The Cautionary Tale of a Hungry Man
DEAD DOVES, DO NOT EAT. Warnings: kidnapping, captivity, captor/captive dynamics, sexual dynamics, abuse, manipulation, restraints, graphic violence, blood, gun violence, murder, trauma bonding, Stockholm syndrome themes
<- Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 ->
The pounding on Megumi’s apartment door came sharp, hard raps that rattled the hinges. Before the echo could fade, the door splintered inward under Gojo’s boot, the frame cracking. Nanami rushed through first, his tie knife-straight against his throat, one hand resting on his holstered gun while the other held up the warrant.
"Megumi Fushiguro." Nanami’s voice was cold. "You’re being arrested as an accessory in the kidnapping of—"
Megumi sat frozen on his couch, a half-packed duffel bag gaping open beside him. His fingers twitched toward the coffee table where his phone lay screen-up, Sukuna’s last text still glowing: Cleanup time, bud.
Gojo whistled low as he nudged a discarded syringe with his shoe. "Aw, Megumi," he sighed, shaking his head. "Didn’t peg you for the type to leave evidence lying around like dirty laundry."
The handcuffs clicked shut around Megumi's wrists. He jerked instinctively, the metal biting into his skin as Geto leaned in close enough for his breath to ghost over Megumi's ear. "Don't," Geto murmured—his fingers tightening on Megumi's shoulder.
Megumi's throat worked. "What are you doing?" he choked out, voice cracking halfway through the question. His fingers twitched against the small of Geto's back where the man's holster pressed warm against his knuckles.
Gojo laughed. "Oh, Megumi," he sighed, shaking his head. His sunglasses slid down his nose just enough to reveal the glacial blue of his eyes. "You didn't really think we'd let you skip town after that performance, did you?"
The handcuffs bit deeper into Megumi's wrists as Nanami yanked him forward, the abrupt motion sending him stumbling over his own sneakers. "Where's my phone call?" Megumi's voice cracked, too loud in the cramped apartment. His shoulder slammed into the doorframe and he hissed through his teeth. "I told you the truth!"
Gojo leaned against the cracked doorframe, arms crossed. "That's what everyone says, kid," he drawled. "Right before they start screaming. Keep walking."
Megumi's sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as Nanami propelled him forward, the detective's grip impersonal. The hallway stretched before them, fluorescent lights flickering. Megumi's pulse thundered in his ears, louder than the distant wail of sirens bleeding through the apartment walls.
"Left turn," Nanami murmured. The hand on Megumi's elbow steered him sharply toward the stairwell, where the concrete steps gleamed wet under the emergency exit sign.
A little down the street, a car's leather seat creaked under Sukuna's weight as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the steering wheel. Streetlight bled through the windshield, painting his tattoos in jagged stripes. His phone screen illuminated the sharp angles of his smirk as his thumb hovered over the keypad. Down the block, silhouettes spilled from the apartment building—Nanami's stride, Gojo's lanky shadow, Geto tailing behind, and between them, Megumi's hunched shoulders visible even from this distance.
Sukuna snapped a photo with his burner phone, the flash disabled. The screen showed Megumi's cuffed hands, the way his fingers kept flexing. Sukuna exhaled through his nose—half amusement, half irritation—before tapping out a message:
The reply came before he could pocket the phone.
Sukuna's grin widened as he typed one-handed, the other drumming on the gearshift.
The sent message burned briefly onscreen before his response appeared
Your rhythm was all wrong—your thighs trembled with the effort, the drag of him inside you almost too much to bear. Sukuna’s hands clamped around your hips, guiding you. "Up," he murmured, the word hot against your collarbone. His thumbs dug into the hollows of your pelvis. "Down."
You whimpered, oversensitive and shaking, but obeyed. His groan vibrated through your chest as you sank back onto him, the stretch bordering on painful. "There you go," he purred, lips skimming your throat. "Just like that."
"I’m trying," you gasped, nails biting into his shoulders. The angle was brutal, every inch of him hitting places that made your vision blur. "It’s too much—"
Sukuna laughs, his teeth scraping your neck. "You wanted a way to repay me for breaking that vase, dove." His grip tightened, hauling you down harder as you arched with a broken noise. "Consider this your installment plan."
