You Are A Monster, As Am I
You Are a Monster, as Am I
pairings: f!reader x naoya
word count: 8.1k
contains: sorcerer!reader, strong-willed f!reader, unfulfilled arranged marriage, childhood enemies to present enemies, angst, events spanning from childhood to present day, proper characterizations, physical brawls (between naoya and reader), conflicted romance, unrequited love (for naoya), parental issues (naoya and reader), eventual love confessions, a single bittersweet kiss, flowery writing
warnings: contains spoilers and canon events, implied/referenced physical abuse (inflicted on naoya and reader), misogyny, violence
a/n: a lot of love and labor went into this fic, so reblogs, comments, likes, etc. are more than appreciated! also a kind thank you to @suguruwrx who reblogged the unfinished version of this and gave me the motivation to continue :) I hope you enjoy
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The Moon shed Her tears for you, glinting among the stars. It is only She who witnessed your crimes.
Two men had lain in the snow at your feet; one still, the other pressing his hands together in prayer. Blood, warm and wet, soiled your clothing and clumped your hair. It was not yours.
Get away, the man croaked, red dribbling from the corner of his lips like a feral hound. His eyes brimmed with salted tears.
At your back, the city was quiet, waiting with bated breath for your final hand. You fetched a coin from the muddied ice and the metal bit against your palm; it was one of many scattered around their bodies.
Devil, he said. Demon, he wailed.
You were but a child, and the Moon may forgive you.
The man was left for the snow as you ran and the wind nipped at your heels. Your mother had choked for breath when you stepped into the threshold of your home, a broken lip and a dirtied coat.
What did you do? she had rasped. You had mistaken it for a mother’s worry.
You held the coin out for her, a droplet of silver against your skin. It fell to the wooden floors and your trembling hand bore itself empty, but it remained reaching out for her. You might have looked as if you were begging, pleading with this woman and her severe face. Forgiveness, mercy, you should have asked.
Stupid girl, she said, what did you do?
I had to, you cried.
Your father had interceded then; fatigued eyes, skin not yet worn with age but battle. You remember little.
He left that night and did not return until the dawn.
It’s been taken care of, he told you, and your mother made a sound of distaste in her throat.
You will not be the burden of this family, she said, and did not speak again.
-----
A year flitted through your grasp like a writhing serpent, it bit your arm and curled the pulse of your wrist. All was forgotten, if not nothing but a dreadful reverie. Your father had done well to wash his hands of the blood you spilt, though it continued to stain your own skin.
“You will behave,” your mother tugged firmly at the tresses of your hair, “and you will be proper.” A lovely comb of pearl adorned your head, placed by an unkind hand.
We are leaving to meet a very important family, she had said as she ushered you to bathe when you awoke. Do not make a fool of your father and I.
A driver had arrived, the sleek vehicle churning the stones of the road as a prized stallion might.
Seated in its leather interior, your mother propped her knees toward you and inclined her head, “You must remember these names; do not forget them.” Her voice was low, spoken on a whisper. The car jostled, and she took your hand in her own. “Naobito Zen’in—” she said and traced the name into the supple of your palm.
Her brows raised expectantly.
“Naobito Zen’in,” you repeated.
“—is the Head of the Zen’in Clan,” she continued.
And it went on until each name had been placed in your hand and repeated from your tongue. She told you of their positions in the clan, their accomplishments as Zen’in-blooded men.
“Jinichi will have two scars along his forehead,” she said, eyes flitting to your father, quiet where he sat, “and Ogi will be the man with long and dark hair.”
“Must you continue that?” your father asked, displeasure in his words.
“She needs to be prepared.”
“Certainly,” he scathed, “for your own betterment.”
Ten years of age, and you had not understood. Your stiffened clothing and painted face, your father’s reluctant anger and your mother’s desperation.
The vehicle had slowed before a courtyard. Women milled about, attending to the gardens as their children squealed and caught their mothers’ skirts; their pruning shears poised to nip the stem of a bud before they stilled.
“Come along,” your mother spoke as she stepped out of the vehicle. You trailed obediently, clutching her hand; your father walked ahead, his haori billowing, an angered sail on a ship’s mast.
A single man stood at the doors of the household, polite greetings exchanged before he offered his guidance through the foyer and down a left hall. Your mother’s hand, clasped within your own, lifted to tap beneath your chin.
“Up,” she mouthed.
The man gestured to an open threshold and your father inclined his head before stepping into the room. A table had been set, its bare wood offering rich tea and delicate foods. At its head sat a tall man, the greyed whiskers of his face inciting your mother’s words, Naobito Zen’in. To his right was the scarred man, Jinichi; opposite him was Ogi, tapping the stem of his spoon on the cup’s lip.
A boy with dark hair that laid across his brow had been seated at Jinichi’s side. He was young, his features plump with youth, though his eyes—a burnished bronze—betrayed that juvenility.
“Please,” Naobito said, motioning a calloused hand, “sit and join us.” The other men did not offer their niceties; they did not believe it necessary.
Your mother bowed at her waist, as did your father and you, before settling on the feather-down pillions; you did not meet the boy’s strange eyes when your mother’s hand guided you to the seat beside his.
Naobito sighed greatly, “Speak, and be quick about it.”
“Are we not here to discuss the arrangement?” your father asked, carefully spoken.
“Ah, yes, that’s correct.” A furrow carved itself in the middle of his mottled forehead. He had not truly forgotten. “You claimed the girl is strong in her cursed energy?”
“She is.”
“And what of it?”
“It is a form of transfiguration, somewhere along a similar vein.”
“How vague.” Naobito rapped the pad of his finger against the table.
“I apologize. We’re uncertain of what she possesses specifically, and have been unable to seek answers from those we had hoped would have them.”
A ribbon of steam ebbed from the tea placed in front of you. Clothing rustled from the boy as he reached for a small platter of confections and brought a flaked pastry to his mouth. Your hands, interlaced within one another, rested atop your lap. You should not fiddle, it proved bad manners, but a hem of worry draped your throat.
The men had continued on. Dowries, they spoke of; you did not know this word. Spearheads and blades, your father said. Coin, Jinichi asked. Your mother remained unspeaking. Porcelain rasped along the table as the boy nudged the plate away, and toward you. He did not look to you, to see if you may take his offer.
Sugared fruits and honeyed cakes had been placed delicately on the etched platter, garnishes of petals and leaves tucked between cream and custards; though, where the boy had taken his confectionery, the arrangement had collapsed. You plucked a tartlet into your hand, soft as a lamb’s ear, and returned the dish to the center of the table.
“It is decided, then?”
“Yes,” your father said, “it is decided.”
Naobito hummed, “Come here, girl.” A hand beckoned for you.
And when you rose, settling at the man’s side with legs tucked beneath you, he took your chin in his hold.
“Her abilities matter little—her features will be more than enough to suffice,” Naobito said. He pressed a thumb to the fat of your cheek, you remembered it hurt when he did so. “You will make a fine wife for Naoya.”
-----
A betrothal of prospect; a vow of heavy coffers and prestige. In exchange for your hand to bear their ring.
“That is all you must do,” your mother said, catching the tears that wet your lashes, “and make the boy happy.”
You had cried terribly, trembling like the fletch of a loosed arrow.
“You will live here, and you will be grateful.” Her harrowing words cloaked in a soft voice.
The poverty that afflicted your family, your mother’s need for a lick of notability; you did not know of these things as a child, and it would reap foul consequences.
“Your father and I will come to visit on the third of every month,” she said. You crumpled her gown in fistfuls, holding her sleeve as if to keep her there with you. It was not your mother who tore your hands from her bodice, but a servant woman; her name was Yuhara, and you would soon learn this when she clutched you tightly, lovingly, pitifully, as your mother and father left in that forsaken vehicle.
Yuhara, beautiful and kind, had led you to your rooms as she smoothed your hair.
“All of this is yours,” she said, and she smiled.
No, you thought, it can’t be. You did not speak.
For days upon days you kept to those strange rooms. Yuhara visited to offer meals that you did not eat; you did not bathe, you did not move unless to relieve yourself. A different servant woman tried her hand each morn to dress you, to coo their commiserations, but you did not care.
One month had slipped between your outstretched fingers, then two. Twice, your parents had returned, and twice did you cry. The women did not come to your rooms anymore, they had stopped long ago.
Your surprise was palpable when a curt knock came from your door.
“May I come in?” A boy’s voice, broken with adolescence.
You rose from a chaise by the windows to receive him. Naoya, his name was.
“My father wanted me to see to you,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
His mouth thinned, this annoyed him. “You’re lying.” He stood with a straightened back, a stance that demanded subservience. For a child, he held himself as a man might.
And he was right, you did not want to tell him the truth. “No,” you shook your head, and your hand twisted the brass knob idly, “I’m not lying.”
“The women are saying that you’re sad and won’t eat,” divulged Naoya. He paused then, a gauging expression on his round face, before rifling through his pockets. “And my father isn’t happy, he says you’re becoming a burden.”
You averted your eyes from Naoya in shame, a frown on your lips.
“Here,” he said, “it’s from the gardens.” He had tugged a ripened apple into his palm, holding it out for you.
Naoya had been kinder then, you remembered, even in its brevity.
-----
You were kept separate as children, only seeing one another when you ate your meals. However, Yuhara and the other mothers had a tendency to usher you around the grounds. They taught you to mend stitchings, to wash the linens; they placed your hands on soil and showed you how to garden; they encouraged your studies of language and art and sorcery.
The women did as they were told, and you did as they told you.
At the age of eleven did your docility waver. The mothers began to chastise when you scurried away from your duties, or mouthed rudely. Once did one of the women, Hatake, raise her hand at you; the puckered mark remained for two days.
Your parents continued to visit, though it grew to be less often. You did not cry when they sat opposite you at a table, as if strangers, to ask of your well-being. They would smooth your hair and kiss your forehead, and you would let them.
The following year is when the women began to fret; you had yet to have your first bleed.
“If she cannot bear children,” said Naobito from within the separated room, “she’s no better for use than a servant.”
There was a pause, then, “She’s still young, she’s still growing. I beg of you to give her time,” implored Yuhara.
“There is no time to give. The girl will either have it or she won’t.”
“And what then?” Yuhara asked, a tone of bother to her inquiry.
Naobito sniffed. “Do you care for this child?”
You pressed your small ear to the wall, listening diligently, shoulder aching.
“Of course, I care for her.”
“Then she’ll become your obligation if she cannot produce an heir.”
And Yuhara stumbled. She could not formulate an appropriate response at the shift in blame.
Naobito said, “Speak out of turn again and the consequences will be far greater than a damned child.”
You bled at thirteen.
-----
Naoya did not know you. It was evident in his false expectations and strange conversation. On the day you wore a blue dress, sitting for a meal, Naoya lifted his chin toward you, a youthful gesture.
“Do you like the color blue?” he asked.
You peered at the sleeves extending to your wrists, “Not this one. It’s too bright.”
He paused, regarding you. Naoya did not speak for the remainder of that supper.
Naoya did not know you, and no one would tell a word.
“She avoids me,” he complained to his father many days. “She’s boring. She doesn’t talk. I’m sure she’d rather be in the courtyards with the other women.”
“And she’s to be your wife,” Naobito would say with little pity. “Whatever will you do, my son?”
Naoya was brash and rude. He criticized where a compliment was due, he remarked disdainfully on others when he should have remained quiet. He was a boy grown into his tenured throne.
Though, it was a bloodied right to hold.
He was often hit when he was younger: a benign slap to his wrist, or a merciful grabbing of his arm. With age came the yellowed bruising and flitting eyes. He lied for ridiculous things, and became angry when he was not right. He trained until the mud lapped at his heels, until he simply could not breathe; and then he would laugh, a breathless and hoarse sound.
