All my works are collected here, and I’ll keep updating as new ones are published. I'm not a native English speaker, so I appreciate your understanding.
You can ask whatever you want, make whatever requests you want. If I think I can do it, I'm happy to do it.
Satoru Gojo was lounging on the large L-shaped couch in his penthouse living room, feet propped up on the coffee table, leaning back at an angle that would make you think he was staring at the ceiling—if his eyes weren't covered by his blindfold.
As his mother paced back and forth in front of the large windows in a fit of stress, the rhythmic clicking of her heels on the floor felt like a nail being driven in by a hammer. His father sat in the armchair across from Satoru, gripping the armrests and clenching his jaw as if he were holding himself back from saying something.
Satoru puffed out his cheeks in annoyance before letting out a loud, deep sigh. "Are you guys planning on talking, or are we going to wait until I figure out how to read minds?"
"You chose a bastard, Satoru," his mother finally snapped, her voice as cold as the winter air that had seeped through the shoji doors only nights before. She stopped her pacing, the clicking of her heels ceasing as she leveled a look of pure disdain at him. "A girl with ink on her skin and silver in her face. An Aoyama that even the Aoyamas would rather forget existed".
Satoru tilted his head back, a lazy, sharp grin spreading across his face as he remembered the girl. "I'd prefer if you didn't talk down about my fiancé, mother," he said, the amusement in his voice acting like salt in his parents' wounds. "And actually, I find tattoos attractive."
His father’s grip on the armchair tightened until the wood groaned. "This isn't about your personal tastes, Satoru. This is about the Gojo name. Reika Aoyama was the legitimate daughter, the one who carried the family’s pride like a crown. She was the one they offered."
"Reika is a doll who breaks the second someone says the wrong word," Satoru countered, his voice smoothing into that deceptive, dangerous politeness. "The Aoyamas have spent years trying to sculpt her into perfection, but she's just another puppet dressed in silk." Without sitting up, he threw his arm over his eyes. "You wanted me to carry a legacy? Fine. But I'm not marrying a breeding tool for a clan obsessed with its own reflection. I'm taking the one who isn't pretending."
His mother's face paled, her lips pressed thin with a disapproval. "She is a stain on that house. She is the reminder of a mistake."
"It's not exactly fair to blame an innocent person for someone else's irresponsibility, don't you think?" Satoru said. He walked toward the window, the sunlight bouncing off the glass towers of Tokyo. "You asked me to marry, and I chose someone I liked. What's the problem?"
"Do you really think the reason we're married is because we like each other?" his mother said, pointing to her husband, looking as if she were too angry to even think straight.
His father looked at his wife in momentary bewilderment. "What does that have to do with the matter at hand?"
Satoru let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, the sound echoing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. "Wow. Points for honesty, mother. I think that's the most unscripted thing you've said all your life."
The tension in the room was a living thing now, pressing down heavier than anything.
"It has everything to do with it," Satoru said, his voice dropping the playful edge. "You’re proving my point. You two have spent thirty-something years living out a negotiation. You want me to sign up for that same snooze-fest?"
"Reika is exactly like you," Satoru continued, his tone airy once more. "A masterpiece of heritage and obedience. But the second the mirror didn’t reflect what she wanted to see, she turned into a mess." He turned his back to the window, the harsh sun silhouetting his tall frame. He tilted his head. "She’s a puppet with its strings tangled. I don't have the energy to deal with this."
"You shouldn't speak to your mother that way," his father muttered. His voice held the exhaustion of someone who had already realized this was a battle with no winner.
He pulled off his blindfold and tossed it toward the couch. Rubbing his eyes with his palms, he let out a joyless laugh. "For people who are merely my donors, I’m being quite generous."
The silence that followed was absolute. Without the black fabric obscuring his face, the striking clarity of the Six Eyes was exposed—crystalline, vast, and currently radiating a cold detachment that made the penthouse feel several degrees colder.
His mother flinched as if he had struck her. "Donors?" she whispered, her indignation momentarily eclipsed by the sheer weight of his gaze. "Satoru, we are your parents. We have protected you, guided you—"
"You’ve managed an asset," Satoru corrected, dropping his hands to reveal eyes that seemed to track every molecule of tension in the room. "Let’s not get sentimental now; it doesn't suit you. You didn't even raise me. You wanted me to secure a future for you, and I gave you an alliance. You just don't like the face of the girl who comes with it."
"She is a shadow, Satoru! A footnote in their family history," his mother cried out, her voice pitching higher as she struggled to reclaim some semblance of authority. "Do you really want the mother of your children to be someone like that?"
Satoru’s laughter didn't just fill the room; it felt like it vibrated through the very glass of the windows. It was a sharp, mocking sound that made his mother’s face flush a deep, indignant red.
"The mother of my children?" He repeated the words as if they were a foreign concept. "Wow. You’re really jumping straight to the end of the script, aren't you?"
He lowered his head, his blue eyes locking onto hers with a clarity that was almost surgical. The joyless smile remained, but his voice went dangerously quiet. "Before I was born, neither of you were all that important in the clan. Don't you think you're being a bit too hypocritical, mother?"
His mother’s breath hitched, the color draining from her face as quickly as it had arrived. Satoru had reached into the messy, unpolished history of the Gojo clan and pulled out the one truth they spent every waking moment trying to bury under layers of prestige.
Before the Six Eyes had manifested in Satoru, his parents had been mid-tier members of the branch families—functional, but unremarkable. It was Satoru’s birth that had catapulted them into their current positions of perceived authority. He was the sun they orbited; without him, they were back in the shadows.
"Satoru, that is—" his father started, his voice cracking with a mixture of shame and fury.
"That is the truth," Satoru finished for him, his voice smooth and devoid of any warmth. He stood up fully now, his presence expanding until the room felt too small to contain him. "You’re obsessed with 'legitimacy' and 'heritage' because you’re terrified of how easily you could lose it. You want me to marry a girl like Reika because she validates your position. She’s a trophy for your shelf."
He walked over to the couch and picked up his blindfold, but he didn't put it back on yet. He let it dangle from his fingers, his gaze moving between the two of them.
"But I’m the one who carries the weight of this name, not you. I’m the one who has to live with the person I choose." He let out a soft, huffed laugh that lacked any real humor. "You call her a bastard? A mistake? If being a mistake means she’s the only one in that house who doesn't lie to herself, then she’s already more legitimate than any of the puppets the Aoyamas were trying to sell me."
"What the fuck is this?"
Sora, your cousin, had thrust a massive bouquet of roses right in your face. The scent was cloying, a heavy, velvet perfume that felt entirely too loud for the mid-morning stillness of the Aoyama estate. You leaned back, your hand going instinctively to your neck to rub at the lingering tension there.
"They were delivered ten minutes ago," Sora continued, her voice vibrating with a mix of disbelief and frantic energy.
"Who are they for?" you asked, not understanding why the bouquet was practically being shoved into your face.
"For you," she giggled. "At least, that's what the note says."
"For me?" you repeated, the words feeling heavy and wrong in your mouth. You reached out, tentatively taking the massive weight of the flowers from her. The stems were cool, the thorns clipped.
You fumbled for the small, cream-colored card tucked between the blood-red petals. Your fingers felt clumsy.
You opened the card.
For my beautiful bride-to-be. The handwriting was messy, a series of arrogant, looping strokes that looked like they had been scrawled in a hurry. I figured red would look better on you. Happy Valentine’s Day.
Underneath the note, there was a small, crudely drawn smiley face wearing a blindfold.
A sharp, breathless laugh escaped your throat before you could stop it. The audacity was staggering. "I'm going to kill him."
"Don't talk about your future husband like that," Sora said, a mocking smile playing on her lips. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms as she watched you stare at the tiny, blindfolded doodle. "Though, if you do decide to take him out, make sure it’s after the wedding. I’d hate for those roses to be the only good thing to come out of this."
You looked back down at the card. The words felt like a physical weight, anchoring you to a reality that still felt like a fever dream.
"He's insane," you whispered, the initial shock giving way to a strange, fluttering heat in your chest that you refused to call excitement. "He sent these here. To this house. On purpose."
"Of course he did," Sora said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "He didn't just send flowers. He sent a message. Reika saw the delivery person. She thought they were for her—she actually reached for them. You should have seen her face when the courier checked the clipboard and said your name instead. I thought her head was going to explode. She probably thought they were sent to apologize to her and say that a mistake had been made."
You winced. The tension you’d felt in your neck earlier intensified. "She’s going to make my life hell."
"She’s already trying," Sora warned, her expression flickering into something more serious. "The elders have been behind closed doors since breakfast. They’re trying to figure out how to spin this to the Gojo clan, how to convince Satoru that he made a clerical error and that Reika is actually the one he wants."
You tightened your grip on the bouquet for a moment before shoving it back against Sora’s chest.
"I don't want them, you can have." you said, the words coming out more rushed than you intended.
