â˘âHIS DESCENT STARTS WITH YOUââ˘
ââ the dark!jjk men meet you for the first time and the obsession starts immediately
âŹÎšâﺤâ⢠satoru ৴ suguru ৴ nanami ৴ choso ৴ takuma ৴ hajime ৴ higuruma ৴ toji ৴ shiu ৴ naoya
request something âŹÎšâﺤ navigation âŹÎšâﺤ the dark files âŹÎšâﺤ the bimbo files
â˘âSATORU GOJOââ˘
satoru met you when he was seven years old, back when he still wore scraped knees and bruised shins and never quite understood why adults stared at him like he was something terrible wearing a childâs face. you were sitting on the edge of the training yard, swinging your legs over the stones, watching the older sorcerers practice with this soft, curious awe that made you look like you had wandered in from a gentler world.
he noticed you because you didnât look afraid of him. everyone else always did.
your eyes tracked him like there was something worth admiring instead of fearing, and that one look did something to him, something small and sharp, like a splinter slipping under the skin. he asked you who you were in the blunt, unpolished way children ask questions, and you told him your name, told him you were there because your parents worked for the clan, told him you liked watching the sorcerers even though they scared you sometimes.
"do i scare you?" he asked, genuinely curious.
you shook your head instantly. "no. you look lonely, not scary."
no one had ever said anything like that to him before. the adults whispered words like weapon and miracle and liability, but never lonely. never anything soft. satoru felt something warm settle in his chest, a strange humming that he didnât understand yet, so he stood beside you and didnât say anything else because he didnât know how to talk about the warm feeling.
you kept coming back. he started waiting for you.
he would pretend to be bored, or lean against the wall with that inherited arrogance the clan expected from him, but his eyes were always searching for you, for the way youâd slip into the courtyard with your shoes half tied and your hair messy from running, for the way you waved at him like he wasnât someone everyone else bowed to.
and you talked to him. you talked to him like he was just a boy.
no one else did that.
thatâs when the splinter grew roots, lodging deeper, turning into something bigger and heavier and impossible to ignore. he followed you around more. sometimes blatantly, sometimes from the shadows, sometimes sending lingering glances over his shoulder just to make sure you were still there, still close, still his one safe softness in a world full of sharpened edges.
when he was nine and a curse almost broke through the barrier near your house, he vaporized it before anyone else even sensed it. he didnât sleep the entire night. he sat outside your door until sunrise, making sure nothing touched you because the idea of something hurting you felt wrong in a way that made his stomach twist.
when he was eleven, he beat a senior student half to death because the boy shoved you out of the way during sparring practice. satoru didnât remember throwing the punches, not really, he just remembered red blooming in his eyes and this deafening rush in his head like the whole world had gone underwater. he didnât even care about the punishment that followed. he only cared that you looked at him with wide, shaken eyes and whispered thank you, and that was enough to tether his heartbeat back into something calm.
when he was twelve, you told him you wanted to be a sorcerer too. he didnât like the idea, the thought of you getting hurt made something cold and vicious rise beneath his ribs, but you smiled so brightly that day that he nodded anyway.
"iâll train you," he said.
"really?"
"yeah."
he didnât add so no one else ever gets close enough to teach you anything but me.
you kept growing and he kept changing, and every year the quiet obsession he carried sharpened into something clearer, something hungrier, something he didnât even try to hide. he always walked a step behind you, always intercepted anyone who tried to bother you, always hovered too close during missions, too aware of every breath you took, every tiny shift in your voice, every bruise on your skin.
you got used to it because you didnât know anything else. you didnât realize other boys didnât watch you the way satoru did.
he would look at you like you were a secret only he knew, like something fragile he was terrified of losing but would tear the world apart to keep. sometimes youâd laugh at a joke someone else made and his jaw would clench so tightly you could hear his teeth grind, and heâd make some excuse to pull you aside, to redirect your attention back where it 'belonged.'
by the time he was sixteen, the clan had stopped trying to separate you two. it was pointless. satoru followed you like a shadow that learned how to breathe. kids teased him about having a crush, elders whispered about emotional vulnerability being a liability, but he didnât care. he only cared when you were upset, when you were tired, when you smiled at someone else, when he imagined a world where you chose anyone but him.
you never noticed the way his stare changed over the years, how it grew darker, how it lingered on you too long, how it followed the shape of your throat when you swallowed, your hands when you fidgeted, your lips when you spoke. you thought that was just how satoru looked at people. but it wasnât.
it was only you.
you didnât realize how deep it went until one night, when you were seventeen and training, and a senior sorcerer criticized your technique harshly, made a snide comment about you being weak, and satoru snapped. there was no warning, no hesitation, just the raw, terrifying flare of his cursed energy drowning the entire courtyard in blue white light as he pinned the man to the ground with a force violent enough to crack stone.
you called his name, startled and shaky, and he calmed instantly, dropping the man like a discarded object before turning to you with that same soft, gentle smile heâd worn the first day you met. like nothing horrifying had happened at all.
"donât listen to him," he murmured, brushing a stray hair from your cheek. "youâre perfect."
and you believed him, because he said it so tenderly, so sincerely, like it came from a place of pure care.
you didnât realize it came from obsession.
you didnât realize it came from the boy who had decided, long before you ever understood what that meant, that you were his first friend, his first softness, and therefore his forever.
