Sukuna x Reader
Length 9.5 K+
Rating: 18K+
Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Supernatural Stuff, JJK Canon-verse, Foul Language, Death, Poor Mental State, Telepathy, Soulbond, Dark Humor, Mild Sexual Content, Emotional Whiplash, AU
Happy Halloween & special thanks to @physics-of-op-main for helping me brainstorm!
You are my Special ;D
Next
-X- Bond Awakening -X-
You didn’t mean to inherit a teenager.
Yuji was supposed to go home after the funeral, back to the cramped apartment he’d shared with his grandfather, back to the familiar neighborhood where everyone knew his name and his smile. But when the social worker slid the forms across your kitchen table, it became clear that home wasn’t an option anymore.
Your mother had been friends with his. Sunday shopping trips. Birthday parties. You remembered the smell of her hand lotion, the way she used to laugh and tug Yuji’s ear when he tried to sneak extra candy into the cart. Legally, you were not his auntie, but functionally, you’ve been one since you slipped him money.
Your mother and Yuji’s had been close once: shopping trips, New Year’s dinners, quiet promises of “we’ll take care of each other’s kids if anything happens.”
They’d both been gone for years now, and somehow, that made signing your name feel less like a choice and more like a promise you hadn’t realized you’d made.
So when the hospital called, there wasn’t really a choice.
Yuji moved in with one duffel bag and an awkward smile, still too polite for his own good. You told yourself it would just be for a few years, until he finished high school and got his footing.
For a while, it was almost normal.
Until the night you couldn’t reach him.
He didn’t answer your calls. You checked the school. The track field. The clubroom. Nothing. You tried his friends, his teacher, and even the nurse’s office. Each time, the same response. He’s not here.
You stood in your kitchen with your phone pressed to your ear, the clock ticking loud enough to make you dizzy. Yuji wasn’t the type to disappear. He wasn’t the type to worry you. So when an hour passed, then two, something cold started crawling up your spine.
You were halfway through filing a missing person’s report when the notification hit your screen.
Breaking News: Incident at Sugisawa High School. Several injured. Suspected criminal activity.
You stared at it for a full second before the words even registered. Then you swore. Loudly. You grabbed your keys, phone, and the first jacket you could find. The chair clattered behind you as you shoved it out of the way.
You didn’t even remember driving there. One minute you were running a red light, the next you were skidding into the nearest parking lot, tires screeching, heart hammering hard enough to hurt.
A terrible feeling crawled through you, settling low in your gut. Something had gone wrong. Not teenage-boy-forgot-his-homework wrong. Not even broke-a-window-with-a-soccer-ball wrong. It was the kind of wrong that made the air feel too thick, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Damn it, Yuji, you thought as you climbed out of the car. You’re a great kid, but I am not qualified for this. I can barely do my own taxes, let alone emergency guardianship and whatever the hell “teenage angst” means.
Police tape stretched across the school gates, slick with rain. Blue lights flashed across puddles, turning them into tiny, strobing mirrors. The air reeked of ozone and metal, the smell of lightning and blood.’
Sugisawa’s cracked front step flashed in the camera lights.Yuji had jumped that damn step this morning when you dropped him off, blasting the most embarrassing music possible, with him saying not a word besides, ‘THANKS!’
“Excuse me,” you said, already ducking under the tape before anyone could answer. “My… kid nephew is here. Yuji Itadori.”
“Ma’am, you can’t—”
Too late. You were already moving. Every voice behind you dissolved into static as you sprinted forward, shoes slipping on wet pavement. Your breath came out in harsh gasps, your coat soaked through, and somewhere between the sobbing and swearing, you started praying to any god still taking calls.
Then someone stepped in front of you.
Tall. Smiling. Beautiful in a way that felt suspiciously unsafe.
The man was dressed head-to-toe in black, the sort of outfit that screamed “government agent” or “cult leader.” He had a blindfold wrapped around his eyes—a blindfold—and yet somehow managed to stroll out from behind the tape like it was a runway.
“Hi,” he said, voice annoyingly cheerful. “I’m Gojo. Satoru Gojo, but you can call me Satoru. I have a feeling we’re about to get to know each other really, really well.”
You blinked. Once. Twice.
Then your hand moved before your brain did.
Smack.
The sound cracked through the rain. He tilted his head, smile never faltering, one perfect white-toothed grin shining back at you like this was all terribly amusing.
“…Okay,” he said finally, rubbing his cheek. “Fair. But usually people buy me dinner first.”
You gawked at him, dripping, furious, and entirely done with the day. “Where the hell is Yuji?”
Gojo just beamed wider, which somehow made you want to slap him again. “Alive. Mostly. Long story short, your kid’s eaten something he really shouldn’t have.”
You blinked at him. “What, like glue?”
He grinned. “Worse.”
And that was the exact moment you realized you were about to regret every responsible decision you’d ever made.
You sat in the backseat of a car you definitely did not consent to being in, clutching a very unconscious Yuji Itadori. At the same time, a man you had, justifiably, tried to maul hummed cheerfully in the front seat.
Rain streaked down the windows in lazy trails, city lights blurring past. Somewhere between the sirens, the chaos, and the moment you threw a shoe at him, Gojo Satoru had apparently decided you were now friends. The locked door handle was apparently to ensure this.
“You hit surprisingly hard for a civilian,” he said conversationally, one hand on the wheel, the other fiddling with the radio. “I’m impressed. That almost never happens.”
You stared at him, still soaked, still clutching Yuji’s limp head in your lap. “Where. Are. We. Going.”
He smiled like someone who’d never once been punched in the mouth for a tone like that. “Jujutsu High. Don’t worry, you’ll love it. Beautiful grounds, great food, occasional death curses—really top-tier education.”
You blinked at him. “You’re kidnapping us.”
“What? No! I’m rescuing you.”
“From what?”
He considered this. “From mediocrity.”
You looked down at Yuji’s unconscious face. “He’s a teenager, not a soup ingredient.”
Gojo laughed, the sound bright and delighted, as if this were all a field trip. “He’s special. Ate something he shouldn’t have, but is still alive.”
You tightened your grip on Yuji’s jacket. “If you say ‘glue,’ I swear to God I’ll strangle you with your own blindfold.”
“Close,” he said cheerfully. “A cursed object. It’s sort of like… demonic sushi. Bad for the soul, but oh, the aftertaste.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “Cursed…So this is… what? Some underground government experiment? Secret sports league? Is this how they’re recruiting now? Because I swear the scouts have been way too persistent since Yuji broke that track record—”
“Ah,” Gojo said, glancing at you in the rearview mirror. “You think I’m a talent scout?”
“Yes!” you snapped. “And if you’re planning to harvest his organs or make him play pro ball for your shady corporation, you’re going to regret letting me keep my other shoe.”
He snorted. “You’re adorable.”
“I’m serious.”