And Naoya grew to be a monster.
-----
You were running in the forest when Naoya found you, just shy of seventeen years of age then. You were running from him.
And your chest hurt, your legs constricted, tightened. You were dampened with sweat, panting as you picked your way quickly along the root-ridden ground. You knew that he was not far behind. But you were tired and scared; you could not marry this boy, you could not live at his side for much longer.
A rough hand pulled you from your desperate path and kept you against a tree. You gasped in pain at the impact of bone against bark. And Naoya was upon you, his shoulders rising and falling in an uneven rhythm.
It was you who laughed now, soft and harrowing.
“Hello, Naoya,” you murmured, your head bowing back to rest on the tree. “Ever the dutiful son.”
His expression twitched and spasmed in restrained ire. For all he prided himself on his composure, it could be so easily broken.
“You’re running from here.” It was a statement, not a question.
“From here,” you said. “From you.”
His mouth thinned. Distantly, you remembered the habit from his childhood; you wondered how you wound up here.
Naoya shook his head. “You’re a fool. You’re a fucking fool.”
“I don’t think I am.” His fingers pressed into either of your shoulders, keeping you still when you began to writhe.
He dipped his chin, tilted his head—he was following your sporadic jerking, wanting you to look him in the eyes when he spoke. “You have everything here. You are given more than the other women simply for being betrothed to me. Is that not enough for you? Could you really need more?”
You remembered this moment well. The beginnings of an end.
“Let me go, Naoya. Let me go and your father will just replace me.” His nostrils flared gently, he was very close. “I’m sure he’ll find you a prettier wife, and she’ll learn to love you.”
“Is that what you’ve done?” The forest was dark, and the Moon bore witness once more. “Learned to love me?”
You sighed, smiling. “I could never love you.”
And you learned to be a monster, just as him.
That night in the forest had been the cusp to an edge. You fought brutally with him, a scuffle of choking palms and thin cuts; Naoya won eventually, sitting atop your abdomen to pin you.
“Stop,” he had hissed, holding your wrists somewhere above your head. “Just stop it.”
Neither of you had utilized jujutsu techniques. You considered it a mercy.
-----
At your behest, you changed rooms, picking larger living quarters near Naoya’s. Yuhara had been surprised to hear such a request, but divvied the necessary orders.
These rooms were broader, emptier, with an expanse of windows along one wall. Word reached Naoya quickly and soon he was standing at your new threshold.
“What are you doing?” he asked, long arms folded across his chest. An angry red line remained at his cheek from where you had scratched him the week prior. There was a matching graze on your collarbone from him as well.
“I was tired of my old rooms, and no one’s using these.”
He hummed, keeping at the doorway instead of slating inward. “This is permanent, then?”
“For now.”
Naoya nodded once, a curt thing, before he left. And you thought of what one of the mothers had told you long ago: Learn thy enemy, child, and do not look away.
You scarcely spoke with one another, despite your living in the Zen’in estates for seven years, and kept mainly to menial dinner conversations, even the occasional passing remark. The plighted man and woman, already estranged.
At eighteen did Naoya change. He completed his studies at the jujutsu academy; he became ranked as a special-grade sorcerer. He grew in mindset and strength. Oddly enough, however, you often saw him more.
And Naoya would sometimes accompany you around the estate; silently, he would walk by your side.
“Do you need something?” you asked him one morning, lifting your heavy garments as you stepped over stones.
He motioned toward the book tucked beneath your arm. “You were reading?”
“I was, yes.”
Naoya hummed. “A bit boring, isn’t it?”
You stopped, turned on a heel, “Do you need something?” you asked again. “You make terrible company.”
His hair was blond then, the color beginning from the roots and peddling into his natural hue. “You’re quite rude today. Have I angered you?”
“No. Would you like to?” You smiled thinly. The narrowing of your eyes could be mistaken for genuine creasing simply enough, but Naoya knew otherwise.
“I have nothing better to do.”
“Wonderful.”
He continued on the old path, and you trailed behind, irritated.
It is strange, this memory. When you grew older is when Naoya would tell you many things: he would tell you about this moment, and he would recite it from his own perspective. It would be so very different from yours.
There had been a river, flowing and beautiful, on the edge of the estate acreage. Naoya walked there without thought, clasping a hand over his wrist behind his back. “Have you been this way before?”
You gave pause, peering around the forest. “Yes,” you said, “when I tried to run. And then you stopped me.”
Naoya stilled, looking at you from his peripheral. You did not see his eyes flicker away.
“I’ve been here many times before that, too. The mothers would bring me here, along with their own children. We would play in the river when it got hot.” You faced him slightly, “I asked you once to join us when we were younger, and you made a face at me.”
He frowned in thought, bending down to pick up a river stone. “I don’t remember that.”
You watched as he skid the flat stone on the water’s surface. It deflected twelve times. “Of course you don’t. At that age, nothing matters all too much for you to want to remember.”
“But you did.” He threw another stone. This one only lasted eleven ricochets.
Your brows lifted plaintively. “I remember because I was upset afterwards.” The river trickled on, a wary wind swept at your hair. “You can’t begin to imagine what it was like for me here, Naoya. I was a child when my parents offered me to your family; the mothers were kind enough, but their children ostracized me when the women turned their backs to us.” Your tone held a biting stance, nipping at his ears.
Naoya did not speak, so you continued.
“I had thought that you, of all the people in this damned estate, might have had a bit of sympathy to spare back then.” You made your steps toward him, coming to stand at his right. “I had thought that we were going to share the burden of this fucking marriage. I see now that I was wrong.”
He bristled, smoothing a thumb along another stone in his hand. “Do you really want to have this conversation?” You could not place the manner of his words.
“It’s been eight years. Should we wait another?”
“I think you should learn to hold your tongue for longer.”
You whirled on him, clutching the fabric at his throat in your fist and bringing him down toward you; Naoya held tightly to your arm, squeezing until you thought he might break the bone.
“What will you do?” he breathed, indolent and amused. “You can’t kill me.”
When you twisted the white cloth, pressing into his trachea, Naoya only grasped harder to you. He was allowing you to do this, you knew. He wanted to entertain whatever you may do.
“You’re beginning to look like your father, Naoya.”
-----
At night is when you walked the estate halls. It was quiet, and the sun was not so blinding when it tucked beneath the horizon. You moved a wooden door and sidled outside; autumn would soon come, the cold wind said.
A mottle-colored cat grazed its thick fur at your ankles in greeting. The cat was Naoya’s favored animal of the estate, who often curled at his feet and slept. You smoothed the animal’s fur with a kind touch and continued onward.
There was a small niche between a copse of trees somewhere east of the estate lands; you had found the hidden courtyard at a young age, abandoned and forgotten, before silently claiming it as your own.
When you would return to the estates many years from now, fevered with rage, the courtyard will have been the only area of the lands left untouched from the wreckage.
It was in that courtyard that you practiced, alone. You had watched the men and their sons train enough that you memorized their incessant patterns. They were fond of continuity and repetition. You learned to be the opposite.
Your father had been partially correct in assuming your jujutsu technique: transfiguration. But it was a technique specified solely to curses. You could not replicate another person; you could not transcribe the color of their hair or the bend of their nose to your body. Though, you could sharpen your teeth like the curse beneath the stone bridge, lengthen claw-tips like the creature that loitered in the eye’s peripheral.
And you practiced such in that courtyard. Until your scleras were blackened, horns peering from beneath your hair, leathered wings retracting at your shoulder blades. It was hideous, how your body shivered and roiled. You often vomited when you ingested the blood of the curses to take their attributes; it was an acrid taste, rotting, festering on your tongue.
You kept the vials of collected blood beneath a flagstone in the courtyard, in a pocket of soil you had dug. And when you lifted the moss-infested stone, you went painfully still. The vials were not there. Frantically, you tore at the soil.
“No,” you hissed. “No, no, no.”
A scrape of a shoe against rock had you reeling around suddenly. Naoya stood at the outskirts of the courtyard, and held up the glass fixtures between his fingers.
“You have very odd night habits,” he said, looking curiously at the collected blood. “I’ve been paying attention.”
Your heart beat heavily in your chest, pressing against your lungs. You primed indifference onto your features. “You only pay attention to what suits you at the moment.”
He hummed, then sniffed in ire. “Yes, I do.”
Truly, you did not have much to say.
Naoya was silent a moment, then, “Why do you have these?”
“Blood is best for the roses,” you said sensibly. “And better to be stored away somewhere safe.”
“It’s almost autumn. The roses are dying.”
“They can be saved.”
“Can they?” He swirled the blood idly, coming closer to you as he did so. “You cannot cheat what death deals. It’s unnatural.”
“It’s only hen’s blood. Yuhara brings it back when she goes into town for the butcher.”
Naoya tugged the cork stopper from the vial. “I suppose this is quite useless then.” He lifted the glass, tipping it above a cropping of grass. He paused.
You had been watching the blood dribble to the edge, and he had been watching you.
“You’re just going to let me do this? I thought you were more dignified than that.” He clicked his tongue.
A furrow etched itself between your brows, a twitch rose beneath your eye. “It’s hen’s blood—it matters little to me.”
“Oh, don’t play stupid. Did you think I wouldn’t figure out what you’ve been doing? Do you think I don’t know what this is?”
You paled, your lips parting in unease. You wondered, briefly, how this conversation might end. You wondered, distantly, what Naoya might do.
“Show me.”
You swallowed, a stiff sound. “What?”
“Show me your technique, I want to see it.” He offered you the vials now. “I’ve always wanted to know how a transfiguration one worked.”
You did not yield a step when Naoya neared. “It’s not transfiguration.” A lie.
“No?”
“No.”
He sucked on his teeth. “I remember when you first came here, your father said it was something similar to transfiguration, but no one knew exactly what.” Naoya pocketed all but one vial, “So, let’s not be quick to lie.”
You had seen Naoya use his technique many times, but this had been different somehow. He was standing before you, then abruptly behind you as he curled a hand beneath your jaw. He scarcely moved when you plunged an elbow into his abdomen, only groaning lowly, tightening his hold on you, anticipating your attempt to shatter his nose against the crown of your head.
“Easy,” he cooed as one might a spooked horse, breathless and with a smile to his voice. Naoya forced your mouth open, his fingers digging into the junction of your jaw. He poured the blood down your throat as you coughed and thrashed violently; Naoya closed your mouth when the vile was empty, clasping a palm over your lips. And you gagged, your body tensing and wanting to curl in on itself, but Naoya kept you against him until he felt you swallow.
He let you go, let you stumble to the flagstones. Naoya was waiting.
“You bitch,” you heaved, and red dribbled from your lips to smatter below you. “You stupid fucking bitch.”
You could sense Naoya watching you as he said: “You have an absolutely foul mouth.”
When you turned, peering over a shoulder to him, you laughed. And you laughed. And you laughed as you crawled to your feet and faced him. You were twitching grotesquely, moving perversely. Long points of teeth pricked at your lips, your pupils constricted and dilated, your flesh turned ashen, and dark blood dripped from your eyes. You were a monster.
Naoya believed this was the effect of a full vial, but you had not taken it in its entirety; the majority of the cursed blood was left on the stones, on your clothing, smeared on Naoya’s hands. A complete vial would be enough to kill, though he could not have known.
His expression was that of delight and utter horror.
You surged forward. Naoya did not maneuver quickly enough.
Your talon caught the meat of his arm, sliced it, and Naoya stifled his cry of pain.
You wanted to feel his blood again, you thought, you wanted to cut his throat. You did not care if the mothers heard, if Naobito listened to the sounds of a dying son. You were angry, raging, roiling with madness.
This estate that took your hand, kissed your palm, and asked of you to stay where it would always be safe. These people who clothed you, fed you, and claimed that you should be a grateful woman. And Naoya…oh, Naoya.