â˘âSUGURU GETOââ˘
you met him on a winter afternoon you werenât meant to survive.
the geto estate had opened its gates to the public for one of those carefully curated charity functions, something the higher clans did once a year to pretend they were benevolent, though everyone knew civilians were only allowed because it looked good in headlines. you came because your friend begged you to come along, whispering something about getting to see "old money weirdos up close," and you had no idea that stepping through those lacquered gates would mark you like blood on snow.
suguru saw you before you saw him.
he was standing on a raised walkway, dressed in his ceremonial robesâblack silk layered over deep violet, the kind of fabric that swallowed lantern light whole. his hair was tied back with a gold clasp, posture straight and regal, expression carved from stone as he watched the crowd like he was overseeing livestock. bored. superior. untouchable.
and then you laughed at something your friend said and suguruâs head snapped toward the sound like heâd been struck.
for one second, just one, his composure cracked. not visibly to the crowd, but internally, something ancient and instinctive curled its fingers around his ribs. it wasnât attraction. not yet. it was⌠interest, sharp and unwelcome, the same way youâd pause if a wild animal suddenly made eye contact with you from the treeline.
he kept staring.
you didnât notice him, of course. humans never noticed predators until the teeth were already in their throat. but suguru noticed everything about you.
he noticed how you walked like you didnât know your life could be ended here. how you looked up at the architecture with honest wonder, as if any of this had been built for you. how your friend tugged your sleeve, pointing at the cursed paintings on the wall, and you hummed thoughtfully, like you were trying to understand a language only sorcerers were meant to hear.
he hated that hum. it was gentle. soft. human.
but he followed it anyway.
he drifted through the crowd with effortless grace, robes whispering behind him, no footsteps, no presence. just a shadow that moved with intention. people bowed. moved aside. lowered their heads.
you were the only one who didnât.
you turned around too quickly and almost walked right into him. you froze, he didnât move.
for a heartbeat, you were close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from him, close enough to smell incense and clean winter air clinging to his robes, close enough to see the faint gold flecks in his irises that made them look too pretty to belong to someone capable of so much cruelty.
"oh- sorry," you murmured, stepping back politely. "i didnât see you."
he didnât blink.
that alone made your breath catch.
suguru was used to humans flinching before him, bowing, stuttering apologies. not looking him in the eyes. not speaking casually. not treating him like someone standing in their path instead of a god descending.
you werenât afraid. he didnât know what to do with that.
"âŚyouâre not with the clans." his voice was even, low, controlled.
"no," you said. "just visiting."
he should have walked away.
he should have dismissed you as a bothersome monkey.
he did neither.
"this place isnât meant for people like you," he said, and he said it softly, not unkindly, but with the truth of someone who could crush your throat between two fingers.
you smiled, actually smiled, warm, unguarded, human. "yeah," you admitted, "but itâs pretty. and i wanted to see something pretty today."
his stomach dropped.
it was such an innocent thing to say, harmless really but it hit him like a curse to the sternum, because he couldnât tell if you meant the building behind him or him.
you looked at him like he was something worth looking at and that was the moment he became ruined.
he didnât let you see the reaction, didnât let you see the anger and fascination twisting together in his chest like two snakes knotting around a single rib. he only tilted his head, studying you with a kind of slow, clinical hunger.
"you shouldnât wander alone," he murmured.
"why?" you asked.
his eyes lowered to your throat. then rose again. "because someone might decide to keep you."
you thought he meant it as a warning.
he meant it as a promise.
you excused yourself with a polite smile and walked back to your friend, who was waving you over excitedly. suguru didnât follow, physically. he stayed where he was, hands tucked into his sleeves, expression smooth.
but he watched.
he watched the way your hair caught the lantern light. he watched the way your fingertips trailed along the carved railing. he watched the way you murmured apologies to a stray kitten near the stairs.
humans werenât supposed to be kind. humans werenât supposed to be enchanting. humans werenât supposed to make him feel anything but disgust.
and yet, you walked out the gates without looking back.
suguru stood on the balcony long after the event ended, long after the crowd dissipated, long after the lanterns were dimmed. something ancient and ugly throbbed behind his ribs, something cold.
he hated that you were human.
he hated that you were soft.
he hated that you slipped through his fingers before he had the chance to close them around you.
but most of all, he hated that he found himself whispering your name, just the sound you had given when introducing yourself, and feeling his pulse spike like he had swallowed fire.
humans were beneath him.
humans were filth.
humans were disposable.
but you?
you had walked through his domain with bright eyes and an easy smile and no understanding at all of what you had done.
you had been pretty.
you had been warm.
you had been alive.
and now he couldnât stop thinking about you.
the next day, suguru summoned every member of his clan and ordered a new directive in a voice too calm to be questioned,
"find out everything about her."
and when one elder asked why, suguru only smiled, slow, sharp, terrifying.
"because," he murmured, "i need to know what belongs to me."
â˘âKENTO NANAMIââ˘
nanami had always believed that life was supposed to be simple if you kept your head down, followed rules, and avoided unnecessary chaos, which was why he tried so hard to keep his days predictable. coffee at 6:10, tie knotted at 6:12, paperwork at 6:40, mission brief by 7 sharp. but everything came undone the morning he found you sitting on the cold steps outside jujutsu headquarters, hugging your knees like the world had decided to collapse without warning.
he only noticed you because you didnât belong there. civilians were never supposed to be this close to sorcerer business, yet you sat facing the sunrise, wearing clothes that looked a little too thin for the chill, and when you lifted your head at the sound of his footsteps, your eyes were swollen like youâd spent the entire night crying.
"are you hurt?" he asked, and his voice was gentle in a way that surprised even him, because he didnât do tenderness for strangers.
you shook your head quickly, wiping at your cheeks like you were embarrassed to be caught. "n-no, sorry, iâm not supposed to be here. i just- didnât have anywhere else to go for a few hours."
it shouldâve ended there. nanami shouldâve nodded, walked past, reported you to security, and carried on with his morning.
instead he stopped and sat down beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
you looked startled. he didnât blame you, nanami kento didnât sit next to people. he tolerated them.
"why are you here so early?" he asked, watching the way your hands trembled as you tucked them into your sleeves.
you hesitated, voice cracking a little. "my landlord kicked me out. i couldnât pay rent on time, and he didnât want to wait. i didnât know where else to go."
nanamiâs jaw locked so hard it ached.
he could picture it perfectly, some greedy, irritated man deciding you werenât worth patience. some stranger who saw nothing valuable in you, nothing worth caring for, nothing worth protecting.
the thought made something shift sharply inside him.
