend my free time? Do you know why even a man as unintelligent as yourself, Ryomen Sukuna, found me oh so easily?â
As he continued on and on, Sukuna stepped into the room you were in, and his jaw fell open at the sight. âItâs because, no matter how the story ends, the damage is already done! You can kill me, save your wife, but youâre all forever ruined. No matter what happens, Iâve already won. Sheâs bound to me forever in unspeakable ways none of you can comprehend! For the rest of her life, sheâll think of me! Not her husband, not the detective who is so in love with her he let me chop off two of his fingers, but me! Iâve won! I-â
Satoru grabbed the vase of flowers in the center of the kitchen table and launched it at Suguruâs head.
The man now soaked in water as well as petals slipped into a realm of unconsciousness.
âOh my fucking god,â Sukuna whispered. His bloodied hands reached out for the unrecognizable woman he knew to be his wife. They landed on your hips. Tears welled up in his eyes, and those very eyes tried to look up into your open ones for a sign of life, but he couldnât tell if you were still alive.
He couldnât.
âWhat the hell did he do to my . . . oh my god.â
He moved quickly, grabbing whatever he needed to free you, such as the blood-covered knife he found on the floor â whatever else he had reached for, he wasnât certain. All he knew was that he held his breath until he felt you in his arms again.
Sinking to the floor as he held on to you, he cupped your face gently. âBaby? Can you hear me?â He shook you. âI need-I need you to answer me. You gotta . . . answer me.â
Your eyes were on the ceiling. Not him.
But he saw the unsteady, gentle, rise and fall of your chest.
A tear fell from his eye and plopped onto your cheek.
That made your dazed gaze slowly roll to the side, and finally, your eyes were on him.
The corner of your mouth twitched.
The old you would have wrapped your arms around him, but the new you couldnât feel them.
The old you would have called his name, but the new you couldnât speak.
The old you would have recognized that this was someone who cared for you, someone who went to hell and back and made the town resemble the burning inner circles of that place of eternal doom, but the new you could only focus on the fact that hands were touching you, and lately, the only hands to touch your skin were hands that wanted to harm you in sinister ways.
Ryomen held your face closer to his, as if the smaller distance would help erase the look of uncertainty within your gaze.
He didnât care about your overwhelming odor. He didnât care about how you now barely resembled the woman he fell in love with, but something horrifying.
âBaby, itâs me. Itâs your husband,â he said softly. âYou know Iâd never hurt you. Itâs me.â
The uncertainty was still there, but a tear rolled down your cheek. Your eyes seemed to dart across the features of his face as if you were putting the pieces of a puzzle together, and you gasped, mouth agape.
You snuggled closer into him as if your trembling frame wanted to seek out his warmth and comfort.
âI know, I know, Iâve got you.â He held you closer, but not tighter, all too aware of your injuries. âI found you, baby. Itâs okay. Itâll be okay. Itâs all over now.â
He was pressing a kiss against your forehead when he heard the click of a gun, ready to be fired.
It was his. And it was within your grasp.
It could have fallen out while he was freeing you. Or, you could have reached for it just now, when Sukuna refused to gaze at anything that wasnât your face.
Given the condition your arms and shoulders were in, moving your limbs must have been the greatest torture known to man, but your desire to die must have been stronger.
You pressed the cool end of the gun against your temple.
In a sick, twisted, bittersweet way, Sukuna had your injuries to thank. Had it not been for the insane amount of pain that slowed your movements, you would have been quick enough to fire a bullet into your skull before your husbandâs lips parted with your forehead.
But even trying to pull your finger back made you cry out in pain, and Sukuna grabbed the gun with haste, pulled it away from your head just in time to save you. But a bullet was still fired.
It shot a hole through his hand. Had he held it up in front of his face, he would have been able to look through it and see you on the other side, but that, the pain, the blood, it didnât matter right now, but he reflectively snatched his hand away from the gun, and you, once again, aimed it at your temple.
Satoru had rushed up the steps upon hearing the first gunshot, though his body screamed at him with every movement, big or small.
He wrapped his hand around your wrist and forced the gun in another direction. A bullet was fired into the ceiling.
âYou donât wanna do this, Mrs. Sukuna,â Satoru grabbed ahold of the gun with the hand that was missing two fingers, and he tossed it far out of your reach. âTry to calm down.â
â
Try to calm down.
Try to calm down.