The boy who had been promised excellence and did not understand that promise held such little weight. The child who grew to be a terrible boy, a worse man. You were still so young then, only nineteen, as was he. You wondered if it might have happened differently, if you would want it to.
And then he was upon you once more, raising his hands to fists, bracing his lower body. “Father would never tell me about your technique,” he said fervently, reaching for your shoulder. “I always wondered why.”
You avoided his touch, moving to splice the skin at his face; he did not let you get close enough. It was an unusual parry, whereas you fought to kill, Naoya fought to irritate. He enjoyed watching your features transform, mutilate themselves into something entirely new.
At one point did he stumble on a deep groove of a rock. The front of his clothing tore beneath your blackened nails, wanting to pierce his heart. It was a lucky fall, you supposed, until you were atop him, a hand to his neck and talon-ends causing the flesh to give way.
You were reminded of when you had tried to run from this place, and Naoya had debilitated you in a similar manner.
“You won’t do it,” he whispered, as if he knew all. His bronze eyes were alight beneath you.
Pricks of blood wept from his throat. Naoya winced.
“I hate you,” you rasped, “I hate you, Naoya. And I will make you want to slit your own throat by the end of it.”
He shifted, and you felt his chest rise and fall heavily. “We’re set to marry in a week. Don’t be rash.”
You shook your head, a sudden scoff. And when you made to speak, another voice filled in your stead.
“That is quite enough.”
Naobito Zen’in stepped into the courtyard, the moonlight spilling on him. Your body remained taut, poised over his son; you did not let go.
“If you wish to kill him,” Naobito began, “by all means, do so. No son of mine would be bested by a woman—his betrothed, nonetheless.” There was disgust, disappointment, to his words.
You smiled, and vomited the cursed blood onto the flagstones.
-----
You were not left unattended for the remainder of the week.
Naobito kept one of the men with you, a large and brute thing, he had a thin scar at the corner of his mouth. He had been introduced as ‘Toji,’ before Naobito made his leave and gave little explanation.
Toji did not speak often; he held a palm to the pommel of his sword and let his eyes wander about. And on one early morning, when you had been pruning a dead hydrangea bush, you leaned close to Yuhara and asked, “Is he always like this?”
Yuhara paused, nipping a root thoughtfully. “He’s strange,” she settled on. “Every family needs their pariah.”
Your expression pinched in question. She sighed gently from her nose.
“He’s not your enemy, if that’s what you’re wanting to know. He’s far from it.”
You gathered fallen leaves at leisure, a collection of reds and golds. “Naobito’s making him keep watch over me.” Toji was sitting by a veranda, twirling a blade in his hands.
Yuhara turned, the etchings of her skin deepening, “What happened?”
After you returned to the household the previous night, unrestrained, with Naoya and Naobito, the latter had struck you across the face, wholly apathetic. “If you can’t discipline your own wife, allow me to do so,” Naobito had seethed to his son. Then he looked to you, “Do not speak of this to anyone, lest you want to be truly punished.”
A thorn nicked the pad of your finger and you startled. “Nothing happened. Just precautions for the wedding, I guess.”
The following night, Toji walked you silently to your rooms after supper. You were watching your slippered feet step in front of you when Toji cleared his throat.
“You’re set to be Naoya’s wife?”
You lifted your head then, swallowing unsurely. “Yes.” For now, you wanted to tell him.
Toji hummed, “I’m very sorry.”
It was all he said.
-----
Naoya was staring at you.
You glanced up from the tea you held, now watching him as well.
You let yourself think, for a brief moment, what it might have been like if he were a different man, and you, a different woman. Another man would surely be eager to touch his wife, kiss her gently; another woman would be smiling, holding her lover’s hand.
Tomorrow would be the wedding.
And you would not be there.
Naoya raised a brow, a question, as if to ask: ‘What?’
You sniffed indolently. ‘Nothing.’
“Are you listening?” Yuhara chided you.
When you blinked, now facing Yuhara, Naoya remained surveying you. “Yes,” you said. “Yes, I’m listening.”
At the large table sat Naobito, Jinichi, Ogi, your mother and father, and a few other decently regarded women—Yuhara among them. They spoke of how the wedding would proceed, the tie officiated between the Zen’in clan and your family.
You stopped listening once they reached conversation of the ceremony.
-----
Again, in the beginnings of dawn, did Toji speak once more on the path to your rooms.
“You’re going to run tonight, aren’t you?” He stood at the threshold of your rooms, tilting his head at your retreating back. Toji heeded how you stiffened before you turned.
“No.” Resolute; a lie.
He scoffed, and then he smiled amusedly. “I know how this goes. You run for it when everyone’s too busy to bother with you.”
“You’re very observant, but I don’t intend on doing such.”
Toji frowned in thought. “And you’re a good liar. Did you learn that from Naoya?”
“No.” Yes.
“Well,” Toji said, “you seem intent on being well-behaved.” He sounded to be mocking you.
Your features were guarded as he continued, leaning his heavy shoulder to the door jamb.
Toji gestured a hand lazily to the columns of windows behind you, “Shame those don’t open, the weather’s real nice tonight. But I’m sure someone will keep a side entrance unlocked to let the breeze through the house.”
“Yes,” you said carefully, “what a shame.”
-----
Toji was not in the hallway when you opened your door late in the night. You tugged at the satchel on your shoulder, becoming another terrible little creature to roam under the light of the moon. All was quiet and still in the Zen’in estates.
For the past hours, you had deliberated between two evils; you found that you would prefer the risk of a betrayal from Toji than wed Naoya. So, you ran.
You were nothing but an old ghost in that dreadful house. Your feet did not make a sound, you scarcely breathed; you were not alive that night, a dead man slating from the noose already tied about his neck.
There was a side door, unlatched and ajar. You waited in the alcove down the hall, watching the door to see if someone would emerge. No one did so. And it was easy to slip through the threshold.
Then there were the bodies of many men—propped on the stone wall, left on the ground—who had been stationed to guard just outside the entrance. Their throats had been cut, eyes pressed out of sockets, limbs only tethered by bits of sinew and muscle.
You kept running.
-----
In the Zen’in estates, Toji Zen’in walked idly through the halls for your bedroom. You would surely be gone. He held a hand to his side, staunching a wound from one of the men’s blades. Soon, Naoya and the others would begin to search for you once the sun rose.
And he waited in that bedroom, his blood staining your sheets, wondering what he might do.
-----
Naoya Zen’in woke suddenly. His eyes shifted, hands clambering for the linens. Quickly, he dressed and made for your rooms; he felt something was wrong.
He found the blood first, stippled along the wooden floorboards, growing in frequency toward your rooms. Naoya ran for your door then, his feet slipping along the blood, pushing it into the deep crevices and nicks of the floors.
His hair laid at his brow, boyish and tousled from sleep; his skin was pallid in the moonlight. Naoya plunged into your rooms, frenzied, wild-eyed.
“Oh. You’re early.”
Toji sat lazily on your bed, a dry pride to his stature.
“Where is she?” Naoya breathed. “Where is she?” He was moving toward Toji, unadulterated rage ushering his body forward.
As Naoya lifted his hands, Toji lifted himself from the bed.
“What did you do?” His hands had begun twitching, curling as he hedged around Toji. It was then that he saw the light stain of red on your sheets. The first assault he delivered to Toji was with little warning, the other man stumbling, touching the broken skin of his cheek. “Did you fuck her?” Naoya seethed.
Toji frowned, looking to the sheets and to Naoya. He seemed to ponder this before he said, “Yes.”
Naoya attacked once more, though Toji moved quickly, using Naoya’s momentum to dispel him to the side. It was a vicious, short fight; fists raising and fast parries until Naoya caught Toji’s side. He pulled his hand away, watching the other man crumple in pain. Naoya peered down to his bloodied knuckles, giving pause.
The blood on your sheets was Toji’s. It was not yours.
“You liar.”
-----
Wings beat heavily at your back, a grotesque making of sharp bones and stretched cartilage. You had taken the blood of a curse with such features, slipping it into your throat. But your body was a cumbrous weight to carry, and you were beginning to tire.
The sky was cloud-ridden this night, no moon to guide by light. You felt your wings loosen their muscles, near blundering from the sky, before you righted yourself. An odd feeling encompassed you, a dreary haze of sorts that stuck its fingers into your ears and closed your eyes. It was not fatigue.
A terrible pain came next. It ripped through your wing and was left suspended in the cartilage: a hunter’s arrow. You cried out, gasping for breath as you fell; the brambles and boughs wound around your body when you plummeted, the hardened dirt catching you unkindly.
You clawed at the ground in your stupor, wanting to get up, needing to get away. There was a foot being pushed to your back, keeping you in place. They tore the arrow from your wing and you screamed; it was a weak sound, hoarse and broken. You could not stop them when they sliced the arrow’s blade through your other wing, pinning you to the forest floor.
Tears dripped from your cheeks to the moss beneath you, mud pilled beneath your nails. You were the rain of this forest, a creature of this forest.
You had been so close.
A hand, unfamiliar, tore your head upward as someone knelt down. Naobito Zen’in hummed in thought, wanting you to look at him.
“You are a very stupid girl,” he said, smiling wryly. “And you thought me the fool.” He let your tears run over his hands. “You would have been given everything.”
Naoya had told you something similar once. That was so long ago.
Your unpinned wing flailed violently, hooking the curved bone at the apex into the roots and stones.
“You should learn,” Naobito pressed his fingers into your face, and it hurt when he did so, “when to stop fighting.”
You were screaming again, thrashing wildly for Naobito to step back. The wings would not retract for some time.
“I trust you can take care of this, Naoya.”
A maddened stillness took hold of your body when you heard his name. Naoya drew up beside you, walking carefully. He was staring again, you could not see those burnished eyes, but you understood where they moved. From your spasming wing, to the wound created by the arrowhead, to the other wing pierced through.
You were panting shallowly, trembling from the pain, the cold. Naoya stood in front of you. And when you looked up, he found you. There was a bow slung over his chest. You collapsed once more, your temple pressed against the dirt.
You hated this memory, as you did most.
“Leave us,” said Naoya. Many sets of feet shuffled with purpose. There had been more men, then.
They soon left, and Naoya and you were alone in that forest. He removed the bow.
He leaned down, bringing a hand to touch your face. “Why?” he asked. “Why must you be so persistent?”
You let him stroke beneath your eye, let him smooth your hair as you laid there. There was a brief silence, then, “You should’ve killed me.”
“Is that what you want?” His fingers moved thoughtlessly to the junction where wing met human flesh.
“No,” you said, strained. Your eyes kept to a tree trunk across the way. Naoya grazed your open wound; assessing or caring, you did not know, but the action left you tensed. Another tear wet your lashes.
A quiet enveloped him and you again. Even the forest did not dare make a sound.
Naoya splayed his hand over the tear. “Can you feel this?” he asked, genuine, wondering. When you groaned, he removed his hand. “I…Father said this wouldn’t hurt you,” he spoke softly to himself.
You were shaking your head weakly, arms coming beneath your body in an attempt to lift upward.
He pushed down gently on your shoulder, moving you back to the ground. “Don’t, you’ll only bring yourself more pain.”
Draped on the forest floor, the haze returned, your hearing and vision dipped and wavered.
Depressants, Naoya murmured angrily. You scarcely caught the mention of tea, as well. In your liminal thoughts, you threaded the words together into coherency: Naobito had placed opiates into your drink earlier in the evening, anticipating this very outcome. However, he had grossly underestimated your body’s strange perseverance.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he was telling you, patting your cheek, jostling your shoulder. “Do not fall asleep.”
You, distantly, felt him leave. When he returned, the slick cold of glass pressed your lips open.