"you should have reported him," nanami said quietly, "itâs illegal."
you laughed under your breath, soft and sad. "yeah, well⌠when youâre broke, people donât really care whatâs illegal."
nanami looked at you then, really looked, and the moment your eyes met his, something dark and steady and unshakeable clicked into place inside his chest.
this wasnât pity.
it was possessiveness, sharp and absolute.
you were sitting here in the cold with no coat, no home, no one who cared enough to help you, and nanami felt the kind of rage that didnât show on his face but coiled low in his stomach, controlled, patient, viciously quiet.
someone had failed you. multiple someones, probably. and he hated them all at once.
"stand up," he said suddenly, voice calm but unyielding.
you blinked. "um⌠why?"
"because youâre coming with me."
you stared at him, wide eyed and confused. "i- sir, i donât even know you."
"you donât need to. i know enough."
and he meant it, in a way that was both unsettling and strangely reassuring. nanami didnât care about your past. he didnât need you to explain yourself. he didnât need details or history or justification.
he saw you in pain once, and that was enough.
he rose to his feet, adjusting his tie with a precision that bordered on obsessive, then extended a hand toward you.
not a request, a command disguised as courtesy.
you hesitated, of course you did, and he could see the fear flickering behind your eyes, the uncertainty, the instinct to apologize for being a burden when you werenât one.
nanami softened his voice only slightly. "you have nowhere to go. i wonât force you. but youâre not staying out here in the cold."
that was all it took.
you placed your hand in his, small and cold and trusting in a way that made his breath hitch, and nanami felt that quiet, orderly life of his tilt permanently off its axis.
he would provide for you.
he would protect you.
he would become the person who never let you feel this helpless again.
you didnât know it, you couldnât know it, but the moment your fingers curled around his, nanami kento decided something permanent and irreversible.
you were his responsibility now.
his to shelter.
his to watch over.
his to keep safe.
his.
you followed him down the steps, unaware of the darkness blooming behind his steady expression, unaware that nanami wasnât thinking about returning you to some landlord or some relative or some friend.
he wasnât thinking about letting you walk away at all.
because the world had failed you once, and nanami had always believed in fixing broken systems with his own hands.
and now? you were part of his system.
and he would correct the world around you, bend it, break it, quiet it, until you no longer had to cry alone on cold steps in the early morning light.
whether you realized any of this or not didnât matter.
nanami walked a step ahead of you, steady, composed, deadly calm, already planning.
already claiming.
already falling.
and by the time he glanced back to check if you were keeping up, you were smiling, small and grateful, trusting in a way that made his chest clench.
he knew there was no turning back.
â˘âCHOSO KAMOââ˘
chosoâs first mistake was looking at you.
it wasnât supposed to mean anything. he had only been alive in a real, physical, breathing way for a short time, and most things in the human world still felt too loud, too bright, too much like standing beneath a sun he wasnât meant to be under. the train was crowded, metal rattling, bodies pressed too close, scents colliding in ways he didnât have the language for. he stood rigid near the door, hands in his pockets like yuji showed him, head lowered, hoping no one would speak to him.
and then the train lurched, and you stumbled.
not dramatically, just a tiny, human misstep, your fingers brushing the metal pole, your hair shifting over your cheek, your breath catching in a soft, flustered sound that barely rose above the hum of the carriage. but chosoâs head snapped up like someone had tugged a string inside his chest.
you were pretty in a way he didnât understand yet. soft in a way curses werenât. warm in a way his kind had no word for. something about you made his instincts tilt sideways, like his bones were suddenly too big for his skin and his pulse was trying to climb up his throat.
you didnât notice him. no one ever did. he was good at being quiet, at folding himself into corners of rooms. but he noticed you, every detail, every motion, every breath.
you pressed your headphones in deeper. your brows scrunched at whatever song you were listening to. your lip gloss had a tiny smudge at the corner where you mustâve wiped your mouth without thinking. and when your bag slipped off your shoulder, you huffed a little under your breath, annoyed in the softest way heâd ever seen.
his chest clenched.
it didnât feel normal.
it didnât feel human.
he watched you like someone starving watches the last fruit on a high branch, instinct first, reasoning later, desire blooming with no name attached. his fingers twitched in his pockets, itching with the new, strange urge to fix the strap on your bag, to hold your elbow so you wouldnât stumble again, to stand between you and anyone who even breathed too close.
he didnât know that was wrong.
he didnât know it was obsessive.
choso only knew curses, and curses followed impulses without hesitation. they saw something they wanted, they took it or destroyed it. and humans were confusing. so warm. so bright. so breakable. but you, you didnât seem breakable. you seemed⌠fragile, yes, but not weak. small, but not insignificant. you were just existing in front of him, unaware, humming under your breath, and he was learning the burn of longing for the first time.
and longing changed him.
someone bumped into you. not hard, but enough to jolt your shoulder.
choso almost tore their throat out.
he didnât move, thank whoever taught him self control, but the instinct was violent and immediate. rage flooded his veins so quickly he felt dizzy with it. his vision blurred around the edges, curse instincts screaming mine mine mine even though you werenât. even though youâd never looked his way.
your headphones slipped askew. you muttered a soft apology even though you werenât the one who should apologize. choso stared, breath unsteady.
why did you do that?
why were you softening yourself for someone who didnât deserve it?
why did humans shrink instead of bite?
he didnât understand. but he wanted to. he wanted to understand you so badly it made him sway slightly where he stood. he wanted to know what you ate for breakfast and why you tied your hair the way you did and what song made you smile like that. he wanted to know your name. he wanted to say it out loud. he wanted to keep it like a weapon or a blessing on his tongue.
the train stopped, you stepped out and choso followed.
not consciously. not with intent. not with anything that resembled a plan. his feet just moved because you moved, and every instinct inside him screamed that if he let you leave, if he let this moment dissolve back into the noise of the city, he would lose something important, something vital, something heâd waited his whole life (and unlife) without realizing it.
you walked through the station, weaving through crowds, your bag bouncing gently against your hip. choso trailed several paces behind, head lowered, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he was trying to look normal, though he didnât know what normal looked like yet.
you stopped to check your phone.
he stopped too.
you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
his fingers twitched.
you stepped into the sunlight and winced at how bright it was.
he dipped his head in instinctive sympathy, even though you would never see it.
when the crowd finally swallowed you, disappearing you into its mass, choso stood there on the platform, stomach twisting painfully, feeling something he didnât have words for.
loss.
he didnât know why it hurt so much. he didnât know why the ache felt sharp and wrong and permanent. he didnât know why the image of your face was already burning itself into the back of his mind like a brand.
he didnât know any of this was abnormal.
he only knew one thing with absolute certainty. next time, he wouldnât let you disappear.
because whatever you had awakened inside him, warmth or hunger or devotion or madness, he wasnât built to ignore it.
and curses didnât love gently.
they clung. they consumed. they kept.
and choso had decided, without meaning to, without understanding why, you were his to keep.