Sora stumbled back a half-step, her arms instinctively flying up to catch the massive weight of the roses before they could hit the floor. Her eyes went wide, darting from the vibrant red petals to your face, searching for the joke. "Are you serious?"
"Reika is already looking for a reason to skin me alive, and the elders are currently drafting my resignation from this marriage before it even starts. Keeping those in my room is like keeping a lit fuse." you hissed, finally turning away from the cloying scent of the flowers.
Sora looked down at the bouquet, her expression a mix of awe and terror. "If you really want them out of your sight…"
"Just get them away from me," you muttered, rubbing your neck again.
You could still feel the phantom weight of the choice he had made. Satoru Gojo hadn't just picked a bride; he had picked the one person who would cause the most friction, the one person who would force the Aoyama family to look at their own cracks.
"At least keep the note," Sora teased, though her voice lacked its usual bite.
"Why are you acting like Satoru Gojo is my lover?" Just as she opened her mouth to reply, you pointed your finger at her. "Don't."
Sora snapped her mouth shut, the retort dying on her tongue as she looked at your pointed finger. She let out a soft, muffled huff against the petals of the roses, her eyes dancing with an annoying amount of mirth despite your warning. "You call it a headache. I'm just saying, most people call this a whirlwind romance."
"It's a disaster," you corrected firmly. "And he's doing it because he thinks it's funny. He’s using me to entertain himself."
Sora started to back away toward the door, realizing you weren't in the mood for any more teasing. "I’ll go hide these in the old sunroom."
"Whatever."
As Sora disappeared around the corner, the heavy scent of roses lingered in the hallway like a persistent ghost. You stood there for a moment, the silence of the Aoyama estate pressing in on you. It was that stifling, ancient silence that always seemed to demand you apologize for existing.
You looked down at the note still pinched between your fingers. The ink was slightly smudged where your thumb had pressed against it. You weren't under any illusions; you knew Gojo Satoru wasn't some knight in shining armor. He was a storm that had accidentally knocked over your cage, and now you were standing in the wreckage, unsure if you were finally free or just caught in a larger tempest.
A sudden, sharp movement at the end of the hall made you stiffen. Reika was standing there, her face a pale, rigid mask.
"You think you're clever, don't you?" she said, her voice trembling with a fragile, glass-like edge. "You think he actually sees you."
You didn't answer. There was no point. You shut the door behind you and began walking down the corridor in the opposite direction of where she was.
The wood of the floorboards felt cold beneath your feet, a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from your face. You didn't need to look back to know Reika was still staring at your retreating figure, her resentment a palpable weight in the air.
To be noticed by someone like Satoru Gojo, a man whose very existence was a blinding light, felt less like a blessing and more like being caught in a crosshair.
You rounded the corner, heading toward the small, secluded garden near the back of the estate. As you walked, you felt the note pressed against your palm. He’d scrawled those words with the same careless confidence he used to dismantle a room full of elders. Was it a game? Probably. Satoru Gojo lived his life as if the world were a stage and he was the only one who had read the script.
But as you reached the edge of the koi pond, you caught your reflection in the dark, still water.
He had seen you. Not the version your father tried to present, and not the shadow Reika tried to trample. He’d seen the person who was tired of pretending.
The silence of the garden was interrupted by the distant, rhythmic sound of a car engine approaching the main gate.
"You're hiding in the dirt again."
Your father, Hiroshi Aoyama, stepped onto the stone path after some time.
"I’m not hiding," you said, your voice like a calm tide.
He took a step closer, his presence casting a long, suffocating shadow over the water.
"You think this is a game? You think his interest in you is a compliment? It’s a provocation," Hiroshi hissed. "He chose you to see if we were weak enough to let him have his way. But if you are to be the Gojo bride, you will not be a silent observer. You will be our eyes."
"This is your mission," he said, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative command. "Satoru Gojo is the most powerful variable in our world. He is erratic, dangerous, and currently obsessed with whatever honesty he thinks he found in you. You will go with him. You will play the part of the devoted fiancé. But you will bring back every detail, every weakness, every plan he mentions, every crack in that infinity of his."
He wasn't asking you to be a wife; he was asking you to be a spy in a house that had already rejected you.
"And if I don't?" you asked quietly.
"I’ve been struggling for you to be a part of this family since the day you were born." Hiroshi replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "You need to offer me something if you want me to keep doing this."
The words hit harder than a physical blow, cold and hollow. Struggling. As if your existence were a chore he’d been forced to perform, a heavy stone he’d been dragging uphill for years out of some twisted sense of obligation.
You looked down at the dark water of the pond. A single koi broke the surface, creating ripples that distorted your reflection until you were nothing but a smudge of color.
"So that’s the price," you murmured, the note in your pocket feeling like it was made of lead. "I pay for my place in this family by betraying the only person who actually bothered to look at me."
"Don't be dramatic," Hiroshi snapped, his patience thinning. "You aren't betraying anyone. You are securing your future. Gojo doesn't care about you; he cares about the reaction he gets when he holds you. If you want to remain under this roof, you will ensure that his interest serves the Aoyama name."
He stepped back, the oppressive weight of his shadow finally lifting from the water, though the chill remained.
"If I'm going to leave this house anyway, why should I bother trying to earn a place in it?"
The question hung in the air, sharp and defiant, cutting through the performative dignity Hiroshi worked so hard to maintain. He stopped mid-step, his back stiffening as if you had physically struck him.
For a moment, the only sound in the garden was the distant hum of a car and the soft splash of the koi. When your father finally turned back, his expression wasn't one of anger, it was something far more transactional.
"Because you have nowhere else to go," he said. "You think the world outside these gates is kind to mistakes? You think the Gojo clan will protect you if Satoru gets bored and tosses you aside? Without the Aoyama name backing this union, you are nothing but a temporary amusement."
He took a slow step toward you, his eyes narrowing.
"You earn your place so that when the smoke clears, you have a foundation to stand on. If you leave this house as a traitor to your blood, you leave with nothing. No status, no protection, and no name. But if you do this, if you secure our interests, you leave with the full weight of the Aoyama family behind you."
He let out a short, breathy scoff. "Don't mistake Satoru's whim for a lifeline. He’s a man who lives in the clouds. Eventually, he’ll look down and realize he’s holding onto something he didn't actually want. When that day comes, you’ll want me to open the door."
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the cruel logic of a man who viewed kinship as a ledger of debts and assets. He was telling you that your only value was as a double agent, that the mistake of your birth could only be redeemed by the betrayal of your future.
You looked at him, really looked at him, and realized that the door he was talking about had been locked from the inside since the day you were born.
"You speak as if the Aoyama name has ever been a shield for me."
Hiroshi’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with a brief, ugly spark of resentment.
"He is here," he said, ignoring your defiance as he checked his watch. "He is waiting at the gates because he refused to step foot back in this tomb. If you value your life, or the small bit of freedom he's accidentally handed you, you will go out there and you will do exactly what I told you." He turned on his heel, his footsteps sharp on the stone path. "Don't keep him waiting."
You stood by the koi pond for a long minute after he left. You didn't go back inside to change into the silks your father had demanded earlier. You straightened your shoulders and walked toward the front of the estate.
As the massive wooden gates groaned open, the afternoon light spilled into the courtyard, blindingly bright.
Satoru Gojo was leaning against the hood of a car. He was dressed in all black, his blindfold replaced by a pair of dark sunglasses that slid down his nose as he saw you.
"There she is!" he called out, his voice a bright, jarring contrast to the gloom you’d just left. "Did you like the roses?"
"I’m going to kill you," you said, your voice flat but the corner of your mouth twitching despite the storm you’d just walked out of.
Satoru let out a delighted, melodic laugh, the kind of sound that felt like it should be illegal in the vicinity of the Aoyama’s somber gray walls. He pushed off the hood of the car, his movements fluid and far too energetic for the heavy humidity of the afternoon.
"Wow, only a minute in and you're already making wedding night plans? I like it!" He stepped closer, his height looming over you until the sun was blocked out, leaving you in his personal, cool shade. He lowered his sunglasses just enough for a sliver of that impossible, sky-blue gaze to peer over the rims.
"So," he leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum that barely carried past the two of you. "How’d the talk with the old man go? Did he give you the 'save the family' speech, or are we skipping straight to the part where you’re supposed to find out what my favorite color is so they can use it against me?" He straightened up before you could answer, popping the car door open with a flourish.
As you got in his car, you realized the storm hadn't just knocked over your cage. It had handed you a blade and told you to choose a side.
"I'm about to throw up," you said, unable to help but grimace as you looked at the couple behind the snack table who had been kissing excessively, using their tongues too much for the past five minutes.
"It is... anatomically inefficient," Choso's raspy voice came from right behind your shoulder. He was standing perfectly still, his arms crossed over his oversized hoodie, watching the couple with the same detachment he used for his charcoal studies. "At that angle, they are risking a significant jaw cramp."