“Drink it,” he demanded, almost frantically. He must have found a blood phial somewhere amongst the grasses, unshattered despite your fall.
That horrible taste of cursed blood fell to your tongue, spreading through your mouth as Naoya kept your chin righted. You did not understand what he was doing. He let you go, rising somewhere else. There came the sound of a quick snap, the arrow; Naoya pulled your wing from the broken arrow and your fingers clawed gouges into the ground, ripped skin being tugged at by the wood of the shaft.
Don’t touch me, you wished to say. Don’t return me to those rooms, to you.
“The estates are in disarray right now,” he said unconcernedly.
You breathed out, sharp, through your nose like a cornered beast, a simple sign of acknowledgment.
Naoya continued, sitting himself before you, “I found Toji in your rooms, as if he’d been waiting for someone. He said you had escaped—that you injured him and killed the other men for it. He also warned us against following you, that you were far too dangerous.”
Your body began to tremble, the cursed blood chilling your own. Toji had lied to dissuade them from attempting to capture you; it had not been enough.
Naoya pushed closer. The wounds in your wings ached as they slowly closed.
“Why can’t you let me go?” you asked, and it was a weak inquiry, spoken with lips that scarcely opened. You shifted in panic when he reached for you, your nostrils flaring, breath quickening. Naoya pulled you, gingerly, to rest in his lap; he pressed your head to his shoulder, let your wings drag behind you and lay with little strength.
“Have you not realized it yet?” he asked against the crown of your head.
And you remained silent, mouth thinning tightly. You were afraid of his next words.
“For all you hate me, you have always been mine to have.” Naoya spoke methodically, gauging each of your movements. “You have fought me for so long, and here we find ourselves: together, unchanged.”
Your fingers twisted in his clothing, a wing twitching.
He held you like a lover might, close and tight. “I said to you once that you cannot cheat death, so let me offer you one more thing.” Naoya paused.
Beneath your hands, you could feel his chest lift and fall, his breath fluttering your hair. You were weak in his arms, susceptive to his hand that brought your face to his.
Naoya had always been beautiful, a beauty that brought you to the edge of a cliff and asked of you to fall with it. Though, you had never fallen, too caught on the hatred that guided you away.
If only Naoya was a different man, and you, a different woman.
He said, “You cannot fight Fate with a blade, darling.”
Then, Naoya kissed you beneath the trees, and what a strange thing it was. He was warm, uncertain, and slow; he kept you against him, his lips brushing yours when he pulled away only enough to see your eyes.
He was watching you curiously, touching his palm to your cheek, running his thumb along your lips pinkened by him. His nose brushed yours, as if in affection.
“I know,” you said, low and hushed.
Your talons bore into Naoya’s shoulder, reaching bone, blood pulsing as he shouted in agony. And then you were running, dashing carelessly through that forest, tripping and stumbling. Your wings beat in waiting, pacing your rhythm until they filled with the autumn wind.
Naoya bellowed through the forest, his angered words lost to the air that scurried around you. His blood had begun to sticky your hand, warm as his body had been.
And you flew desperately that night, tears wetting your eyes before being plucked away by the wind.
It hurt, it was a wound like no other: the freedom that you fought for, finally regained.
-----
Present Day, Seven Years Later
The Moon peered from beyond the horizon; she did not want to watch this.
Naoya laid bleeding on the wooden floors of the Zen’in estates. He feared he would continue to spill his blood on those panels. Beside him laid his succumbed aunt, her mouth was slackened, features wholly blank.
He watched her blood pour, and pour, and pour around them. He watched his blood spill, and spill, and spill into hers. Red unto red; blood unto blood.
In all the moments Naoya believed he might die, they had never been in the midst of a battle, or from a grave wound. They had always been with you.
Tucked within that old forest, catching you when you were younger; by that cold river, when you pulled him closer; in that desolate courtyard, when you cut him; and that egregious night, when you got away.
You were the only thing capable of death, and Naoya believed it so. As it be, you cannot dance with skeletons and expect them to have hearts.
He was dying when he heard the footsteps. Naoya could only wait and play witness to whomever stumbled upon him.
And then came your voice. Your terrible, beautiful, cold voice.
“Oh, Naoya,” you breathed.
He wanted to move, needed to see if you had truly returned. Though, his limbs remained weakened, his thoughts reeling rampantly.
“Naoya,” you whispered gently, smoothing his blood-matted hair, “I’m not done with you yet."
More Posts from Solace-inu and Others
something about non-traditional family dynamics with gojo just speaks to me…
includes :: co-parent!gojo, rich boy!gojo, mentions of pregnancy + leaky nips hehe
note :: this is just pure brainrot, started thinking about him in class today and i needed to get this out of my brain!
link to part two
i’d like to think that after he knocks you up in college, the two of you take it upon yourselves to get married because, “‘it’s the right thing to do.’” and so, for a few years, you do the whole marriage thing—the family thing.
no longer were you the twenty-something-year-old who partied hard every weekend, and studied until the break of dawn every school night.
no, now you were the twenty-something-year-old who fixed bottles at odd hours in the night, whose nipples leaked through all her favorite tops, who had a husband that paid a mortgage and kissed her goodbye before he went off to work for the company passed down to him.
and after some time, things finally start to fall into place—your little family.
the baby gets bigger. you go through the terrible twos, of course, and the teenage-threes, but once she hits five, it’s suddenly pie in the sky—and god, it feels like you can finally start to see a light at the end of the tunnel.
so, you and gojo have one more. one more girl that’s precious, and smart, and quick-tongued, and every bit of her dad as she is you.
things are touch and go for awhile, but for the most part it’s...easy, smooth. that is, until married life starts to feel like a task, and your husband starts to feel like your roommate instead of your companion.
conversations becomes brief, the bed becomes colder, morning kisses are exchanged for nods of acknowledgement, and you can’t even remember the last time either of you desired each other…
one day though, the two of you come to a mutual decision to separate. you spend the night talking, and talking, and talking. you talk about things. memories—before and after. you even talk about your mis-comings, and if things could’ve gone differently had either of you did ‘this, this, and that’.
when you tell the girls, you’re half expecting them to be upset, but all they can think about is how, “‘they’ll get twice the amount of gifts during holidays’” — at least, according to your oldest who heard that from a kid in her class with separated parents.
a few years pass after your separation and now the both of you have come to a place where you can just be...friends. it was weird, at first—dropping your kids off to their 'other home'. walking them up to the grandiose sky-rise apartment building that's always bustling with people who've got places to be, and working class people to probably torture—but that's neither here, nor there.
gojo's waiting in the lobby. he's leaned up against the side of the elevator, dressed down in all black athleisure, and he's sporting that damn cheesy grin that you find yourself missing lately.
"hey girls," he greets, lowering down to his haunches and opening his arms for hugs, "oof—big hugs, almost knocked me over! missed me that much, huh?"
while the three of them get their hugs out of the way, you stand there idly watching, rocking back and forth on the balls of your heels.
"hey," he finally acknowledges you, "how was the drive? they got everything they need?"
"it was fine, and yep! they insisted on packing their own bags like big girls but i checked them," you say, before whispering, "and then repacked them."
he laughs at that, and then grabs their suitcases.
"but yeah, i should get going before traffic hits. if you need anything, let me know, and if you need anything," you drop down to your knees, "mommy's only a call away, okay?"
the two of them nod, "okay, mommy!"
"good...now come on, hugs and kisses!" you pull them in, getting enough kisses for two-weeks time. eventually, you pull away—albit, reluctantly, and wave your goodbyes.
the three of them watch you walk away, and when you're finally out of ear-shot, gojo utters a 'miss that'.
"miss what, daddy?"
"uh-huh," he clears his throat, "daddy didn't say anything..."
"liar, you miss mommy. don't you?" the youngest grins, all cheeky and knowing. gojo rolls his eyes—not out of annoyance, but because of how much they reminded him of himself. much like he, nothing ever got past those two...and he doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. right now, though? it's gonna be a good thing because he needs to know if-
"does mommy have a new boyfriend?"
"why?" the oldest answers, squinting her eyes in suspicion.
"jeez kid, just answer the question."
she ponders for a second, then extends her hand out, opening and closing it in a fast manner. gojo pouts, then takes out his wallet to put a five dollar bill on it.
she doesn't budge.
"oh, c'mon! i'm your father!" he pouts, but acquiesces and pulls out another five, "fine, you little brat."
with a smile on her face, she stuffs the bills in her front pocket and nods her head.
"wha-really?" he gasps, "is he better looking than me? how old is he? is he younger than daddy? is he richer than daddy? what's he do for work?"
ignoring his questions, she only extends her hand out again.
"i'm not giving you any more money, so we can settle this with some ice cream or nothing."
she ponders for a second time before nodding. "ice cream works for me."
"you little...c'mon get on the elevator."
20 floors in and the questions never stop coming.
My copium au where they get to grow up
hot girl nik. - nikolai lantsov.
a series of texts you'd find digging through your phone if you were dating nikolai in modern times. all texts were sent days apart. (ignore timestamps).
note: for @goldengoddess and @buckystarlight who convinced me this wasn't shit, mwah <3
💭 thinking about . . . . going furniture shopping with caleb
tw. caleb x fem!reader, suggestive content, domestic caleb, crack-ish, inspired by that one tiktok of a couple playfully testing out furniture ergonomics in the ikea showrooms, 760 words
Maybe a trip to Ikea with your boyfriend slash ex-older brother figure wasn’t such a good idea when you take into consideration how pent-up you are from the mere sight of furniture.
While that might sound strange, it’s nothing compared to the thoughts that arise when your gaze lingers on a few sturdy couches, your mind wandering to what it would be like if Caleb had you bent over the arms, the hot press of his body moving against yours desperately, his mouth on your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, trying to get you to that feverish peak—
“... and we could have the lamp near the desk—Pipsqueak?”
His voice breaks you free from the reverie, and you startle slightly, turning your wide eyes to him.
“Hmm? What was that?”
Caleb is looking at you with a shadow of concern in his eyes, his brows pinched in thought. “Are you okay? You zoned out and I coulda sworn you were about to break the stratosphere.” He takes your hand in what is supposed to be a comforting gesture. But, all you can think about is how those warm palms were just pressed to your hips last night, pinning you down as he got his fill of you.
The deepening warmth in your cheeks can’t be hidden. Caleb notices it instantly, years of intimately knowing your reactions and now, as your boyfriend, your little cues which point to one thing lingering in your mind.
He grins. “Oh?” Despite being in a public setting, he corners against a fake console table, a smirk on his handsome, devilish expression. “Is my princess feeling a little bit… frisky?”
Caleb guffaws when you pout and push him away, the heated points of your cheeks undeniable. “Caleb, you big dummy—”
“Come on, princess. I was just messin’ around with you.”
Slinging an arm around your waist, he drags you closer to his broad chest, the ends of his bangs tickling you when he leans in to smooch your cheek in the middle of the fake Ikea living room. Another couple walks past, their curious gazes darting to the two of you, and you feel the weight of judgement—the understanding of why your boyfriend is being so touchy-feely with you right now.
Caleb decides to humor you, wanting to make you feel comfortable by interjecting lame jokes whenever the two of you drift to a new Ikea showcase. He pretends to measure the height of the kitchen counter in comparison with you, a half-serious thoughtful look on his face as he cups his hands by his side and bends slightly, trying to picture how you would look like sprawled out over the slick tiles and gasping while he—
Oh.
He can definitely see what you’re on about now.
Shopping for furniture suddenly stopped feeling like a chore, especially when you can amuse each other by speculating on just how sturdy the fixings would be for future, intimate encounters.
You would test a table’s resilience by sitting on it, and Caleb would give you a knowing look and a smirk. In the bathroom aisles, he slips inside a makeshift shower, pretending to measure the dimensions of how your body would fit pressed against the glass.