â˘âTAKUMA INOââ˘
takuma never understood why people made such a big deal about obsession.
heâd always assumed it was something dramatic and intense, like the stuff they showed in movies, a villain whispering "youâre mine," or some stalker writing a thousand letters. his life had never felt like that. everything about him was painfully normal. he woke up, he worked, he tried his best. he was mediocre in all the ways that counted and loyal in all the ways that didnât matter. nothing about him felt remotely dangerous.
until the day he met you.
and suddenly he understood obsession like it was a language heâd been born speaking.
it started stupidly, embarrassingly normal. some random tuesday where the division sent him out for a routine investigation and he arrived early because he always tried too hard. the street was still waking up, sunlight soft, air chilly, people crossing intersections like clockwork. he was reviewing his notes, yawning into his sleeve, when he heard your voice through the open cafe door, bright and warm and soft enough to feel like fingers scraping down his spine.
"sorry! iâll pay you back tomorrow, i promise, i just⌠forgot my wallet again."
takuma glanced up, and that was it.
you were standing at the counter, holding a muffin with both hands like it was something precious, smile sweet and apologetic, hair a little messy, sleeves too long, eyes shining with sincerity that looked stupidly rare in a world that chewed people up and spit them out.
the barista sighed, clearly annoyed, but you just gave a sheepish laugh and a tiny wave, as if embarrassed by your own existence. something in the way you ducked your head made inoâs chest feel tight.
without thinking, truly without thinking, he stepped inside.
"put it on mine," he said, already pulling out his wallet.
your head whipped toward him, surprised, eyes wide and soft and way too pretty for this world. "oh no! no, you donât have to do that, seriously, itâs fine, iâm fine-"
"itâs okay," he said, too quickly. "i want to."
your face lit up like heâd given you something massive instead of a seven dollar pastry, and that was the exact second his brain broke.
because no one had ever looked at him like that.
not like he was a hero. or a threat. or an inconvenience.
just⌠someone kind.
someone worth smiling at.
and ino, whoâd never had anything close to love in his life, handed over the money like he was paying for the right to breathe the same air as you.
you followed him outside, clutching the muffin, voice bright. "thank you. really. iâll pay you back. next time i see you."
he lied instantly. "iâm here every morning." he wasnât. but he would be now.
you laughed, warm and trusting, and waved goodbye before walking down the street, humming under your breath, crumbs clinging to your lips as you took a bite.
ino watched you go with his hands still half raised, heart pounding too hard, thinking, oh. oh no. this is bad.
and it only got worse after that.
because he did come back the next morning. and the morning after that. and every morning after that. you showed up sometimes, sometimes not, but every time you appeared his whole world narrowed down to the sound of your shoes on the tile.
you never caught the way he memorized your routines without trying. you never noticed how he went out of his way to "accidentally" walk past your street. you never saw the way he lingered in places youâd been, pretending it was coincidence.
and takuma convinced himself it was normal. not obsession. not fixation. just⌠paying attention. being considerate. wanting to make sure you were safe because this world was ugly and you were too soft to survive it without someone quietly watching your back.
and when you smiled at him each time you saw him, soft, grateful, oblivious, it carved the obsession deeper, burying it under layers of sweetness until it felt less like madness and more like devotion.
you told him once, in that airy, gentle tone of yours, that he "felt easy to be around," and he almost laughed.
if you knew the thoughts crawling through his head whenever you looked at him like that, youâd run.
or maybe you wouldnât. maybe that hope, that tiny poisonous hope, was why his heart twisted every time you wandered out of his line of sight.
he followed you that morning just long enough to make sure you crossed the street safely, then forced himself to stop, leaning against a lamppost with his pulse racing.
he knew he should walk away.
he knew this wasnât normal.
but something inside him whispered that this was fate, that you were meant to be protected, and he was meant to protect you, and there was nothing unhinged about that at all.
after all⌠youâd smiled at him. and isnât that how all good stories start?
â˘âHAJIME KASHIMOââ˘
hajime kashimo didnât believe in softness.
not in mercy, not in gentleness, not in anything that wasnât sharpened by combat or purified by pain. he had lived too long and killed too many to feel anything that resembled wonder, and the world had become nothing more than a battlefield he was waiting to die on, an endless stretch of monotony broken only by the rare thrum of a worthy opponent.
so the day he met you shouldnât have mattered at all. it shouldnât have even registered.
it happened in the middle of a storm.
heâd created it, of course. bored, irritated, letting cursed energy ignite the sky just to see how many sorcerers would come running to investigate the sudden spike, eager to flatten any who approached. thunderstorms were the only thing that gave him clarity anymore, the only thing that reminded him that he was alive, even if barely.
but instead of a sorcerer, instead of a challenger, instead of the centuries-awaited thrill of a fightâŚ
he found you.
you were standing in the rain like an idiot, holding a broken umbrella that wasnât even open properly, staring up at the lightning like you were admiring fireworks instead of an omen of death.
he froze for a fraction of a second. not because you were strong. you werenât. not because you were a threat. you werenât. but because you were smiling.
smiling at his storm.
and something in him cracked in a strange, unsteady way.
lightning should have struck you. you were right under it, fragile, soft, unguarded, absolutely defenseless. you should have died instantly, and hajime would have felt nothing. thatâs how the laws of the world worked.
instead, the storm bent around you.
the energy shifted. the sky changed its aim. lightning coiled through the clouds like a serpent choosing a new target.
he felt it, the storm recognizing you. he didn't like that. it didnât make sense. nothing did.
hajime stepped out of the shadows before he even realized he was moving.
you startled, turning toward him with wide eyes, clothes soaked through, hair plastered to your cheeks, breathing fast from the cold. you looked like something the world should have broken years ago, something too delicate to stand on its own.
yet you still smiled at him.
