💭 Thinking About . . . . Going Furniture Shopping With Caleb

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."

still not done with that heat stroke photoshoot, here's Toji!

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟏: 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇

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: misogyny, talks of ageism, unrequited love, dubious cheating, gaslighting, mentions of a/nal, e/xplicit smut, mentions of w/eed, mentions of a/lcohol, substance a/buse, toxic family dynamics, class differences, sukuna is anti-noveau riche, sukuna is a walking red flag, jin itadori supremacy, hiromi and nanami duke it out in court, exposition, mentions of a m/urder, negligence, court cases, MDNI

masterlist | playlist

Treading the world of marriage as a woman past her prime in a judgemental upper class society was a dance that left you exhausted and skittish; wishing you could put an end to its haunting melody. 

As you were ticking fast past the rotten age of twenty-seven, your family’s empire hung by a thread as nervous investors and stakeholders started to ask the golden question: When will your only daughter get married, Jiro? 

Suitors knocked on your door, only to be turned away by your snobbish mother and your equally weak-kneed father who tried to appease her. None of them good enough for you; handsome enough for you or rich enough to grow your family’s vaults. 

That was until Itadori Jin reached out to your family with an offer your father could not refuse.

His older twin brother, Itadori Sukuna, has just been released from an investigation and needed a bride to save the family name. 

They wanted to paint him in a good light to the press: partying bad boy turned a charming, married man who was now working towards building a family with another girl of his standing.

And, that was when you came into the picture.

The first time you saw Itadori “Ryomen” Sukuna was a moment you would never forget.

The tattoos swirling around his face should’ve given you pause; made you backtrack on the idea of marriage to the Itadori house the second it left your father’s lips—especially when it came to a man like him.

In his neatly pressed white button-down which strained over his (admittedly) impressive pecs, and pair of expensive Bottega slacks, he would’ve been the picture of sophisticated upper class if it weren’t for the tribal lines on his face and arms—the sight almost making you high tail it out of the cafe you were both seated in.

It was the first time you were meeting him without your parents to chaperone. Bodyguards stood by the doors, stationed close by in case the press got too nosy. 

With this being the first time you were talking to him without your mother lingering in the background, you were free to eye him up and down, unsure of what to make of the disdain setting his mouth into a hard line.

He was different from the men you had encountered before. Tall in an imposing way and with his shock of pink hair, you could spot him from a mile away in the middle of a crowded room. Sukuna carried himself with an air of princely cruelty, often staring down the line of his nose; astride the white stead of his borned privilege and high position in society. 

But, the one thing that stood out were his eyes.

The warmest brown dissolved into a shade of vermillion which shone blood-red under different lights.

You couldn’t quite keep your eyes off them or stare at them for too long, and you sensed rather than knew how much he enjoyed your discomfort. 

He swivels his coffee, spilling some down the pristine white cup. Somewhere behind him, a guard stifles a yawn.

“So… what do you like to do for fun?”

You sit up straighter, practiced to perfection with your reply. “I love watching horse races, Itadori-san. On some days, I prefer pottery and painting. I’ve always wanted to open my own art gallery.”

He glances at his nails, looking almost bored. “And why didn’t you open your own gallery?”

It’s a cordial question at best, but you bristle as if he had just mocked your interests.

“I… don’t have the time,” you mutter meekly. 

He looks up at you, and you think he might finally unleash the scathing remark he’s been holding back for the last few minutes.

“What does a prissy girl like you know about not having time? I thought you thrived on wasting your life away with hot pilates classes and private-jetting to islands?”

You bite back your fuming reply, masking your discomfort with a bright smile. “Itadori-san, you judge me so harshly. I only attend one hot pilates class per week.”

What you hoped was a light-hearted reply dissolves into a sour note when he sighs and sits back, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look, sweetheart. I know this can’t be easy on you, too, but you don’t know what’s at stake here.” Sukuna leans forward, invading your space with the spicy sweetness of his cologne. “I have a reputation to change and you have daddy’s money to keep. We’re both each other’s salvation from the shit our family put us through so I need you to work with me here.”

You frown, unsure of what he was trying to get at. “But, I am trying to work with you. I’m here on this date, aren’t I?” 

“You gotta look decent,” he doesn’t beat around the bush. Gesturing to your modest midi floral dress and neutral beige Mary Janes, the look of disgust on his face breaks something in your chest. “You’re dressed like a goddamn Mormon college girl. For someone very rich, you sure don’t have taste.”

Offended, you stared at him, unable to fathom what he had just said—how he had just insulted you unprompted and in broad daylight.

But, Sukuna doesn't give you time to revel in his words. He grabs a cigarette from his pocket, ignores your wrinkling nose as he smokes openly in this establishment. The waiters don’t dare to cross him, pretending the smell of tobacco doesn’t faze them.

You, however, were finding it harder to mask your disgust. For the sake of your mother’s excitement at finding you a suitable match, you tried to tame down the anger frothing in your veins, slapping on a sweet, yet sardonic smile.

“And what is your definition of ‘taste’, Itadori-san?”

He peers at you over the veil of smoke, taking his time to piece together his reply. “Plunging necklines. Satin. Bows. Thinner heels. I need a mature woman by my side, not some plain old maid playing dress up as a prepubescent girl.”

His words stung, and you leaned back, suddenly feeling too small. The cafe lights felt like a pair of microscopic lenses studying your every move, highlighting your discomfort and sudden unease. Your skin flashed hot and cold, the anger cresting and ebbing. Whenever you were upset, you didn’t lash out or cry, preferring to fall silent until the storm passed.

Despite a tiny voice in the back of your mind telling you it would be useless to try, you attempted another shot at winning his validation; hoping Sukuna would bestow it unto you readily and without mockery.

“Then, why don’t you come and shop with me? I’m sure a man of your taste would help my image.”

He stares at you for a long moment, unblinking. You’re reminded of a snake—its tongue scenting the air to determine whether to strike, unlidded eyes locking onto its target. 

Sukuna thaws, tapping off the excess ash onto the floor. You try not to cringe at how the poor waiters would have to sweep all of that up once he had left.

“Fine. I’ll help,” he says like it's the biggest feat in his life to perform. “But, on one condition.”

Eager, you nod, not wanting to turn him off or jeopardize a moment with such a handsome man who wouldn’t look twice at you if it weren’t for your last name.

“We push the wedding back by a month.”

Flashback: One week ago

Tensions were running high in the courtroom.

Rows of judges and the impassive jury hollows out in shades of gray, fading into the white buzz of his mind as Sukuna glances at his brother’s ashen face. Outside, the hungry press waits, sharks roaming in deathly waters waiting for the first drop of blood.