“Oh, I can tell. It’s very cute.”
You leaned back in the seat, muttering, “I cannot going to jail for murder, I need proof first” while Gojo hummed along to the radio, blissfully unaffected.
When the car finally turned off the main road and started winding up a narrow forest path, your nerves spiked again. The headlights caught on old wooden gates, a stone wall, and mist curling over temple rooftops.
Gojo parked, turned around in his seat, and smiled at you like this was all perfectly normal. “Welcome to Jujutsu High,” he said. “Home of Japan’s finest sorcerers, cursed techniques, and—hopefully soon—your second date with me.”
You blinked. “What?”
He winked. “You hit me, I fell for you. That’s how it works.”
You stared at him for a long moment, drenched, exhausted, holding a possibly cursed teenager.
Then you said, “I want my shoe back.”
“After the tour,” he said. “Priorities.”
You were trying very hard to convince yourself that this was still, somehow, a normal situation.
Sure, Yuji was unconscious. Sure, you’d been abducted by a blindfolded man who smiled like a shark with tenure. But hospitals existed. So did therapy. Maybe this was one of those moments people just repressed for self-preservation.
You followed him inside because, frankly, you were too tired to fight anymore. Every muscle in your body had given up around the time Gojo started humming what sounded suspiciously like an anime theme song during the drive.
The place didn’t look like a school. It looked like a haunted monastery that someone had refurbished for tax reasons. The halls were long and empty, the floors polished wood that creaked just enough to keep your nerves on edge. The air was thick with incense, sweet and strange, and beneath it was something else entirely, something faintly humming like the low static of a bad dream. You swore your teeth ached the longer you breathed it in.
When they wheeled Yuji off toward a side corridor, you tried to follow. You got as far as saying, “Excuse me, that’s my kid, I have rights,” before the door slammed shut in your face. You shoved it once, twice, but it didn’t budge.
You turned on Gojo, murderous. “Open the door.”
He smiled. “You can’t go in there. Sealing protocols. Cursed residue.”
“Sealing protocols? What is this, Area 51? He’s sixteen.” You hissed, readying your other shoe.
“Exactly why we’re being careful.” He said, already taking action.
Before you could argue again, he had you by the waist and was already walking away.
“Put me down!”
“Sorry, liability hazard,” he said cheerfully, completely ignoring the fact that you were pounding your fists against his shoulder. “You’re vibrating with negative energy. It’s adorable, but seems… awkwardly effective at attracting curses.”
“Negative energy? I’m about to press charges for molestation!” You screech, hitting his back.
He laughed. “You’re so funny when you threaten me.”
You kicked, you missed, and he twirled you like you were a shopping bag. “I hope you get haunted by tax demons,” you shouted.
“I already am,” he said with a grin. “His name’s Yaga.”
By the time he deposited you in front of a sliding wooden door, you were panting, furious, and mentally drafting your testimony for his trial.
Gojo slid the door open with a little flourish. “Our fearless leader will see you now.”
The room inside looked less like an office and more like a shrine for people who enjoyed judging others professionally. Tatami mats, paper lanterns, a faint trickle of water somewhere, and, behind a low desk, a middle-aged man whose entire presence radiated quiet authority and mild irritation, on par with how cunty his sunglasses were.
He looked up slowly. His expression was carved from granite and long-suffering patience. The teacup in his hand trembled just slightly, whether from age or annoyance, you couldn’t tell.
Gojo began speaking immediately, his tone bouncing between casual and chaotic, talking about “potential allies,” “guardian responsibilities,” and something about you “already being emotionally invested.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose.
The man waited for Gojo to stop talking, then spoke in a voice that was calm, deep, and very final. “You are Itadori Yuji’s guardian?”
You nodded slowly. “Legally, yes. Emotionally, I’d like a refund.”
A small pause followed. The man’s brow twitched. Gojo tried to stifle a laugh and failed.
The man set his tea down with deliberate care. “My name is Masamichi Yaga, and I am the principal of Jujutsu High School.”
You glared at him.
“...I apologize for bringing you here, but this is an exceptionally dangerous situation. Your ward has consumed a cursed object of immense evil,” he said quietly. “He now serves as the vessel for Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses.”
You gazed at him, blinking hard, because sleep deprivation and absurdity apparently felt identical now. “The what of what now?”
Gojo clapped his hands together like someone announcing the winner of a raffle. “Told you it’d be exciting.”
You looked between them. The blindfolded menace and the stoic man who looked like he regretted every decision that led him here, and decided that caffeine would not be enough. You were going to need an entire espresso IV drip before processing any of this.
You blinked again, just to make sure you were, in fact, still conscious. “Okay. I see. And… that’s bad?”
“Very,” Yaga said succinctly.
Gojo grinned, his teeth flashing like this was the best day of his life. “World-ending bad.”
“Cool,” you said faintly. “Super chill. Love that for us.”
Yaga took another sip of tea, unbothered. “The higher-ups have voted for his immediate execution.”
That got through the fog. “WHAT?” you shouted, jolting upright. “He’s sixteen! He gets a C in math and still sleeps with a night-light! What is wrong with you people?”
Gojo waved a lazy hand. “We’re working on a compromise.”
“Oh, great,” you said, voice cracking somewhere between hysteria and sarcasm. “Because that always goes well. You just threatened my child with murder.”
“Not yet.” Gojo leaned back against the wall, the picture of infuriating calm. “Long story short, he lives for now. We’ll train him to help collect the rest of Sukuna’s fingers before we, you know, deal with him.”
You blinked at him. “Sukuna? Fingers?”
“Yep,” he said easily, as if describing grocery items. “His remains! And he’ll gobble them up. Just like the first one.”
You just stared. The words didn’t register at first; they kind of bounced around your skull like loose change before finally landing. “The fuck?!”
“Comfortable?” you repeated, voice rising. “You’re talking about feeding my kid human remains like it’s a diet plan!”
Yaga, who had gone back to his tea, didn’t even look up. “Technically, they’re cursed remains,” he said.
“Oh, that makes it so much better,” you said, running both hands down your face. “This is insane. You’re all insane. I’m calling child services.”
Gojo tilted his head. “They’ll just call me. We’re on a first-name basis.”
You stared at him, horrified. “Why would they—”
The door slid open before you could finish. Another man stepped in, and for a second, your brain short-circuited. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in an immaculate suit that looked entirely too expensive for whatever cult meeting this was. Blond hair slicked neatly back, calm brown eyes, a perfectly polite aura that somehow radiated I’m too tired for this nonsense.
And he was pretty. Why did all the cults have pretty men???
“This is Nanami Kento,” Gojo said cheerfully. “Former salaryman, current sorcerer, resident buzzkill.”
Nanami adjusted his tie and gave you a small bow, every movement crisp and controlled. “Pleasure,” he said, voice smooth but edged with weariness. “I apologize for your situation. Gojo tends to create chaos wherever he goes. I’m sure he’s done nothing but irritate and confuse you, but the principal asked I come help explain as I have experience with the outside world.”
