— System Error

* / MISBEHAVING

— MASTERLIST;

( sukuna x f!reader / gojo x f!reader )

+ to join the taglist: fill this up. (closed for now!!)

summary: after getting kicked to the curb by gojo satoru, you want to give him a taste of his own medicine. the answer? ryomen sukuna. but you get more than you bargained for when you get entangled in both family’s messes.

content warnings: angst + fluff + smut (MDNI), modern au, fake dating, toxic relationships (and families), mentions of abuse/death, everyone in this story is petty in their own way (and i mean very petty), sukuna is mostly a dick (so is gojo), toji is a bad father, everyone here is bad at feelings (sorry!), manipulating/gaslighting, alcohol/cigarettes will be commonly mentioned & included, certain degree of elitism, beware my horrible planning skills + more to be revealed as the chapters go along.

status: ongoing! (click here if you want to read on ao3)

-> flip the pages:

01. prologue: the calm before the storm

02. chapter one: the enemy of my enemy is my (boy)friend

03. chapter two: barking up the wrong zenin tree

04. chapter three: keeping up (fake) appearances

05. chapter four: the monument to all your sins

06. chapter five: two sides to the same coin

07. chapter six: and that’s where love finds you, in the tragedies

08. chapter seven: where there’s smoke, there’s fire (and disaster)

++ more to be updated!

+ notes: please remember—not everything is accurate to real-life situations & all things that happen here are fictional. sukuna doesn’t have tattoos on his face here, just his body and they’re not the same as the manga/anime. titles for unreleased chapters might change because i’m indecisive.

‘unreliable narrator’ but it’s ’narrator is deeply in love with the person they are narrating’

man.... sylus' hands are fucking huge...

💭 thinking about . . . . ex-husband caleb

tw. colonel caleb x fem!reader, suggestive content, smut, mentions of angst, divorce, cross-posted from x, yandere-ish caleb, ex-husband, whiny caleb, begging, pathetic caleb, second chances, 2k+ words

The day you married Caleb was the happiest day of your life. 

You still remember the excitement in the air, the hush wedding reception filling up with closest friends. Those in attendance swore to keep this a secret—Caleb’s clandestine occupation as Colonel of the Farspace Fleet deterring from any illusions to a safe, stable job, not when he had enemies all around.

Gideon stood as his best man while Tara was your bridesmaid and makeup artist. 

A handful of Hunter colleagues, Jenna, and Professor Lucius who surprisingly sniffled quietly into his silk handkerchief, watched the two of you say your vows and promise before the law and men alike that you would always protect and cherish one another, for better or for worse. 

But, that was a year ago. 

While vows don’t change, people do. 

Sad story short, not even a year into your marriage, Caleb and you got into a huge, marriage-altering argument which resulted in six days of no-contact. You can say the divorce was mostly your fault.

Your husband of 342 days reluctantly agreed and while you two remained childless, he still insisted on paying the necessary support as per the pre-nup he insisted you get. 

The nascent, sharp ring of the doorbell distracts you from the rest of your straying thoughts, and you look up from the bouquet of flowers you’re halfway arranging. For a moment, your idle mind blanks and your heart trembles in your chest. 

It must be him… 

Your throat tightens at the prospect of seeing your ex-husband again. 

While the two of you didn’t have the most pleasant relationship, you had mostly agreed to keep things civil. That is, until you open the door to find Caleb beaten up and bloody with your ring in a velvet box. 

“... what the fu—?” 

You don’t get to finish your sentence, not when he ushers you inside with a scowl. Towering over you with his 6’2 frame, you remind yourself not to be thrown off by his boyish charms and playfully bright violet eyes, even as a trickle of blood runs down his chin. 

“Sorry, princess. Got caught in a tussle. But, I’m here with your ring as you requested.”

His voice is light, deceptively casual. 

You gape at him. “... care to explain to me why you're bleeding out all over my foyer?” 

In answer, he pats your head and breezes past you. “You mean the foyer of this house I pay with my own money so I can put a roof over my dear old ex-wife’s head?” He arches a brow. “I say I can bleed on these floors all I want. But, you—”

Your ex-husband scrutinizes you from head-to-toe. “—don’t look too hot. Not sleeping well?” 

You bristle at his glib comment. “Oh, shut up, you big dummy.” 

The bravado doesn’t last long. Your eyes betray you, and your concern flares at the sight of more sanguine red seeping into the carpet. Without a hint of warning, you grasp the lapels of his thick, embellished jacket, and tug it down his shoulders. He relents, your sudden show of concern drawing a pensive silence across those deep set eyes; a furrow in his brow.