Itadori Jin clenches his pen in his white-knuckled grip. Their defense attorney, Hiromi Higuruma leans close to him, whispering something under his breath. 

Sukuna can’t hear him from his vantage point on the testimonial seat, but he can venture a guess when his younger twin nods, pushing his glasses up the sweaty bridge of his nose.

“Higuruma-san, please take the floor,” the judge intones, allowing for their docketed defense to play out. 

The ruthless, cold lawyer clears his throat, and stands. 

He turns to face the jury, those soulless eyes sparking with a passion Sukuna has never seen before in all his twenty eight years of knowing the old lawyer.

“Your honor—Judge Itachi. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. How many of us have often mistaken goodwill for evil? We don’t bite the hand that feeds us and yet, we have every right to question when something isn’t as sanctimonious as it seems.” He turns his dark gaze to the rows of people.

“Itadori Sukuna has devoted half of his life to the bolstering of young athletes. Football is one of his biggest passions and he often pays meticulous attention to the facilities that nurture the talent of our future sportsmen. The sole person to be blamed for the murder of young Masamichi Ryota isn’t the man sitting on that podium—it’s to be found in the coach who pushed him beyond his capabilities and forced him to play even with a ruptured spleen—”

“Objection, your honor.” Nanami Kento, an unctuous piece of shit in a neatly-pressed suit who thrives on taking cases pro-bono to bolster his spotless reputation, stands. He adjusts his tie, looking at the plaintiff’s family—the coach’s great mustache trembling as he holds back his anger. 

“The post-mortem report submitted shows that Coach Tanaka has explicitly asked for a leave of rest for the star player. But, the rejection letter—traced from Itadori Sukuna’s hand, I might add—explicitly denied that request on grounds of the millions of yen he has betted on that poor boy’s success.”

The crowd moves, a great sea snake whispering, scales rustling. Unsure of whether to attack or stand down.

“Your Honor, that is a stretch,” Hiromi drones. “The young man was known to have a history of smoking and a regrettable habit of shooting ecstasy. A fact, we found out later on, that was unearthed in the same autopsy reports you had just shared, Nanami-san.” 

This time, the two attorneys stare each other down. 

Sukuna fights back a smirk at the blonde man’s narrowed eyes. Beside him, Tanaka, the coach, hangs his head.

“While his death is very regrettable and a horror to his family and loved ones, Masamichi was not known for reigning in his… impulses. He has a weak will and a fondness for abusing substances.”

“Objection,” Nanami raised his voice. “Defaming the deceased’s name is a violation of—”

“Order, order,” Judge Itachi bangs his gavel, shaking his jowls as he glares down from the stand. The room quietens. Nanami takes a deep breath while Hiromi glances at his watch. 

“Nanami-san, the Defamation Act 2013 does not apply to this situation as Masamichi is not a minor. A lawyer of your caliber should know this.” Nodding towards Higuruma, he says, “Continue.”

This time, Sukuna can’t help the chuckle slipping from his mouth. 

Hearing him, Jin shakes his head with a glare, hazel eyes drilling Now’s not the time, asshole deep into his skull. 

Higuruma, having heard his slip, also narrows his eyes.

Nanami uses this moment to pounce on Sukuna’s perceived indifference.

“He openly mocks the death of one of Japan’s brightest football stars, and yet, we’re supposed to believe in his goodwill? If you were to speak of my client’s dead prodigy, you should take into account what kind of man Itadori Sukuna truly is.”

Commanding the floor, the sharply-dressed blonde man takes center stage. 

“Ladies and gentlemen. Judge and jury. Itadori Sukuna hails from an affluent family, but do not let that distract you from how he uses his position in society to silence those lower than him.” Looking straight into Sukuna’s eye with that infuriating, righteous stare these bootlickers always had, Kento seethes. 

“He is a drug-addled playboy who spends his time exploiting young talent for his own gain. These young men under his program are little more than betting fodder for him and his other rich friends. Wouldn’t you say that is correct? How many times have we seen him in the news because of his drunk folly? If he were an actor, we would’ve banned him from screens, and yet, because of his standing in society, we commend him for exploiting our sporting talents—and ultimately, playing in the negligence to cause someone’s death.”

Higuruma bristles, not expecting his opponent to pull out his client’s reputation and smear it across the courtroom floors.

“You claim defamation is uncouth, and yet, you’re doing the same thing to my client, Nanami-san—”

“Order,” Judge Itachi bangs his gavel again, this time looking irritated at how this case had turned.

Sukuna suddenly catches sight of a woman from across the room. She’s glaring at him with unabashed hatred, her dark eyes swollen and red-rimmed, lower lip wobbling. Beside her, the man he assumes is her husband wears a stony mask, his gaze locked on the floor, completely still except for the rapid rising and falling of his erratic breaths.

They were both clad in a dress, shirt and slacks that looked like they belonged to the 90s—neat and clean, but shabby in a way that only these lower class scum could pull off if the dress code given to them was business casual. 

These must be Ryota’s good-for-nothing power hungry parents who threw him into the harsh pits of Japanese football in hopes of improving their standing in society. How plain and old they look. Sukuna fights back the urge to sneer at them, keeping his expression neutral.

It’s like Jin’s voice is in his ear: Do not misbehave. Do not give them more reason to already hate you. Remember—Jin’s infuriatingly kind eyes were unflinching and serious. They’ve just lost their son. Have some compassion and remorse.

“Attorneys, return to your seat. The jury has already made their decision and I, for one, can vouch for it.”

Sukuna feels his palms going clammy, and suddenly, the idea of investing in sports from Ino’s advice was making his stomach turn.

I’m going to kill that bastard once I’m out of here.

Removing the slip of paper from the white envelope of justice, Judge Itachi clears his throat.

Higuruma sits back down, his viper-like eyes locked on the judge’s face. Trying to predict the outcome.

“The court today has deemed the case Itadori v Japan’s Football League a negligence in duty of care concerning Masamichi Ryota’s untimely death.”

No one is breathing, all attention on the judge with his pockmarked face. 

Sukuna is fixated on Jin, whose head is bowed, eyes closed. If this blew up in their faces, a case like this would cause Itadori Enterprises to suffer a major investor fallout.

And once again, the blame of their family’s bad fortune would be on him. 

Sukuna swears the last time he was this nervous, he was waiting for Este’s pregnancy test results to come back negative.

It was one time, ‘Kuna! She had tears in her eyes, the stupid white stick clenched in her hand. Can you lay off of me and take responsibility for once in your goddamn life?

He should call her after this—apologize to her. God knows it would be his last fuck before he has to spend half of his life behind bars for the death of some schmuck kid whose name he had already forgotten.