“I noticed,” you said weakly, trying not to look like you were melting under the weight of exhaustion, fear, and whatever absurd charisma this new man radiated.
Gojo leaned closer to you with a grin you could hear. “Handsome, right? Don’t get your hopes up. He’s married to his job.”
Nanami gave him a look that could have turned water to ice. “I am not married to my job. I simply respect professionalism. Something you might try once in your life.”
Gojo clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. In front of our guest?”
You rubbed your temples. “Do you two always talk like this, or is this just for my benefit?”
“Always,” Nanami said.
“Especially when there’s an audience,” Gojo added at the same time.
You sighed, glancing between them; the blindfolded menace who thought kidnapping was flirting and the impeccably dressed man who looked two minutes away from quitting the entire universe.
“Okay,” you said finally, “so let me get this straight. You’re all government employees, somehow. You fight curses, which are real, apparently. My kid ate a cursed finger and is now possessed by some ancient demon king, and now I’m supposed to just… go along with this?”
Gojo grinned. “See? You’re catching on fast.”
Yaga sighed, the kind of deep, weary sound that suggested this wasn’t the first time someone had screamed in his office. Then he nodded toward Nanami.
Nanami stepped forward, calm and precise as ever, and handed you something that looked like a pair of heavy, old-fashioned glasses. “Put these on,” he said. “They will allow you to perceive cursed energy.”
You turned them over in your hands suspiciously. “You’re not about to hypnotize me or something, right? Because I once clicked a pop-up ad that said the same thing.”
Nanami blinked, clearly unamused. “Just put them on.”
You sighed and did as told, because frankly, you were wreck to hot men in suits with no shits given.
The change was instant.
The air in the room shifted. The walls darkened, the light warped, and suddenly everything around you was moving, slow, writhing, alive. Shadows stretched into crooked limbs, crawling over the tatami and up the walls. Black, oily threads pulsed in every corner like veins under sickly skin. And then you saw it: a face, enormous and twisted, flickering into view right next to your shoulder.
You screamed. Loudly. And then threw the glasses across the room like they’d personally offended you.
Nanami caught them one-handed before they hit the ground. Gojo applauded.
You stood frozen for a second, clutching your chest, then pointed accusingly at the air. “There was something on me! It looked at me!”
Gojo grinned, that infuriating, too-bright grin that meant he was having the time of his life. “So, did you see it now? Been freewilling on you since you go to the high school.”
“I see trauma!” you snapped. “I see nightmares! I see whatever the hell demon from hell, trying to make eye contact with me!”
Yaga sipped his tea. “Then the glasses work.”
You gaped at him. “Work? That thing blinked! At me! You people need therapy, not eyewear!”
Gojo chuckled, clapping Nanami on the shoulder. “She’s adapting faster than I expected.”
Nanami cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief and handed them back to you with all the calm dignity of a man used to Gojo Satoru’s existence. “You’ll need them again,” he said simply.
You took one cautious step back. “I’ll need exorcism, not eyewear.”
Gojo’s face lit up like you’d just told him he was getting a birthday party. “And now we come to the point,” he said, spreading his arms theatrically. “See, we are the exorcists. Sorcerers, if you want to be technical.”
You blinked at him, your brain fighting for every ounce of logic it had left. “Sorcerers,” you repeated slowly, like maybe saying it out loud would make it make sense.
He nodded helpfully. “Yes! We handle curses. These curses are born of negative human emotions, invisible to normal people, and responsible for most of the bad luck, illness, and late-night ghost sightings you’ve ever heard of. Very fulfilling work. Terrible benefits.”
You stared. Nanami looked quietly pained. Yaga took another sip of tea as if none of this concerned him.
“So let me get this straight,” you said at last, pointing at them with the energy of a person teetering on the edge. “I haven’t gone insane—rather, my ward ate a cursed finger, became the human Airbnb for some ancient murder demon, and now there are old men somewhere who want him executed?”
“Pretty much,” Gojo said, far too cheerful. “Luckly, I want to train Yuji, and I can also do what I want, because I’m the strongest. So… you no longer have to take care of him now. Congratulations.”
You blinked at him. “I’m calling the police.”
Nanami cleared his throat politely. “You may wish to reconsider that. They don’t come here anymore.”
You groaned into your palms. “That’s what people say when they’re in cults.”
Gojo clapped his hands together, his grin as blinding as ever, like this was all just a fun team-building exercise instead of a complete mental breakdown. “Alright then, honorary guardian of an amazing future sorcerer. Let’s get you settled. There’s tea, paperwork, and trauma ahead.”
You exhaled slowly, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a dying animal. “Are you joking? What sort of guardian would I be, just to let you have him! That my kid! MY burden on the tax system!”
Nanami adjusted his tie with the resigned grace of a man who’d accepted the futility of hope. “A good guardian, but the fact is, there is no other choice you have.”
The room fell quiet except for the faint hiss of the teapot and Gojo’s soft humming, entirely out of place in the suffocating weirdness of the situation.
You closed your eyes, pressing your palms against your face one more time as if sheer willpower could reset the universe. When you opened them again, Gojo was still smiling, Nanami still looked like he needed a vacation, and Yaga was still drinking tea like this happened every day.
You hesitated for a long moment, staring down at the glasses still in Nanami’s hand. Every part of you screamed not to touch them again. They felt like bad luck given form, and you were almost certain that putting them on would make the world notice you in ways it shouldn’t.
But curiosity, or maybe denial, finally won. You sighed, muttered a quiet prayer to any higher power still listening, and slipped them back on.
The air changed again, humming faintly like a wire pulled too tight. You braced yourself for another nightmare show of shadows and writhing shapes.
Nanami lifted his arm, calm and deliberate, and drew a slow arc through the air. You didn’t understand what he was doing until it happened.
The darkness around the corners rippled. The warped shapes began to dissolve, thinning into wisps that faded like smoke in the wind. The pressure in the room lightened until it was just air again, ordinary and still.
You blinked, glancing around. The walls were only walls. The floor was clean. The thing that had been breathing on your shoulder was gone.
Nanami lowered his arm and looked at you. “Better?”
You let out a shaky breath. “I’m not screaming, if that counts.”
Gojo leaned against the wall, smiling like a man very pleased with himself. “See? What did I tell you? She’s a natural.”
You rubbed your arms, still trying to chase away the crawling feeling that lingered beneath your skin. “It’s gone, right? Like, actually gone?”
“For now,” Nanami said simply.
Gojo added with a cheerful smile, “But don’t worry, they always come back.”
You stared at him, deadpan. “You are the worst motivational speaker I’ve ever met.”
He opened his mouth, probably to deliver another quip about how inspiring he was, when the door burst open and a thin man stumbled in, panting. His glasses were crooked, his uniform splattered with something that looked uncomfortably like blood.