Things get a little too real in the bedroom section. Caleb chuckles as you discreetly kneel by the edge of the bed, turning back to look at him with a heated tint in your cheeks.
“Peak comfort, Colonel?” You tease him and he pretends to mull it over.
“Sturdy as can be, soldier… though the Malm does look more cosy…”
Caleb pinches your arm in warning when you slump over the sofa bed and spread your legs, trying to picture how ergonomic it would be when he has you folded like a lawn chair and is rocking your world apart. “Princess, behave—” he hisses, shielding you from an elderly couple who strolls by, oblivious to your mischief.
Hand in hand, Caleb and you make a mental note of each piece of furniture that passed the degeneracy test when you finally load up the trolley.
He glances at you as you’re deep in thought over some light fixtures, and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to kiss the top of your head.
When he first bought his house in Skyhaven, he gave it little thought—letting moving boxes pile up, and leaving it sterile and empty. Then, you came into the picture and what was once four blank walls became his favorite thing in the world: a home—a real home—with you.
♡ feedback and reblogs are appreciated
© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost or claim as your own.
𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟐: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍
after a scandal that rocks the entire nation, itadori 'ryomen' sukuna is forced to marry a girl chosen by his brother in order to straighten him out. but, what jin doesn't expect is how much he's willing to destroy everything he knows just to get his freedom back—even at the expense of breaking his wife's soul.
warnings: mean!sukuna, unrequited love, child neglect, childhood trauma, flashback-heavy, language, repressed trauma, allusions to d/rug a/buse, mentions of s/moking, mentions of food, mentions of a/lcohol, explicit s/mut (sukuna x este), cuckcake-ish vibes, tension, MDNI
masterlist | playlist
He sees the invitation in his brother’s hand first thing in the morning, and wishes he hadn’t woken up in the first place.
Groggy and still drunk from the night before partying with Ino and his gang of friends, Sukuna blinks the crust from his eyes with wary bleariness.
“What do they want now?”
He groans, recognizing the L/N family seal from a single glance.
Jin, clad in a beige sweater the color of boring and a similar pair of bland slacks, shakes his head. “I don’t know ‘Kuna. But, I think your future in-laws want to get to know you better.”
His brother tosses the invitation onto the dining table, and turns to refill his coffee while humming under his breath. Despite his hesitation and dismay, Sukuna reaches for the innocuous item, turning it around his fingers to check the edges; evaluating the invitation like its a show pony up for sale.
Constellation Snow paper with Waterman ink.
The L/N’s were serious about their reputation.
A cruel smirk plays on the corners of his lips. Compared to the Naras, the L/N’s were shams in their society—new money desperately trying to climb the ladder. Your mother, Lia, was descended from department store royalty but chose to taint her blood with a middle-class business associate from Shibuya who scrappily acquired his own company at the age of twenty-five.
Your family’s history was thoroughly researched on by Hiromi even before the idea of marriage was put forth, attesting to the lawyer’s incredible foresight.
And now the snakes are waiting in the bushes to strike.
However much Sukuna wants to refuse this invite, it would not look good on the Itadoris if they dismissed a future business partner.
Jin, too, appears to have the same line of thought, sitting across from him with a slight frown. The buttery smell of coffee beans wafts in the air, coaxing him from his drunken fatigue.
“So?” his younger twin asks. “Are you going to say ‘yes’?”
Sukuna turns the card over, flips it over to his brother. Jin catches it before it goes tumbling to the ground, tossing him a scowl. He unfolds it, reads through its contents quickly.
“A getaway for a week at their private mountain lodge,” he mutters wryly. “Whatever could go wrong?”
Hearing the note of amusement in Jin’s voice, Sukuna rolls his eyes, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It's so they can force us into this alliance. How else are we going to plan an escape if we’re trapped with them on a goddamn peak.”
“Is this what you see your fate as?” Jin murmurs, trying hard not to smirk. “A trap?”
“You got a better term for it?” Sukuna grouses. “You didn’t give me a chance to say ‘no’ to the whole thing. You forced my hand before I could even consent.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Jin mutters, returning back to the table with a plate of toast and some butter. Sukuna tries to grab one of the brown slices, but his brother swats his hand away with a scowl that says go get your own food.
Begrudgingly, he stands to make himself a bowl of cereal before he comes to a stop.
Usually, someone would be here to take his plate, toast his bread for him, and prepare his usual fare of strawberry jam and manuka honey on the table before he could even lift a finger. Or, they would prepare the granola and milk for him on the table before he even has to ask.
“Where’s the help today?” He suddenly realizes, perturbed by their quiet absence.
In response, Jin hums. “I gave them a day off."
Sukuna looks at him like he has grown two heads, wondering what could possess such a man to debilitate his household like this. When he would become the man of the house, Sukuna wouldn't give them a day off on a whim like his weak-hearted younger brother.
“Why? What did they do to deserve it?”
His blood is boiling, about to spill over in his infamous temper tantrums when Jin sighs, stopping him in his tracks with his next words.
“It’s her Death Day anniversary today.”
Sukuna almost blurts out “Who?” when the sight of Jin's grim expression suddenly jogs his memory.
He immediately remembers and wishes he hadn’t been so blunt.
Ah.
Kaori.
The older twin shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another. “Happy… Death Day. I guess?”
Sukuna was lucky Jin was in a decent mood and didn't sock him in the face for that insensitive comment. As her death was two years ago, the young air stewardess’ absence was still very much felt by her grieving husband until this day—a blow to his soft heart which he will never get over for as long as he lived.
“We need to respond to that invitation,” he switches the subject, cleaning up after himself. “Oh, and with kind consideration for our future companions, the L/N’s have also offered the Gojos and Naras an invite.”
Sukuna almost choked on his cereal. “T-the Naras are coming?”
Without turning to him or being ticked off by the change in his older brother’s tone, Jin nods, continuing to scrub his dishes.
“James wants to talk new business terms with Ken, and he’s interested in hearing what the guy has to offer. Also, Gojo Sr. might be bringing his best cigars. It’s unmissable.”
The older Itadori internally swore, wondering if the entire universe had just upended and gone entirely insane.
Though he was a bastard through and through, even Sukuna could admit that having his future wife and hookup slash sorta girlfriend under one roof would be a disaster waiting to happen.
You could never find out about him and Este.
“That’s… interesting.”
“You can join us if you want,” Jin adds, “Only if you can keep your partying tendencies on hold for three days.”
“Just for three days?” Sukuna smirks, and Jin finally turns around, giving a look he is all too familiar with.
Throwing his hands up, the older Itadori shrugs, trying his best to look as innocent as possible.
“You know me, Jin-Jin. I’m always on my best behavior.”
“Darling, we must hurry,” your father scolds, and you struggle to keep up with them in your tottering heels. Behind you, your mother shoos you down the tarmac, towards the humming private jet ready to depart.
“We can’t keep the Itadoris waiting!”
The maids rush with your bags, one of them carrying your fur trimmed hat in case it flutters off your head.
Once the butlers had stowed away your luggage, each of them formed a line and bowed to you and your parents as the three of you climbed up the airstairs, waving you off with polite smiles.
“I can’t believe we’re going to spend three whole days with the Itadoris,” Lia gushes as the cabin crew starts to pat down the overhead compartments, doing their final checks. She looks radiant in her mink-trimmed fur coat hanging off her shoulders, the picture of elegance with her sleek bodycon dress and sparkling golden jewelry dripping from her throat and ears.
Relaxing into the muted beige seat, you nod. “Me, too. I wonder what activities Itadori-san likes.”
In comparison to her, you're dressed in all monochrome; your stylist came in at the nick of time to take inspiration from some of his ex-girlfriends' winter fashion—settling you into a ribbed sweater dress with some stylish earmuffs and a black trench coat that feels like a million bucks under your splayed palms.
Your mother turns to your father who was trying to catch his breath, shaking out his handkerchief to pat his shining face.
“Jiro, darling. Do you think it’s brazen if we request for them to share a room together?”
Your father looks over his half-moon spectacles, tilting his head to the side. “Itadori-san and our daughter? Well, I don’t see why not.”
You blanch, but before you are able to voice your discontent, an air stewardess glides by with three flutes of champagne. Setting it down, she asks in a soft voice if you were all ready for refreshments.
Unsure how to broach the subject, you stew in your disappointment for the entire plane ride to Hokkaido, glad you chose the window seat so you could spend a little more time alone in your thoughts.
Your phone vibrates with a text, and you switch it on to find Utahime sending you a GIF of a cat waving a good luck banner.
Smiling to yourself, you respond with another cat GIF, this one sticking its face to a window with its whiskers twitching sorrowfully, and put your phone on silent for takeoff.
Iori could always make you smile, no matter how nervous you are. You kind of wish she could be here with you. Staring out at the passing scenery below, you tilt your head back, wondering what kind of carnage awaits at the base of mountainous Hokkaido.
Since striking lucky with his marriage to your mother, your father began divesting his profits into property, and the 5,000 feet lodge instantly became the highlight of his purchases.
Imposing and standing firm on fortified concrete to withstand the harsh, cold mountain air, your childhood days were spent playing in the narrow hallways, fashioned similarly to the labyrinth-like interior of Europe’s oldest castles. Your parents absolutely adored German architecture with its spiraling spires and brick red slates upon such historical monuments, and wanted to emulate the design right on the slopes of Hakodate.
It’s been years since I’ve seen the lodge.
The last time you were there, you were just shy of your sixteenth birthday.
Bright-eyed, and romantically wistful. You often imagined how pretty it would be to walk along the grand balcony as the sun performed its final best for the day; orange rays soaking your skin from head to toe as you admire nature's best while hand-in-hand with a man you love.
And now, your fantasies have a chance of turning into reality.
You wonder how Sukuna will feel when he sees the spires, the chimneys, and the cozy old brick walls that allows for the warmth of the house to seep into them despite the persistent chill.
He would be impressed—you like to think he might be a bit more polite once he sees your family is just like his. Just as powerful and grand and worthy.
Smiling secretly to yourself, you swallow down an Ambien, slip on your headphones, and settle into the comfortable seats for the start of your wildest hopes coming true.
The private car taking them up the winding road almost makes Sukuna turn green around the edges.
Jin sits beside him, a faint flush on his cheeks from the cold despite not having reached the mountain’s first base. Their mother used to always tease how he was the easiest to blush or bruise; so much different from his staunch older brother.
“The weather is lovely,” his twin muses.
Sukuna stares out the window, not bothering to hide his sulky mood. His phone is off, his last text from Este snidely insulting the L/N’s on how they only had two private hot springs in their lodge went unreplied.
He hasn’t bothered to respond to her because he’ll see her soon enough.
Fuck… this is some twisted shit. A part of him still can’t wrap his head around the fact that his situationship and future fiance would be in the same room together.
Jin hums, breaking him from his thoughts, and after a brief lull, shoots up excitedly, tapping the driver’s seat. “It’s this one! We’re here.”
Unable to match his enthusiasm, Sukuna sighs deeply and rolls his eyes. The driver stops the Jeep right in front of the lodge, and for a split second, Sukuna wonders if the Ambien he took on the private-plane ride here accidentally knocked him out long enough for them to appear in the middle of Heidelberg or some far flung place in fucking Europe.
This lodge had fucking spires, for god’s sake.
He can’t help the bubble of distaste gurgling in his chest when he sees such opulence in the middle of nowhere. Inaccessible to the base unless with a Jeep and a day’s worth of travel, one could only imagine the amount needed to keep a money drainer like this going.
They’re rubbing their wealth in our face, he sneers inwardly. What a nouveau riche thing to do.