Judge Itachi speaks again, knocking him out of his reverie.

“Therefore, the jury and I have come to the conclusion. In the case of Itadori Itadori-san, we find him—”

The clock ticks. Every lung is constricted—jury, attorneys, a few press members who had managed to bribe their way in. Sukuna recognizes them with their obnoxious yellow press tags; thinks how many of these leeches would get a raise once they broke the scoop on him.

Oh, the irony, he muses. His downfall being their salvation to fighting back against the rising cost of living.

“—not guilty.”

…

Sukuna is unsure if he’s heard it right.

Not guilty. 

Not guilty. 

Not guilty.

He doesn’t react immediately, blinking slowly like a fish caught out of water. The oldest son of Itadori Wasuke tries to meet his twin’s eye, but Jin is as shocked as he was, frozen with his laser-sharp focus trailed on the stand—trying to digest this turn of events.

Higuruma is the one who finally breaks the ice, standing and bowing to Judge Itachi. On cue, the rest of the room follows suit, getting to their feet and showing the retreating judge their begrudging respect.

Sukuna bows jerkily, unused to such a humble gesture he had almost forgotten how to do it.

In front of him, the brat’s mother starts to bawl, her husband’s arms coming to wrap around her as they both shuffle out of the courtroom, looking older and grayer than when they had entered.

Sukuna doesn’t have much time to force a lick of sympathy for them, not when this farce of a trial was over and he was late for Ino’s party.

He hops down the stand, ambling easily to his younger brother who was whispering in low tones with their lawyer. A few feet away, Nanami Kento reassures the coach and his family, painting a picture of trying to achieve righteous justice for that good name—a feat Sukuna knew he would never achieve.

After all, the Itadori empire wasn’t built on rainbows on sunshine but pure, hard grit. And a little bit of blood and here and there to get what they want.

Jin looks up, frowns. “Let’s catch the sedan and have a smoke. You and I have a lot to discuss about.”

The way he said it made Sukuna feel like a kid again, about to be chastised for peeing the bed or killing off the pet goldfish.

Higuruma packed up his briefcase of documents, and a pack of bodyguards stationed around the different points of the courtroom swarmed to the middle, shielding the two brothers and their lawyers the second the doors opened and the press descended on them. 

Flashing lights went off in a wave of clicks, the vultures with their cameras snapping his humiliation at every angle for their publications; boldly throwing their questions at him without fear now that the great Itadori “Ryomen” Sukuna was knocked down a peg or two. 

Itadori-san, can you comment about Masamichi-san’s death at length? 

One woman with a silver bob shoved a mic in his face. The guard on his right quickly elbowed her out of the way, throwing his arm up to hide Sukuna’s visage from the bug-like chittering click of these press leeches and their expensive cameras.

Itadori-san, this news must come as a shock. What does this mean for the future of Itadori Enterprise?

Will this affect any future mergers, particularly a rumor circulating about a potential collaboration with Nara Corp? 

Itadori-san, do you ever regret investing in football?

A few sport reporters were also seen trying to push their way through the crowd, recorders in hand to glean some golden nuggets for their pathetic column.

Itadori-san, what does your verdict mean for the future of the Japan Football League?

Itadori-san, did you know that Masamichi-san was about to prepare for his university entrance exams? How does his death make you feel?

“No comment,” Higuruma intones, taking Jin and Sukuna both by the elbow to steer them towards their waiting car like they were teenagers again; back when he had to bring the twins straight into Wasuke’s study to discuss their future inheritance.

A fresh-faced rookie Sukuna had never seen before stumbles in front of their entourage, and he’s mortified to see a pink lipstick print on the front of the intern’s tag.

Royale News' first appearance in such a serious case.

“Itadori-san, you’re already approaching the ripe age of thirty," the dim-wit says. “Do you have your eye on a woman who can domesticate you? Can you ever be tamed?”

Amidst the overlapping voices and chaos, that question sticks to Sukuna like sweat on skin during an unbearable summer heat, unsettling him until he sinks into the sedan with Jin beside him and Higuruma on the opposite seat. 

The door closes shut, bodyguards standing in front of the heavily tinted side windows to keep the press from clamoring after them.

Once the chaos was left behind on the freeway in a cloud of smoke and ashes, did Jin lean forward to raise the privacy screen. With the driver unable to hear them, his younger twin reaches for his packet of Montecristos, lighting three of them up and passing one to each man.

Higuruma accepts his offer with a nod, while Sukuna grabs the nicotine-laced vice from him with a ferocity that takes his brother aback. He inhales deeply, exhaling rings of smoke which fogs up the car, tasting cherries, cedarwood, tobacco and his freedom. 

“Easy, ‘Kuna,” Jin mumbles tersely. Sukuna resists the urge to flip him off.

Instead, he drags his gaze to the lawyer smoking quietly in front of him, smiling sleazily in triumph. “You did a good job, Higuruma. If I were you, I’d ask for a raise.”

The Itadori scion expects his brother to join in the jest meekly, like he always does. Not glare at him with pure vitriol in his eyes, the kind Sukuna had never seen Jin harbor for him.

“You scumbag,” Jin mutters hotly. His brother half expects him to throw a curse word or two with how riled up he was. “You were supposed to dump this stupid hobby. I gave you the money to start a foundation for good press. Not throw it all into some useless human betting ring. Are you an imbecile?”

That was a new insult. Jin rarely ever threw him a good verbal uppercut, and Sukuna must’ve really fucked up to earn this side of his younger twin brother.

He plasters on a sleazy smile, giving his otouto a once over. 

“Well, aren’t you a fucking ray of sunshine? You should be glad Higuruma managed to avert the crisis and get me out of it. Or, are you going to piss in these blessings?”

“I would rather you didn’t embroil yourself in such a shit show in the first place.”

Jin sighs, sags into the seat and massages his temple. “One day, Sukuna, you’re going to give me a heart attack and you’ll have to take over oto-san’s company. Then, you will know true responsibility. True suffering.”

Sukuna hums, staring outside at the scenery flying by.

“Neither the company nor its investors would last a day with me at the helm. So, for your sake and mine, I’m going to ask the doctor to keep the life support machine going even if you’re hanging onto your last breath, dear brother.”

“Good luck with that,” Jin refutes with a slight snarl. “I would explicitly mention it in my will to refute your efforts at reviving me.”

“Then, I will rebuke your will.”

“You can’t because I actually have a son to execute it.”

“Yuuji is two. He can’t even hold a pencil.”

Any insult towards his beloved son would never be tolerated by the famed Itadori family man. Jin puffs out his chest, about to berate his older brother, when Higuruma stops them both with a sigh.