âsorry,â you said breathlessly, as if youâd been caught doing something mischievous, âi⌠um. i like watching lightning. is that weird?â
yes, he thought immediately.
yes, it was very weird.
yes, it was stupid and reckless and suicidal.
yes, you were ridiculous.
and then- yes, he liked it.
he didnât answer.
you didnât seem bothered.
âi think itâs pretty,â you continued, eyes turning back to the sky. âmost people get scared, but⌠i dunno. it feels like itâs talking to me.â
his fingers twitched.
lightning had only ever spoken to him.
how dare it speak to you.
you went quiet for a moment, shivering, hugging the useless umbrella to your chest.
that was when it happened.
a strike, sudden, violent, lethal, dropped from the clouds faster than any human could see.
except hajime.
he stepped forward without thinking, redirecting the bolt through his own cursed energy, letting it hit him instead of you, letting the crackle rip down his arms, burning his skin in bright violet lines.
you gasped, stumbling back. âoh my god- are you okay?!â
the fact that you could watch a man absorb a lightning strike and worry about him made something ugly and possessive curl inside him.
ââŚit wonât touch you,â he said finally, voice low and rough, more like a threat than reassurance.
you blinked up at him. âbecause you protected me?â
he hadnât meant to. he didnât do protection. he didnât do kindness. he didnât do anything that wasnât strategically advantageous.
but you said it like it was obvious. like it made sense. like you believed he would.
something ancient and violent in him stirred.
you werenât strong. you werenât impressive. you werenât his equal.
but you were the first thing in centuries that made his lightning hesitate.
the first thing he looked at without feeling the familiar boredom.
the first person whose death he didnât want.
âgo home,â he said, stepping closer, the storm humming through his bones. âthis place isnât safe.â
you smiled again, that soft, infuriating little smile like you thought he was being sweet.
âokay. but⌠thank you,â you said, voice quiet. âfor, um⌠saving me.â
he almost laughed.
saving you.
if only you knew.
you walked past him, close enough that he caught the faint scent of rain and warmth on your skin, close enough that he could feel your mortal heartbeat, close enough that something in his chest tightened.
he didnât watch people leave.
he wasnât sentimental, he wasnât protective, he wasnât human in any way that mattered.
and yet he watched you walk away until the storm dissipated entirely. until the sky cleared. until he couldnât see you anymore.
a strange, dangerous thought flickered in the back of his mind.
lightning doesnât choose what it strikes.
except⌠maybe it did. maybe it had chosen you.
and hajime kashimo had never once in his life allowed himself to want anything. but now he did.
and he hated that. and he loved that. and he knew, with the clarity of thunder splitting the world open, that this was only the beginning.
because storms always return to what they break.
and he would too.
â˘âHIROMI HIGURUMAââ˘
you met hiromi higuruma on your first day at the firm, still clutching the stack of onboarding papers against your chest like a shield, trying to steady your breathing as you followed the secretary down a too bright hallway. he was already waiting in the conference room, tall, calm, unreadable, hands folded neatly on the table, posture perfect in a way that made you straighten instinctively, like his presence alone adjusted the room around him.
he looked up slowly when you stepped in, and something in his expression flickered, barely there but unmistakably sharp, as though the sight of you disrupted the internal order heâd built his life around.
"this is higuruma," the secretary introduced. "heâll be training you for the next few weeks."
he didnât smile. he didnât offer his hand. he simply inclined his head, voice even, controlled to the point of suffocation.
"youâre late."
your breath caught. "i- sorry, i got turned around-"
"itâs fine," he said, but the words were too smooth, too mild, the kind of fine that felt like a verdict. "sit."
you obeyed before your brain caught up.
he slid a thick file toward you, fingers brushing the edge of the folder with meticulous precision. "weâll start with case reviews. read everything. slowly. thoroughly."
you nodded again, heart thudding stupidly. you didnât realize he was watching the way your hands trembled until he said, almost quietly, "you donât need to be afraid." and then, softer, so soft you almost missed it, "not of me."
your stomach flipped in a way that made no sense.
he watched you read for a long time. longer than someone should. his gaze never wandered, never drifted, never blinked away from you for more than a moment. he studied the way you turned pages, the way your lips moved when you mouthed the more difficult legal terms, the crease in your brow when you concentrated too hard. he observed you like a man memorizing a confession.
and then, you made your mistake.
you looked up, hesitating. "um⌠can i ask something?"
he stilled, eyes sharpening. "yes."
"are you⌠okay?" you asked, voice soft with genuine concern. "you look kind of tired."
it was nothing. a small kindness, something you said to everyone, something you forgot five seconds after you said it. but higuruma froze completely, breath stuttering in a way you didnât notice, because no one ever asked him if he was okay. not sincerely. not gently. not with that softness in their eyes like they meant it.
it lodged itself inside him like a hook.
he looked at you too long, long enough that you shifted in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of the intensity in his gaze, the calculation behind it, the way he studied your face as if tracing the memory into place.