A butler rushes out to hoist their bags, allowing Jin and him the leisure to crane their necks and take in more of the grand rooms. Wooden timber floors echo the dull thuds of their boots, high beams in the same honey color wood arching and intersecting, opening the living room into an expansive ceiling and windows that seem to touch the sky.
The interior is tasteful with accents of natural wood on the walls, a spiral staircase, and a large fireplace that’s happily belching heat across a sunken pit fitted with black corduroy sofas. A flat screen TV is on, and Sukuna almost misses a bundle moving from the end of the chair, walking right to them.
You're in a silky black dress with a sweetheart neckline, house slippers on your perfectly manicured feet. So different from the beige and bland girl he saw at the cafe that Sukuna has to hide his double take behind a sudden cough, the tips of his ears feeling a little bit warmer than before.
Jin is the one who smiles widely, bowing low. “Y/N. It’s good to see you.”
Returning his gesture, you grin. “It’s lovely to see you too, Itadori-san,” and not forgetting Sukuna, you added, “You too, Itadori-san.”
“Please, call me Jin,” the younger twin extends a note of familiarity and you receive it graciously with another smile.
From the corner of his eye, Jin glances at Sukuna, as if expecting him to drop all formalities with the woman who was soon to be his wife. But, the older twin did no such thing; nodding to you in greeting while keeping his antipathy closely tucked to his chest.
“Hello again, Y/N.”
Though his abrupt unfriendliness puts you off, you plaster on your best hostess smile, about to show the two brothers to their rooms when your mother’s shrill voice pierces through the quiet.
“Jin-san! Itadori-san!” Exuberant, she bounces down the steps, fresh from a shower and wearing a new coat of makeup after the dreary flight. “You’re both here!”
Jin takes her hand, and in a gallant gesture you never expect him to do, presses the back of it to his lips. “Lovely to see you again, Lia.”
You never thought you’d see the day when your mother stutters like a schoolgirl in love. She coughs, batting her lashes and turns to the older twin. “Itadori-san.” To him, she bows slightly, showing him deference as the older brother in this dynamic. This time, Sukuna returns her bow, knowing full well that to lord his rank over them would be disrespectful to his host.
“Lia-san. You look well.”
Beaming at the two men, your mother sinks her fingers into your shoulders. “I’m so happy you finally got to meet Y/N in person, Jin-san. Isn’t she lovely?”
Diplomatic to a fault, the younger twin nods. “She is as lovely as you are, Lia-san.”
Expectantly, she turns to Sukuna, who clears his throat, his skin suddenly crawling from all eyes on him. “The cold air does wonders for all of us,” were his words. You feel your mother’s fingers digging deeper.
Sparing the room from an awkward note, you clear your throat. “Shall we show them to their rooms, mom?” Emphasizing on the last word, you effectively break Lia’s spell, her million dollar modeling smile back on.
“Yes. Yes. Jin-san, I hope you don’t mind rooming with Gojo Satoru when he arrives. He barely sleeps, but then again, so do you. I’m afraid his father couldn’t make it due to a sudden stomach bug so he’s the only one representing the Gojos.”
Jin remains genial. “I would love to catch up with Satoru when he arrives.”
“Perfect.” She turns her smile to Sukuna, who feels every expectation surrounding him amplifying; dread pools in his stomach when the physical embodiment of lies and deception starts deepening her grin. Lia unclasps one hand from your shoulder to grip Sukuna’s bicep.
“I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty to make a special arrangement for you, Itadori-san.”
He wonders if they’re going to put him with your father in a separate room; already the picture of the older man’s twisted words and smarmy grin come to his mind, trying to force his hand to hurry up and marry you.
But, what Lia says is much worse than his imagination could conjure. Her hand on his arm burns hot and prickles his skin past the cashmere sleeve.
“I’ve put a room together just for you and my daughter, of course.”
Jin swears he’s never had to drag Sukuna out from a room fast enough.
His brother seethes, hands clenching open and close while he tries to find a quiet enough spot so the older twin doesn’t explode into a raging temper tantrum.
“‘Kuna, it’s okay,” he consoles, but Sukuna doesn’t want to hear it.
“How dare they think they can do this!” His jaw tenses, veins popping from his neck. The kitchen is empty, though for it to be free of errant eyes and ears, Jin can’t be sure.
“Hey, come on—don’t lose it here now,” Jin begs.
The older twin’s volatile temper is hard to predict and even harder to cool down once he reaches that peak of no return. To think it would be triggered by a simple room assignment would be comical if Jin has had a few beers, but this just solidifies to him how acutely Sukuna truly resents you.
It takes Jin aback. You’re such a sweet person; a kind soul. Why would his brother react in such a way to you was a mystery to the younger man. He doesn't have time to prod further. Voices ring down the hallway, and Jin recognizes Adam Nara’s jolly baritone, following Gojo Sr.’s cheerful greeting to your father.
The other players have entered the game. Jin couldn't afford to lose face now.
He grabs his brother by the shoulders and shakes him a little.
“Listen, shit face. Our enemies and alliances are just beyond this door. If you love ka-san and oto-san—” Scratch that. Sukuna cares for no one but himself. Jin shakes his head. “If you care about the money and getting your inheritance, I need you to pull yourself together. Just for this evening. Got it?”
Sukuna doesn’t respond, and Jin’s no longer the nice, younger brother he has to be in front of others. He transforms into Itadori Jin, de facto Chairman of Itadori Holdings, his shoulders squared and mouth set in a firm line. Purely meaning business.
If he wasn’t in such a rage, Sukuna would find the change impressive; he’s almost quivering in his boots.
“You’re going to go out there, and you’re going to play nice, you hear me?” There’s a threat hidden behind his calm words—the edge of a sharp knife wrapped in between soft sheets. “You will be polite to Y/N, treat her parents with respect and you will be married by the end of this month, am I clear?”
It stung. It bruises his ego to have Jin control his life.
But, didn’t you give up the crown when you decided to leave the family and make it on your own? A small, bitter voice in the back of his head quips.
He’s quick to shoot it down, though a lingering sense of loathing balloons in his chest. It’s humiliation and resignation all in one. Sukuna pauses for a second, letting Jin stew in his anger, before slowly nodding.
His younger brother exhales, and releases his death grip from his twin’s shoulders.
“Good. If you’re antsy about the room situation, you can always tell Lia you want to protect her daughter’s virtue. It’ll be a decent enough reason and score you brownie points with the family.”
Jin’s words which were meant to soothe and comfort him, strikes a chord, flipping the switch in his mind. Excitement bubbles right in the pit of his stomach.
If I can’t change my fate in this arrangement, maybe I can influence it.
“No,” he says coolly, taking his brother aback. “I’ll do it.” Jin stares at him as if someone had just swooped in and switched his twin with a different man.
Is he planning something insidious? Though the Itadori Chairman has his suspicions, he can’t outright call his brother out on it—not when Sukuna is making the effort to appease and honor the deal.
“Okay,” Jin says slowly, though the note of hesitation and distrust is palpable.
Sukuna maintains his innocent facade with a blank mask, the markings on his face starker under the orange light.
Jin represses a shudder, trying not to let the memory of that day come up again.
The voices outside grow louder, and he can scarcely ignore them.
Duty’s calling and he has to answer.
“Alright,” he murmurs into the quiet. “Let’s go outside to meet them.” Before Sukuna can leave, Jin grasps his shoulder, forcing him to round back and look at him.
Wearing a look awfully similar to Wasuke, Jin wags his finger.
“Remember, ‘Kuna. No fucking funny business.”
He stops, rolls his eyes and plants a crooked smile in place. It’s the smile that could win any girl over into his bed for the night no matter her relationship status; reassures the most fidgety investor that their returns would be safe with him.
“You have nothing to worry about, Jin. No funny business—I promise.”
Itadori Wasuke wasn’t just a father—he was the blueprint to Jin’s lifepath.
Ever since he could walk and talk, Jin loved following his dad around—tottering into meetings, plopping himself onto the older man’s lap and grabbing the papers on his desk to drool over them.
Despite his status as a ruthless businessman and one of the shrewdest minds in transportation, Wasuke loved nothing more than to indulge his boys with time, wisdom, and guidance. He would never push his youngest away—always with a firm hand and a soothing voice to lead him in the right direction.
Rainy days were Jin’s favorite. His father usually sat himself in the parlor with a cigarette and the latest paper, relaxing after a day filled with nothing but meetings.
The memory of him clambering on the couch next to him, curls of nicotine smoke filling the air, was such a vivid one Jin still thinks he can smell the tobacco on his skin.
“What’re you doing here?” His father’s faded pink hair, a rarity in this world which he passed to his two sons, shone like silk under the amber lighting, those red-brown eyes dancing with mirth at the sight of his golden child.
Jin fiddles with his fingers, suddenly aware of the secret he was holding and how much it could ruin his father’s mood. But, he had no choice. He had to tell his dad before the maids could beat him to it and get his nii-san into more trouble than he already was in.
“Um… it’s ‘K-Kuna, oto-san.”
At the mention of his oldest, Wasuke snaps the paper close, the fine lines around his mouth deepening.
“What happened to him? Did he do something wrong again?”
Blaming Sukuna was a default in the Itadori home. Sometimes, Jin overhears his father lamenting to his mother past the thin doors, wondering where and how he went wrong in raising two sons who were as different as day and night.
“He… made a bet at school and…” Jin sucks in a breath.
Putting the newspaper down, Wasuke’s attention was fully on him, those vermillion eyes ablaze. “Well? What happened? Did he hurt someone?”
Flinching, Jin shakes his head. His brother may be a jerk and a rebel, but Sukuna would never hurt someone intentionally. Deep down in his heart, the youngest twin was sure of it.
“He made a bet with some boys and lost and he—” Jin exhales out the last part in one, frighteningly quick breath. “—hewentandgothisfacetattooed.”
His father blinks. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt, pushed past his elbows were stretched across his taut arms, as if he was holding himself back from slamming his fists into the table.
“Where is he?” Deceptively calm; a storm brewing in the distance.
Jin naively hoped his father would put things right again—talk some sense into Sukuna to get those tattoos removed from his face and arms.
They were the Itadoris, a respectful house.
How was his nii-san supposed to lead a company when he didn’t look professional at all? And not to mention, they were both fifteen—they were too young to think about permanent inks and bets.
Wasuke seems to echo his youngest son’s thoughts, sinking back into the plush, leather sofa and pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Jin can tell his father is going through a range of emotions—the blood rushes to his face, leaves his cheeks red, puce, and then sickeningly green around the edges.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
“Thank you for telling me, Jin,” his father finally manages to compose himself enough to pat his head. “You can go back to bed now. I’ll speak to Sukuna when he comes back home.”
Stiffly, the youngest twin stands, bowing once to his dad. He wishes the old man a goodnight and trudges back to bed, unaware of a woman lurking in the corner who slinks into the room, having heard everything that transpired between her husband and son.
“—what did he do now?”
A resounding crash shakes the walls, and Jin freezes, darting behind a potted plant to listen in.
His mother’s shrieks filter past the flimsy wood; their argument front and center for the whole house to hear.
Jin hears snatches of the altercation, his heart plummeting right to his stomach.
“—your son!” His father roars.
“You mean, our son!” his mother yells back. There’s another crash, and Jin covers his ears, shaking his head from side to side.
Make it stop, please. Make it stop.
The guilt eats him alive, especially when he hears what his father says next.
“Fifteen years I’ve been tolerating that boy, but it has to end here. He can’t keep misbehaving as if the world owes him everything at his feet. If this keeps up—” Wasuke swears, and a heavy object crashes into the wall. His mother shrieks. “—I’ll make Jin my heir!”
At the mention of his name, the young boy freezes, not daring to even breathe.
His father can't make him the heir. It would break his older brother's heart.
“You can’t!” she sobs. “It’s against the natural rule of things! Sukuna is set to inherit the fortune. You can’t change the order of our world, Wasuke!”