You couldn’t tell if the heat pooling low in your belly was shame or something far worse. Sukuna’s hands spanned your waist, calloused thumbs pressing into the jut of your hipbones as you rode him—chose to ride him, which was the most damning part. The chains had been off for two days now. The basement door stayed unlocked. And here you were, thighs trembling as you worked yourself up and down his cock.
"Eyes open," Sukuna murmured, his voice rough with indulgence. He tapped his fingers against your cheekbone when your lashes fluttered shut. "Look at me while you fuck yourself stupid."
The command sent a shiver down your spine—obedience still felt like a betrayal, even as your body clenched around him. His cock was obscenely thick, the veins standing proud inside you. You’d learned the shape of him by now: the way his breath hitched when you clenched, the way his tattoos darkened with sweat.
Sukuna’s grin was all teeth as he watched you struggle. "You’re getting better at this," he mused, dragging a knuckle down your sternum. His other hand slid between your bodies, thumb circling your clit. "Practicing in your head while I’m gone, dove?"
Is this the beginning of Stockholm Syndrome?
You’d spent days memorizing his schedule down to the second. From the way Sukuna paced his mornings to the exact minute his breathing deepened during stolen naps like clockwork—when the afternoon light sliced through the boarded-up windows just enough to gild his lashes gold. You counted the seconds between his footsteps in the hallway, the rhythm of his knife sharpening at dawn. Even his violence had patterns.
It was pathetic, really. The way your survival instinct had twisted into something grotesquely intimate. But knowledge was currency here, and you were bankrupt in every other way.
Tonight’s pattern was off. You knew because you’d been counting—fingernails scraping silent tally marks into the mattress seam as Sukuna paced the bedroom for the seventeenth time. His socked feet whispered against the floorboards where they usually stomped.
Something had happened. Something worse than the usual horrors.
Sukuna’s fingers dug into your hips hard, flipping you onto your back before you could process the movement. The mattress groaned under the sudden shift of weight, springs protesting as he shoved your thighs up toward your chest, spreading you wider. "There you are," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction as he lined himself up. "Back with me."
The first thrust punched the air from your lungs, your gasp dissolving into a ragged moan as he bottomed out. Stars burst behind your eyelids—violent and white-hot. Sukuna’s tattoos shift as he pulled out nearly to the tip before slamming back in.
"You were thinking too much," he growled, hips snapping forward again. Your back arched off the bed as he struck that spongy spot inside you—the one that made your toes curl and your vision blur. "Always thinking." His thumb found your clit, rubbing rough circles just to hear you whine. "Not now."
You choked on a sob as he set a punishing pace, each thrust carving his name into your ribs. The headboard rattled against the wall, the sound almost drowning out the wet slap of skin on skin. Sukuna’s breath came hot against your throat, his teeth grazing the flutter of your pulse as you clutched at his shoulders to anchor yourself against the tidal wave of sensation.
Your nails dug into the corded muscle of Sukuna’s biceps. A whimper clawed its way up your throat, raw and desperate. "More," you gasped, arching into the next brutal thrust, your voice breaking around the plea. "More—"
Sukuna smirks, his fingers tightening around your thigh to yank you impossibly closer. "There we go," he purred as he pistoned into you harder, deeper with each snap of his hips. His free hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your neck more beneath his teeth. "Empty that useless little brain of yours."
The stretch burned, a humiliation that coiled hot in your gut even as your body clenched around him greedily. His laugh vibrated against your throat, tongue lapping at the sweat-slick hollow above your collarbone. "Pathetic," he murmured as your hips stuttered to meet his. His thumb found your clit again. "Look at you. Needy little slut."
The irony wasn't lost on you: the same mouth that had cursed him now gasping his name, the same hands that had fought him now dragging him closer. Sukuna's breath hitched when your teeth sank into his shoulder, his rhythm faltering before he redoubled his efforts with a snarl.
You wrapped your arms around Sukuna’s neck, pressing your face into the crook of it with a whine that shuddered through both of you. “Cumming, cumming, cumming, oh my G—” The words dissolved into a gasp as his hips drove into you harder, his groan hot against your ear. You could feel the exact moment he lost control—the way his fingers dug into your thigh, the hitch in his breath, the way his cock twitched inside you as he came with a curse that sounded almost reverent, hot spirits shooting deep into your core.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was your ragged breathing and the creak of the mattress as Sukuna’s weight shifted above you. His thumb brushed your hipbone, the touch incongruously gentle compared to the bruises forming beneath his fingertips.