“He’s waking—” the man managed before Gojo vanished.
Not walked out, not ran—vanished. One second he was there, and the next there was nothing but air and a faint shimmer, like the world itself had hiccuped.
You froze. “Did he just—?”
Principal Yaga didn’t even flinch. “Yes.”
“Evaporate?!”
He adjusted his tie. “Essentially.”
You blinked at him, trying to find words. “You’re saying he can just pop in and out of existence like a—like a—”
“Like Gojo,” Nanami said dryly. “He is the strongest. He tends to do whatever he wants.”
You stared at the empty space where Gojo had been, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “That’s not reassuring.”
Nanami sighed and straightened his cuffs. “It’s not meant to be.”
You were about to ask what he meant when the air shifted.
It began as a faint hum at the base of your skull, soft enough to mistake for nerves. Then it grew louder. The sound turned into pressure, then into movement. Something crawled behind your eyes, cold and alive, and the edges of the room began to blur. The walls seemed to tilt inward, the air thick enough to chew.
Yaga stood, his chair scraping against the floor. His usually calm face had changed, the smallest flicker of concern appearing in his expression. Nanami’s eyes narrowed, his whole body going still.
“Are you alright?” Nanami asked, his voice sounding distant and heavy, as if you were hearing him through water.
You pressed a hand to your temple. “I think I’m—”
You never finished.
Something invisible was moving through you, cold and curious. It felt like fingers dragging through the drawers of your thoughts, pulling at every memory, every fear, leaving behind the echo of low laughter. You could not tell if you were still in the room.
Then you saw it.
Yuji, half-awake in something that looked like restraints, his breathing fast and uneven. Behind him, or maybe inside him, a shape stretched itself out of the dark. It was vast and sharp, too large to fit in the space you could see. Its grin was wide and cruel, and you could feel it noticing you, turning its attention toward you as though it had been waiting.
You gasped and stumbled back, grabbing the edge of Yaga’s desk. The light flickered, the air bending around you.
Nanami moved quickly, his hand steady on your shoulder. “Breathe,” he said, his voice more grounded now. “Yaga, do you—”
Yaga nodded once, pulling his sunglasses down. His eyes gleamed faintly beneath the lenses, sharp and assessing. “So this is why Gojo brought you. That fool could have said something.”
Nanami blinked, then moved quickly to guide you into the nearest chair as your balance wavered. “Pardon?”
Yaga’s tone grew more serious. “The curse has noticed it too. It’s too early to know which one it’s tied to, but the connection is unmistakable.”
You stared at him, your thoughts swimming. “What is going on?”
Your head felt heavy, your skull buzzing like a live wire. The air seemed to twist again, tugging at you from the inside out. You gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to hurt.
Then it happened.
Two voices rose inside your mind at once, overlapping, weaving together until you could barely tell where one ended and the other began. One was Yuji’s, familiar and frightened. The other was something else entirely; lower, smooth, ancient, and dripping with malice.
“Who’s the wench?” the second voice asked. The words didn’t echo in the room but inside your head, slick and cold, like oil poured over your thoughts.
You froze, eyes wide. The world tilted sideways, the light too bright and too far away.
Your knees buckled.
Nanami caught you before you hit the floor, his arm steady around your shoulders. “Stay with me,” he said, calm but urgent.
You tried to speak, but your tongue felt heavy, your mind slipping in and out of itself.
“Stay focused,” Nanami said quietly, his tone controlled but laced with tension. “You’re reacting to cursed energy.”
The sound of him only made the pressure worse. Your skull throbbed as if lightning had cracked open behind your eyes.
You gasped, clutching your head. “What the hell is happening?”
Nanami hesitated just long enough to make it terrifying. “Something rare,” he said finally.
You blinked through the haze, your pulse roaring in your ears. “You’re saying—”
Then it all went black.
Your eyes opened to nothing.
Not darkness, not light. Just wrongness. The air was too thick, pressing close against your skin, humming faintly like something alive. It felt heavy with breath, as if the entire world were leaning over you, whispering through your pores.
You sat up slowly, your heart slamming against your ribs.
Above you stretched a ceiling of black stone, carved with veins of red light that pulsed like blood beneath translucent skin. The glow shifted with each beat, slow and steady, as though the room itself had a heartbeat. The air smelled of metal and rain, rich and electric, and it clung to your throat when you tried to swallow.
The ground beneath your palms looked like water, yet it didn’t move. Cold and slick, perfectly smooth, it reflected your face with cruel precision. You saw yourself: bare feet, wide eyes, trembling hands, and behind that reflection, nothing at all. No walls. No horizon. Just an endless mirror stretching beneath a sky that bled faint red veins through black glass.
There was no sound. No wind. Not even your own breathing seemed to belong here.
You rose carefully. The surface didn’t ripple beneath your weight, only caught the faint shimmer of your movements like trapped light. The world felt sealed, airless, too still to be real.
“…What the hell.”
Your voice echoed far too long. It hung in the air like a bruise, warping and twisting until it came back to you distorted, almost unrecognizable.
You turned in a slow circle. The edge of the world didn’t fade—it stopped. Like someone had painted reality and then abandoned the canvas halfway through.
“Hello?” you called. The word cracked through the silence and vanished as if swallowed whole.
No answer.
A chill slid down your spine. The silence felt wrong now, too deliberate.
“Where am I?”
The ground answered first. A faint vibration. Then, deeper, slower, a heartbeat.
Not yours.
The sound grew louder, ancient and steady, pulsing up through the mirror floor until you could feel it in your teeth. Each thud rattled your bones, like the pulse of something enormous buried beneath the surface.
You stepped back, the echo chasing you, matching your quickened rhythm until your own heartbeat no longer felt like your own.
Then the reflection beneath your feet twitched.
You froze.
The mirrored version of you smiled.
Your chest seized. “No…”
The reflection laughed.
The sound rolled through the space like thunder trapped in a cave; low, rough, almost amused. The air shifted with it, thickening, hot against your neck.
“Oh, this is interesting,” a voice murmured from the dark.
You turned, and the air itself seemed to split open.
A man sat upon a throne of skulls and molten stone, bones fused together in grotesque artistry. The seat itself seemed to breathe, faint red light pulsing through its cracks like blood under glass. He lounged there as if the space were built for him, the shadows curling at his feet as though they knew his name.
Tattoos wound across his bare chest and shoulders, black as ink freshly spilled, each one pulsing faintly with the same red glow that threaded through the ceiling above. His skin caught the light strangely, smooth, too still, and yet the shape of him struck something familiar in you.
For a heartbeat, you thought it was Yuji.
The slope of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, even the color of his hair, all of it was close enough to make your chest tighten. The relief hit you first, raw and dizzying. You almost called his name.
Then you looked closer.