You gingerly lead him to the couch, and tell him to stay there, as you make a beeline for the first aid kit up in your kitchen cabinet. Setting to work, you clean up his wounds, and bandage them, focusing on the gash of his arm. 

“You’re practically untouchable,” you shake your head. “How did you get this sloppy?” 

Caleb grunts, wincing when you tighten the makeshift tourniquet around his injury. “They… got me when I had my back turned.” You know better than to press him for details—Caleb is adamant on not drawing you deeper into his bullshit, any more than necessary. You do the best you can; despite not being married to him, Caleb was—is—still your friend first, and you would rather take care of him than risk him not seeking out proper medical attention for himself. 

As you bring his heavy-duty military jacket into the quaint laundry room, you scrub it, lost in your thoughts, the egg-shell white walls pressing down on you. With a stealthiness that belies his broad frame, Caleb slips right behind you, and you feel the heat of his broad chest seeping into the thin, old shirt you wore.

“Is this mine?”

He runs his fingers over the frayed hem, and you bristle.

“... no.”

As much as your stubbornness infuriates him, the dark-haired man can also admit how it amuses him to no end. “Sure?” He raises one brow. “Says ‘DAA’ right here—”

“Fine. You want me to take it off and give it back?” you seethe. He laughs, gives you a faint smile that doesn’t exactly touch his eyes.

“Nope,” he sighs. “Can’t risk you getting cold. I’m just messin’ with you.” 

Silence blankets the both of you in reassuring waves. There’s nothing awkward about being in the same room with Caleb, and you don’t think twice when he inches closer—close enough for his chin to hook over your shoulder. Warm palms tentatively slide down your sides, and you stiffen, but don’t push him away.

“I…” his voice breaks, and all his bravado brought on by the adrenaline from before starts to dissipate. “I missed… you.” He finishes lamely, and you resist the urge to snort. Your tender heart bleeds behind a wall of brambles and you put on a front. 

“What? Already getting sad I’m mooching off your Fleet paycheck?” 

He hears the forced derision in your tone and doesn’t comment on it. If you’re stubborn, Caleb is downright bull-headed. Never one to take ‘no’ for an answer, he spins you around, soapy water sloshing down the front of your shirt as he tilts your chin up to look at him. 

Purple eyes that remind you of bruises bore right into yours, and your heart catches in your throat. 

“You're going to be the death of me someday ” he murmurs huskily. 

“Caleb—”

“Come back to me,” he murmurs, wearing his entire heart on his sleeve; begging you to take him back with those sad, puppy-dog eyes.

“You know I can't be your wife again.”

That irrational part of him which loses control every time he's around you rears its ugly head. 

“Why not?” he bites out, almost a whine. 

He leans in closer, the scent of blood and his skin grazing your nostrils. 

Despite the complications that might arise, you're freefalling right into the gravity of his plush lips, feeling the chapped softness pressing to your mouth. Caleb groans, the sound soft and frayed with yearning, his kiss full of pain and love. He caresses your cheek softly, the rough pads of his fingers smoothing down your jaw. 

“Why,” he whispers hoarsely. “Why are you so stubborn? Why do you always insist on hurting me?”

“I don't mean it,” you whisper. “I just… I don't want to lose you again.”

He glides the tip of his nose down your jawline and huffs. “Y'know I would never do that again. I'm not gonna be the same stupid bastard the second time, Pipsqueak.”

The old nickname brings a wave of nostalgia washing over you. You can barely keep eye contact with him. 

“Caleb… we tried and it didn't work out…”

You trail off and the guilt inside his chest grows heavier and heavier.

He's torn between respecting your wishes and giving this a second shot. Caleb is nothing if not a determined man, and he can't accept failure when he hasn't fully assessed the problem and determined its roots. A part of him desperately wants to fix this… to fix things between you two before it's too late.

He was an idiot who let go of the most precious person in his life. The young Colonel had already lost you once, and he's not going to stand around as you move on with your life and forget about him.

“Stop defying me… I know you want this, too,” he mutters hoarsely, pressing his lips to your neck. “I know you miss me… call out for me… need me as much as I need you and no matter what it takes—”

His tone is rough with suppressed need and stubbornness. 

“—you will come back to me. We will be together again.”

It was a mistake. 

You knew it from the roots of your head to the tips of your toes, and yet, you fell for his charms (again) and let him carry you into the bedroom, where he lays you down on the soft mattress like it’s your honeymoon—again. 