Then he laughed—soft, almost surprised—and dragged his teeth over your earlobe. “That’s how you say thank you?” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. His fingers traced the curve of your hip as he pulled out, the loss of him making you shiver despite the sweat slicking your skin. “Should’ve known you’d be greedy.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your throat was raw, your limbs heavy. Sukuna's thumb dragged across your swollen bottom lip, smearing spit as he studied your dazed expression. Your tongue lolled out, catching the pad of his thumb when he pressed down. "Good girl," he rumbled, the praise curling warm in your gut even as shame prickled up your spine.
The doorbell shattered the moment.
First ring was sharp. Sukuna's head snapped toward the bedroom door, his grip tightening on your jaw. The second ring was longer this time, insistent. His nostrils flared as he exhaled through his nose—the telltale sign of irritation you'd learned to recognize. When the third ring came, it was rapid-fire, someone's impatient finger jamming the button.
"Fuck," he muttered, releasing you to swipe a hand down his face. "Okay, fine. I'm coming. Hold the hell up."
He rolled off the mattress with predatory grace, tattoos rippling as he snatched his sweatpants from the floor. You stayed limp on the sheets, watching through half-lidded eyes as he yanked them on, the waistband snapping against his hips. "Clean yourself up," he ordered, jerking his chin toward the connected bathroom. When you didn't immediately move, he leaned down, bracing one hand on either side of your head. His breath ghosted hot over your cheek. "You better be here when I get back," he murmured, "or I'll find you and cuff you to this bed so hard you'll forget what your wrists look like."
The sweatpants clung low on Sukuna’s hips as he sauntered toward the front door, the waistband dipping just enough to reveal the top edge of his pelvic tattoo. He flung the door open without checking the peephole, already smirking. "Took you long enough."
Toji leaned against the doorframe, one eyebrow arched. His leather jacket creaked as he shrugged. "Great to see you too, bitch."
Sukuna stepped aside with a mocking flourish, locking the door the moment Toji crossed the threshold. "Kitchen," he said, jerking his chin down the hall. "Unless you wanna chat in front of the company."
Toji snorted, following the directive without protest. His boots thudded against the hardwood. Sukuna gestured to the rickety wooden chairs before rummaging in the fridge. He tossed Toji a beer.
The can hissed as Toji popped the tab. "Megumi’s in holding." He took a long pull, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nanami’s got him cold. Found evidence of the drugs in his trash."
Sukuna leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "And?"
Toji smirked, tilting the can toward Sukuna. "And nothing. Kid hasn’t said a word." He tapped his temple. "Like we taught him."
Sukuna’s grin was slow. The kitchen light buzzed overhead. "Good." He took a sip from his own beer, the condensation dripping onto his wrist. "They’ll break him eventually."
Toji scoffed, crushing the empty beer can in his fist. "Nah," he said, tossing it onto the counter with a clatter. "My son's no snitch. Loyal as loyal gets. Kid would chew his own tongue off before giving you up."
Sukuna chuckled, tracing the rim of his own can with a fingertip. "Bet you ten grand he cracks before sunrise."
Toji leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You're on, bastard. But you'll lose. Raised him right. Knows the rules."
Silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of unsaid things. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard groaned. Sukuna’s gaze flicked toward the hallway settling back on Toji. "Rules change when the alternative’s life in a concrete box."
Toji's grin widened. "You'd know about that, wouldn't ya?"
Sukuna's fingers tightened around his own can, the metal denting under his grip. "What's the plan?" he growled, ignoring the jab. "They're sniffing pretty close to home now." His gaze flicked to the window where a patrol car's distant siren wailed.
Toji leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking. "Let me worry about that. You've got bigger fish to fry." His eyes cut toward the hallway where the shower had just kicked on.
Sukuna followed his gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching. The shower stall's frosted glass would be fogged by now, heat curling in the large bathroom. He could picture it easily—the way water would sluice down your body, the way you'd scrub at your skin like you could wash him away.
"Distracted?" Toji mused, stretching his legs out under the kitchen table. His boot nudged Sukuna's bare foot. "She's not going anywhere."
Sukuna's thumb traced the jagged edge of the crushed can. "She won't run."
Toji snorted. "You sound like you want her to."
Sukuna smirked. "I'll worry about getting Meg out. You worry about whatever shit you're planning—and staying out of my business."