“If only your parents could see the both of you now. How disappointed they would be in you, Sukuna.”

Hiromi sucks in a deep breath of the sweet cigar, turning his head and exhaling lightly out of politeness for smoking in his employer’s car. 

Despite his hulking muscles and blase attitude, Sukuna can’t help but glower in petulance at any mention of Wasuke and Kasumi’s disappointment in him. Growing up as the black sheep has casted a permanent cloud over him—his best efforts were seen as second tier in comparison with his perfect, golden brother. And Sukuna resents any mention of it.

Their family lawyer continues on, as if he hadn’t made two of them heel to an uneasy stop.

“At your age, you should be taking over Jin’s part. But, your brother is too nice. He took up the burden so you could do what, exactly? Party every night? Sleep with models? Get involved in scandals?”

Hiromi sighs, and Sukuna turns his glare outside the window, unwilling to take such a personal beat down. 

“Your mother had hoped you would snap out of your selfish streak. She even thought you would settle down and give her some grandchildren by the time you turned twenty five. But, you had to be pictured… fucking… the mayor’s daughter during a gala. How crude.”

“Stop talking down to me like you’re even at my level, Higuruma.” Sukuna snaps and something in his tone catches the other two men off guard. “You think just because we employ you in our good graces, you have the fucking right—”

“What Hiromi is trying to say is this,” Jin interjects before this could escalate into a full fist fight. “Both of us have come up with the best way for our family to get past this scandal.”

Sukuna has heard this a thousand times before. The Itadori pockets were bottomless when it came to preserving their good name.

“How?” He sneers, dismissive and mildly insulted that the two of them had made a decision for him without his input. “Don’t tell me you’re going to flush out more money to keep the press quiet. We can’t keep using the same strategy over and over again.”

In answer, Hiromi and Jin share a look. Sukuna suddenly feels like the car seat he’s on is about to be pulled from under him.

Wilted ash drips from the tip of his neglected cigar. He tenses, darts his vermillion eyes between his two conspirators and wardens.

“Hiromi and I have come up with a better idea,” Jin begins his pitches like he always does—with a little smile and a sniffle. “The idea is—”

“Marriage,” Hiromi intones, taking one brother aback and the other on a guilt trip. 

Jin grimaces. Sukuna stumbles with the words stuttering out like a reckless oil spill.

So, the only thing he could spout was, “M-marriage?! What kind of trickery is this? Jin—” He looks to his otouto, hoping against hope his ears are just fucked up and he didn’t actually hear Hiromi saying the tragic, forbidden ‘M’ word.

“—this has to be a mistake.”

“No, it’s not,” Hiromi steps in to cover Jin’s ass, placing himself at the front to take the bullets of rage that would no doubt rain down on him once the whole plan was laid bare to the older, hot-headed twin. 

“We believe that with your souring reputation and increasing questions surrounding your perpetual bachelorhood, settling down with someone would be in the interest of the family business. And of course, your inheritance.”

Hiromi makes sure to dangle the most effective carrot in front of him; that sadistic bastard.

Sukuna seethes—confusion, anger, disappointment and fear coalescing to overtake his first instinct to run. Numbing him with his inaction of thoughts and body. 

Hiromi lifts his heavy-bagged eyes, pinning him right to the spot. The knife slices deeper, cutting him from the inside out; hammering in this decision he absolutely had no say in unless he would want to kiss his lavish lifestyle goodbye.

“We need to get you married off by the end of the year.” A death sentence knells right into his chest; Hiromi digs the pain deeper. 

“In fact, the sooner, the better.” 

Sukuna remembers the very first time he had seen you in your wedding dress. 

It was a chance encounter as he passed by a Morinaga boutique in downtown Shibuya; his brother having orchestrated the entire meeting so Sukuna would catch a glance of his future bride trying on her custom-made dress.

With her head bowed, and shoulders bare under the light, the older Itadori twin thought her figure was appeasing and pleasing to the eyes. That is, until she turned around with her naked face and he had to physically stop himself from recoiling.

“Is that her?” he demands, unwilling to believe Jin would sell him out like this. Shades of disgust lines his tone, and he tries not to put his stupid twin in a headlock and break his neck.

Jin notices his reluctance and makes a face. “She’s unlike the girls you whore yourself out to, that’s for sure.”

The more he looks at you, the more Sukuna is starting to think this was a mistake.

“She’s so… boring. Vanilla. Are you sure this is what you think is best for me?”

Since their father passed on and the business went to his younger twin, Sukuna was often painted in their society and by the media as the irresponsible Itadori—the audacious older brother, the partier.

The playboy.

Often having a gaggle of girls at his mercy, he was not exempted from warming beautiful model’s beds, and having flings with other trust fund babes—bad habits his younger brother was desperately trying to get him to shrug off to take on more of the family business mantle. 

“You’re almost thirty, ‘Kuna. It’s time to act like it.” 

Jin sighs, removes his glasses. The action reminds him so much of their father that Sukuna pauses for a second, blinking away the mirage of that senile, old man.

Sukuna hadn’t noticed just how old his younger brother had gotten.

Dressed in a sleek trench coat costing four times more than a McDonald workers’ monthly salary, Itadori Jin was quiet and unassuming, yet only his twin brother knew that still waters ran the deepest.

An inch shorter than him and with a kid from his old, dead wife, Itadori Jin was the antithesis of Sukuna’s recklessness. Where the older twin was all hulking machismo and a massive ego, his brother was soft-spoken and with a sharp mind that was always one step ahead of his, bringing their father’s company back from the brink of bankruptcy and launching it into international waters from his sheer will. 

Sukuna respects the guy, and as much as he wants to rile Jin up and pop a vein on his younger brother’s temple, he tempers down his sarcasm, preferring to roll his eyes.

“Whatever. So, her daddy wants the merger money and you want me to settle down with some ugly chick?”

Jin winces, wishing his brother wasn’t being this curt and lewd. 

“Her father wants an heir. And he wants 40% of our shares. That’s a whole different game.”

“He can’t have those.” Sukuna was irresponsible as they came, but even he understood the basic math of divesting half of your company’s assets to a party other than your stipulated stakeholders. “The Nara family already holds 22% of our board and the Ikina’s are up close with 15%. If those vultures take 40, how’re we gonna break even in the next quarter? We’ll be bleeding red if we give into their whims.”

In answer, the corners of his brother’s mouth twitches. “I see you’ve been doing your homework. Impressive.”

They both have stopped in their tracks, standing a little ways on the sidewalk where prying ears couldn’t hear their discussion.