"iâm fine," he said at last, voice low. "but⌠thank you."
you smiled, a small, warm thing, unguarded and honest.
and that was the moment everything went wrong.
because higuruma felt something inside him tilt dangerously, like heâd been walking a straight line for years and suddenly the ground shifted beneath his feet. he had been composed, structured, deliberate and then you smiled at him, and something in his chest tightened with an emotion he hadnât permitted himself to feel since long before he ever stepped into a courtroom.
he spent the rest of training watching you too closely, listening too intently, standing too near. he corrected your form by guiding your hand with an unfamiliar gentleness, fingers lingering a moment too long. he memorized the cadence of your voice when you read aloud. he learned your schedule. he noticed the way you tucked your hair behind your ear. he catalogued everything.
and you didnât realize any of it. not the way his eyes hardened at anyone else who tried to talk to you, not the way he dismissed male coworkers with one cold look when they hovered too close, not the way his jaw tightened whenever someone made you laugh. you thought he was just quiet. reserved. intense.
but he was watching you with the same focus he used in the courtroom, absolute, terrifying, unwavering.
and when you left your scarf behind after a long day, soft, warm, carrying the faint scent of your perfume, higuruma folded it carefully and held it in both hands as though it were evidence. something sacred. something damning.
"you shouldnât have been kind to me," he murmured to the empty office, fingers brushing the fabric like he could feel your pulse beneath it.
because now?
he wasnât going to stop.
not when heâd finally found something gentle in a world that never gave him anything worth keeping.
and certainly not when you were the one who gave it to him.
â˘âRYOMEN SUKUNAââ˘
the village had been burning for hours by the time he bothered to walk through it.
screams had already faded into ash, smoke curling up into the sky like the world was exhaling its last breath, and sukuna stepped over corpses the way other men stepped over puddles, mildly annoyed they existed at all. he didnât come for the thrill anymore. slaughter was an old habit, a muscle he could work without thinking. but even the boredom of conquest had a certain rhythm to it, a pulse he understood.
that rhythm stopped the moment he saw you.
you were crouched behind a half collapsed wall, clutching something to your chest, a woven basket, pathetic and frayed, filled with herbs and roots and whatever little scraps your life consisted of. your hands were shaking, your breath ragged, your eyes wide and shimmering in the firelight like you were some small, trembling creature meant to be hidden in a forest, not found in the ruins of a massacre.
and the moment sukuna laid eyes on you, something low and sharp curled inside him, something ancient and hungry and deeply territorial.
he paused, head tilting, four eyes narrowing in quiet interest.
you were trying so hard not to breathe loud enough for him to hear.
you failed.
âlittle mouse,â he said, voice low and amused, like he was greeting an animal that wandered into his palm. âcome out.â
you flinched. that almost made him smile.
no one hid from him, not successfully. and you werenât even doing a very good job of it, you were shaking so badly the herbs in your basket rattled with each tremor.
sukuna could have dragged you out by your ankle, split your skull open, left you as another nameless stain on the earth.
but he didn't.
he pushed aside the broken wall with one hand, splintering wood and stone like they were paper, and crouched down to your level, watching the way your body curled tighter around the basket like it could protect you.
âwhat are you doing,â he murmured, irritation and curiosity mixing in his voice, âtrembling like a rabbit in a snare?â
you tried to speak, but your throat locked.
âanswer me.â
your mouth opened, but the only sound that came out was a soft, desperate whimper, and that sound lodged itself under his ribs like a hook.
something primal shifted behind all four eyes.
not pity.
possession.
you didnât even know him, didnât know what he was, and yet you looked at him like you were staring at the end of the world itself. he felt the spark of it, the way fear made your pulse quicken, the way you shrank back but couldnât look away, and he found himself leaning in, fascinated.
âtell me your name.â
you whispered it so quietly he almost didnât hear, but he did. he committed it to memory instantly, carved it into the marrow of this moment.
your hands shook so badly the basket slipped. sukuna caught it before it hit the ground.
the surprise in your eyes was almost amusing.
âthese,â he said, examining the herbs youâd gathered like they were pitiful treasures, âare what you risked your life for? foolish.â
you swallowed. âthey⌠they were for my mother.â
he raised a brow. âand where is she now?â
your silence was answer enough.
sukuna clicked his tongue, tossing the basket aside like it meant nothing. âpathetic.â
you flinched again, and the movement made him reach forward without thinking. his fingers slid beneath your chin, forcing your head up, forcing your pretty, terrified eyes to meet all four of his.
for a moment neither of you moved.
he studied you. the dirt on your knees, the soot on your cheeks, the way your lashes clumped with tears, the way your pulse fluttered beneath your skin like it wanted to escape.
and something twisted, slow and deliberate, inside his chest. a decision forming, solidifying, settling with the weight of inevitability.
âyou,â he said simply, âbelong to me now.â
your breath hitched.
he didn't clarify what he meant. didnât soften the decree. didnât give you the illusion of choice. he stood, grabbed your wrist gently, almost deceptively gently, and pulled you to your feet like you weighed nothing at all.
âbut-â you tried to protest.
he stopped walking and looked back.
âdo you value your life?â you nodded, tiny and trembling. âthen youâll follow.â
you did.
and he didnât let go of your wrist the entire way out of the village, not even when you stumbled, not even when your tears blurred your vision, not even when you reached the outskirts and dared to look back at everything youâd lost.
âdonât look at that place,â he said, fingers tightening around your skin, voice low and final. âit has nothing left for you.â
you swallowed hard. ââŚwhat do i have now?â
he looked down at you, expression unreadable, eyes burning with something dark and certain and far too possessive for a man who had just met you.
âme.â
and that was the moment your life ended, and the moment your new one, the one defined entirely by him, began.