Toji shrugged. "Been doin' that since we were kids, haven't I?"
"You're gonna get us both caught," Sukuna muttered, but there was no real heat behind it—just the familiar rhythm of an old argument, worn smooth.
"Like hell." Toji pushed back from the table, the chair legs screeching against the linoleum. "Just don't get sentimental on me now, bastard. Not after all this time."
"By the way," he said, already halfway to the door, "don't get too attached." His boot heels clicked against the hardwood. "That's what caused all this shit in the first place."
Sukuna's fingers stilled on the countertop. "Get out," he said, voice low and rough.
Toji paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorknob. He didn't turn around. "See ya later, bastard." The door clicked shut behind him.
Sukuna’s footsteps were silent on the carpet as he prowled toward the bedroom, his shadow stretching across the wall. The bathroom door groaned when he shouldered it open—a sound that made your hands freeze mid-scrub under the scalding spray.
"You feel better?" Sukuna leaned against the fogged glass of the shower stall, "Cleaned of me yet?" You could hear his smirk.
You didn’t reply. Just kept dragging the loofa over your thighs hard enough to irritate the skin.
Nanami's Bluetooth earpiece crackled with Gojo's voice as he merged onto the highway, the city lights bleeding across his windshield. "Tell me you're not drafting another press conference in your head," Gojo sighed through the static.
"They'll want a statement before the nine o'clock news." His eyes flicked to the dashboard clock—7:42 PM—as he accelerated past a slow-moving truck. The digital display cast a sickly green glow over his notes sprawled on the passenger seat: Megumi Fushiguro, 22, arrested 18:37. Narcotics found in kitchen trash. Partial prints match.
Gojo laughs. "You actually think they care about procedure right now?" A muffled sound—likely him shoving his sunglasses up his nose. "They want blood, Kento. Preferably Sukuna's, but they'll settle for the kid's if we serve him up prettily enough."
Nanami's jaw tightened. Beyond the guardrail, the river flashed black under the moonlight. "Megumi's not the story."
"Yeah yeah, whatever you say." The line crackled with the sound of Gojo flipping through papers—too fast to be reading, just enough to mock the pretense of due diligence. A page tore audibly. "Oh whoops. Was that Exhibit B orrrr?"
Nanami sighs. Gojo's voice turned serious just as Nanami merged onto the interstate. "Listen. The commissioner's breathing down my neck for a sacrificial lamb. If we don't—"
"We don't do anything." Nanami cut him off, swerving around a slow-moving sedan. His notes slid across the passenger seat, the crime scene photos of Megumi's apartment fanning out.
"Fine. Play profiler. But when the mayor starts screaming about election-year clearance rates—"
"Wait—what? I was talking—" Gojo's indignant squawk cut off mid-protest as Nanami disconnected the call. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional flicker of streetlights overhead. Nanami exhaled through his nose. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, shaking his head.
The tires crunched over broken glass before Nanami even saw the crowd—three hundred, maybe four, clustered like ants around the courthouse steps. He parked, engine idling as he watched them through the windshield. Their signs bobbed above their heads: GET HER JUSTICE and BRING HER HOME bleeding into DEATH TO SUKUNA in red paint. His name looked good in that color.
A girl with pink hair—Yuji’s sister, maybe—sobbed into a megaphone, her voice cracking over the static. "They’re not doing enough!" The crowd roared in agreement.
The podium stood empty under a banner of the missing person flyer—your flyer, the one with that stupid smiling photo from the university ID you’d complained about.
Nanami adjusted his tie before stepping onto the makeshift stage. The podium wobbled under his grip, cheap plywood shuddering beneath the weight of his silence as three hundred pairs of eyes locked onto him. Floodlights carved harsh angles into his face, turning his usual impassivity into something statue-like and severe. "Thank you for coming," he said, voice cutting through the murmurs. No microphone. No amplification. Just the steady cadence of a man who knew silence too well.
The crowd stilled. A woman in the front row clutched a candle—wax dripped over her knuckles. "I know this has been... difficult." He could see the word difficult land in hunched shoulders and bitten lips. "But tonight, we've made progress."
A ripple went through the crowd.
He turned slightly, gesturing to the photo. "Megumi Fushiguro was arrested four hours ago." Cameras flashed—not at Nanami, but at Gojo lurking just offstage, sunglasses glinting under the lights. "We're pursuing every lead with the full force of this department." Another pause. "And we will bring her home."