Jin suddenly turns serious. “L/N-san has struck gold with new fintech models. We need to curry his favor if he wants to reduce the patent price for us to move on with Project Armstrong. I hope you understand the gravity of this situation.”

Usually, Sukuna prefers not talking business with his brother in such broad daylight without a drink in hand. But, seeing as how Jin has left him no choice, he relents to this impromptu exchange, feeling more and more like some wild stock being sold in a farm the longer he speaks to his brother. 

“And she’s nicknamed the Wisteria Woman because her entire family latches onto fame and power like leeches,” he bristles, catching Jin by surprise. 

See? Even a useless ass like him could bother with basic research. And the rumors were nastier than he imagined.

“I already don’t like the sound of that—of her.”

The younger Itadori cocks his head. “Then, I think you should be honest with her if that is how you feel. That this is a business arrangement and nothing else.”

Sukuna flicks a cigarette from his leather coat’s pocket, sticking it between his teeth.

“Say I agree to this plan. What’s in it for me?”

Without a beat of hesitation, Jin replies: 

“110% of the profit.”

Sukuna nearly spits out his stick. 

The amount yawns before him, looming zeros and zeros staring him in the face. 

“What? Cat got your tongue?” Jin teases, though there’s tension crinkling in the corner of his eyes.

Switching gears, Sukuna turns mellow; even slaps on a smile. “I see. Interesting.”

“So. Are you on board with this?” 

In the distance, he sees your silhouette exiting the bridal shop, bags in hand with your maids or girlfriends following behind. The sunlight does little to bring any depth to your expression or features, but he appreciates that you look semi-decent from his vantage point.

“Fine,” he says, clicking open his vintage Dupont to light the tip of his cigarette. “Count me in.”

He supposes that even with such an embarrassing family background that will drag the Itadori name through the mud, the high stakes more than made up for such a lackluster wife.

His favorite whore sighs right into his shoulder, the smell of his cum, sweat and her expensive perfume strong on her skin.

After ejaculating right onto her tits and smearing it everywhere down her belly, Sukuna was exhausted and in a need for something stronger than nicotine. Rolling over, he picks up a joint Ino had passed to him as congratulations for making it out of that nasty as fuck trial, lighting it up and inhaling with a tremendous sigh.

Este’s lips are right on his shoulder, kissing a path from his deltoid to collarbone. Sukuna wraps a hand in her soft, brown hair, holding her firmly in place as he makes a move like he was about to kiss her; her lips parting and smoke pouring into her waiting mouth, her hitched inhale pulling a cruel smile across his own lips. 

She turns her face away, eyes watering and fighting back a coughing fit. “Asshole.”

“An invitation for anal? Gladly, baby.” He turns her onto her belly, peals of laughter muffled by the pillow, strong arms holding her down as he positions her on her hands and knees, joint stuck in between his teeth.

Este turns her face to the side, catching his eye. Mascara smudges around her eyes, her red lipstick feathering at the corners of her impishly smiling mouth.

“What’re you doing, ‘Kuna?” 

“Y’know what I’m doing,” he murmurs, cock stirring at her wiggling hips and devilish grin.

“Are you really going to take my ass?” 

He sucks in another inhale of the joint, feeling the high slowly unlocking his muscles and turning his brain fuzzy. “Scared? Afraid daddy might find out his daughter is going around offering her virgin hole to any rich man who’s on the marriage market?” 

Condescension drips in poisonous tendrils, and she bristles. “Fuck you, ‘Kuna.”

In one swift motion, he’s sheathed inside of her, feeling her walls choke down on his cock. His head tosses back, sweat glistening off the tribal tattoos on his chest, hips drawing back and snapping forward in languid thrusts. 

The moon shines strong. Cheap Southern alcohol pumps in his blood, his sweat soaks through her skin and hair, damp skin illuminated by the ember tip of his joint. 

“Isn’t that what I’m already doing to you?” He drawls, and her body starts to shake. 

“We still—mhm—h-haven’t talked about your m-marriage…” 

Her voice fades; cracks on the reality of him no longer sharing a bed with her.

Jesus. Does everyone know about this? 

Sukuna doesn’t do anything to comfort her, except for slipping a hand between her legs to rub soft circles on her clit as a flimsy apology.

She keens, white-knuckled grip fisting the soft blankets. Her mediterranean mix shows under the weak light, tan skin stretching over defined back muscles, dark roots growing past the brown dye job she gets done once every two weeks.

In another life, Sukuna thinks he could’ve been in love with her.

Este screams his name as she shatters around him. Sukuna tosses the half-smoked joint back on the side table, not caring if it would catch on something and burn her room down. He’d just fuck her through the flames until she asphyxiates and succumbs to both the lack of oxygen and her orgasm.

She clings onto him, a second layer of skin he wants nothing to do with. 

Sukuna pushes her away not so gently, grabbing his joint and snuffing it out with the heel of his palm. 

“I gotta go,” he mumbles, reaching for his shirt, pants. She watches as he dresses, still dazed and starry-eyed from her release.

“Are you going back to her? To Y/N?” 

Sukuna crinkles his nose, as if the mention of your name was enough to make him lose his appetite. “Don’t be stupid. No. I’m going back to my place for a shower and a nightcap. I’ll see you around.”

Tossing her a nonchalant wave, Sukuna leaves Este’s sheets, knowing that in a few more days, he would be back here again.

That’s the thing he likes about Este Nara—she’s easy. Not just to get in bed, but to get away from. She doesn’t bitch or moan about him being distant and aloof. She takes his cruelty without much flinching, seeing the dangerous man lurking under his tattoos and barely thinking anything of it. 

If she even had half a brain to think.

He revs the engine of his Ducati Superleggera, hightails it past her condominium with his helmet buckled haphazardly around his neck; not slowing down, wishing he could leave his problems in the dust being kicked up by his tires.

“What do you mean he’s trying to push the marriage to a month later?” your mother seethes over her coffee, glaring at you.

You shrink from her anger, pushing around a soggy banana with your fork tines. “It’s what he told me,” you argue back weakly. “What was I going to say?”

“What about actually standing up for yourself and doing what is best for our agreement?” 

She arches a perfectly groomed brow, waiting for you to respond. You cast a despairing look to your father who picks up his glass of bourbon, sipping on it while he listlessly scrolls through his iPad. 

“Listen to your mother, my little light.”

“I did,” you tried again, willing them both to understand. Bunching your fists over your lap, you take a deep breath, hoping they would listen. “I did everything you asked me to: not interrupt him. Let him talk. Laugh at his jokes. Everything,” you emphasize. “And yet he asked me to consider pushing the marriage back by a few weeks. What else could I say?”