Yuki let out a sharp, delighted laugh, grabbing a red plastic cup from the table without even looking at the labels. "Oh, let them have their fun. It’s a party! If people aren't overdoing it, are they even trying?"
She turned to you, her eyes gleaming under the strobing LED lights. "Anyway, I'm going to find where Geto hid the good stuff. I heard he brought some high-end imported gin. Choso, keep the sharks away from her."
With a wink, Yuki disappeared into the sea of cheap sweaters and perfume, leaving you and Choso as an island of "low profile" in the middle of the storm.
You shifted your leather jacket, feeling the weight of a dozen gazes. This was the South Wing—it wasn't just a party; it was an audition. Everyone here was trying to prove they belonged to the hierarchy Naoya was so obsessed with. You, on the other hand, just wanted to find a corner where you could wait out the clock until midnight.
"God, no," Choso murmured, you had to lean in closer to hear him over the bass. "Please, not her."
You followed his gaze toward the grand staircase.
Yorozu was descending the steps like she was walking a runway, her six-inch heels clicking rhythmically against the wood despite the roar of the music. She was draped in something that looked like it cost more than your tuition, her eyes scanning the room with the predatory focus.
"Why does she walk like Scar from The Lion King?" you said, raising one eyebrow.
Choso let out a sound that was half-strangled cough, half-genuine laugh, his usual stoic expression cracking just enough to show the sheer exhaustion Yorozu’s presence triggered. He didn't look away, though—mostly because looking away from a predator just makes you an easier target.
"Don't let her hear you say that," he warned, though there was a rare, sharp glint of amusement in his eyes.
Yorozu had reached the bottom of the stairs, her chin tilted at an angle that like she was sniffing the air. The crowd naturally parted for her, a wave of forced smiles and panicked whispers trailing in her wake.
She stopped about ten feet away, her gaze snagging on the two of you. Her eyes narrowed, shimmering with that chaotic, obsessive energy that made even the most seasoned seniors at this school break out in a cold sweat.
"Choso," she hummed, her voice cutting through the heavy bass like a serrated blade. She didn't even look at him as she spoke, her focus shifting entirely to you. "And you."
She drifted closer, the scent of expensive, suffocating perfume hitting you before she did. "You have a very... vocal way of standing in a corner. It’s almost an insult to the decor."
You didn't flinch, even as the perfume threatened to hijack your senses. Instead, you took a slow, deliberate sip of your drink, meeting her gaze with a look of bored curiosity.
"I’ll let the wallpaper know it has my deepest apologies," you replied, your voice cool and steady despite the frantic pulse of the music.
Beside you, you felt Choso stiffen. He was practically vibrating with the urge to pull you back, but you kept your ground. You weren't about to let someone who walked like a Shakespearean villain intimidate you.
She trailed a perfectly manicured finger along the lapel of your leather jacket, her touch light but possessive. "What a tasteful choice," she said in a mocking tone.
You smiled with feigned enthusiasm. "Thanks, I stole them, along with my shoes, from a cadaver."
The air around you seemed to drop a few degrees. Choso actually choked on his drink, a muffled, panicked sound that he tried to turn into a cough, while the students nearby visibly recoiled.
Yorozu’s finger froze on your lapel. For the first time since she’d descended the stairs, that practiced, predatory mask faltered. Her eyes scanned your face, searching for a punchline, but you just kept that bright, unhinged smile fixed in place.
"A cadaver," she repeated, her voice losing its melodic purr and turning flat. She pulled her hand back as if your jacket had suddenly developed a pulse. "How... morbidly utilitarian of you."
"Waste not, want not," you shrugged, leaning back against the wall with newfound space now that she’d stepped away. "The dead don't really have much use for vintage leather or good arch support. Plus, it’s a great conversation starter at parties like this. Really weeds out the people who take themselves too seriously."
Choso finally regained his composure, though his face was a mask of sheer disbelief. He stepped slightly between you and Yorozu, not to protect you this time, but more to act as a buffer before you said something even more chaotic.
"She’s joking," Choso said, though his eyes told a different story. "Mostly."
Yorozu let out a sharp, jagged laugh, her composure snapping back into place, though her gaze remained wary. "Choso, your taste in companions has become... volatile. It’s almost refreshing." She turned her focus back to you, her eyes flickering with a dangerous curiosity.
She began to drift away, her heels clicking a little faster than before. "Do try not to get any 'stains' on the carpet. Naoya just had it cleaned."
You watched her retreating back, that rigid, runway-perfect posture looking just a little more frantic than it had five minutes ago. The small circle of space you’d cleared remained empty; apparently, "grave robber" was a tier of social suicide that even the South Wing elite didn't know how to categorize.
Choso exhaled a breath he seemed to have been holding. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch.
"A cadaver?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper under the thumping bass. He turned to look at you, his tired eyes wide with a mix of horror and genuine awe. "I killed almost half of my brain cells trying to think of a polite way to get her to leave us alone, and you just... declared yourself a looter."
You shrugged. "You brought me here with your unbearable girlfriend. I'm not going to apologize for social awkwardness."
"There are those who are foolish enough to think it's real." Choso muttered, taking a long, bracing drink of his punch. "But you’ve officially traded your 'low profile' for a 'potential biohazard' warning." A few freshmen were throwing glances your way, trying to be low-key about it. "God, they are staring."
"Let them," you said, feeling the adrenaline of the small victory buzzing under your skin. "It gives me a five-foot radius of personal space. That’s a luxury."
But the space didn't stay empty for long.
And then there was him.
The frantic energy of the dance floor seemed to hit a wall, the bass vibrating through the floorboards suddenly feeling like a heavy, rhythmic heartbeat that didn't belong to the speakers. The sea of bodies parted—not with the annoyed shuffle they’d given Yorozu, but with a silent, heavy reverence that bordered on instinctual fear.
Ryomen Sukuna didn't walk into a room so much as he reclaimed it.
He moved with a bored, predatory slouch, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black jeans. He wasn't wearing the designer labels that littered the South Wing; he was in a plain black t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms and a map of scars that told a much grittier story.
A cigarette was tucked behind his ear—a blatant middle finger to the campus smoke-free policy—and his silver piercings glinted under the strobing LED lights like warning signs.
He stopped five feet away. He didn't look at the snacks or the terrified freshmen who were practically vibrating in his peripheral vision. He didn't even acknowledge the path that had cleared for him, as if the world simply owed him the space he occupied.
Sukuna tilted his head slightly, his eyes—heavy with a mixture of boredom and a lethal kind of intelligence—settled on you. He didn't say a word. The sheer weight of his attention felt like a physical pressure, a silent challenge. He scanned your face with a slow indifference, his gaze lingering just a second too long on your eyes before he dismissed you as if you were just another piece of the decor.
His gaze flickered to the man standing stiffly beside you. Sukuna gave a sharp, minimal jerk of his head—a silent, rough greeting.
Choso exhaled a breath that sounded like a rattle, his chin lifting in a reciprocal, wary nod.
Without a single glance back, Sukuna adjusted the cigarette behind his ear and kept moving. He cut through the rest of the room toward a far corner where the shadows were deeper and the music felt like a dull thud. He sat on the arm of a leather sofa, radiating a "natural disaster" energy that kept a ten-foot radius around him entirely vacant, despite the house being at capacity.
"What the fuck was that?" you whispered, the words coming out sharper than you intended. You didn't realize you’d been holding your breath until it hitched in your throat, your fingers tightening around your plastic cup until the cheap material crinkled.
Choso didn't answer immediately. He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck where the tension seemed to have locked his muscles into place. He looked like he’d just watched a predator walk past his front door and was still waiting to see if it would turn back.
You looked toward the corner where the shadows seemed to swallow the light. Sukuna was sitting perched on the arm of the sofa, looking entirely too comfortable. Uraume had materialized at his side, silent and steady, handing him a lighter with the kind of synchronized precision that made them look like parts of the same machine.
"He just… looked at me like I was a smudge on the wall," you muttered, trying to shake off the lingering sensation of his gaze. It felt like a film of cold oil on your skin.
Choso finally turned to look at you. His dark, tired eyes were dead serious. "Forget it, it's better for your sanity."
You glanced back at the corner. The tip of Sukuna's cigarette glowed a bright, angry orange. He exhaled a cloud of smoke into the "smoke-free" air, his bored eyes still fixed on the ceiling, looking like he was already counting down the seconds.
You watched as Yorozu practically glided across the floor, her previous irritation vanishing the moment she entered his orbit. She didn't just sit next to him; she claimed the space on the sofa directly beneath where he perched on the armrest, leaning her weight against his leg with a possessive ease.
She began to talk, her hands moving animatedly as she gestured toward the room, her laughter ringing out over the bass—sharp and performative. She leaned in, whispering something into his ear, her perfectly manicured hand coming up to rest on his knee.