Nanami adjusted his cufflinks as he leaned forward slightly. "Check your surroundings," he continued, scanning the crowd. "Report suspicious activity—"
The sound split through the air before anyone had realized what happened.
A bullet entered cleanly through his right temple—a perfect shot—but exploded outward in a grisly fan of bone and brain matter. The impact whipped his head sideways with such force his glasses flew off, lenses catching the floodlights as his body crumpled.
For half a second, there was only the crack of the rifle echoing off buildings. Then pandemonium.
A woman in the front row screamed as Nanami's blood sprayed across her yellow sundress. Around her, the crowd convulsed, surging backward in a wave of shrieks and trampled signs. Someone's elbow caught Gojo in the ribs as he lunged forward, his sunglasses tumbling to the asphalt.
Nanami lay sprawled across the podium, one arm dangling over the edge. Blood pooled beneath his head in a dark halo, seeping into the grooves between the plywood planks. His mouth was still parted around the aborted word—inform—forever unfinished.
Gojo's knee hit the stage with a thud. The crowd's panic crescendoed into something animal, people clawing over each other to escape.
Gojo's voice sliced through the chaos, stripped of its usual mocking lilt. "Perimeter now! Move!" His sunglasses lay crushed underfoot somewhere. Officers scattered, some dragging screaming civilians behind barricades, others forming a human wall with riot shields.
A teenager tripped over a fallen candle, her FIND HER sign trampled into pulp. Gojo caught her elbow mid-fall, shoving her toward a uniformed officer without breaking stride. "Get these people out," he snarled. The officer flinched but obeyed, herding the sobbing crowd toward the courthouse doors.
The TV screen flickered with the grainy image of Nanami's body hitting the podium. Sukuna's fingers tightened in your hair as he leaned forward, breath hot against your ear. "That bastard," he murmured, voice thick with admiration. The camera panned to Gojo's frozen silhouette, his usually smug face slack with shock, before cutting abruptly to a commercial for car insurance.
You didn't realize you'd crumpled until Sukuna's palm flattened between your shoulder blades, pressing hard. His thumb stroked the knobs of your spine absently. "Don't cry," he chided, clicking his tongue. Onscreen, a cartoon gecko grinned at the wreckage of a fictional car crash. "Toji just cleaned up a little mess for us."
The sob tore from your throat when you scrambled backward, palms scraping against hardwood. Sukuna let you go—let you, that was the worst part—his smirk widening as you collided with the entertainment center. Glass rattled in the cabinet doors behind you, the vibration traveling up your spine.
Sukuna stretched his legs out with a satisfied groan, the leather couch creaking under his weight. He looked like a king surveying his domain—barefoot, sweatpants slung low on his hips, remote balanced on one knee. The news anchor's voice blared suddenly as he unmuted the TV: "—assailant still at large—"
"Get up," Sukuna murmured, his voice thick with amusement as he nudged your thigh with his bare foot. "The fun's just begun." His fingers twitched toward the remote, falling on a close-up of Gojo's blood-spattered dress shoes—one lace come undone, swaying slightly as he barked orders. "And I've got a plan to make sure you have a front row seat."
You didn't move. Couldn't. The carpet fibers pressed into your knees, the sensation distant compared to the static roaring in your ears. Sukuna sighed and leaned forward to hook two fingers under your chin. His grip wasn't cruel, just inexorable, tilting your face up until the emergency alert scroll at the bottom of the screen reflected in your pupils. OFFICER DOWN, it blazed, over and over in relentless red.
"Look at that," he crooned, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw where a bruise was purpling. "Little dove finally realizing there's no cavalry coming." His laughter curled warm against your temple, the scent of gun oil and the beer he'd shared with Toji clinging to his skin. "Guess you'll have to rely on me now, huh?"
The floorboards groaned as he stood, his shadow swallowing you whole when he stepped over your crumpled form. You tracked his movement by sound—the fridge opening, glass clinking, the wet pop of a twist-off cap. When he crouched beside you again, it was to press the cold bottle against your clenched fingers. "Drink," he ordered, nudging it insistently until your grip loosened. "You're gonna need it."