Try to calm down.
Those same words were repeated over, over, and over again like a broken record once you entered the hospital. Medical staff swarmed you in ways that felt like a pack of predators starting to devour their prey. Outside of the hospital walls, news reporters crowding near the see-through automatic doors tried to make their way into the building, held back only by police officers, but that didnât stop them from attempting to snap photos of you.
The harsh lighting you werenât used to after being kept in the dark more often than not messed with your vision and made it difficult to see the owners of the hands reaching out for you.
For all you knew, and it was what your mind told you, every single pair of hands belonged to him.
It was why, despite your horrid condition, you used the last of your energy to kick, scream, sob, and struggle against the people who moved you onto a stretcher as if you weighed nothing.
âStop touching her! Get your fucking hands off of her!â That voice belonged to Sukuna, who saw your terrified state, but you couldnât see him. Your head turned every which way in search of your husband, but he was out of sight.
He was in the distance, dizzy, shoving away emergency medical staff who tried to treat his injured hand as he fought to make his way over to you.
âRyomen, they need to medicate her and calm her down,â Satoru replied weakly. âThey also need to get that bullet out of her. You need to stay over there before you bleed out.â
Among the unfamiliar faces you could barely see, one that was somewhat familiar peered down in front of you. Satoru removed his cap, hoping his hair color would give you a clue as to who he was, and after a moment, you began to recognize the white-haired detective.
âShh, shh, hey,â Satoru started, softly, and gave you a tired smile. You seemed to quiet down just a bit, and he continued. âYou remember me? We met a few times so far, including tonight. Iâm Detective Gojo. Sukunaâs right over there, and none of us are gonna let anything bad happen to you ever again. Your husbandâs right here with you, I promise. Just hang on a little longer, and Iâll get you those chips you like, yeah? Whatever you want. Just hang on a little longer.â
You gave a sharp cry as a needle was forced into you.
â
He was a hypocrite.
To lecture Sukuna about blood loss. To worry about your bullet wound.
For he was on the brink of death himself, body yet not feeling the full extent of his injuries due to adrenaline, not until you were sedated, rolled off into the surgical floor, and he could finally breathe.
It was rather unfortunate that being able to relax, just a bit, meant his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he collapsed to the ground.
But, even with two gunshot wounds, two missing fingers, and an insane amount of exhaustion to treat, Satoruâs eyes fluttered open to stare at the ceiling of his hospital room long before yours did.
In fact, he was able to clear his name with the help of Sukuna, take some time off from work, get into a steady routine of resting, cleaning his wounds, medicating his body, eating somewhat properly, and rehooked his detective badge to his belt all before you awakened.
You drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. Each time, you caught a glimpse of your husbandâs face. Then, when you had fully awakened from your coma to the sound of beeping machines and concerned gazes, it wasnât a glimpse of his face, but him in his entirety, right beside your bed.
He leaned forward. âYouâre awake. Finally, you . . . I canât even begin to tell you how much . . . Iâve missed you so, so much. I know you get sick of me being overprotective, but I canât let you out of my sight again after this. I never should have to start with, and Iâm sorry. Iâm sorry about our fight. Iâm sorry it took so long to find you. I didnât know if . . .â He swallowed thickly. âOnce youâre better, weâre going far away, just you and me. Weâll see every part of Europe until you forget what this goddamn city looks like, and I promise, I promise, no one will ever hurt you again.â
Your lips parted a bit, but you didnât speak.
âDid you hear me?â He asked, worried that, perhaps, you were still in too much of a medicated state to listen.
But you nodded.
He smiled sadly.
âItâs okay if you donât wanna talk. We donât gotta say anything.â
He reached out to touch your bandaged hand, but you moved yours away.
The look in your eyes told him what you failed to say with words: Donât touch me. Not yet.
â
âSheâs mute.â
The doctor flickered his sad, albeit professional, gaze between Satoru and Sukuna.
âWhat? Mute?â Sukuna frowned.
The doctor placed a binder packed with private patient information on the surface of a counter behind him in the hallway of the hospital, and he sighed. âIâm afraid sheâs experiencing trauma-induced mutism as a result of her circumstances. She isnât choosing not to speak to you, she physically canât. Her brain is protecting her, you see. After everything she has been through, speech can shut down temporarily as a response to tremendous stress. Rest assured that it is only temporary.â
âWhat about . . . everything else?â Satoru asked.