You reiterate your question, growing hotter in the cheeks. Finally understanding why some people could have a heart attack in the middle of dinner when the entire situation was spun around to paint you as a villain when you had tried your best to be as cooperative as you could. 

A grimace stretches across her plastic-filled cheeks. People often said your mother could win a beauty pageant on her worst days; rising above other beautiful women with her wit, charm and charisma. Of course, she was also the daughter of a department store king, so the money graciously ‘donated’ to these glittery showcases put her many steps forward compared to other contestants.

“I don’t know where I went wrong in raising you,” she sighs, dramatic as always. “Jiro, please. Can you speak to Itadori Jin-san and tell him what our daughter told us? There is no way his brother can resist this offer.”

Offer. Like you were a cow to be traded in the market.

“Lia, I told you, Itadori Jin-san has no control over Itadori-san. That’s his nii-san. It would be a perversion of authority if he forces Sukana-san’s hand in any way.”

Her expression sours. “Well, isn’t there some way we can orchestrate a reunion, perhaps? A dinner or getaway to officially welcome them to the family?” 

You blanch at the idea of seeing Sukuna again, stewing in your mortification and humiliation when he had already made it clear how distasteful he finds you.

You’re about to say you don’t mind going with Sukuna’s timeline when he sets his glass down with a pensive look on his face.

Ten years older than your mother and with a brilliant mind born from the best business school in Tokyo, your father was not a man to be played with; his word was law, and that was how he spearheaded the tech scene at the tender age of twenty-five with nothing but a dream and his gritty determination. 

Knowing he had to prove himself to your grandfather—your mother’s father, on his capabilities to build a home and a better life for a woman who already had everything—made you wonder how he did it.

From nobody to somebody. It’s why no matter how he treated you, he would always have your respect.

“A getaway?” Jiro murmurs, an idea darkening his thoughts. “That could be interesting. Very interesting indeed. I’ll make some plans and we’ll play it by ear.”

He went back to scrolling, ignoring his smugly beaming wife.

Pacified that she had gotten what she wanted, your mother turns nurturing once more, cooing and touching your shoulder.

“We should get you a spa treatment and a light makeover before Itadori-san sees you. Do you have something to wear in mind?” 

As if you were a doll whose only purpose was to be dressed up, this was the reality you were living in for the past twenty-seven years of your life. If Itadori-san didn’t want to marry you fast enough and get you out of your childhood home, you were sure a swift bullet to the head would be the best alternative.

Plastering on a smile, you ponder for a second on your choice. 

“I want to try something new,” you decide. A furrow appears in her brow. 

“What do you mean by new, my dear?” 

“Something Itadori-san would like,” you try to curry her approval, feeling lighter and happier when her solemn face breaks into a knowing smile. 

“He says he loves dresses with satin and plunging necklines. Thinner heels. I think Okuta-san would understand.”

Referring to your personal stylist, your mother nods her approval.

“That’s perfect. I’ll get her to do some digging on some of Itadori-san’s past girlfriends and see what they wore.”

Unruffled by how audacious that statement was, you were truly reminded that this marriage was a cruelty of convenience when her smile deepens.

“I’m proud of you for taking this step, my dear,” your mother’s voice warms, though the implications of them make you freeze. 

“You’re finally proving your worth to the L/N family.”

a.n. OKAY WE'RE SO BACK. ive deleted the first chapter due to low interaction and decided to give this series a second chance by starting with y/n's pov !! this series will rely heavily on feedback and reblogs (my adhd ass cant work on something if i and other people dont care for it) or else it'll be scraped and we keep things moving (i sincerely hope u loved this <3)

©️ lalunanymph. do not copy, repost, change the sentence structures, translate across any other platforms

How to recover fic deleted from AO3 that’s NOT on the Wayback machine

Sharing this because I just found out about this and it blew my mind.

The short version of it is: The Wayback Machine is not the only backup/archive of AO3 content out there. It’s just the most user-friendly and immediately browsable.

THIS database on Archive.org contains most AO3 fics as text files, including plenty that are not Waybacked: https://archive.org/details/AO3_final_location

What you’ll need: A browser for .sqlite3 files such as DB Browser for SQLite, an archive manager (e.g. WinRar or 7zip), good internet download speeds, and potentially a LOT of free GBs in storage space.

Not needed but heavily recommended: A download manager such as HTTP Downloader (so you don’t lose the entire download the second your internet stutters).

1. Click here to get to the archive’s files. It’s going to look something like this:

ao3_current.sqlite3 and ao3_old_files.sqlite3 are metadata files. The .zip files contain fic, most of them in simple .txt format. The metadata files tell you which fic is in which zip.

The “current” metadata file is recent backups. The “old” metadata file seems to be fics archived until 2020ish.

2. First, download either ao3_current.sqlite3 or ao3_old_files.sqlite3. Now launch DB Browser for SQlite, then File > Open Database Read-Only > open the sqlite3 file. Now click on the Browse Data tab.

3. It’s going to look like this.

4. The “Filter in any column” field can be used for keyword searches in, well, any column of this table. Be warned, it takes a while to update, give it time, it’s indexing.

5. Here I searched for all fic which gets a hit for the “Avengers” keyword (usually fandom). You can also search for a specific title, author, description, etc.

Let’s try to locate the first fic on the list. Click on the field on the left - row 1, column 1.

On the right you’ll see the full content of that cell. The most important thing here is the start - ao3_01. This means that the fic is located in ao3_old_files_part01.zip.

6. Download ao3_old_files_part01.zip and open it with your archive manager. It’s 5.5 GB. This will take some time.

7. There are multiple ways to find the fic within the zip file. Probably the easiest way is to use your archive manager’s search/find function to locate the fic by keyword - author is a good bet here, or title if it’s unique enough - and extract that. This way you don’t have to extract the entire archive. Be sure to add a wildcard operator (*) on either side of the keyword.

8. Extract the file and you’re done. Note: It will probably be in .txt format, and might be in one giant block of text. Just select-all and paste it to a proper word processor to restore the paragraph formatting.

+ I suppose if you’ve got like a free TB of space you could just skip the metadata step and download all the zip files and unzip them and use a command line search tool for keywords, too. This will work with keywords like title, author and fandom that are part of the file title. The metadata file just contains additional info, like character fields, description, etc.

This isn’t a perfect remedy, there are still fics that got deleted before they could get archived here. But it seems more complete than the stuff on the Wayback Machine on average.