Sukuna didn't move. He didn't look down at her, and he didn't pull away. He simply continued to stare at the ceiling, exhaling another slow plume of smoke that drifted over her head like a gray halo. He looked completely detached, treating her presence with the same heavy indifference he had shown you, yet he allowed the contact, a silent confirmation of the open secret everyone on campus whispered about.
"See?" Choso murmured, his voice low as he nudged you toward the other side of the room. "She thinks she’s the only one who can handle his heat."
"She looks like she’s trying to win a marathon he isn't even running in."
Choso let out a huff that might have been a laugh. "That’s Yorozu. She turned obsession into a varsity sport. Now, let’s find Yuki before she starts a fight."
You followed Choso through the dense, humid heat of the dance floor, dodging a group of students who were shouting over a remix of a song you were already tired of.
"There," Choso said, nodding toward a balcony alcove.
Yuki was leaning against a stone pillar, a half-empty glass in one hand and the other draped lazily around the shoulders of a girl who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.
Suguru Geto's dark hair was pulled back into a neat bun, save for a single strand that framed a face that was entirely too calm for a house party. He was dressed in a black sweatshirt and he was currently watching a girl stumble over a rug with an expression of polite, distant pity.
Next to them, sitting on the railing with her heels dangling over the edge, was Shoko Ieiri. She looked like she was currently undergoing a soul-crushing spiritual crisis, or perhaps she just hadn't slept since the semester began. She had a lollipop hanging out of the corner of her mouth—a poor substitute for the cigarettes she wasn't allowed to light inside—and dark circles under her eyes that made her look effortlessly cool and terrifyingly exhausted.
"Finally!" Yuki beamed as she spotted you, her energy hitting you like a physical wave. "I was about to send a search party." She nudged Geto with her elbow. "Suguru, you remember my roommate?"
Geto’s eyes shifted to you, a small, practiced smile touching his lips. It was a friendly look, but there was something behind it—a sharp, calculating intelligence that felt like he was filing your name away in a cabinet for later use.
"A pleasure," Geto said, his voice smooth and curated.
The girl trapped under Yuki’s arm was Utahime Iori, a Music major who looked like she was ten seconds away from filing a formal complaint against the entire South Wing. Her long hair was tied back with a traditional ribbon that felt painfully out of place in this den of neon and bass, and her expression was a mixture of deep offense and sheer exhaustion.
"Utahime, breathe!" Yuki laughed, squeezing the girl's shoulder. "You're making that face again."
"It’s eighteen, Yuki. It’s eighteen violations," Utahime snapped, though she didn't actually pull away. She looked at you, her eyes softening with a flicker of genuine sympathy. "Oh, thank God. Another person with a functional frontal lobe. Please tell me you’re here to stage an intervention."
"I'm just here to observe the collapse of civilization from a safe distance," you replied, giving her a commiserating nod. "I’m on a very strict timeline."
"Smart," Shoko muttered from the railing, her lollipop clicking against her teeth. She gestured vaguely toward the crowded living room. "Better to leave before the Physics department arrives. Satoru is already three shots deep and currently trying to explain 'limitless' to a group of terrified freshmen. It’s only a matter of time before he starts throwing furniture to prove a point."
Geto let out a soft, melodic chuckle, though his gaze remained sharp as he studied you. "You look like you’re here because you were kidnapped."
"She was," Choso said flatly, finally stepping up to join the circle. He stood close enough to you that his shadow overlapped yours, a silent sentinel in a hoodie.
"Kidnapped is such a strong word," Yuki chirped, taking a sip of her drink. "I prefer 'socially liberated.'"
"Anyway, Suguru was just telling us about the mess in the parking lot," Yuki said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. "Apparently, Sukuna got into it with some third-year from the Judo club who thought he could 'discipline' the Mechatronics department for being too loud."
Utahime’s nose crinkled in immediate distaste, her posture stiffening under Yuki’s arm. "He’s a menace. He treats the campus like his personal junkyard."
"He’s efficient," Geto countered smoothly, his eyes flickering toward the corner where Sukuna and Yorozu were still a dark blot on the social map. "Cruel, but efficient. It’s a trait I’ve learned to respect, if not admire."
"The guy’s ego is going to need more stitches than his face," Shoko interrupted, her voice scraping like sandpaper as she leaned back against the railing.
Utahime sighed, finally prying herself out from under Yuki’s heavy-handed embrace. "Suguru, tell me you have something better to talk about than that brute."
Geto smiled, that calm, curated expression of his smoothing over the tension in the air. "I do, actually. I hear the music department is finally getting the funding for those new acoustics you wanted. Though, I suspect Satoru might have 'donated' the funds under a pseudonym."
Utahime’s face instantly flushed a bright, indignant red. "If that man touched my budget, I will kill him."
As the conversation shifted into the familiar, bickering rhythm, you checked your watch.
Twenty-eight minutes left.
"I'm going to find some water," you whispered to Choso, who hadn't moved from your side. "And maybe a spot where the bass isn't trying to vibrate my teeth out of my skull."
"Go," Choso said, his eyes scanning the crowd with his usual vigilance. "I'll stay here and make sure Yuki doesn't try to draft Suguru into a drinking contest."
You nodded and stepped away from the balcony, weaving back into the humid, pulsing heart of the house. You weren't looking for trouble—you were looking for a kitchen, or a hallway, or anything that felt like a quiet reprieve.
But as you turned the corner toward the back of the house, looking for the relative sanctuary of the kitchen, you slammed headfirst into something solid and smelling of expensive, cloying cologne.
The impact sent you stumbling back, your sneakers squeaking against the polished hardwood.
"Watch where you’re going, you clumsy—"
The voice cut off as you looked up. Naoya Zenin stood there, smoothing out the front of his designer polo with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. His blonde hair was perfectly coiffed, not a single strand out of place despite the humidity of the party, and his eyes narrowed as he recognized you.
"Oh," he drawled, his lip curling into a sneer that seemed to be his default setting. "It’s the rat. I thought I smelled something rotten in the hallway."
He took a slow, deliberate step into your space, forcing you to back up against the wall. He was taller than you, and he used that height to loom, radiating the kind of arrogance that only comes from a lifetime of being told your last name makes you untouchable.
"Tell me," Naoya said, his voice dropping into a mocking, intimate tone. "Does Yuki keep you around as a charity project, or are you just here to make sure the rest of us feel better about our own social standing?"
He reached out, his hand moving as if to flick the collar of your leather jacket, his movements sharp and dismissive.
"You done yet?" you asked with a bored look on your face.
Naoya’s hand froze mid-air, his fingers hovering just inches from your lapel. His sneer faltered, flickering into a look of genuine confusion as if his brain was struggling to process a response that wasn't a stuttered apology or a flinch.
The silence between you stretched for a heartbeat, punctuated only by the muffled, distorted thump of the bass from the living room.
"What?" he snapped, his voice losing some of its practiced silkiness and gaining a sharp, defensive edge.
"I asked if you were done," you repeated, leaning your head back against the wall. You let your gaze wander past his shoulder, looking at a framed painting on the wall with more interest than you were giving him. "The monologue. It was a bit cliché, don't you think? The 'charity project' bit is a little mid-2000s teen movie for my taste."
Naoya’s face flushed a creeping, angry red. He dropped his hand, his fist clenching at his side. "You think you’re clever because you hang around Yuki? You’re just a fly on the wall, and I’m starting to think it’s time for a flyswatter." He leaned in closer, his expensive cologne now genuinely suffocating. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to? I could have you blacklisted from every social circle on this campus before you leave this party."
"Then do it," you shrugged, finally meeting his eyes with a look of absolute, bone-deep apathy. "It would save me a lot of time. If I’m blacklisted, I don't have to come to these things anymore, right? Sounds like a win-win."
Naoya opened his mouth to retort, his eyes bulging slightly at your lack of fear, but the words died in his throat.
A shadow fell over both of you.
The hallway, already dim, seemed to grow darker. The temperature didn't just drop; the air itself felt like it had been sucked out of the space.
"You're blocking the way, Naoya."
The voice was like a low-frequency vibration, echoing off the narrow walls. Naoya stiffened, his entire posture shifting from predatory to pathetic in a matter of milliseconds. He spun around, his arrogant mask shattering into a thousand jagged pieces.
Sukuna was standing three feet away, his hands still in his pockets. He wasn't even looking at Naoya; his eyes were fixed on you, tracking the way you were still leaning against the wall, looking entirely unimpressed by the heir to the Zenin fortune.
"Sukuna!" Naoya stammered, his voice jumping an octave. "I was just... this girl was being disrespectful. I was putting her in her place."
Sukuna took a slow step forward, and Naoya instinctively scrambled back, nearly tripping over his own feet to get out of the way.
"I don't care about her 'place'," Sukuna rumbled. He stopped right in front of you, effectively pinning you against the wall with his presence alone.