âYes, well, her severe dehydration has been treated, but her case of the flu seemingly turned into a case of pneumonia. We are still treating her injuries and keeping her medicated for illness, pain, and anxiety. She will continue to deal with permanent damage to certain body parts, such as her wrists and shoulders for example, and the infection to her leg was . . . it has given her and us some trouble, to say the least.â The doctor stared intensely at them. âWe would like to move her to the psychiatric floor in the near future. In the meantime, weâve documented the results of every mental and physical evaluation for the police department. Weâve reported everything we know about what her body has told us heâs done to her. As for everything else, we have to wait until sheâs ready to tell us her story. Or, write it down, at the very least.â
His eyes focused on Sukuna. âI must warn you that, should you decide to read through the evaluation reports yourself, knowing what all he had done to her will be traumatizing for you, sir.â The doctor gave the two men a sad parting smile. âHave a good day.â
Sukuna leaned his back against the wall, eyeing the two security guards he ordered to stand outside your door. The interior windows to your room were open, giving you a full view of everyone who might walk by, as well as giving the nurses at the nearby station full sight of you.
âMy coworkers are out looking for Suguru,â Satoru said, leaning against the wall next to the other man. âI remember seeing Toji drag him away that night, before we called 911 and came to the hospital. You donât gotta tell me where he is, just tell me if heâs dead or alive.â
âHeâs alive for now,â Sukuna shrugged. âIâll spare you the details, detective.â
Satoru eyed him for a moment, noting the way his eyes didnât seem to glow with satisfaction, but rather, as if he had an itch he couldnât quite scratch. âYou donât look happy.â
Sukuna gave a bitter chuckle. âI can make that bastard scream, and in the end, heâll go right back to smiling.â Looking at him suddenly, Sukuna said, âHe wasnât lying. I got my wife back, but a big part of her? Gone. This kinda bullshit is worse than death. Itâs no wonder she tried to blow her own brains out.â
âShe just needs time.â
They were silent for a while. Then, as Satoru casually put his hands in his pockets, Sukuna broke the silence.
âSatoru?â
âYeah?â
âWhy . . . and how . . . are you in love with my wife?â
He tried to lie and keep his voice steady as he did so. âIâm not. Itâs my job to protect people. Iâd sacrifice two fingers to keep anyone safe.â
âYou think I believe you?â
Satoru only sighed. âAre you gonna kill me?â
âNope. Not today, anyway. I will if you try something, but it doesnât matter right now. Sheâs gone.â Sukuna stared at your sleeping figure through the interior window, and his hands started to shake with an anger he was all too used to, but one that hadnât yet died out, nor dulled in intensity. âWhat all did he do to her? What did he do?â
â
At one point, you began to wonder why every detective known to man had appeared in your room hoping to coax you into revealing more of your story beyond you writing down Suguru Geto did it, but your dear friend, Kento Nanami, hadnât yet stopped by.
You grabbed your little notebook and pen, flipped to an open page, and wrote, Kento?
You held it up in front of you for Sukuna to read, and looked up at him with the saddest, curious eyes.
Satoru was in the room at the time. He saw the way your husband battled with the truth versus a rehearsed lie, and Satoru stepped forward, and told you, simply, that he had been killed.
For the moment, amidst your cries, you assumed it was a job-related accident. He was a detective in a big city, after all.
Satoru saw the guilt overcome Sukunaâs face, and, out of some odd need to comfort the man he once hated, he wanted to tell him that Kento wasnât innocent. He didnât kidnap his wife, that much was true, but he delayed the investigation. He was obsessed with you. His house was a hidden showcase of such affection.
But Satoru bit his tongue, because he himself was no better.
He wanted the victim he was meant to save. You were missing, and yet, he was clouded by both hatred for your husband and lust for a kidnapped woman, so much so that he failed to conduct the investigation properly. In more ways than one, and even in ways he himself couldnât remember, his actions led to Suguruâs.
Then, there was Sukuna himself, who only added to your pain by killing the wrong man â who was your friend, though, he wasnât worthy of being so, but no one would ever tell you such a thing â and he kept the details behind the night of your disappearance hidden. And, of course, the fight that took place moments before that led to you leaving the safety of your home in the first place.
Suguru Geto might have been the guilty one, but the other three men were rather far from innocent.
â
Sukuna knocked at your door to announce his presence before entering your hospital room several days later.