You shook your head, the movement sharp, sending hair to stick to your damp cheeks. Sukuna's grip tightened—thumb digging into the hinge of your jaw, fingers splaying across your throat. The beer bottle pressed cold against your bottom lip, condensation dripping onto your collarbone. "Drink," he repeated, slower now, "before I pour it down your throat, sweetheart."
The bottle tilted, lukewarm liquid sloshing against your clenched teeth.
Sukuna's nostrils flared when you gagged, his grip shifting to pinch your nose shut. "Breathe through your mouth," he instructed. The first trickle hit your tongue—bitter, flat—and your throat convulsed. He laughed when you clawed at his wrist. "There you go. Swallow."
You did, eventually. The alcohol burned worse coming back up, acidic bile mingling with beer when Sukuna finally released you to spit up across his hardwood floor. He didn't flinch, just crouched beside you, one hand circling your nape as you retched. "Good girl," he murmured, smoothing sweat-damp hair behind your ear. His thumb traced the shell of it afterward, lingering where he knew it made you shiver. "See? Was that so hard?"
You whimpered, the sound tearing loose from your throat before you could bite it back. Sukuna's fingers tightened in your hair. His shadow loomed over you, blocking the flickering TV light that painted the walls with emergency-red alerts.
"Don't give me that look," he said, voice roughened. His thumb brushed the curve of your cheekbone, smearing a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. The gesture was almost tender, if you ignored the way his other hand curled possessively around the back of your neck. "Get up. We have shit to do."
Your knees ached from the floor, the imprints of carpet fibers stinging. Sukuna didn’t wait for you to find your footing—he hauled you upright with a yank, your body colliding against his. His palm splayed across your spine, fingers pressing between the ridges.
The TV droned on behind him, the newscaster’s voice bleeding into white noise. Sukuna’s breath was warm against your temple when he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "You’re gonna want to see this," he murmured. His grip on your wrist was unyielding as he dragged you toward the hallway, your socked feet sliding against the polished floor.
The hallway stretched longer than you remembered—walls narrowing as Sukuna's grip steered you past the bathroom with its still-damp tiles and into the master bedroom. He released you abruptly, letting momentum send you stumbling toward the bed before catching your elbow at the last second. The mattress dipped under his knee as he climbed over you, his shadow blotting out the ceiling light.
"Watch," he ordered, shoving a tablet into your hands. The screen showed a live feed of Megumi in an interrogation room—his wrists cuffed to the table, head hanging low. Nanami's blood still streaked Gojo's sleeves in the corner of the frame, rust-brown against white cotton. Sukuna's thumb swiped across the screen, zooming in on Megumi's twitching fingers. "See how he taps? Morse code. Clever boy."
Your breath hitched when Sukuna's teeth grazed your earlobe. "T-O-J-I," he translated against your skin, each letter a hot puff of air. The feed glitched suddenly, cutting to black before rebooting on a different angle—Megumi's face now eerily calm as he mouthed something at the two-way mirror. Sukuna chuckled, tapping the timestamp. "Right on schedule."
A crash echoed from downstairs—glass shattering, followed by the unmistakable creak of the front door forced off its hinges. Sukuna didn't flinch. His palm pressed over your mouth before you could scream, his other hand pinning your wrist to the mattress beside the tablet. "Shhh," he murmured, pupils dilating as footsteps pounded up the stairs. "This part's my favorite."
The bedroom door exploded inward with a splintering crack—not the neat, tactical breach of law enforcement, but the brute-force savagery of a man who'd never met a lock he couldn't break. Toji filled the doorway, his leather jacket streaked with something dark and wet that smelled like gunpowder and gasoline. His knuckles were split but his grin was all teeth as he tossed a familiar pair of glasses onto the bed. One lens was shattered, the frame bent at a grotesque angle where it had clearly been stomped.
"Told you I'd clean up your mess," Toji said, stepping over the threshold with lazy confidence. His boots left smudges of ash and what might've been blood on the carpet. Sukuna didn't move from where he straddled your hips.
Toji's gaze flicked to the tablet still playing Megumi's interrogation, then to Sukuna's hand clamped over your mouth. His smirk widened. "Aw. Didn't wanna share the show?" He kicked the door shut behind him, the impact making the framed photos on the wall rattle. One fell with a thud—the glass didn't break, but the image of you and Sukuna long-ago within one of those abandoned buildings, now lay face-down on the dresser.