Caleb’s larger build presses down onto you, nimble and sure fingers inching off his old DAA shirt from your frame as he gazes down at you with pure hunger in his eyes. He slots himself in between your thighs, warm palms kneading the fleshy dough of your breasts as you gasp and writhe.

Stupid, you chastise yourself as he leans forward to trap your turgid nipple in between his teeth. Stupid, you groan inwardly when his free hand pinches your other swollen bud. You absolute idiot—you suck in a huge breath when he feathers kisses down your sternum, mentally berating yourself on how you got here. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. And, yet, you could never say no to Caleb, not when he’s hellbent on claiming you as his again. 

But, that’s fine, right? 

Ex-spouses sleep with each other all the time, is what you’re trying to delude yourself with as he removes the rest of his uniform, leaving him just in his thick military pants. You squeeze your thighs around his waist, and he grunts, letting you drag him deeper into your ardent embrace. 

Caleb kisses down your neck and you lose yourself in his scent—his presence.

He hitches your thighs around his waist and it’s all over for you. Warm and slightly chapped kisses feather down your thighs, and he kisses the sole of your feet before he enters you; a worshipper at your altar.

And, oh—how you’ve missed his devotion.

When the electric storm of desire has passed, you lay in his embrace, sated and warm, a wreck looking for an anchor. He gently smooths his hand down your hair, the motion comforting and reminding you of all those times he would hold you tight in the afterglow.

“Marry me,” he whispers, just as your eyes droop close. 

They shoot wide open again and you gape at him like he’s lost his marbles.

Maybe he did. Maybe Caleb’s not all that right in the head.

“What did you say?”

“I said: marry me,” he mumbles and perches his head on one arm to look at you. The lovesick foolishness in his gaze must’ve been contagious, for you to find yourself falling back into the delusion that everything is as it once was.

You close your eyes, all the walls you’ve erected after months of trying to get over your ex-husband showing the cracks of your crumbling resolution. “Caleb, we—“

He covers your mouth with a palm, and the look in his eyes is nothing short of stubborn misery. “It’s okay if you say ‘no’, but… can you give me this one night, Pipsqueak? Just one night…”

You’re not some heartless monster to deny him an innocent delusion. And besides, you have to tend to his injury and you can’t do that when he’s away from you again. 

Wordlessly, you hold onto him and Caleb exhales as if he’s been holding his breath for a long time. 

As night gives way to morning and weak sunlight pours in through the wispy curtains, you wake up in bed with him beside you. 

Rubbing your eyes, you can’t believe he’s actually here—that he stayed.

He never used to stay in bed past 7 in the morning. 

Caleb tightens his grip on you and nuzzles your hair, stuck in a light doze. He slowly stirs when you muffle a yawn behind your palm, and shakes off the grogginess in those pretty, purple eyes. 

When you move your hand from your face, you notice something sparkly on your ring finger. On closer inspection, your heart skips a beat when you realize it’s your wedding ring. 

The familiar band around your finger fills you with a maelstrom of emotion, and you take a moment to forlornly study the modest cluster of diamonds—a testament to your love for Caleb that sadly never met its defining end. 

“Did you—?” The question dies in the back of your throat. He takes a deep breath and nods.

“I was serious before, princess,” he murmurs softly, and tenderly strokes the band with his thumb. “Want you to marry me—again.”

Caleb is never going to take your refusal as an answer. Maybe you can convince him not to repeat the same mistake twice.

“But, the Fleet—“

“Will never come between us again,” he promises. The firm slant of his brow never wavers, and so does the resolution in his tone. “I made the mistake once of trying so hard to keep two parts of my life separate that I lost the only person who ever made anything make sense. I know that now.” He tenderly strokes your cheek, those mercurial violet eyes fixed on you with unwavering devotion.

“I want us to try again. Can we do that, princess?” 

The earnest hope in his tone breaks your heart, but the steadiness of his adoration strengthens it.

“Okay,” you whisper after a moment. Hope lights his gaze, lifts your heart to soaring heights. 

“Let’s try again.” 

♡ feedback and reblogs are appreciated

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost or claim as your own.

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟐: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍

after a scandal that rocks the entire nation, itadori 'ryomen' sukuna is forced to marry a girl chosen by his brother in order to straighten him out. but, what jin doesn't expect is how much he's willing to destroy everything he knows just to get his freedom back—even at the expense of breaking his wife's soul.

warnings: mean!sukuna, unrequited love, child neglect, childhood trauma, flashback-heavy, language, repressed trauma, allusions to d/rug a/buse, mentions of s/moking, mentions of food, mentions of a/lcohol, explicit s/mut (sukuna x este), cuckcake-ish vibes, tension, MDNI

masterlist | playlist

He sees the invitation in his brother’s hand first thing in the morning, and wishes he hadn’t woken up in the first place. 