âGood afternoon, baby,â he greeted, approaching your bedside with two small containers, two plastic spoons, and a few napkins. âI got you ice cream. This is the nice kind that doesnât taste like the carton it comes in. No disrespect to their cafeteria, but do they expect any fucking person to feel better with that crap?â
He had come to expect silence from you, but he still paused, just in case there was the slightest chance youâd respond. But you only watched as he took the lid off your ice cream.
He gathered a spoonful of ice cream and guided it towards your mouth.
You ate it, but before he could scoop out more, you shook your head.
He nodded, put the ice cream down, then continued to speak. âThe, uh, the nurses told me you wonât let âem help you get cleaned up. I could help you, if you want. Whenever you feel comfortable with me touching you.â
Though he knew you inside and out, he wasnât certain what the look in your eyes meant.
But you reached for his hand all of a sudden. It was a move so surprising, he nearly flinched.
You guided his hand underneath your hospital gown, letting him feel your thigh first. Then your stomach.
And he traced the very letters carved into your skin, and pieced together the word and initials that made him certain he would go to where he was keeping Suguru Geto and force him to endure a thousand cuts tonight.
âItâs not true, you hear me? Youâre not his. None of it is-â
Though moving your arms still gave you trouble, and perhaps it would for the rest of your life, you placed a hand over Sukunaâs lips as if to shush him, and you shook your head, as if to reduce his words into nothing but lies.
Tears fell from your eyes.
The rich man who was feared by everyone in town, the man who killed and tortured and got what he wanted, but above all else, worshipped you, said, âCan I hold you?â Then, because he knew it was difficult, because he knew you needed time and the last thing he wanted to do was push your boundaries, he mumbled, âWhen youâre ready?â
You released a shaky breath.
And it wasnât easy, but you would have been lying if you told yourself you didnât want to feel Sukunaâs touch.
You didnât hug him exactly. Having your wrists bound so often made it so you hardly ever wanted to spread your arms out, pain aside, so you didnât exactly wrap your arms around him, but you leaned forward and let him pull you across his lap and hold you close.
His touch meant warmth. The size of his hands meant safety. The healing hole above his palm represented love.
How could a man capable of choking the life out of others hold you so gently? So lovingly? You could never wrap your mind around it, but, yet again, you felt those lips of his kiss your forehead softly, as if the only thing he ever knew was to be soft with you.
âI love you,â he announced.
You cried, but yet, even through the slew of tears, you could make out the white-haired detective standing a short distance away outside of the interior window.
He placed three bags of your favorite chips on the counter belonging to the nursesâ station to be given to you later, as promised.
Then, with his three-fingered hand, he waved, not as a greeting, but a silent goodbye.
The man you locked eyes with gave you a sad, knowing smile. Then, he vanished from your view, walking down the halls of the hospital to never be seen by your eyes again.
The famous case of the missing woman will forever be known as Satoru Gojoâs last one. He quit his job as a detective, and though his town had come to learn that he was innocent, people still made u-turns with their grocery carts when they saw him walking down the aisle or crossed the street sooner than they had planned upon seeing him standing on the sidewalk.
Therefore, he moved away, not to avoid seeing the faces of his former coworkers and neighbors, but to never risk the chance of coming across yours again.
Throughout the decades that followed, hotshot directors made films about your story, but none of them ever got it quite right on the big screen. After all, you kept the details of what you had to endure all to yourself. Doctors, society, and even your own husband could only forever make educated guesses.
Furthermore, no one truly knew how your story ended, as Suguru Geto â who history referred to as The Smiling Man â was never found again, dead or alive.
Some say he was killed. Youtubers with conspiracy theory channels suggested he was somewhere in hiding.
In truth, he died in an underground cellar as a result of the torture Sukuna put him through. And he died with that same, sick smile on his face.
Following your hospital stay, Ryomen Sukuna did as he promised. He took you to see all the most mesmerizing sights of Europe, and an extra amount of time was spent in Greece.
All the while, he waited for you to speak again. The doctors swore that your mutism was only temporary, that soon, it would return.
In the end, both you and Ryomen passed away as elders, decades upon decades fluttering by, in which you never spoke another word.
ugh this was so good, so so so good!!! it was CRAZY immersive I forgot i was reading a fanfic... easily top 5 fics ive ever read đđđđ the suspense was actually unreal, you did SUCH a great job op
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