He leaned down, his face inches from Naoya's, the scent of smoke and something metallic-cold filling your lungs.
"But I do care about people making scenesin my hallway," Sukuna murmured, a slow, dark glint appearing in his eyes. "Get out."
Naoya didn't stay to argue. He didn't even try to salvage a shred of his dignity. With one last wide-eyed, panicked glance between you and the man looming over him, he turned tail and bolted back toward the noise of the main room.
Silence reclaimed the hallway, though it wasn't the peaceful kind. It was the heavy, pressurized silence that happens right before a storm breaks.
Sukuna didn't follow him with his eyes. He remained exactly where he was, his shadow swallowing yours as he slowly straightened up from where he'd been leaning into Naoya’s face. He turned his head just enough to lock onto you again, his expression unreadable, save for that flicker of dark curiosity that hadn't quite vanished.
He took a long drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing a fierce, burning red in the dim light of the corridor. He exhaled the smoke slowly, the gray cloud drifting between your faces, blurring the sharp lines of his tattoos.
"Stay out of trouble, brat," he said before walking away.
The smoke from his cigarette lingered in the air, a gray ghost of his presence that refused to dissipate as quickly as he did. You stood there for a moment.
Brat.
The word echoed in your head, sparking a flash of irritation that successfully drowned out the lingering adrenaline.
"Stay out of trouble," you muttered to the empty hallway, finally turning toward the kitchen. "Right. Because I'm the one who cornered people in the hallways."
You found the kitchen, which was surprisingly empty compared to the rest of the house. You grabbed a glass of water, leaning against the cold marble countertop as you checked your watch.
Fifteen minutes.
You took a slow, grounding sip, trying to wash away the taste of tobacco and expensive cologne that seemed to have settled on your tongue. The house was still vibrating, the music a muffled roar through the walls, but here, the air was still.
A shadow shifted in the doorway, and you nearly dropped your glass.
"Is the water better than the punch?"
It was Uraume. They were standing in the entrance, their expression as icy and immovable as ever. They didn't come into the kitchen, preferring to stay on the threshold, their hands folded neatly. There was no hostility in their gaze, just a cold, analytical observation.
"It’s less likely to melt my esophagus," you replied. "Can I help you with something, or are you just here to make sure I don't loot the silverware?"
Uraume didn't blink. "You have a peculiar lack of survival instinct."
Without another word, they turned and walked away, their footsteps making no sound on the hardwood.
You stared at the empty doorway for a long beat before downing the rest of your water. "Thirteen minutes," you whispered. "Thirteen minutes and I am going back to home."
As you made your way back toward the balcony to find Choso and Yuki, you passed the main room one last time. From across the crowded floor, you saw Yorozu leaning back in her seat, looking triumphant. But Sukuna was no longer looking at the ceiling. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his dark eyes fixed on the hallway you had just emerged from, watching you disappear into the shadows of the party with a look that was no longer quite so bored.
On the balcony, Choso leaned in toward Shoko and asked, "Do the cadavers come with their clothes on?"
The afternoon sun filtered through the window, catching the dust motes dancing around you as you curled into the corner of the couch. You were deep into a chapter on CRISPR-Cas9 gene editing, your highlighter poised to strike, when that prickly sensation of being watched started crawling up your neck.
You didn't look up.
Opposite you, Choso sat on a floor cushion, his heavy, oversized black hoodie swallowing his frame. His hair was pulled into his signature twin messy buns, and his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms smeared with charcoal and a deep, indigo ink.
The only sound was the rhythmic scritch-scratch of his pencil.
"You're staring," you murmured, finally clicking your highlighter shut. You turned a page without looking at him. "It’s creepy, Choso."
Choso didn’t flinch. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes remained fixed on the line of your jaw for three seconds longer before he dropped his gaze back to the paper. His voice was low and raspy.
"I am not staring," he corrected calmly, his pencil moving in a swift, fluid motion. "I am observing. There is a specific tension in your brow when you focus. It is... structurally interesting."
You finally looked over the top of your notes. "I'm not a marble statue. Go observe a bowl of fruit or something."
"Fruit is static," Choso replied, his expression remaining perfectly stoic. "You are thinking. It changes the shadow under your cheekbones." He paused, his gaze softening slightly. "Yuki will be back in twenty minutes. She said she’s bringing food from the truck. You need to eat."
You let out a small, huffed laugh, the silver-tongued retort dying in your throat at his genuine concern. That was the thing about Choso—he looked like a gothic omen of death, but he was arguably the most attentive person you knew.
"Twenty minutes," you repeated, glancing at the clock. "Enough time for one more section."
"Finish it," Choso said, already starting a new sketch. "After that, the quiet ends. Yuki is in a 'socializing' mood today."
You stiffened almost imperceptibly. "I'm working the late shift at the store tonight," you said, your voice dropping into that neutral, low-profile tone you practiced so well. "I have an excuse."
Choso looked up, his ink-stained fingers pausing. He saw right through the deflection. "Yuki already called the store. She told your manager you had a "family emergency". You’re off the hook for tonight."
You groaned, burying your face in your textbook. "I hate her."
"You don't," Choso said, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"The family emergency was a 'leak' in your schedule," a boisterous voice rang out, followed by the heavy thud of a motorcycle helmet hitting the kitchen counter. She stood in the doorway, smelling of cold wind and leather, her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders and her eyes sparkling with a level of mischief that made your stomach do a nervous flip.
"And before you use that silver tongue of yours to tell me you have a 'prior engagement' with a DNA polymerase," she said, pointing a gloved finger at you, "I’ve already checked. Haibara is covering the first half of your shift because he’s an angel, and I’ve already put your leather jacket by the door."
She dropped a grease-stained bag of tacos onto the coffee table right in front of Choso, who caught it with the practiced grace of someone used to her chaos.
"The South Wing is hosting tonight," Yuki continued, kicking off her boots. "And word on the street is that the Mechatronics department finally finished that project Sukuna has been 'dismantling' for the last month. The whole elite circle is going to be there—Satoru is bringing the expensive stuff, and Suguru is supposedly the one 'hosting' so the cops don't shut it down in ten minutes."
You leaned back against the sofa cushions, feeling the familiar weight of her social gravity pulling you in. You liked your low profile. You liked being the girl at the convenience store that people looked past, or the quiet student in the back of the lecture hall. The South Wing was the opposite of that. It was bright lights, loud music, and people like Naoya Zenin who made a hobby out of smelling out "outsiders."
"Yuki, I have a lab report due Thursday," you tried, your voice calm but firm. "And I don't exactly own 'South Wing' attire."
"Liar," Yuki grinned, leaning over the back of the sofa to ruffle your hair. "You have that black dress Choso helped you pick out, and you’re smarter than half the people who will be in that room combined. Besides…" Her expression shifted, something more perceptive flashing in her eyes. "You've been hiding in this apartment for three weeks. Even Choso’s charcoal sketches are starting to look depressed."
Choso didn't look up from his paper, but he muttered a soft, "She isn't wrong."
"Traitor," you hissed at him.
Yuki laughed, heading toward the kitchen to grab a drink. "Dress up or come in your lab coat, I don't care. But we’re leaving in an hour."
"An hour?" you echoed, the word feeling like a sentence. You looked down at your notes, where the complex diagrams of gene sequences suddenly seemed far more inviting than a crowded frat house. "I’m just trying to graduate without a criminal record, and frat parties wouldn't help with that. "
"Which is exactly why you need me," Yuki called out over the sound of the fridge closing. She walked back into the living room, cracking open a cold drink. "Besides, if anyone gives you trouble, Choso will just stare at them until they have a soul-searching crisis, and I’ll handle the rest. You’re overthinking the 'low profile' thing. Sometimes the best way to stay invisible is to blend into the chaos, not hide from it."
You glanced at Choso. He was still sketching, but he paused to look at you, his dark eyes steady. "I will be there," he said simply. It was his way of saying he’d be your shadow, a silent barrier between you and anyone who overstepped.
You sighed, the defeat tasting like the salt on the tacos sitting on the table. You knew your roommates. If you didn't go, Yuki would probably spend the next three days playing loud music and "accidentally" forgetting where you kept your favorite pens. And Haibara—bless his heart—was already at the store, probably rearranging the snack aisle into a smiley face while he covered for you. You couldn't let his "angelic" act go to waste.
"Fine," you said, standing up and stretching your stiff limbs. "One hour. I’m serious, Yuki. If I’m not back here by midnight to finish this report, I’m changing the Wi-Fi password."
Yuki let out a triumphant bark of laughter. "Deal! Now, go put on that dress. Choso, stop drawing her jawline and eat your tacos before they get cold."
A/N: Is this the best that could be done? No. Could I have tried to do better? Yes. Do I know how to? Absolutely not.
Chapter 10: Jealousy
He hated how loud her laugh was.