MY SHAYLA

Nanami is here! I also struggle drawing him but I feel like I did him alright here! 🥸

when god closes a door you reach your little paws under it and go mrrwwaaaooow mmreeaaow

OF FLESH SIN

vampire priest x reader | 18+ | 2.6k

a ghastly sight!

one of the monastery's beloved priests has been found brutally murdered and disfigured in his chambers. father shaw, a newer addition to the monastery, claims to have answers to sate your reaching curiosity—but he wishes for you to come to his chambers at night.

warnings; dark content; yandere/obsessive behavior; manipulation; murder; body horror; graphic descriptions of gore towards the end; briefly mentioned animal death; obvious religious overtones; prose & detail heav; historically inaccurate depictions of monastery life—i am aware; roughly proofread

reposted from my deleted blog @/shehungers

if this is something you enjoyed, it would totally mean the world to hear your thoughts and have a lil' reblog 🥺💖

Father Marius died in quite some awful way last night, as reported to you by the nuns hanging fresh washed garments on the clothesline in the waning, purpling daylight.

“A look of horror! Utter terror! So frightened that his jaw had become dislocated in forever a scream,” shivered one young nun, Lucy; recently a convert from the slums. “I, well, I didn't see it myself. Neither did the rest of us, actually. They say it was that new Father Shaw who found him at dawn.”

You had been raking gravel out of the yard, tiny stones kicked off of the path into the kempt lawn by prancing horses and wagon wheels, when Lucy and the other nun, Esme, had caught your attention with their dense gossip.

They regarded your approach with less caution than they would have had with their other Sisters, as gossip was deemed inappropriate, a violation, a flickering serpent’s tongue carrying covert temptations leading to luscious sins and debauchery.

They saw you—poor, morose, the groundskeeper's only child and reminder of loveless trysts—and thought nothing of snaking you into their prattle. You were not the sort to divulge anyone's secrets without gain, without reward, and you knew that the nuns kept nothing to their names once they took their vows and donned their habits.

“Father Shaw,” you continued the discussion with some intrigue, mostly from the fact that he was very new, very young, and modestly handsome, “why was he awake so early? Why was he in Father Marius’ chambers? Curious to me.”

Neither of them gave much caution to your questions, shrugging as if to dismiss your ambivalence and accusatory tone. You were bold in the way that the faithless and lost always tended to be: asking senseless things, always concerned with the wrongdoings of others, always suspicious, always inquiring—forever inquiring.

“Oh, my, you're so defensive,” Esme fanned a yellow bedspread out with an oncoming breeze, catching the wind beneath the fabric so it billowed and rippled midair. “If that’s how you're going to be, then: why does your father stumble around the yard at night with a lantern, swinging around a pistol like a madman? Won't he hurt someone?”

Because he's a godless, superstitious drunk. Perhaps, even, a bit disturbed in his mind, but you couldn't bear to think that way, that he might be the type to need his head locked in a metal cage, gagged, arms bound, and padlocked in some damp, distant corner of an asylum.

“He's a good man,” you relented, taking your hands from the top of the smoothed out, worn handle of the rake and resumed your task. The gravel made an awful, coarse sound as the teeth of the rake collected pieces of stone and led it back to the rest. “He's served this monastery well. I don't mean offense about Father Shaw, I'm simply curious about what transpired is all.”

“No offense taken,” came a voice from behind, startling both the twittering nuns and yourself at the same time. They saw it to be Father Shaw standing there, hands cuffed behind his back with a particularly demure disposition, hiked their skirts and whisked themselves away back inside. “Ah, am I really such a frightful figure? I couldn't really find an opening during your conversation to invite myself in. I apologize.”

You were of a similar fretful nature, quickening your clawing and the reach of the rake. “Nay, Father. I think it's simply because you're a strange man to them still. A handsome face, a warm voice—mysterious. Give them time. They'll come around.”

“Have you?” Father Shaw asked, taking measured strides in a half-circle around to your front. He concentrated on where the teeth of your instrument struck next, tips temporarily wedged into the soft dirt before being ripped up with chunks of earth and gray gravel. “It wouldn't do for me if you… were still ill at ease with me as well. I consider you my one, true friend in this place.”

Your father held a certain destestation towards Father Shaw that you'd never witnessed before, saying nothing else than that something was terribly wrong with him and not to place yourself in a position to be alone with him. This you attributed to his unsoundness, but it was always the sudden flicker of a sharp breath against candlelight—a jarring shift in his demeanor when he spoke about the Father. He'd grow neurotic and throw things about the cottage interior, convincing you to pay some mind to what he was saying.

“And, you're a great friend of mine as well.” You’d hoped you sounded coherent and paced your words evenly enough. “I'm sorry if you thought I was accusing you of something, sir. I really meant nothing to it.”

Father Shaw’s lips sprawled tight and pale into a fond smile, never showing his teeth, though the imprint of them seemed massive and the skin of his lips startlingly thin across them. “I know. You have nothing to fear. My feelings were not affected. If you'd like, come to my chambers later, we may pray together first, and I'll tell you everything you wish to know about what I saw to sate your curiosity.”

“That seems improper, sir.” you said.

“How so?”

“Inviting someone to your chambers at night seems an unbecoming venture for a pious man of status, such as yourself,” you continued, now standing upright beside your rake, “if any of the sisters were to witness it, worse another priest, aren't you afraid you'd be horribly chastised? Even worse, excommunicated altogether?”

Although Father Shaw’s dark eyes reflected no light, holding such demanding depth to them that it was hard to keep your bearings whenever you realized you'd been staring, his entire face was alight in amusement.

“Wherever did you learn to speak like that?” he asked candidly, still glowing despite his pallor. “Forgive me when I say, but your father is not an educated man. I mean no offense, please don't look at me in such a way. You are so well spoken, I only wish to know more about you.”

“I've lived here my entire life,” you told him. “The nuns taught me how to read.”

He looked impressed. “You can read?”

“I can!” From a near distance, you could make out your father’s haddard form, bent sideways on a walking cane and limping towards the pair of you. You looked up at the priest’s smooth face. “It'd be best for you to leave before my father can speak to you. He isn't the kindest soul after a long day.

Father Shaw didn't react with any semblance of worry, but agreed that there were other things needing to be done and began away. Just as he passed you on his way towards the monastery, he let his hand rest atop of your shoulder and leaned you towards him to whisper in your ear: “come to me tonight. I'll be waiting for you.”

There was something so luxurious and cooling about his voice, like fine silks sitting in the shade during autumn gliding across your bare skin, wrapping your neck, your chest, your nether parts. His voice was a fine, chilly mist after the first rains in spring which felt refreshing and new after a glacial winter, yet still had capacity to soak you to the bone. It was a nighttime breeze caressing your cheek, sweeping through the hairs of your scalp, making your skin burst all over with bumps.