The face didn’t move right. The smile was a beat too late, the skin a shade too smooth, like wax melting under heat. His eyes glittered in the red light, not brown but something molten, something that looked back at you instead of through you.
“Yuji?” you whispered.
The smile widened. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t human.
Your stomach twisted as the illusion slipped, and the resemblance fell apart. The skin didn’t fit him. It shimmered faintly at the edges, like paint washing away from something monstrous beneath. For one awful moment, you saw both faces layered together, the boy you knew and the thing wearing him.
You stumbled back, breath catching. “No. No, absolutely not. You’re not real.”
He tilted his head, the motion too calm, too deliberate. “Oh?”
“This is… this is a coma,” you stammered, gesturing wildly to the empty expanse around you. “A head injury. A nightmare with really impressive special effects.”
He laughed softly, the sound rich and slow, curling through the air like smoke. “If that helps you sleep, little one, keep pretending.”
He rose from the throne in one smooth motion, and the air seemed to bend with him. The mirror floor rippled outward, and the red veins on the ceiling flared brighter, like the whole world responded to his movement.
“You don’t belong here,” he said, his tone thoughtful. He stepped closer, bare feet soundless on the glass. “And yet…” His lower eyes narrowed, studying you. “You are.”
“Okay, see, that’s not reassuring at all,” you said, holding up a trembling hand. “If this is some weird fever dream, I’d like to leave before—”
He smiled, and every word died on your tongue.
It was not a human smile. It was too wide, too knowing, too old.
“Go on then,” he murmured. “Wake up.”
You blinked. “What?”
He gestured lazily at the void. “If this is your dream, wake up. I’ll wait.”
You closed your eyes, inhaled sharply, whispered wake up, wake up, wake up.
When you opened them again, he was crouched in front of you.
“Perplexed?” he asked softly, his voice a purr against your ear.
You stumbled back, but the air moved with you, thick, syrupy, resisting. His grin widened. The ground pulsed faintly red beneath your feet.
You couldn’t breathe. The air was burning now, thick with iron and ozone. The pulse beneath your feet was deafening, shaking the world apart.
He stepped forward, slow, deliberate. The space bent around him.
“How curious,” he whispered, watching you with terrible fascination. “To force your way here just as I was about to claw your mind open.”
He raised his hand, long fingers tipped in black claws. The motion alone made the air hiss. He pointed directly at your throat.
“Let’s see what you are.”
You didn’t even have time to cry out. His hand cut through the air toward you—
And stopped.
A crack split the silence, sharp and bright as lightning. Golden light burst between you, blinding. His arm jerked to a halt inches from your skin. His muscles tensed, veins rising as he strained against something unseen.
For a heartbeat, everything held still.
Then you saw it, real confusion flickering across his face, now too close to your own.
He pressed harder, muscles flexing, a vein rising along his throat. The invisible barrier held fast. The air between you shimmered gold, vibrating like a living chord. Sparks of red and gold tangled together, snapping and hissing in the heavy air until the whole world smelled of metal and storm.
His breath came rough through his teeth. “What is this?”
You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t even move. The golden light pulsed between you, warm against your skin, and your lungs refused to work.
For a moment, he looked almost human, confused, surprised that something could resist him.
Then the look darkened.
He drew his hand back, slow and deliberate, shaking the tension from his fingers before folding his arms neatly inside the loose sleeves of his white robe. The sudden composure made the air feel colder.
He began to circle you, steps light and silent on the mirror floor. The sound of fabric brushing against stone was the only thing that existed. His gaze traced you from every angle, like he was studying a puzzle that shouldn’t exist.
“It’s almost…” he murmured, the words distant, half to himself, like a scholar pacing through the ruins of something ancient. “Surely not.”
He came to a stop in front of you again, the faint light from the ceiling glinting off his skin. His head tilted slightly, curiosity flickering through his expression before something like disbelief overtook it.
Then he laughed.
The sound started quietly, a low rumble that vibrated through the air, then grew into something sharp and rich, almost joyful in its mockery. It echoed in the vast empty space, bouncing off nothing and returning louder.
He wiped a hand across his mouth, still laughing softly under his breath. “Impossible,” he said at last, not to you but to the world itself. “Of all things.”
You stared at him, heart pounding.
He only smiled, slow and strange, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The confusion was gone now, replaced by something colder. Understanding, perhaps, or a secret he didn’t plan to share.
“Nothing,” he said finally, his tone smooth again. “It doesn’t matter.”
He turned his back to you, white fabric whispering against the dark floor as he walked away. “I’ll see you soon, soulmate.”
The air around you began to shift, gold fading into red, the hum of power fading from a roar to a whisper.
Just before the world broke apart beneath your feet, you heard him speak again.
The voice was so soft it barely existed, threading through the air like smoke, curling into the back of your skull. You could hardly tell if the sound was real or just the echo of your own mind coming undone. Then it deepened, the words unraveling in a low hum that seemed to breathe through you.
And then, it laughed.
The sound was wrong. Ancient. Too alive. It scraped along the inside of your head like claws on glass, a vibration that crawled through your bones until your body forgot how to move. You tried to breathe, to think, to wake up, but the voice only grew louder, stretching through every corner of you like it had found a home there.
And just when you thought you would break under the weight of it, another voice cut through.
“Now, now,” said someone lightly, almost teasing. “Be nice. It’s not very kind to treat women that way.”
It was a voice you recognized, even through the haze. Smooth. Lazy. Infuriatingly casual. Gojo Satoru.
The red light cracked above you like a pane of glass. The black floor gave way, the entire world folding in on itself until it shattered.
Your eyes flew open.
For a second, you couldn’t breathe. White light poured over you, too bright, too clean. The air smelled of antiseptic and paper. You blinked hard and realized you were cradled against someone—steady, warm, solid.
Nanami.
(Thank you, God.)
Your head lolled weakly against his shoulder, every muscle screaming as though you had been torn apart and reassembled by someone who hadn’t read the instructions.
“Oh god,” you rasped. “It was just a dream.”
A pause. Then, from the corner of the room, a voice you were quickly learning to dread.
“About that…”
Gojo leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his blindfold slightly crooked and his grin far too invested for the situation.
You barely had time to groan before the sound came again, not from outside, but from inside.
It wasn’t just one voice.
It was two.
“Hey, back off! Don’t talk about my auntie like that!” Yuji’s voice—bright, defensive, impossibly alive—echoed from somewhere in your mind.
Then came the other.
Low. Velvety. Wrong.
“Hello, little pet. Don’t get too comfortable. Let’s enjoy the moment.”
Every drop of blood in your body turned to ice.
You stiffened, staring at Gojo. “What… what was that?”
He tilted his head, utterly unbothered, like he was discussing the weather. “I’m thinking,” he began, voice light and cheerful, “that you’re about to be transferred here full-time.”
Your brain fumbled for words. “Transferred?”