His father laughs, a terrifying, full belly roar which makes the ground shake and his chest cave in.
“I can and I will. You watch me, woman. The will is mine and mine alone to execute. If you keep this up—protecting that stupid boy when he doesn't deserve it, I will send him to the military and keep him there until he finally grows a spine and some common sense, you hear?! I can have him killed in battle—”
Kasumi screams again, and this time, it claws straight through Jin’s soul; a wounded animal sound of a mother terrified for her young.
“Dear, please. He’s only a boy. Only a child. You can’t expect the world of him. He is your blood and flesh—”
“Someone this idiotic and foolish will never be my son and I will never claim him!”
From the corner of his eye, Jin spots movement by the stairs. His brother, backpack slung across his shoulder, skin around his face and arms mottled and red from the tattoos, pauses at the top step.
“He has done nothing but bring shame to the Itadori name!”
Wasuke bellows, his next words rattling the roof and breaking every heart within the vicinity; most of all, his oldest son’s who had innocently stumbled into the middle of the fray without any warning.
“I wouldn’t care if he lived or died! I have Jin and he’s the better choice.” A loaded exhale—a reloading of more emotionally charged bullets.
“You and that bastard can fucking rot to death for all I care."
Sukuna rubs a hand down his face, feeling the steam clinging onto his pores.
The onsen was quiet tonight, everyone in the house either up in the parlor drinking, smoking, or by the sunken sofa fireplace, exchanging gossip about another up-and-coming family or an investment scheme gone wrong.
He’s never been one to belong in a world like this, so Sukuna had taken his leave early after dinner with the excuse that he was feeling a headache coming along. The maids had already hauled his suitcase up to the suite he would be sharing with you, and thankfully, you were locked in a conversation with Gojo Satoru, the only other person around his, Jin’s, Este’s, and your age on this trip to notice he had gone missing.
While his brother plays along with the whims of the upper echelon, Sukuna prefers to submerge his tired body in the mineral-dense waters.
Though the woman he was fucking was here, too, Sukuna had reservedly given her a one-sided hug when Este walked in, green eyes sparkling and looking like the picture of allure in her ermine coat and slinky black dress. Throughout dinner, she kept on glancing at him, and he tried to pretend like her eyes didn’t bore holes into the side of his head; that her accusatory glare didn’t feel hot on the back of his neck when he was forced to sit beside you during dessert, striking up an awkward conversation.
For your part, you had no idea the woman whose bed he warms is in the same room as you, and Sukuna likes to keep it that way. There will be hell to pay if word of this gets out.
Footsteps resound, prickling his ears. Through the steam and fog of this glass room, he makes out a familiar figure walking right towards him, clad in just a towel.
“Sukuna-san.”
Este stands, long brown hair shimmering like a coat of silky chocolate down her back, the rise of her collarbones already flushing red from the steam. There’s a look in her eyes that spells trouble when she slinks closer towards him.
Acutely aware of his nakedness, Sukuna does nothing but a cock a brow in her direction.
“Getting bolder now, I see.”
But, he doesn’t stop her from sinking one foot into the natural hewn pool, her towel melting off her body and falling in a heap behind her.
He unabashedly drinks in her curves; the mole on her left breast he loves to bite down on, those puckered nipples tightening from the humidity. The planes of her abs defined from years of pilates led right to a smattering of dark hair near her pubic bone, and he caught the slightest glance of that little hole he loves when she parts her legs, sitting comfortably against the rock across from him.
Rolling her neck from side to side, Este sighs deeply.
“What a bore this is. I honestly thought mom would let me smoke here, but she says she doesn’t want to give the Gojo’s a wrong idea.” Her full lips twist into a sneer. “You’re not looking any better.”
He scoffs, splashing her with the warm water. Este shrieks, giving him a murderous glare.
Outside, a light snowfall starts to descend, tiny flakes lingering on the transparent dome. It’s ethereal and romantic, though the woman in front of him ruins his view.
You stand by the door, unsure if you should step in when you see Sukuna and another gorgeous woman in the onsen. They’re both bickering, and Sukuna stops when he notices you about to turn and leave.
“Hey. Join us.”
His low baritone is crisp. Commanding.
You can’t turn away, not when he’s already noticed you.
Plastering on a fake smile, you shake your head, trying to beat a hasty retreat. “M-my bad, Itadori-san. Nara-san. I thought the onsen was empty—”
Este, daughter of James Nara and one of the richest trust fund babies in Japan, snorts. She’s beautiful, but something about her sharp features and those plump lips makes a shiver run down your spine. It’s as if she’s a bloodhound, trying to sniff out your weakness. She bares her too white teeth and you’re reminded of a Great White seconds away from snapping a fish’s spine in half.
“Nonsense. This is your house, Y/N-san. You should join us. We want to know everything about you.”
The back of your neck prickles, and it’s not from the heat.
Sludges of white gather atop the dome, trickling down to the packed ground like you were stuck inside a live snow globe. Your smile tightens around the edges and you clutch the towel in a numb grip, mind blanking out on an excuse.
These onsens were your private escape from the real world, and you rarely took a dip naked in front of your own family, let alone a pair of strangers.
Sukuna rolls his eyes, growing annoyed at your floundering and hesitation. “Look. Either you join us, or you leave us to continue our conversation. We were in the middle of something.”
Cheeks flushing warmly, you felt the chill deepening in your soul. Your smile never broke, but you darted your eyes away from his indifferent expression, corners of your lips quivering.
Snapping your mouth shut, you nod. “I… I’ll leave you two alone, then.”
The minute you leave the room, Este turns to him. “Ouch. That was kinda harsh.”
Sukuna snorts, and with the knowledge of you not returning into the room now that he had humiliated you, he brazenly draws Este to his lap, nuzzling his face into her neck.
She purrs, looking like the cat who got the cream when she straddles his lap, letting him feast his hungry eyes over her perfect body. The tip of her acrylic traces down the tattoo near his jaw, and that diabolical smile of hers deepens.
“That was your fiance, Ryomen. You should be nicer to her.”
He makes a sound of disagreement in the back of his throat, moving his cool lips from the hollow of her neck to the rise of her breasts. Licking and sucking at her nipples, he alternates, biting down on the flesh, blowing on those buds to watch them harden into stiff, pink peaks. Her soft moans carry together with the steam rising to the top of the glass ceiling; those verdant eyes rolling back into her head from the shivers he was wracking in her body.
“Stop talking about her,” he murmurs, lifting her up slightly by the hips and sliding his already throbbing cock deep into her twitching heat. She winces, stabs her nails into his shoulders from the sudden stretch. “I need to fuck you.”
She ticks her hips forward, a little slutty show just for him. Sukuna can tell the idea of fucking him with you under the same roof is driving her wild.
“m’not on the pill today,” she whispers into the hot shell of his ear, running her tongue over the delicate ridges. Sukuna’s fingers are bruising her hips, rutting deep into her. He likes how she takes him without complaint or prep—the perfect hole to be used and abused.
He’s thrusting into a spot inside of her that’s too deep to reach, snaking his hand around her throat and squeezing down hard.
“Don’t care,” he breathes heavily, vermillion eyes hooded; harsh tattoos lining his face jumping out from under the low light. “Just pop something after.”
He’s evil and tantalizing—the devil she readily gives her body to whenever he snaps his fingers.
Este nods, leaning back to brace her hands against his strong thighs, eager to please him.
“Yes, Sir.”
It was once said that the greatest artists in this world found contentment within their own solitude where their wildest inspirations could come to life with no judgment from the public eye.
Though you could not compare to Van Gogh or Monet, you had to admit that there was a shred of truth to those words.
Mountain air fills your lungs, and you span your gaze towards the horizon as your eyes can see. The easel you requested the butlers to prepare was your standing guard, the blank canvas leaning on it your enemy to parry with.
Like a writer hunched over their incomplete manuscript, your art block was equally as vicious. The lines and colors eluded you, and you could not focus a single thought on what was to be the final outcome.
You could paint the view, but it was overdone and frankly, expected.
Maybe you could dig deep into the stinging pain in your chest you felt the night before and scoop it up, smear it across the blank whiteness, and stain it with your embarrassment and indignation.
Sighing deeply, you lean back on the stool, setting your paintbrush down and rubbing the back of your neck.
“Art block can be a bitch, huh?”
You whirl around to find a tall man with a mop of white hair approaching you with his hands in his bathrobe pockets, wearing a charming, lopsided smile.
“Gojo-san,” you immediately straighten and he waves your formalities away.
“Satoru,” he says and looks you up and down. “You left last night. After dessert. Smart.”
Letting out a gust of breath you didn’t know you were holding, you tilt your head to the side in confusion. “Did something happen?”
“Oh, just your parents pulling us into the parlor for some charades,” he chuckles at the recollection, and this close, you can’t help but notice even his eyelashes are the color of powdery white snow. “It’s been a while since I went on a family getaway. I’m not much of a homey son, you see. I rarely spend time with family and would much rather be handling business.”
“Ha,” you snort, and then, slap a hand over your mouth as if to cover for your mistake.
Though word in your world runs rampant, no news came faster (even to a wallflower like you) of how rebellious and unorthodox the Gojo family’s only son was.
Satoru’s bright eyes, the color of a melted icy river in the middle of summer, seems to twinkle at your slip-up.
“Did I say something amusing?”
You quickly shake your head, though your warm cheeks betray you. “N-no, Gojo-s—Satoru.”
Cursing your careless mouth and actions, you take this moment to turn back to your canvas, picking up your paintbrush and pretending to concentrate on your next stroke.
Undeterred by your lack of forthcoming conversation, you feel him approaching you from the back, coming to stand over your shoulder.
“You know, if you wanted to lie, you could’ve done so by telling me how I absolutely do not deserve the Gojo Chairman position.” Those eyes sparkle with barely concealed mirth. “Or, don’t you agree with what everyone else is saying?”
Gaping, you turn to him. “Wh—Satoru, that’s a cruel thing for me to say to someone I barely know!”
That amused grin never left his sightly lips, and you couldn’t help but notice how well-moisturized they were. Not even a dry fleck of skin on them, despite the atrociously cold weather.
As if noticing your train of thought, Gojo smiles and changes the subject. “It’s awfully cold out here. Why are you painting in the middle of such freezing weather?”
The words tumble past your defenses before you could rein them in, yet another slip up from your distracted morning. “I find the cold air to be refreshing. It helps to clear my mind.”
Gojo stands there, back straight, and for a single moment, you can imagine him in the middle of a boardroom, scrutinizing a subordinate and catching them in the middle of a flimsy lie.
But, you were not his employee, and Satoru was a welcomed guest under your roof. He could not overstep his boundaries.
“I see.”
It seems he has something he wants to say but can’t put forth; the minute struggle in those cerulean blue eyes gives away a deeper meaning. The vulnerable connection that trembles between both your held gazes dissipates like fine mist—never there in the first place—and he’s back to being his usual cryptic, teasing self.
“I shall leave you alone then, Miss Y/N. Ah, my apologies.” He smacks his forehead, correcting his mistake instantly.
“Wrong name. I hope you have a wonderful painting session… Mrs. Itadori to-be.”
That night, you return to the huge double rooms to find your fiance out cold.
His broad back turned towards the wall, arm dangling from the edge of the huge, ornate sofa your mother personally sourced from Istanbul. You try and fail to hide your surprise, wondering what he’s done to venture into your part of the room.
The memories twist and turn, rising like black smoke from the ashes of your dismay and stinging disappointment at how petty Sukuna could be.
“You’re sleeping on the sofa,” he mumbles, “I don’t do well with company in my bed.”
You’re about to argue, when he takes the room, slamming the door closed and clicking it shut. At least the maids had left out some pillows and a blanket on the sofa for you both to divide and claim… but if Sukuna didn’t want you near him, shouldn’t he be a gentleman and take the couch instead?