Sukuna finally removed his palm from your lips, but only to trail his fingers down your throat. "You're early," he said, not looking at Toji. His thumb pressed into your pulse point, measuring the rabbit-fast flutter beneath your skin.
Toji shrugged, rolling his shoulders. "Got impatient." His gaze lingered on the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers curled into the sheets. "Besides—thought you might need backup before Gojo starts kicking in doors."
Sukuna exhaled through his nose before swiping the tablet from your grip. The screen flickered as he tapped it, cycling through security feeds. The living room camera showed the front door hanging off its hinges, wood splintered around the deadbolt. Kitchen feed: empty. Basement stairs: dark.
Toji's boot nudged the fallen photo frame further under the dresser. "This is the part where we move her, smartass," he said, rolling his neck until the vertebrae popped. He jerked his chin toward the window—where the first wail of distant sirens threaded through the sound of your panicked breathing. "Unless you like playing house with SWAT teams."
Sukuna didn't blink. His thumb still pressed into your pulse point. The tablet screen reflected in his pupils—Megumi's frozen face mid-sentence, Gojo's bloodied hand reaching for the interrogation room door—before he tossed it onto the nightstand. "You reek of gasoline," he observed, nostrils flaring as Toji's scent clogged the room—burnt rubber and iron and the sweet rot of something.
Toji shrugged. "Parking garage was full of surprises." His grin widened when Sukuna's jaw twitched. "Relax. I left Gojo enough pieces to ID."
The mattress groaned when Sukuna finally shifted, his knees bracketing your hips. He didn't look away from Toji as his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face toward the window where blue and red lights now pulsed against the curtains. "Hear that?" he murmured, thumb brushing the seam of your lips. The sirens were closer now—close enough to distinguish the warble of patrol cars from the deeper bray of an ambulance. "They're playing our song."
Toji moved—jerking open drawers, tossing supplies into a duffel bag without looking. A first aid kit, protein bars still in their plastic wrappers, a box of shotgun shells. His knuckles left smears of something dark on the zipper when he yanked it shut. "Car's hotwired and gassed up," he grunted, slinging the bag over his shoulder. The sirens painted stripes across his face when he turned before he jerked his chin toward the window. "Move your ass unless you wanna christen this place with more bodies."
Sukuna laughs when he scoops you up, one arm under your knees and the other cradling your back. His grip was firm, fingers pressing into your flesh. "Hear that?" he murmured, lips brushing your temple as he carried you toward the shattered doorframe. The sirens were close enough now that you could hear the static crackle of police radios between the wails. "They’re giving us a head start."
The hallway tilted as Sukuna adjusted his hold, your body pressed flush against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of his shirt—steady, unhurried, as if this was just another Tuesday night. The duffel bag hit the floor with a thud when Toji shoved past, his boots crunching over broken glass as he headed for the stairs. Sukuna's breath was warm against your ear when he paused in the doorway. "Let's give them something to fuss over," he crooned.
The night air hit your face—cold and sharp with the tang of gasoline and distant rain. Toji was already at the car, tossing the duffel into the backseat with a force that made the suspension groan. The vehicle was an old sedan, its paint job more primer than color, but the engine idled with a smooth purr that suggested recent work under the hood. Sukuna's arms flexed as he descended the porch steps, his gait unhurried despite the approaching sirens. You could see your reflection in the driver's side mirror—wide-eyed, lips parted around unspoken pleas—before Sukuna wrenched the door open with his free hand.
The car door clicked shut, sealing you in the stale scent of vinyl and motor oil. Sukuna's fingers lingered on the handle, his knuckles whitening around the metal like he was restraining himself from slamming it. Through the smudged window, his silhouette blurred momentarily as he turned—backlit by the pulsing emergency lights—before vanishing around the hood.
The driver's seat groaned under Toji's weight as he slid in, tossing a set of keys into Sukuna's waiting palm without looking. "Rear exit's blocked," he muttered, jerking the gearshift into drive. The engine revved. "Hope you like scenic routes."
Sukuna's smirk flashed in the rearview mirror as he folded himself into the passenger seat. His elbow propped against the window ledge, fingers drumming on the dashboard. "Always did love a good chase scene." The words curled with amusement, but his other hand was already reaching under the seat—metal scraped against springs as he withdrew a Glock, checking the magazine.
A/N: This was actually fun to write, ik yall are gonna be mad lmao love ya <3 Will write more for GSTMK tonight!!
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