Gojo smiled, slow and radiant, the kind of smile that made people nervous even on good days. “Welcome to Jujutsu High,” he said. “You’re not going home.”
For one absurd, fleeting moment, you thought about arguing. Then the edges of the room began to blur, the voices in your head melting into one another until the world turned soft and dark. This time, it was just good old passing out.
The last thing you heard before you slipped under was Gojo’s voice, bright and infuriatingly chipper.
“Don’t worry, we have dorms.”
A week later, three things had become painfully, horrifyingly clear.
First: Curses were real. Actual monsters made of bad vibes and murder apparently crawled out of human misery like mold in a damp basement. Second: sorcerers were real too, and they fought said monsters using techniques that broke every known law of science, gravity, and common sense. And third, and this one was really the kicker, something inside you had gone spectacularly wrong.
You had been a normal person. A civilian. Someone with rent, a to-do list, and a caffeine dependency you were genuinely proud of. You owned discount sunglasses that never stayed put on your nose, had half a college application draft rotting on your laptop, and were raising a teenager who believed “laundry” was more of a social experiment than a chore. You used to worry about car payments, reheating leftovers, and whether the Wi-Fi could handle both your Zoom meeting and his gaming stream.
Now you're worried about spiritual parasites and whether your brain qualifies as a government-funded duplex.
Apparently, you had what the professionals called “a soulbond.” Which, on paper, sounded nice. Romantic, even. The universe’s way of saying, hey, you two are cosmically compatible, probably make great eye contact, maybe even share power. Supposedly, it was this rare, sacred connection in which two souls merged their cursed energy into something stronger and more beautiful.
Yours was neither sacred nor beautiful.
Since waking up from that little “surprise visit” to what could only be described as Hell’s Airbnb, your eyes hadn’t been the same. The fancy enchanted glasses Nanami had given you (half out of pity, half to shut Gojo up) were now collecting dust on your bedside table. Everything looked sharper, brighter, wrong. You could see things in the corners of rooms that didn’t belong there. Shapes that moved when they shouldn’t. Shadows that blinked back.
Curses, someone had called them.
And whatever had happened in that mirror-black world, whatever had looked at you and decided you were interesting, had left something behind.
Sorcerers called it a soulbond.
They spoke about it as if it were fate. A spiritual connection. The kind of thing ancient texts described with glowing reverence, using words like “shared essence” and “mutual ascension.” Some even hinted that it was love, destiny, or one of those cosmic partnerships poets would write about for centuries.
Yours, however, was the spiritual equivalent of duct-taping yourself to a live grenade and then tripping over the pin.
Because you weren’t bonded to a kind sorcerer, or some wise mentor, or anyone remotely manageable, you were tethered to the walking apocalypse currently living rent-free inside Yuji Itadori, or the child bride himself. Gojo ‘I’m the strongest’ Satoru had said, even his magical eyes couldn’t quite unwind the strings of fate and make out what the hell was happening, which meant you were shit out of luck.
Sometimes, when you were quiet, you could hear them. Not clearly, not like a conversation, more like catching someone arguing through the walls of a paper-thin apartment. Yuji’s voice came through first, earnest, anxious, perpetually trying to do the right thing. Then came the other one. Deep, rich, cruelly amused. The one that made your stomach twist every time it spoke.
“Hello, pet.”
It was like eavesdropping on an argument between your neighbor’s sweet kid and the ancient demon possessing their plumbing system.
“Stop talking to my auntie,” Yuji would hiss.
“Then she should stop leaving the link open,” the other voice replied with a purr. “Gives a curse the wrong impression.”
You’d tried ignoring it, but that was impossible. You could be washing dishes, or sitting in Yaga’s office pretending to be helpful, and suddenly the world would go quiet except for them, bickering in your head like the world’s worst podcast.
You had become, officially, a cursed-conversation third wheel.
You figured as long as you ignored the fact that your soul was spiritually handcuffed to a millennia-old mass murderer, things were… fine.
Fine-ish.
Mostly fine.
“SHUT UP!”
“You again,” the low voice would purr in the back of your mind, smug and lazy, like he was leaning against the inside of your skull with all the time in the world. “How persistently you listen in. I told you to shut the bond, or did you want to die?”
Then Yuji’s voice would cut through the static, sharp with panic. “STOP!”
Okay. Not fine at all.
You had started carrying earplugs for absolutely no reason. They didn’t help. Turns out, when your psychic hotline is directly connected to the spiritual embodiment of chaos, foam cylinders from the convenience store aren’t going to fix it.
Every morning, you woke up hoping that whatever had happened in that cursed, golden-lit void had been a stress-induced hallucination. And every morning you opened your eyes, saw a cursed energy gather above your head, and thought, Cool. Still possessed. Awesome.
Eventually, you did what any reasonable person in your situation would do: you found the nearest authority figure and made this their problem.
Principal Yaga had listened to your entire panicked dream hell in silence, his expression somewhere between mild concern and someone trying to remember if he’d locked his office door. When you finally ran out of breath, he took a long, deliberate sip of tea, sighed, and muttered something about Gojo’s “habit of picking up strays and calling it talent development.”
After that, he decided you couldn’t go home (because, apparently, “psychic feedback loops with cursed kings” were a liability) and that you might as well make yourself useful. And because you were now both a liability and an unclassified anomaly, you had been placed under “temporary supervision” by Principal Yaga.
Which, in plain English, meant you were now his assistant.
Your official job description, according to Yaga, was ‘flexible’. Which turned out to mean ‘whatever nobody else wants to do but might explode if left unattended’. Most of your day consisted of handing him tea, sorting paperwork written in curse-law gibberish, and pretending not to question why one of your coworkers was a fully sentient panda.
Sometimes you restocked cursed tools. Sometimes you fetched supplies. Once, you spent an afternoon helping said panda reorganize the filing cabinet because he “liked things alphabetized by emotional impact.” You didn’t ask questions. You had learned very quickly that questions got you answers, and answers only led to more confusion.
Occasionally, Yaga sent you to deliver files to Gojo, which always felt like being sent on a diplomatic mission with a guaranteed casualty rate of one: you. Gojo would grin, call you “assistant-chan,” and vanish halfway through signing the forms. You had started pre-stamping them yourself just to save time.
Still, the pay was better than your last job, the cafeteria food wasn’t terrible, and you got an actual bed instead of the government-issued cot they’d stuck you on your first week. Progress, technically.
Every so often, Yaga would assign you ‘field tasks’. The first time you heard that, you imagined something glamorous. Maybe exorcising minor curses or coordinating missions. The reality was “keep Yuji from losing control and letting him talk.”
Which meant babysitting. Psychic babysitting. But the issue was…You didn’t have a lick of cursed energy, besides the link between your brain and the ether demon fiend connecting you all.
Your only technique involved shouting into the void of your mind like a fed-up single parent trying to separate two toddlers who shared a brain.