It cut through the quiet of the common room like glass scraping against steel, too bright, too eager, too false. She leaned in close, perfume cloying, her hand brushing his arm as if she had a right to it. Simon sat rigid, shoulders squared, mask in place, every muscle locked against the intrusion.
He hadn’t invited her. He hadn’t wanted her.
But she’d followed him in, trailing like smoke, and now she was talking, laughing, filling the silence he craved with noise he couldn’t stand. He let her. Not because he cared, but because it was easier than snapping at her and explaining himself to Price later.
Her hand brushed his sleeve again. He didn’t move. Didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. He kept his posture rigid, mask tilted toward the window, eyes fixed on the floodlights outside. The hum of the generators, the distant shuffle of boots on gravel—those were sounds he trusted. Not her laugh. Not her perfume.
She leaned closer, voice dropping as if she thought intimacy could be forced. “You never take that mask off, do you?”
Simon’s jaw flexed beneath the fabric. He didn’t answer.
She laughed again, softer this time, trying to make it playful. “Mysterious man. I like that.”
Simon let the words hang in the air, heavy and unwanted. He didn’t answer. He didn’t even shift his posture. The mask was a wall, and he stayed behind it.
Her perfume clung to the air, sweet and suffocating, and he found himself counting the seconds between her breaths just to keep from grinding his teeth. She wanted him to respond, to give her something she could twist into interest. He gave her nothing.
Instead, his mind wandered. Not to her, not to the laugh that grated against his nerves, but to her.
This woman’s laugh only reminded him of what Snake didn’t do. She didn’t fill silence with noise. She didn’t force herself into spaces she wasn’t invited. She didn’t pretend intimacy could be bought with perfume and practiced smiles. Snake carried silence like a weapon, and he trusted that more than any laugh.
Her hand brushed his sleeve again, lingering this time. “You don’t talk much, do you?” she teased, tilting her head as if she could coax words out of him.
Simon’s jaw flexed beneath the mask. He wanted to tell her to leave. Wanted to snap that she didn’t belong here, that her laugh was too loud, her perfume too sweet, her presence too false. But he didn’t. He kept his silence.
And then he felt it.
Across the room, Snake stood at the counter, steam curling from the mug in her hands. Her shoulders were taut, her jaw clenched, her grip on the porcelain too tight. He saw it all in a glance, the tension, the burn in her gaze. For a heartbeat, the noise fell away. The assistant’s laugh faltered, but Simon didn’t notice. His focus was locked on Snake, on the tether that pulled tight between them even across the distance.
Her eyes met his, sharp and unyielding. It was only a second, maybe two, but it was enough. Enough to remind him that she was the only one who mattered. Enough to make his chest tighten beneath the mask.
And then he broke it. Turned back to the woman, let her voice wash over him again, let the mask hold. Because if he didn’t, if he kept looking, he’d give himself away.
The assistant laughed again, louder this time, trying to reclaim the space. Simon let her. He sat rigid, unmoved, his mind already elsewhere. Because the truth was simple. He wasn’t listening to her. He was listening to the silence Snake carried, even from across the room.
She laughed again, louder this time, trying to reclaim the space. Simon let her. He sat rigid, unmoved, his mind already elsewhere.
“Maybe you and I should get a drink sometime,” she said suddenly, her tone shifting, sharper now, as if she’d been waiting for the right moment to strike. Her hand lingered on his sleeve, nails grazing fabric. “Off base. Somewhere quiet.”
Simon’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want her. But the words caught him off guard, tangled in the noise she carried. He was tired of fighting every sound, every intrusion. Tired of explaining himself.
So he didn’t.
He gave the smallest nod, automatic, a reflex born of years of deflecting questions he didn’t care to answer. It wasn’t agreement, not really. Just silence disguised as consent.
Her smile widened instantly, triumphant. “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”
Simon’s stomach sank. He hadn’t meant it. He hadn’t wanted it.
Across the room, Snake’s grip on the mug tightened, porcelain trembling in her hands. He felt her eyes burn into him, sharper than any blade. He didn’t look back. Couldn’t.
The assistant laughed again, softer now, satisfied. Simon sat rigid, mask tilted toward the window, every muscle locked against the weight of what he’d just allowed.
It was easier than snapping at her. Easier than explaining himself. Easier than admitting the truth.
But it was a mistake.
Rebecca’s office smelled faintly of lavender and paper, the same as always. The clock ticked steady in the corner, each second dragging like a blade across her nerves. Snake sat rigid in the chair, one leg tucked under the other, fingers curled tight against the armrest.
“I want to kill him,” she said flatly.
Rebecca didn’t flinch. Her pen hovered above the page, then lowered again. “Simon?”
Snake opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her jaw tightened, her throat constricted. She wanted to say why, wanted to explain the burn in her chest, the way her hands had trembled around the mug, but the words refused to form.
Rebecca waited, calm as ever.
Snake exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I don’t know why it feels like this.” Her voice cracked, low and uneven. “I saw him. With her. And it was… wrong. It was like something inside me snapped, but I can’t tell you why.”
Rebecca tilted her head, studying her. “So you’re angry, but you can’t explain the reason.”
Snake’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I can’t. I just… I can’t stand it. I can’t stand seeing him with someone else. And I don’t know what that makes me.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t even know if I’m angry at him… or at myself.”
Rebecca’s gaze stayed steady, her tone measured. “Ethically, I can’t direct you,” she said. “I can’t tell you what to feel, or what to do with it. You have to find that out yourself.”
Snake’s fingers tightened against the armrest, frustration rising in her chest. The words felt like a wall she couldn’t climb. She wanted answers, wanted someone to name the fire inside her, but Rebecca only handed her silence.
"I thought we had already passed the ethical point." Her jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor. “Then what am I supposed to do with it?” she muttered, voice low, uneven.
Rebecca didn’t move, didn’t soften. “Sit with it. Let it tell you what it is, when it’s ready. Sometimes anger is just anger. Sometimes it’s something else. But only you can decide which.”
Snake’s lips curled into something between a grimace and a bitter smile. “You are not very helpful,” she said, the words sharp but weary, almost like she was testing Rebecca’s composure.
She let the accusation settle in the air, unchallenged, her pen resting idle in her lap. “I’m not here to be helpful in the way you want,” she replied evenly. “I’m here to hold the mirror. What you see in it is yours to face.”
Snake shifted in her chair, restless, her fingers drumming against the armrest. The silence pressed in again, heavier than before. She wanted Rebecca to break it, to give her something solid to cling to, but all she got was the steady tick of the clock and the weight of her own confusion.
Her jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor. “Then maybe I don’t want the mirror,” she muttered. “Maybe I just want it gone.”
Rebecca’s voice was calm, almost gentle. “Wanting it gone doesn’t make it disappear. It only means you’re not ready to look yet.”
Snake’s throat tightened, the frustration twisting into something closer to despair.
She pushed herself up from the chair, movements sharp, controlled only by the edge of her anger. Her eyes flicked to Rebecca, steady but cold. “Interestingly,” she said, voice low and cutting, “you’re getting progressively worse at this.”
Rebecca didn’t rise to meet the barb. She stayed seated, pen still resting idle in her lap, gaze calm as ever.
Snake didn’t wait for a reply. She turned on her heel, the door opening with a muted creak, and left the office without looking back. The lavender and paper smell clung to her as she walked out, but it only made the silence in the corridor feel heavier, more suffocating.
Snake walked the corridor with clipped steps. The barracks were alive with low chatter, boots scuffing against concrete, the hum of men unwinding after the day.
She spotted Kyle and Soap near the bunks, Soap’s grin wide, his energy spilling into the room like it always did. Kyle leaned against the frame, arms folded, listening with half a smile.
Soap caught sight of her and waved her over, excitement bubbling in his voice before she could even settle. “You’ll never believe it,” he said, eyes bright. “Ghost’s got himself a date.”
Snake froze, the air thickening around her. Kyle chuckled softly, shaking his head at Soap’s enthusiasm, but the sound barely reached her.
Soap leaned in, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Aye, can you imagine? Ghost, of all people. A bloody date.”
Snake’s grip tightened at her side, nails biting into her palm. She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. The room felt smaller, heavier, as if the walls themselves were pressing in.
Soap laughed again, oblivious to the storm brewing behind her silence. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
Kyle’s gaze flicked toward her, catching the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw locked. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes lingered, steady, as if he knew better than to join Soap’s excitement.
Snake forced her voice into something steady, though the tension in her shoulders betrayed her. “Date with who?” she asked, trying to sound calm, casual, as if the words didn’t scrape against her throat.
Soap’s grin widened, oblivious to the tension coiling in Snake’s frame. “Her name’s Claire,” he said brightly. “One of the assistants. Can you believe it?"
Kyle’s eyes stayed on Snake, inspecting the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her jaw locked tighter with each word. He didn’t join Soap’s excitement, didn’t laugh.
Snake forced her lips into something resembling composure, though her voice came out clipped. “I need to go,” she said, already turning away. “My headache is killing me.”