There’s no soothing the prickling shame you feel when you realize your fiance has given you the cold shoulder in a space that belongs to your family. Belonged to you. Is this how he will treat me for the entire marriage? You approach the door, about to bang on it with your fists when you hear the first stirrings of a snore.
Faltering, you bite your lower lip. To risk waking Sukuna up and infuriating him further which would ruin the entire arrangement your family was trying to secure for you… or to bite your tongue for a night and hope he would be more forgiving come morning?
You sighed, plodding over to the sofa, still in your dress which Okura-san sourced straight from an underground Chinese designer—the same talent Sukuna’s last ex-girlfriend, Sora Hyuk, was fond of. Thumbing the hem, you feel like tearing it off and throwing it into the fireplace, your cheeks warm with embarrassment and resentment.
If only your parents could see you now.
The truth was, you could tell them what Sukuna had done—how he had embarrassed you so openly and without hesitation right in the heart of your vacation home. But, knowing your parents and how diligent they were with moving up the ladder, your complaints would be nothing but fodder for them to sneer at when they were both alone.
A daughter is nothing but a bartering chip. That is what your mother had once told you.
And that is why, despite how coldly Sukuna had locked you out of the shared room, you took comfort in the antechamber where no one, not even the maids, could come in without your permission.
Good thing the fire is burning, you thought, as you kicked off your slippers and sank into the soft couch, trying to drift off into an uneasy sleep. I'll count that as a small blessing for today.
Blinking back the painful reminder, you’re about to roughly shake him off the sofa, marching towards him with your expression scrunched up in anger.
Grabbing his shoulder, you give it a push, and he barely moves.
“Oi,” you huff. “Wake up. You’re in my spot.”
Another push. Sukuna doesn’t even groan.
Suddenly, a chilling sensation seizes over you. Without wasting time, you flip him onto his back, bracing yourself on the edge of the wide sofa.
Sukuna’s eyes are rolled back into his head, the whites of them shining under the warm, orange light of the chandelier above. You scream and try to shake him, smacking his shoulder to rouse him back from unconsciousness. When he doesn’t move, you grab the first thing you see—a cup of tea you were halfway drinking in the morning, long cold and still with the tea bag attached—and throw it right into his face.
Immediately, his eyes snap back, pupils smaller than pinpricks as he roughly grasps you, dragging you under his bigger build.
Flecks of black tea fall into your face, almost dripping into your wide open mouth, frozen in a mid-shriek.
“What the fuck did you do?” He snarls, and without warning, the tea bag clinging for its dear life on top of his head slides off his pink locks and plops right onto your cheek.
Sukuna grabs it and brings it closer to his face, sneering at the small brown-soaked sachet and tossing it over his shoulder with his scarily fast reflexes.
“You weren’t responding,” you stutter, pointing one trembling finger to his eyes. “And your eyes were rolled back. I—I thought you were having a seizure.”
“I wasn’t.” His nostrils flare, and those piercing red-brown eyes feel like they could dig right into your soul; scooping up your second-hand embarrassment and smearing it all over your shell-shocked face. “You had no fucking right to pull such a stunt on me—who the fuck do you think you are?”
It’s the most he’s ever spoke to you, and it riles you up how defensive he’s being—like you were some nuisance of a toddler purposely destroying his expensive things and not someone who was trying to save his fucking life.
Who did this man take you for?
You open your mouth, but he beats you to the punch.
“Don’t ever touch me without my permission. Do you understand me?”
You snap your mouth close, feeling the chagrin and indignation brimming behind your eyes. If he didn’t let you go right this instant, you were going to burst out in tears right in front of him—an act which would surely annoy him more rather than make him suddenly tender to your afflictions.
It’s like he doesn't even have a heart.
Thankfully, Sukuna releases your wrists and rolls off you.
“We both can’t sleep on the sofa since it’s fucking stained with tea—no thanks to you.” His expression is like someone had shoved sour powder down his throat. “I suppose… there’s the room.”
You don’t even try to hide the disbelieving confusion bleeding across your face. This man who nearly threw a fit because you had tried to resuscitate him… was buying into the idea of sharing a bed with you?
“But, I thought you didn’t want me to touch you without your permission?”
An honest inquiry. You had only wanted to remind him of the words he said to you in case he thought you hadn’t clocked it in.
However, the reaction you receive confirms everything you implicitly knew and more: Sukuna, without a doubt, hated your entire guts for reasons unknown to you.
Those vermillion eyes become glacial, freezing over any attempt at diffusing the tension in this situation you were trying your hardest to salvage.
“Who said you would be on the bed?” He gestures behind his back, towards the room you were forbidden from sleeping in despite your family name stamped on this lodge.
“The floor’s comfy,” his callous words chill you right to your soul; you think you might actually start to lose it because of how cruel he’s being to you. “You can take it, can’t you?”
Biting your bottom lip, you physically have to will the tears away—not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.
“Yes,” you murmur softly, turning your gaze to the floor.
You have to do this—you don't have a choice.
For the sake of this arrangement. For the sake of your father’s business.
“You can take the bed. I’ll take the floor… Itadori-san.”
After another day in the mountains, your mother thought it was a good idea to bond with you over a foot massage.
There’s a Thai massage parlor down at the base of the mountain, their herbal baths and footstone rubs rumored to cure even the worst altitude sickness. Driving past the winding mountainous edge slowly, the car ride was bumpy, jolting you with jerkish movements that make your head spin. As the Range Rover idles to a stop, the driver opens the doors, and your mother steps out, barely paying him any attention.
Meanwhile, you turn to the older driver and whisper, “Thank you,” while handing him a ¥1,000 bill. He takes it with a bright grin, tips his hat, and waits inside the humming vehicle as you both get started on your pampering session.
“Sit here, Y/N,” Lia waves you over, completely ignoring the masseuse ushering her to another seat further back.
You follow your mother obediently, taking the reclining chair next to her.
The leather creaks under your weight as you slowly slide to a comfortable position. Glancing at your mother, you’re surprised to see her eyes sparkling, and she’s close enough to grip your arm, excitedly shaking your shoulder. “So?” she demands, and you give her a confused look.
“So… what?”
“Sukuna, you dummy,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. If there was a man here, he would stop dead in his tracks, enamored by your mother’s alluring and natural sass.
Thankfully, the masseuses were all foreign women, and as they washed your feet with soap and warm water, you hesitantly updated here about your living situation with Sukuna.
“He’s nice enough,” you mumble weakly. Lia taps her milky white French tips on the chair’s arm, waiting for you to add more.
“Um.” You flounder. “He’s a heavy sleeper, too—barely moves when we sleep next to each other.”
Another lame addition. This time, her nose crinkles. If only she could be a fly on your bedroom wall, seeing how Sukuna treats you with disdain and exasperation; making you sleep on the floor while he hogs the king-sized bed all for himself.
“It sounds like you’re both barely speaking to one another,” Lia deduces, arching a perfectly groomed brow. “Is that right?”
You deflate. If there’s one person in the world who can call you out on your bullshit, it would be the woman who birthed and raised you. “Yes.” You finally admit. “I can’t seem to crack through him, mom. He’s so guarded.”
At your rising frustration, she hums and leans back, eyes falling close. You follow the same, feeling the older masseuse’s firm knuckles rubbing up and down your aching Achilles tendon.
There’s nothing filling your senses but the smell of lemongrass oil and the warmth of the heaters blowing hot air circulating around the room. Someone places a cup of tea and biscuits on your left side table, and you open your eyes; picking up the brew and enjoying the sourish sweet tang of lemongrass tea on your tongue.
“Sukuna-san is a notoriously hard man to know because of his upbringing.”
You pause, cup hovering close to your lips. Setting it down on the lacquered wood table with a crisp click, you frown.
“What do you mean, mom?”
Lia opens her eyes, staring up the ceiling as she rummages in her memories for a recollection you weren’t aware of.
“Sukuna-san’s mother—Kasumi—passed away when he was just 18. Wasuke, his father, followed her 3 years after, and they made Jin Itadori heir because Sukuna fled Tokyo and stayed in Madrid for almost a decade.”
Filled with curiosity, you furrow your brows. “Did they say why he left home in such a rush?”
“No one knows,” your mother clarifies. “But, one day, he showed up, and Jin took him back in—the prodigal brother making his return.”
“I bet it would’ve been interesting to be a fly on the wall for that conversation,” you snort.
Lia gives you a look. “It wasn’t. I heard the rumors that both brothers were more than estranged—they barely spoke to each other in that decade when Sukuna was missing. But, Jin has always been a kind man, and he let his brother’s misdoings slide—just wanting him to come back home.”
You feel a begrudging sense of respect for the younger Itadori twin. “He seems more like my match than Sukuna-san.”
Your words were meant to be a joke, but it rubs Lia the wrong way. She scowls, lifting a brow. “Don’t you even dare to think of something like that, Y/N.”
Instantly chastised, you quieten. Lia continues, on a roll from your careless remark.
“Jin-san loves his wife too much—she passed away during childbirth and he treasures Yuuji more than any gold in this world. He would not spare you a second look, and so, Sukuna was chosen for you.”
“But, why?”
Frustration bedevils you, and you spew out the first question on your mind. “Why would Sukuna-san be a better match for me? We have nothing in common.”
The masseuses are pretending not to listen in to the conversation, heads bent low and focusing all their attention on melting away the stress that was mounting more and more with every passing second you spent in your mother’s presence.
Lia’s left eye twitches, a sign she’s growing more irritated by the second. “Y/N, don’t spit in fate’s face when they give you a golden egg. Sukuna-san is perfect for you because he’s not picky. He would have anyone familiar with the ways of our society… even if they call you a Wisteria Woman to your face.”
Hurt bleeds through her tone, and you’re reminded once again of how low your family standing is compared to the Itadoris. While they were a family from old transportation money back during Tokyo’s electrical motor boom, your family rode on the backs of your grandfather’s standing to give your father’s ideas a chance to win over prickly investors.
Eventually, he clawed his way through the world of politics through grit and a good dose of ass-kissing, earning a cushy spot at the top where he’s starting to see his results flourish—the first one being your marriage to a well-established house.
But, it wasn’t always a smooth journey to where your family was now.
Your mother had to endure years of other rich wives' subtle digging and whispers behind palms—calling her a “Wisteria Woman”—mocking her patience in clinging onto your father as he steadily rose to popularity; calling her a foolish woman only concerned with social status.
It was an insincere attempt at making her an object of ridicule, at best. Your grandfather’s wealth as the king of department stores before his demise could buy over any of these small family’s trust funds three times over.
“They don’t know what they’re saying, mom,” you remind her. “You’ve always stood by dad’s side because you believed in the man he could become one day. And it’s paid off—they’re the ones eating their words now.”
Lia fixes her gaze on you, her expression softening. You think she might even reach out and pat your head. But, she only gives you a single piece of advice, further solidifying that despite all your protests, your marriage to Sukuna has already been woven in the threads of fate long before you were even aware of it.
“Y/N, I want you to remember this well—no matter what these people say to your face or whisper behind your back... don’t you ever give them the satisfaction of seeing that they’re right.”
a/n. drama on the mountains alert! drama on the mountains alert!
btw feedbacks and reblogs will always be loved <3 thank you for supporting my story thus far i luv u
©️ lalunanymph. do not copy elements of my work, repost, change the sentence structures, translate across any other platforms. and claim as your own
LEE PACE as Calpernia Addams SOLDIER’S GIRL (2003)
THE TRILOGY IS COMPLETE 🎉
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20's | 18+ blog, I occasionally share fanfictions here primarily in second person POV. ➜ Please pay attention to the tags and warnings on the fics.
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