“Hey!” you hissed one afternoon, slamming a pen down on your desk. “Tell the evil one to stop humming. I’m trying to fill out a reimbursement form.”
There was a long pause. Then, in that deep, smug voice that made your spine tighten, came, “You’re welcome to come in, little one.”
It was the three-way from hell.
An innocent, generally cool, mind-your-own-business kind of person (you), a teenage boy who somehow managed to be both endearingly heroic and hopelessly, awkwardly hormonal, and, last but absolutely least, the closest thing this world had to Satan.
Except Satan was stuck inside said teenage boy and, rather than bringing about the apocalypse, had been reduced to heckling you like an unwanted group chat you couldn’t mute. A chat hell-bent on tormenting you.
You’d wake up in the middle of the night to “She’s dreaming again.”
Then Yuji, horrified, “Stop watching my auntie’s dreams!”
And then Sukuna, delightfully smug, “No.”
It was like living inside the world’s worst radio frequency: half shounen-protagonist pep talks, half demonic stand-up comedy.
You’d once tried meditation to block them out, but that only made things worse. Five minutes into mindful breathing, and Sukuna had asked if you were “trying to summon him properly this time.” Yuji had nearly passed out from sheer embarrassment, and you had vowed never to touch incense again.
Honestly, if you weren’t so busy working as Principal Yaga’s overqualified assistant-slash-psychic lightning rod, you’d probably be in therapy. But since every therapist within a hundred miles would likely explode if you mentioned “cursed energy,” you just powered through with caffeine, sarcasm, and pure spite.
You weren’t sure what cosmic paperwork error had landed you as the unwilling middle manager of this supernatural disaster trio, but at this point, it was either laugh or cry.
Sukuna had done an excellent job of scared the everlasting shit out of you when you first met him. The whole “ancient curse with too many teeth and an ego the size of Mount Fuji” thing tended to do that. The way he looked at you in that black void, like he was trying to decide whether to kill you and keep your head as a conversation piece or just as the next snack. The kind of thing that usually requires lifelong therapy and several candles to recover from.
But after a week of unrelenting psychic nonsense, the fear had worn off.
You’d been yelled at, mocked, and occasionally serenaded (poorly) inside your own head. Sukuna had the charming habit of popping into your thoughts whenever you tried to relax; while brushing your teeth, while making coffee, while doing anything even remotely peaceful, just to deliver helpful commentary like, “Pathetic,” or, “Your handwriting is terrible.”
Yuji, bless his soul, apologized every single time.
“He doesn’t… well, he does mean it, because he’s a jerk and he’s—he’s bored!”
“Yeah, well, tell him to go haunt Netflix or something,” you’d grumble, shoving earbuds in even though you knew they didn’t help.
At this point, you and Yuji had both evolved past fear into something stronger.
You ignored Sukuna’s taunts like a stubborn cat ignoring a laser pointer. Yuji ignored your occasional muttered threats to “sage the inside of his body.” And Sukuna, clearly offended by your combined lack of reverence, had begun escalating to petty psychological warfare.
Last night, he’d hummed the same three notes for two hours.
Loudly. In your head.
You’d threatened to sing Taylor Swift in retaliation. Yuji begged you not to.
So, yeah. Sukuna, King of Curses, Terror of Humanity, Destroyer of Eras, had officially been demoted to “mean, uninvited roommate with terrible taste and no volume control.”
He also had an incredible talent for being the most inconvenient creature alive.
For reasons known only to him and whatever eldritch chaos fueled his existence, he’d started popping up across Yuji’s body at random. Black markings shimmering, one of his eyes appearing, sometimes a grin that did not belong to Yuji, just to make you uncomfortable. And always, when you were around.
And especially when you were talking to other men.
You could be having a perfectly normal, civil conversation with Nanami about mission reports or cafeteria coffee, and Yuji would be passing by, coincidentally. Suddenly Sukuna’s smirk would appear on Yuji’s cheek like a demonic pop-up ad.
“This one bores you,” he’d drawl through Yuji’s appendages, voice dripping with malice and arrogance. “You could do better—more meat to eat on the last one.
Nanami would pause mid-sentence, calmly blink, and continue speaking as if nothing happened, because apparently being unfazed by ancient horrors was part of his salary. You, however, would lose all coherent thought.
Any attempt at flirting, gone. Any chance at impressing Nanami with your newfound professionalism, obliterated.
You’d stand there stammering something like, “He’s—it’s not—I mean, I’m not with—” while Yuji looked one apology away from fainting and Sukuna laughed in the back of your skull like he’d just won a bet with God.
Afterward, you’d stomp down the hall muttering to yourself, “That ass does it on purpose. He actually waits. He plans it.”
Yuji would trail after you, wringing his hands. “I swear I don’t know when he’s going to show up!”
Meanwhile, Sukuna’s low chuckle would echo in your mind, smug and lazy.
Any potential to rizz Nanami Kento?
Gone. Obliterated. Reduced to cursed dust and scattered across the wind.
You could not have been less of a romantic threat if you tried. Every time you got within ten feet of Nanami, Sukuna made it his personal mission to obliterate whatever dignity you had left.
You’d be standing there, pretending to be a serious adult discussing mission reports, and then boom, Yuji’s cheek would twitch into that too-wide grin, and out came the voice of Hell itself.
“Ah, the salaryman again. Does he know how you stare at him?”
You’d nearly swallow your own tongue. Nanami, consummate professional that he was, would just sigh deeply, the spiritual embodiment of a man who’d stopped expecting peace decades ago. Meanwhile, Yuji would try to bite his own hand to shut himself up.
“If you’re that desperate, little one, I could dress him up for you. In his own organs.” He drawled, and both you an Yuji wilted.
It was over. You could never look Nanami in the eyes again without remembering that line.
And then it somehow got worse.
Because one day, you made the mistake of being kind.
Megumi Fushiguro had helped you carry a pile of mission files. The kid was quiet, efficient, painfully polite, and dealt with Gojo, which meant he was a saint. You, in a completely normal adult show of gratitude, had said, “You’ve got such a cute face, you know that?”
That was it. The crime of the century.
You’d said one harmless, perfectly normal thing. And the universe decided to punish you for it.
Yuji froze mid-step. His body went still in that now-familiar, oh no, it’s happening again kind of way. His presence followed, mean, wrong, slicing up his face like it didn’t belong there. Then the mouth appeared, curling at the corner in slow, obscene amusement.
“Oh? Complimenting children now?” Sukuna’s tone was soft, mocking, low enough to make the back of your neck prickle. “Should I switch to him instead? You seem to like them young.”
Your soul left your body.
Megumi’s expression could only be described as “spiritually done.” He stared at you, then at Yuji, then back again like he was witnessing the world’s worst soap opera, and muttered flatly, “I’m leaving.”