Soap blinked, surprised by her abruptness, but Kyle’s gaze followed her retreat.
“I think you did something terribly bad,” Kyle said finally, his voice low, steady.
Soap blinked, caught off guard. “What?"
Kyle shook his head, eyes narrowing. “You’ve no idea what you’ve just done.”
The weight of his words hung heavy in the air. Soap’s grin faltered, his voice dropping as he glanced at Kyle. “You don’t mean what I think, right?” he asked, half-laughing, half-uncertain.
Kyle’s arms stayed folded, his expression unreadable but firm. “Aye, Johnny. That’s exactly what I mean.”
Soap blinked, the weight of Kyle’s words sinking in, his excitement draining into unease. He shifted on his feet, suddenly aware of the silence Snake had left behind, the tension she carried with her out the door.
Kyle’s gaze didn’t waver. “You stirred something you shouldn’t have."
Spring came. It arrived as a weathered promise: thaw in the gutters, a softening of wind into something that smelled of turned earth and sap, and birds that returned with the blunt business of nests. The castle eased into it like a held breath released, boots lighter, voices less hammered, and hedges pushing green at the edges as if rehearsing colour. Inside the walls, small mercies followed the season, extra linen folded where hands could reach it, herbs hung to dry with care, and two people who had learned to build safety out of routine finding that their careful work finally had room to grow.
Servants traded heavy cloaks for lighter wool, and small, practical changes rippled through the keep. An extra basket of fresh linen appeared on the guest chamber bench, the steward adjusted the schedule so a midwife could visit without drawing attention, Price nodded once to an offhand instruction and the rumor‑machinery slowed as if someone had tightened a valve.
They took to the garden in the evenings, when the light lasted long enough for work and conversation both. She taught him the names of the herbs she liked, the rosemary he already knew by smell, thyme for strength, chamomile for nights when sleep refused favor. He taught her to read the sky by the tilt of the willow and the way the sparrows quieted before rain.
The candle by the sill burned low, a slow orange that left the corners in shadow. The hearth had cooled to embers, and the room smelled faintly of rosemary and warmed linen. Outside, footsteps on the stone had thinned to the polite noises of a keep settling; inside, the air held the small quiet that came when two people had chosen not to make a fuss of evening.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, cloak still at his shoulder, the line of his silhouette dark against the wicklight. She was at the dressing chest, sleeves rolled, hair unpinned and sliding down her back like a ribbon of dusk. The maids had not returned.
“You came early,” she said without turning, the sentence simple and small.
“I thought I’d come sit,” he answered. His voice occupied the space without pushing. He set his gauntlet on the bench with careful hands as if placing a tool where it would be needed later. He did not sit immediately, he watched her as one watched a colt find balance.
She lifted a cloth from the basin, wrung it, and breathed the steam to her face. The motion steadied her. "Could you help me?" she asked gently, referring to the ties at the back of her dress.
His fingers found the laces with the same steady certainty he used on reins; he did not fumble, did not hurry. Each knot came loose under his hands as if obeying a practiced order. When the last ribbon fell free he slid the gown’s back apart a fraction to give her room to breathe and let his palm rest for a moment against the small of her back. She exhaled, the sound small and private.
He moved her hair aside, leaned over and placed his lips on her neck. He felt the warmth of her skin under his lips and held the moment like a careful thing, neither pressing nor withdrawing. Her breath faltered and then steadied; when she tilted her head, it was an answer rather than a plea. He laid a hand against the small of her back with the same measured pressure he used to steady a frightened horse and let his mouth follow the line of her neck in slow, sure touches.
She did not recoil. Instead she leaned into him, the motion a small surrender and a careful invitation at once. The room shrank to the sound of their breath and the faint scrape of linen as she shifted closer. He moved with the restraint of a man used to containing force, each touch was a test, a question answered by the softening of her shoulders.
“Simon,” she whimpered.
He listened to the whimper as if it were an order and let the sound shape his next breath. The sound was small and raw, less a plea than a confession, and it landed on him with the kind of weight he had learned to answer with steadiness rather than heat. “I’m here,” he said, voice low enough to be private and clear enough to be answer.
He resumed with the same careful restraint, each kiss measured, each touch testing rather than taking. When his mouth found the curve of her collarbone he paused to read the slope of her shoulders, the way she drew nearer, the tiny relinquishments that counted more than any declaration. She answered in kind, hands moving along his forearm as if learning the map of him by touch. Laughter escaped her once, sharp and surprised, and he matched it with a breath that steadied into chuckle. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her skin.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
His mouth found hers then, not hurried but sure, as if fitting two practiced tools together; the kiss held patience rather than possession. Her fingers threaded through the hair at his temple, light and clumsy with wanting, and he answered each small pressure with a measured, sure touch, no sudden claims, only steady contact that kept the shape of her.
They moved together the way two people learn a new routine: tentative, attentive, correcting each other gently. When his hand slid to her waist it stayed there, an anchor more than an insistence; when hers found his wrist it closed around it like a pledge. Laughter came again, softer this time, threaded with breath and something like permission.
At one point he paused and searched her face in the candlelight, reading the line of her jaw and the quiet in her eyes. “Tell me if it hurts,” he said, voice low and exact.
"It won't," she said in a confident, gentle voice.
He let the assurance land and shaped his next moves around it. The room held them like a small, secret harbor; the candlelight softened edges and made promises out of shadows. He kissed her again, slower this time, each motion careful as if repairing something delicate, each touch an instruction learned rather than an instinct acted on.
Her hands moved with more confidence, exploring the map of him as if noticing landmarks she'd only glimpsed before. He answered by keeping his pace even, by pressing his weight into steadiness rather than demand. When he eased his hand higher along her back she did not tense; she eased into him, matching his restraint with her own willingness.
They spoke in fragments, no declarations, only particulars that anchored the moment. “Breathe with me,” he murmured. She did, and the rhythm steadied them both. He counted silently, marking small measures: inhale, hold, release. The cadence made the room safe in a way words could not.
At one point she laughed softly, a sudden, breathy sound that broke the tautness of feeling and turned it into something almost ordinary. He smiled into the laugh and pressed a forehead to hers, the contact light and sure.
They stayed like that, foreheads pressed, breaths slow and matched, as if the world had narrowed to the space between two steadying hearts. Outside, a sentry's boot passed and the sound softened into the night. Inside, the candle burned down to a stub and the room held only warmth and the hush of two people learning the limits of one another.
She traced the line of his jaw with the pad of a finger, a small, deliberate mapping that felt like an inventory of trust. He answered by tilting his chin, making the angle easier to reach, and when she found the scar there he did not flinch; instead he let a small, private smile loosen him.
When at last they eased apart it was without suddenness. He drew a hand gently through her hair one last time and folded it into his palm as if tucking a small, fragile thing into place. She slid under the blanket with the practiced motion of someone who had learned to find comfort in modesty, and he followed, positioning himself at her side with a hand threaded through hers.
They fell to sleep with the door unlatched and the candle reduced to a grey ring, their breaths slow and the chamber quieter than it had been before supper. In the dark, the promise between them was neither a vow nor a spectacle; it was the accumulation of care, the steady catalogue of tiny mercies that would, in time, become the shape of a life.
The common room smelled faintly of coffee and boot polish, the low hum of the television filling the silence. Kyle stepped in, jacket slung over one arm, expression unreadable. He’d barely crossed the threshold before Soap’s head snapped up from the couch.
“There he is!” Soap crowed, springing to his feet like a coiled spring. “Romeo himself. How was it?”
Kyle arched a brow. “How was what?”
“The date, obviously.” Soap’s grin was wide enough to split his face. “Don’t play coy with me, mate. I’ve been waiting all bloody day.”
Kyle set his jacket neatly over the back of a chair, unhurried. “It was fine.”
“Fine?” Soap repeated, scandalized. “That’s all I get? Fine? You’ve just met the lass who could be the love of your life and you’re giving me fine?”
Kyle poured himself a mug of coffee, movements deliberate, calm. “I don’t recall promising you a debrief.”
Soap trailed after him like a terrier, relentless. “Come on, Gaz. Did she laugh at your jokes? Did she run for the hills? Did you—”
Kyle cut him off with a look, steady and unamused. “Johnny.”
Soap froze, grin faltering just a fraction. Kyle took a slow sip of coffee, then added, “Not telling you.”
The grin came roaring back, brighter than ever. “Oh, that’s rich. You’re keeping secrets from me now? This is betrayal, mate. Betrayal of the highest order.”
Kyle only shrugged, settling into a chair with his mug. “Guess you’ll survive.”
Soap flopped back onto the couch with a groan, muttering loud enough for the whole base to hear. “Unbelievable. I set the man up, and he won’t even give me crumbs.”
Kyle hid his smile behind the rim of his cup.
Soap finally gave up, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine! Keep your secrets, Sergeant. But don’t think I won’t find out. I’ve got sources.”