â˘âTOJI FUSHIGUROââ˘
toji had never believed in fate. in his world, things didnât "align" or "happen for a reason." people died, money moved, jobs were taken and finished, and nothing meant anything beyond the price attached to it. life was simple. clean. transactional.
until the night he was hired to kill your father.
it was supposed to be the kind of job he didnât even blink at, another corrupt businessman, another name on a long list of disposable people. heâd studied the house for days from the shadows. the locked windows, the guard schedules, the way the lights went out room by room at exactly ten fifty one every night. nothing special.
and then, while he was perched on the rooftop across the street with his knife balanced between his fingers, you walked into view.
you, in a soft little sweater, hair down, shoulders relaxed, eyes unfocused with exhaustion as you carried a mug of tea to your balcony. you leaned against the railing like youâd done it a hundred nights before, clueless, peaceful, vulnerable in a way that made something violent and unfamiliar stir in his chest.
he froze.
because you were beautiful, yes, in that soft, warm way that made him think of things he had no right to think about, but it was the contrast that hooked him. you lived in a house filled with rot and money and dirty secrets, yet you looked untouched by all of it. like a flower growing through concrete.
you werenât the target but suddenly, you were all he could see.
you sighed into the night air, rubbing your thumb along the rim of your mug, and toji felt irritation prick along the back of his neck at how close you were to the edge of the balcony. one wrong lean, one dizzy moment, and youâd fall. he clicked his tongue, annoyed by the thought, annoyed by caring, which was something he hadnât done in years.
he shouldâve looked away. he didnât.
he watched you instead, the tiny soft movements, the absentminded hum under your breath, the way you looked up at the sky like you were asking it a question. he memorized all of it without meaning to.
that was the first mistake.
the second was the moment your father stormed into view behind the glass, face twisted in anger, voice muffled but sharp enough that even from across the street, toji could tell he wasnât saying anything kind. your shoulders shrank, your head bowed, and that unfamiliar, unwanted heat flared again in tojiâs chest. darker this time. heavier.
heâd been hired to kill the man anyway, but now he wanted to.
not for money, for you.
you disappeared back into the house like a frightened animal, and your father kept shouting long after you were gone. toji twirled his knife once between his fingers, and that was when the decision snapped cleanly into place inside him.
jobs had always just been jobs but this one wasnât anymore.
because you existed in the middle of it. and he wasnât letting someone like you stay caged in a house like that.
he broke in that night like it was nothing. a silent shadow, a ghost moving through hallways lined with expensive art and empty affection. your father died without ever seeing the face of the man who killed him, quick, efficient, meaningless.
but toji didnât leave. not yet.
he found your bedroom door halfway down the hall, cracked open just enough that he could see inside. and there you were, curled up on your bed, lights still on, tear tracks drying on your cheeks while you clutched a stuffed animal like you were much younger than you were.
toji leaned against the doorway, knife still warm in his hand, and let out a quiet breath he didnât realize heâd been holding.
you didnât wake, you didnât even stir and something in him settled, disturbingly satisfied, at the sight.
he shouldâve left right then, before the feeling rooting itself behind his ribs grew into something sharp enough to torment him. but he didnât. he took another step inside. then another. drawn to you like he was starving.
you were small like this. breakable. soft enough that one touch from him would bruise.
and yet you looked⌠safe.
safe in a world where people like him existed.
his jaw tightened.
he hated that.
he hated how his body reacted, how his brain sharpened around one thought he had never allowed himself to have before.
mine.
he stepped closer, just to look. just to confirm he wasnât imagining how gentle you looked in your sleep.
you shifted slightly, curling deeper into the blankets, and a soft, innocent sigh escaped your lips, a sound so achingly vulnerable that tojiâs fingers curled involuntarily around the edge of your doorway, knuckles white.
he imagined someone else hearing that sound. he hated the thought, viscerally.
he needed to leave. he didnât.
he stood there until the moon moved across your floorboards, until his heartbeat steadied, until something inside him settled into place with terrifying clarity.
he had come here to kill your father and he had, but now he wanted something else, something he had never wanted before.
he wanted to keep you.
safe. close. hidden from the world he lived in. hidden from anyone who might look at you and see what he saw.
you stirred again, a small motion, unaware of the monster standing at your door.
and for the first time since he was a child, toji smiled, slow, sharp, possessive.
he stepped back into the dark, disappearing as easily as heâd arrived.
but he knew heâd be back. because you were no longer just the daughter of a target.
you were the beginning of an obsession and toji fushiguro had already made his choice.
â˘âSHIU KONGââ˘
shiu wasnât supposed to notice you.
that was the thing, he had lived an entire life built on precision and clean, efficient detachment. he was a man who blended into corners, became furniture, became shadow, became whatever the room required him to be. hired hands werenât meant to feel anything, let alone the kind of creeping fixation that settles into bone before the brain can name it.
but then you walked into the room he was guarding, holding a stack of documents to your chest, frowning down at the floor like you werenât sure if you belonged here. and maybe you didnât, this was a meeting of men far above your pay grade, but no one stopped you, because you were polite and soft spoken and clearly harmless.
at least, that was what everyone else thought.
shiu wasnât like everyone else.
his eyes followed the way your fingers trembled when you set the papers down, the way you bowed your head too deeply when someone brushed past you, the way you apologized even when you didnât need to. there wasnât anything particularly special about you in any traditional sense, but something about the way you existed, quiet, unaware of your own beauty, a little nervous, made something in him stir.
it was the kind of stirring he usually only felt before a kill.
that was how he knew this was dangerous.
you smiled at him, just a passing glance, just a polite little thing, and he felt it land in his chest like a blade sinking clean between ribs. he didnât show it, of course. he didnât even tilt his head. he simply made a mental note. you smiled at him. you smiled at him, specifically.
he wondered if you smiled like that at everyone.
he hated the idea.
when the meeting ended, people streamed out of the room, loud and careless. you gathered your things slowly, methodical and gentle, and shiu stood near the door watching every movement as he always did with potential threats. except this time his attention had nothing to do with risk management and everything to do with curiosity that felt a little too sharp.
you nearly dropped one of the folders. he caught it before it hit the ground.
your breath hitched, tiny, startled, sweet.
"ah- thank you," you murmured, cheeks warming as you tried to take it back.
shiu didnât hand it over immediately. his fingers brushed yours for a second too long. he didnât mean to, or maybe he did, but he didnât move away even after you tried to retract your hand. he held the folder lightly, pinning you in place with nothing but a gentle grip and unreadable eyes.