You, mortified beyond belief, gripped your folder like it was holy scripture and hissed into the psychic void, “Don’t. You. Start.”
“Careful, little pet,” Sukuna purred, his voice sliding around the words like a blade dipped in honey. “Flattery will get you in trouble. Unless that’s what you’re after.”
Yuji’s panicked voice followed, muffled but desperate. “STOP TALKING! JUST STOP TALKING!”
You stood frozen, heat crawling up your face, wanting nothing more than to dissolve into thin air or get hit by a passing, cursed spirit, honestly, whichever was quicker.
“Megumi, please tell no one about this,” you muttered weakly. Gojo must never know.
“I already planned not to,” he said without looking back, tone exhausted.
That night, you sat in the dark with a mug of tea clutched between your hands like it could save your soul. The air was quiet. Blessedly quiet. For almost ten minutes.
Then his voice slipped through the silence, far too pleased with itself.
“Cute face, huh? Should I rip it off to wear?”
You screamed into your pillow so loudly that Panda, two rooms over, dropped his manga and yelled, “WHAT NOW?”
A night shift on your delivery girl job makes your life make a 180 spin, you cant believe where you got yourself involved in, will you lose everything you worked so hard for? Will Jungkook be there to catch you if you fall?
genre: mafia au, mafia!jungkook, dark comedy, really light story, no major warnings.
tropes: forced proximity, enemies to lovers, Jungkook is a lovesick puppy, yearning, found family, ot7
Yandere!Male Alpha Mafia x Oblivious!Fem Beta Reader
-> Click here for the next part with Yandere!Omega Dancer x Oblivious!Fem Beta Reader
-> Click here for Yandere!Male Alpha Mafia & Yandere!Male Omega Dancer
Click here for my full masterlist.
CW: yandere, stalking, possessive behaviors, drinking, mentions of harassment (not by yandere!alpha).
In this world, alphas are the most favored gender, at being 45% of the population. Omegas are slightly more favored, at 29% of the population, and betas are at 26%. Alphas typically pair with omegas and hope for more alpha heirs, but are still likely to produce omegas. At the same time, betas are the rarest since alphas and omegas usually refuse to pair and mate with betas since they don’t have strong pheromones or heats/ruts. As such, the most common beta pairing is another beta. Betas may lack a heat and rut, but female betas still menstruate in place of one. Omegas experience their own form of oppression, but for betas, you are often denied jobs based on your secondary sex and spat at in public. As a result, many betas live together for safety and form their own communities away from alphas and omegas.
Fem beta!reader is a waitress at the nightclub Solar Eclipse. You have two beta roommates and a cat that the three of you coparent. You hate the nightclub where you work, and the only reasons you haven’t quit are because of your omega coworker, bills, and free alcohol.
You are the most oblivious person ever on planet Earth. It doesn’t help that you lack your own pheromones and the ability to smell others’ pheromones. This is essential in this world, as pheromones are a key means of detecting subtle social cues and emotions in others. You have the unfortunate luck of attracting the most obsessive omega and alpha in the city. One being Celos, your omega coworker, and Fiorenzo, an alpha in the mafia who indirectly has ties to the nightclub.
Yandere!Alpha Fiorenzo is the consigliere of the Santoro Family. This essentially means he is the advisor of the Don or the big boss of the mafia. He has very stereotypical macho alpha traits, such as being 6’3, lean and muscular, having two sleeves, and a back tattoo of a dragon across his shoulder blades. Being Italian, he has sun-kissed skin, messy dark hair, and light brown eyes.
His morning routine includes him getting up at the ass crack of dawn, drinking a couple of raw eggs, and downing a protein shake before he goes on a 2-3 hour run (borderline sprinting). This is actually where he meets beta reader, and he fully boldozes over you. He does not stop to ask if you’re okay; he keeps running. It takes around 12 runs for you to actually dodge.
When you usually run into him, you are leaving the club’s back exit at around 4 AM, hammered, so of course, you don’t believe he’s a real person and insist it’s your imagination. However when you dodge for the first time after twelve weeks, he stops his run and asks how you managed to time your dodge perfectly. You just opened your bottle of Svedka in response, not actually grasping that he is a real person.
You’re so drunk that you almost fall over, so he naturally moves to catch you. You have the terrible combination of being inebriated and pissed at that moment (you got ripped off in the club earlier during your shift). You snap and throw the bottle at him; you missed mostly because you’re exhausted and unable to stand up straight.
You don’t know this, but Fiorenzo is fucking crazy. In Fiorenzo’s mind, you are the love of his life. A person who doesn’t automatically fear him, but instead attacks him? Without being a part of his line of work? Is this heaven?
He goes to work after his run and tells his boss, the Don, that he found his soulmate and he’s already planning the wedding. Much to everyone’s surprise, the Santoro Don is super supportive of Fiorenzo pursuing a beta. People thought he would be against it because he would see it as a distraction, or that he would hate it because you are a beta and not an omega. But no, the Don is happy for his right hand man and wants him to tie the knot (literally and figuratively).
After that incident, instead of sprinting by the area you usually exit the nightclub, he is carefully jogging, waiting to catch a glimpse of you. If he doesn’t see you, he returns to work almost pouting. Which is rather comical for an alpha of his stature. The good thing for him is that he has memorized your schedule now and knows what days you have off.
He finds you very amusing since you’re an oblivious beta. He’s been around betas but never this close up. See, he has been planning everything for your (not even real) relationship. He has everything picked out for you; you’ll move into his moderately sized house with a proper washer and dryer. As well as picking out a new in-network doctor, you know the doctors betas see are always so dismissive. The wedding planning is a no-brainer. He wants a summer wedding with a small circle of people, so you’re not put in any danger. He's thinking somewhere tropical for the honeymoon. Totally not because he's imagining you in a bikini! He may or may not have purchased some for you already...
The issue is you have no idea you’re being stalked by this hunk of a man. It’s great for him since he doesn’t have to be careful with his traces; you can’t even pick up his pheromones. But he’s starting to get concerned. If his dove can’t sense she’s being followed, what would happen if she was being hunted by someone else?!
This is where his paranoia starts to kick in and makes him behave impulsively. The Santoro family own the Solar Eclipse; he could just use the excuse that he has to check up on the place.
Fiorenzo shows up unannounced during your shift, pretending he needs to go over the monthly earnings with the owner. In the corner of your eye, you can feel his burning gaze, but you brush it off. After all, why would such a dangerous man be after you?
He comes up to you during your shift to ask for a drink. When you come back to hand it to him, his hand lingers before wrapping itself around your wrist.
“Dove, have you been working too hard? I told the owner to stop scheduling you for consecutive long shifts.” His words were a slip-up, yet every red flag goes right over your head.
“Oh, I’m okay.” You wave him off. “I just did two shots, and when I get home, I get to eat leftover pizza and watch a new episode from my favorite show.”