He stomped toward the corridor, muttering under his breath about betrayal and ungrateful friends. The door swung shut behind him, leaving the common room quieter, the television’s low drone filling the space again.
Kyle leaned back in his chair, savoring the peace. He’d just lifted his mug when a voice came from the corner.
“Went well, then.”
Ghost was there, half in shadow, boots propped on the table like he’d been part of the furniture all along. His mask tilted just enough to suggest he’d been watching the whole exchange.
Kyle blinked. “How long have you been sitting there?”
“Long enough.” Ghost’s tone was flat, but there was a thread of dry amusement woven through it. “Soap’s not wrong. You’re harder to read than you think.”
Kyle set his mug down, meeting the masked gaze without flinching. “And you’re not going to ask?”
Ghost shrugged, a slow roll of his shoulders. “Don’t need to. You came back looking lighter. That’s answer enough.” For a moment, neither spoke. The television hummed, the base settling into its usual rhythm.
Then Ghost added, almost as an afterthought, “Good for you, Gaz.”
Waking was like clawing one’s way bare‑handed up from the bottom of a bottomless well, reaching toward a light that always seemed just out of grasp. Struggling to shake off the darkness pressing down on you, half‑conscious, your hand drifted across the bed in search of warmth, reaching instinctively for a body that was no longer there.
You forced your eyes open; beyond the curtains, there was nothing but the faint glow of a streetlamp seeping through, a dim light that barely held back the dark. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a flicker of movement in the room’s shadowed corner.
“Sorry,” came a muffled voice from the darkened corner. “I hadn’t meant to wake you.”
“It’s okay,” you said, rubbing at your eyes with the hope of brushing sleep away. “Are you leaving?” Your voice cracked, splintered by disappointment. Your eyes, slowly adjusting to the dark, drifted down to the duffel bag resting at his feet.
“Go back to sleep,” he said, not bothering to offer more.
Your chest tightened at the dismissal, the words landing heavier than they should have. You sat there in the half‑light, watching him as he shifted his weight, one hand tightening around the strap of the duffel like it might anchor him to the floor.
“Simon,” you tried again, softer this time, the name a thread you hoped might pull him back.
He stilled. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of the streetlamp outside. The room felt smaller with him in it, his presence filling every shadow. Finally, he exhaled, the sound low and frayed.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he said, his gaze fixed anywhere but your face.
As he turned his back and reached for the door, you sprang from the bed, unmindful of your own nakedness, and caught hold of his arm.
His body went rigid beneath your touch, the muscle in his arm tightening as though instinct demanded he shake you off. For a heartbeat, you thought he might. But then he froze, caught between the door and your grip, the silence between you louder than any argument.
“Don’t,” he said, the word rough, almost broken.
“At least wait until morning,” you pleaded, your voice breaking on the words. “Do you have to leave now?”
His head bowed, the weight of your plea hanging between you. For a long moment, he didn’t answer, his breath shallow, uneven, as though the question itself had struck somewhere he kept locked away.
“Please,” you pressed one last time, the word trembling on your lips, wary of how easily it might turn against you.
When the bag slipped from his hand and hit the floor, you fought to smother the surge of triumph rising in your chest.
“One more night,” he said, his cold voice cutting through your skin like a blade, driving straight into your soul.
Tags/Warnings: age gap, father's best friend, smut, fingering
Your father had once been a soldier. After an explosion left him paralyzed, he was forced into early retirement.
John Price had been his closest friend from the military, someone forged in the same fire, bound by years of service and shared silence.
Throughout your childhood, you mostly lived with your mother. Later, you moved into a place of your own. John Price was never someone you saw often, only on occasion, during those rare holidays spent with your father, when their old camaraderie would surface in quiet laughter and shared stories.
So, when things took this turn, you couldn't quite grasp how it has happened.
But it had happened, while your father, lost in the thrill of the national football match and dulled by the beers he’d been drinking, remained oblivious in the living room, John had slipped away under the pretense of going to the bathroom, only to find himself with you in the kitchen.
Your back was pressed against his hard chest, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, trapping you between his body and the kitchen counter. His other hand had snuck under the waistband of your tights.
"So wet as always," he whispered against your ear.
His calloused fingers rubbed slow circles over your sensitive bud while his thumb hooked into your underwear to pull it aside. He pushed one finger inside you, making you gasp and bite your lip to stay quiet.
He added another finger, curling them upwards to hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back. His free hand moved from your waist to your breast, squeezing and kneading it through your shirt.
He leaned down, biting your neck softly before whispering. "Be quiet, love."
His fingers moved faster inside you, his palm pressing against your clit with each thrust. You could feel his hardened cock pressing against your bottom through your pants. He bit your neck again harder, leaving a mark as his fingers brought you closer and closer to the edge.
“John,” your father called from the living room, his voice carrying over the noise of the match. “You’re missing the game.”
He froze for a moment, fingers burried deep inside you, his thumb pressing hard against your clit. He didn't pull out, instead, he curled his fingers even harder against your G-spot, making you whimper softly and clamp your legs together to keep the sensation going. “Coming,” he called back to your father.
He picked up the pace with his fingers, pushing them in and out rapidly. He knew your body better than you did yourself. He knew how to make you quiet, how to make you come quickly. He covered your mouth with his free hand as your legs started to shake, smothering your moan.
You hear your dad calling again. "John, get some beers while you're up." His voice boomed.
"Bringing it," John answered.
"You need to come quickly," he whispered against your ear. He removed his hand from your mouth and replaced it with his lips, kissing you roughly as he pumped his fingers in and out of you aggressively. His thumb rubbed harsh circles over your clit while his other hand gripped your hip tightly.
You came silently against his fingers, your legs trembling and inner walls clamping down hard. He kissed you deeply to swallow your muffled cries as he continued fingering you through your orgasm until your body went limp. He quickly pulled his fingers out and sucked them clean right before grabbing some beers from the fridge.
"You okay?" Your dad asked when John handed him a beer. He didn't look away from the TV.
Leaning against the counter, you tried to steady your breath, your gaze drifting toward them through the kitchen doorway.
“I’m fine,” you heard John say. “How’s the match going?”
When he realized things had slipped out of his control, it was already far too late.
It was all supposed to be a game, a deception meant to guarantee his safety. Yet somewhere between the laughter shared by firelight and the quiet moments when her hand brushed his without thought, the game had turned on him. Affection had crept in like a thief, subtle and merciless, until he found himself watching her not as prey, but as something far more dangerous: someone who could undo him with nothing more than a smile.
He told himself it was nothing. A flicker of weakness, a passing indulgence, the kind of sentiment he could smother with a well placed jest or a cruel smile. But the lie frayed each time her gaze lingered on him without suspicion, each time she offered trust he had done nothing to deserve. It was unbearable, that warmth, unearned, unasked for, seeping into the cracks he had spent centuries sealing shut.
And still, he could not look away.
She moved through the world with a steadiness that mocked his own chaos, blade in hand, shoulders squared against every danger. Where he survived by shadows and silvered words, she carved her path in steel and certainty.
He should have resented her for it. Instead, he found himself drawn closer, as though her very presence promised a reprieve he had never dared to imagine.
It was no longer hunger that kept him awake at night.
It was her.
He despised the thought of it, this tether he had not chosen. Yet when she laughed, unaware of the ruin she wrought, he felt the weight of his past loosen, if only for a heartbeat. It was intolerable. It was intoxicating.
Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to sharpen his smile into a blade and remind her, remind himself, that he was danger dressed in silk and shadow. But then she would look at him, truly look, as though he were more than the monster he had been made into, and the words would die on his tongue.
He had survived centuries by never yielding, never allowing another soul to touch what remained of his own. And yet, with her, surrender no longer felt like death. It felt like the first breath after drowning.
And that terrified him more than any master ever had.
Terror was familiar; he had lived in its shadow for centuries. But this was different. This was not the lash of a master or the gnawing hunger that hollowed him out from within. This was the terror of wanting, of needing, of standing on the precipice of something he could neither command nor escape.
He loathed it.
He craved it.
Each night, as the campfire dwindled to embers, he found himself listening for her voice, the cadence of her laughter, the steady rhythm of her breath as she drifted into sleep. It was a sound that should have meant nothing to him, yet it anchored him more surely than any chain ever had. He told himself he lingered nearby out of caution, that he was guarding his own interests. But the truth was far simpler, and far more damning: he stayed because the thought of her absence unsettled him in ways he could not name.
And so he played his part, the charming smile, the cutting wit, the predator cloaked in velvet. But beneath it all, he was unraveling, thread by thread, undone not by blade or spell, but by the quiet, devastating kindness of a woman who had never once asked him to be anything other than what he was.
It was a game no longer. It was a surrender he could not stop.
Unethical * - AO3
He was your mother's boyfriend, and you wanted to make things right, make him belong to the person who deserved him more.
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7