"youâre new," he said, voice low and smooth, deceptively calm. "i havenât seen you around before."
you blinked up at him, flustered by the attention. "oh- yes. i just started last week. iâm still⌠learning where everything is."
he nodded, still not letting go of the folder.
"be careful," he said, tone flat but weighted with something you couldnât interpret. "people here notice everything."
you laughed nervously, not understanding the warning. "iâll try my best."
and gods, that laugh, soft and unsure and a little shaky, lodged itself under his skin like a splinter.
he handed the folder back finally, brushing your fingers again in a way he didnât allow himself to acknowledge.
"i can show you around," he said. "if you ever need someone to."
his voice sounded normal. casual. polite. but the intent underneath it was anything but.
you smiled again, bright, grateful, trusting.
"thatâd be really nice. thank you. um- shiu, right?"
he hadnât told you his name.
not even once.
something cold and electric curled up his spine at the idea that you already knew him, had noticed him on your own, had remembered him. he didnât question it out loud, he just nodded once, controlled, measured.
"yes," he said. "shiu kong."
you repeated it under your breath like you were trying to memorize it.
he walked you out of the building, steps silent beside you, hand always close to your lower back without actually touching. every person who passed you got a sharp, assessing look from him, one no one dared question. you didnât notice it at all. you didnât notice how his body shifted minutely each time someone got too close, how his gaze tracked every movement around you, how he matched your stride, slowed if you slowed, moved faster if you did, as if heâd been doing it his whole life.
and maybe, from that moment on, he would be.
at the exit, you gave him a tiny wave, adorably shy. "see you tomorrow, shiu."
you said it like a promise.
he heard it like a vow.
the door closed behind you, and shiu stood still in the empty lobby, expression blank, heart pounding with the calm, steady rhythm of a man who had decided something irreversible.
he wasnât supposed to notice you.
he wasnât supposed to care.
but he did and once shiu kong cared about something, he did not let go of it.
not ever.
â˘âNAOYA ZEN'INââ˘
naoya had always known he would marry someone useful, someone bred into obedience, someone raised to bow at the correct angle and speak only when spoken to. that was the way the zenin clan arranged these things, everything predetermined, everything transactional, everything done to maintain the illusion that their bloodline was something divine rather than rotten at the stem.
so when the elders told him his fiancee had finally been selected, the daughter of a minor clan, young, quiet, polite, he didnât bother reacting. another ornament, another political move, another pretty thing he would own in name and duty.
except the first time he saw you, nothing behaved as it should.
you were stiff when they ushered you into the room, eyes lowered, hands clasped so tightly he could see the tension in your knuckles. you bowed on command, answered the formal greetings on command, sat on command. everything so proper. so disciplined. so painfully rehearsed.
and then he saw the tremble under your lashes. the panic in your throat. the grief sitting behind your polite smile.
you didnât want to be here.
and for reasons naoya couldnât explain, rage, ugly and immediate, snapped through him like a blade dragged across bone.
the elders excused themselves to "give the young couple space," as though leaving the two of you alone could soften the fact that they had just arranged a lifelong cage between strangers. naoya didnât speak at first. he simply watched you sit like a cornered animal, breathing too shallow, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.
and then he noticed the subtle ache around your eyes, the kind that came from crying recently.
he hated it.
"youâre not happy about this," he said finally, his voice smooth, bored, but sharp around the edges. he didnât ask. he stated it, like diagnosing a structural flaw in a blade.
your chin lifted the slightest bit. "it wasnât my choice."
"nothing here is anyoneâs choice," he replied.
silence stretched between you, but you held it without flinching. and perhaps that was the moment, that infinitesimal tremor of defiance, when something in naoya shifted.
"i heard," he continued quietly, "you had someone else."
you froze, breath catching so hard it nearly betrayed you.
a lover.
naoya already knew. he had made sure to know.
"i-" you began, voice shaking, "it was before i knew anything about- about this arrangement."
"so you admit it."
your throat bobbed. "yes."
naoya didnât slam his hand against the table. he didnât raise his voice. he didnât need theatrics. he simply leaned forward, and the room temperature plummeted with the force of his attention pinning you in place.
"do you love him?" he asked softly, too softly.
your silence was answer enough.
something cruel and triumphant curled through him.
"heâs not suitable," naoya said, tone flat, absolute. "he has no status. no strength. nothing to offer. he is beneath you. beneath this family. beneath me."
your eyes flashed with something, fear, anger, grief, he couldnât tell which, and that made him want to smile.
you whispered, "please donât hurt him."
he tilted his head, as though considering mercy like it was an accessory he didnât particularly care to wear. "that depends entirely on you."
you stiffened.
he rose slowly, approached you with the confident, deliberate steps of someone who had never once been denied anything he wanted. he stopped just in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze.
"look at me," he said, and when you did, he rewarded you with a hand trailing up your jaw, thumb brushing the skin under your eye like he was memorizing your expression. "if youâre going to be mine, you will look at me when i speak to you."
your breath caught.
naoyaâs thumb lingered, gentle in a way that should have been tender, but wasnât. it was possessive. appraising. cataloging you like an item he now owned.
"forget him," he murmured. "you will marry me. you will live here. you will learn how to be a proper wife of the zen'in clan."
your eyes glossed with fresh tears, the grief of losing a life you chose, replaced by one caged in tradition and power.
he leaned closer, voice dropping into something colder.
"and if he so much as writes you a letter," he said, "iâll erase every branch of his family tree. iâll make sure his name disappears from every record. iâll make it as though he never existed."
you gasped, horrified.
naoya smiled.
"but if you behave," he added softly, brushing a tear off your cheek with his knuckle, "nothing needs to happen to him. see? iâm not unreasonable."
you trembled, lips pressed tight, shoulders rigid with helplessness.
he stepped back, satisfied with the way your fight crumpled into silence.
"good," he said. "the engagement feast will be announced tomorrow. youâll sit beside me. youâll smile. youâll look beautiful. and youâll forget every thought you had of loving someone else."
his eyes softened, dangerously and deceptively.
"because youâre mine now," he finished. "and i wonât tolerate sharing."