“I don't like the way he looks at you,” said your father with a mouthful of porridge you'd seasoned with proper herbs. It was wonderfully fragrant and warm during nights that were still a bit too uncomfortable to sip anything cold. “He looks at you like you're a slab of meat! Some prize after a hunt. I don't like him, love. Not one bit. You'd do well to stay to mind yourself and do your chores and nothing else, y’hear?”

After dinner, you cleaned up, swept the floors with hard bristles, and snuffed all the lights except for the fireplace where your father sat in his old chair, fiddling with his favorite pistol.

“It's time for bed, old man.” You watched him fit a couple of small bullets into the loading chamber. They glinted against the orange flames. “Goodness. What have you gotten this time? Something new?”

“Aye!” he grinned, nearly toothless and in a sickly sort of way. “Went to market the other day while the nuns bullied you and picked out some fine bullets from the silversmith.” He cracked the two halves of the pistol shut. “Better to be prepared.”

You waited until sometime later once he was finally asleep, possibly after midnight, before leaving the humble cottage sitting on the fringes of the massive monastery yard and rushing across the grounds to get inside.

Once, they'd kept a guard dog on the property, one of those meaner breeds that were used for gambling, but the poor thing wound up shot dead in the middle of the night by a traveling friar who'd come to seek refuge at the monastery. The Sisters, and yourself, were horribly distraught by the entire ordeal and all vetoed the consideration of bringing another dog here.

Since then, it was no task for you (or anyone else) to get inside the building and shuffle along the shadows through the corridors. At night, the place stirred with patient insects, feral rodents large and small in the pantry, and hungry owls tamely whining from the rafters when something startled them away from their hunt of vermin.

Your feet were a light sound on the masonry below, padded by thin leather soles which alerted you to your enthusiasm as the thwap thwap thwap became louder, aggressive as you closed in on a wall and turned down another hallway for a sturdy wood door at the end of it.

As your knuckles rapped, hoping the sound wouldn't disturb the animals’ nighttime caroling, a swift darkness moved across the floor from behind the door, briefly blocking out the soft light seeping out from underneath.

The next moment, you were being pulled inside and sat at a small table tucked to the side of Father Shaw’s rather generous room. It was a simple space sparsely furnished for the barest of comforts—only for what was needed to live—but what had been made for him was of exquisite craftsmanship, some made of teakwood, which Shaw assured you was remarkably durable and highly resistant to rotting.

“It's wonderful for boats,” he said, pouring a light amber colored brew from a metal kettle he'd heated a short while ago. “It’s good for all elements, really. Exceptional longevity. I've heard it has become a popular option in the city for burying the deceased.”

“Will Father Marius be buried in a teakwood coffin, then?” you asked, sipping politely from the cup even though you had no appetite for it. You already felt ill at ease enough having disobeyed your father by sneaking into a priest's personal chambers at night. The things the Sisters would say about you—

“He will be entombed underneath the monastery with the rest who have served here and passed. I believe that is all stone down there, my dear.” Father Shaw smiled tepidly, kettle aside, no tea of his own. “But, I know that your curiosity led you here to me with questions, yes? About the state I found Father Marius in, yes?”

You tried to disguise your intrigue by drinking more of the tea, of whatever it was he had given you, and listened to the sounds of your fingertips sticking to the porcelain from sweat and steam.

“If you wouldn't mind sharing…”

“I wouldn't!” he leaned on his arms on the table, closer towards you as though with a secret. “As I've said, you are truly the only soul here who I can confide in. You are not a sheep. And you do not fear sin as the rest do. So, you can ask me anything and I'll tell you everything.”

“Tell me about Father Marius, then.”

Father Shaw reached across the table for one of your hands; his far larger, fingers much longer and colder than your own and held it as he recounted the event.

“Dreadful sight, it was. It was, oh, perhaps sometime after three o'clock when I heard a massive racket. A struggle. When I knocked, all of the noise subsided at once and there was complete stillness. Silence, my dear, silence so deep, dark, and damning that I knew something awful had happened.

“I didn't knock again, I was too afraid to! But, Father Marius was getting on in age, so I couldn't just stand by, either. I kicked the door in—just once was all it took—and I rushed inside to see the room was a complete mess. A fight had clearly taken place, and the walls—oh, the walls—”

His remorse was carefully placed, stiff, and uncertain and he couldn't be seen in the vastness of his black gaze. You were moved by the vulnerability he was trying to show you, going as far to abandon your drink to place your warm hand on top of his.

“The walls, my dear, were a mess of blood. Something vicious and awful had happened in that room. But, then, I found Father Marius lying there on the ground next to a broken window. I think he'd tried to throw himself through it. His face was shredded to pieces, his eyes gouged. When I got closer, I noticed that his tongue had been severed from his head!”

You were holding Father Shaw’s hands in a bloodless grip, face ashen, teeth chattering behind your lips. “What on earth! That is not only horror, but cruelty!”

“Oh, my love, it gets worse!” Father Shaw held you mesmerized in his gaze, the conviction and anguish with which he told his story. “Closer still, Father Marius’ face was locked in one of pure terror, I've—I’ve never seen a human react in quite a way such as that before, to fear. The man unhinged his own jaw in a hideous scream, and it seemed to me he was skeletal. By that, it's like he was, well, quite dry.

“So, I crouched down so much lower and inspected him all over. Do you want to know what I found?”

“Yes.” You spoke breathlessly.

Father Shaw had moved out of his seat and was on one knee in front of you, both of his frigid hands on your face to smooth across your cheeks, pushing away pieces of hair obscuring some part of you he'd wanted to see.

“My love, I saw marks in his neck. Two, beautifully, wonderfully symmetrical marks that were far too clean to be of any animal that we know of. The bite was clean, it was patient and cunning. And the fangs that had sunk into his tender flesh had drained him of blood, of the very essence that kept his heart beating until the very last.”

“Sir—” your stomach plummeted, falling forever, when he smiled, teeth longer than any humans should be shown through to you. He wouldn't let you go when you went to move out of his hands, away from him. “Father Shaw, please—”

“I wish you could have seen it, my love. It was a breathtaking sight and I long for someone else to admire the beauty of my work alongside me.”

It was unthinkable that a vampire could walk on these holy grounds and in the bright of day, yet Father Shaw had for countless days. Evil held you sweetly by the cheek and in your hair, kissed you with a corpse’s cold lips, and laved the skin of your skin with a long, serpentine tongue.

“O’, my merciful lord…”

Father Shaw bent your head back with a fistful of hair and spoke from your throat:

“There is no God, only me. Come into the endless night with me, my love.”