Groggy and still drunk from the night before partying with Ino and his gang of friends, Sukuna blinks the crust from his eyes with wary bleariness.

“What do they want now?”

He groans, recognizing the L/N family seal from a single glance.

Jin, clad in a beige sweater the color of boring and a similar pair of bland slacks, shakes his head. “I don’t know ‘Kuna. But, I think your future in-laws want to get to know you better.”

His brother tosses the invitation onto the dining table, and turns to refill his coffee while humming under his breath. Despite his hesitation and dismay, Sukuna reaches for the innocuous item, turning it around his fingers to check the edges; evaluating the invitation like its a show pony up for sale.

Constellation Snow paper with Waterman ink. 

The L/N’s were serious about their reputation.

A cruel smirk plays on the corners of his lips. Compared to the Naras, the L/N’s were shams in their society—new money desperately trying to climb the ladder. Your mother, Lia, was descended from department store royalty but chose to taint her blood with a middle-class business associate from Shibuya who scrappily acquired his own company at the age of twenty-five.

Your family’s history was thoroughly researched on by Hiromi even before the idea of marriage was put forth, attesting to the lawyer’s incredible foresight.

And now the snakes are waiting in the bushes to strike.

However much Sukuna wants to refuse this invite, it would not look good on the Itadoris if they dismissed a future business partner.

Jin, too, appears to have the same line of thought, sitting across from him with a slight frown. The buttery smell of coffee beans wafts in the air, coaxing him from his drunken fatigue.

“So?” his younger twin asks. “Are you going to say ‘yes’?” 

Sukuna turns the card over, flips it over to his brother. Jin catches it before it goes tumbling to the ground, tossing him a scowl. He unfolds it, reads through its contents quickly.

“A getaway for a week at their private mountain lodge,” he mutters wryly. “Whatever could go wrong?”

Hearing the note of amusement in Jin’s voice, Sukuna rolls his eyes, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It's so they can force us into this alliance. How else are we going to plan an escape if we’re trapped with them on a goddamn peak.”

“Is this what you see your fate as?” Jin murmurs, trying hard not to smirk. “A trap?”

“You got a better term for it?” Sukuna grouses. “You didn’t give me a chance to say ‘no’ to the whole thing. You forced my hand before I could even consent.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Jin mutters, returning back to the table with a plate of toast and some butter. Sukuna tries to grab one of the brown slices, but his brother swats his hand away with a scowl that says go get your own food.

Begrudgingly, he stands to make himself a bowl of cereal before he comes to a stop.

Usually, someone would be here to take his plate, toast his bread for him, and prepare his usual fare of strawberry jam and manuka honey on the table before he could even lift a finger. Or, they would prepare the granola and milk for him on the table before he even has to ask.

“Where’s the help today?” He suddenly realizes, perturbed by their quiet absence. 

In response, Jin hums. “I gave them a day off."

Sukuna looks at him like he has grown two heads, wondering what could possess such a man to debilitate his household like this. When he would become the man of the house, Sukuna wouldn't give them a day off on a whim like his weak-hearted younger brother.

“Why? What did they do to deserve it?” 

His blood is boiling, about to spill over in his infamous temper tantrums when Jin sighs, stopping him in his tracks with his next words.

“It’s her Death Day anniversary today.”

Sukuna almost blurts out “Who?” when the sight of Jin's grim expression suddenly jogs his memory.

He immediately remembers and wishes he hadn’t been so blunt. 

Ah.

Kaori. 

The older twin shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another. “Happy… Death Day. I guess?” 

Sukuna was lucky Jin was in a decent mood and didn't sock him in the face for that insensitive comment. As her death was two years ago, the young air stewardess’ absence was still very much felt by her grieving husband until this day—a blow to his soft heart which he will never get over for as long as he lived.

“We need to respond to that invitation,” he switches the subject, cleaning up after himself. “Oh, and with kind consideration for our future companions, the L/N’s have also offered the Gojos and Naras an invite.”

Sukuna almost choked on his cereal. “T-the Naras are coming?” 

Without turning to him or being ticked off by the change in his older brother’s tone, Jin nods, continuing to scrub his dishes. 

“James wants to talk new business terms with Ken, and he’s interested in hearing what the guy has to offer. Also, Gojo Sr. might be bringing his best cigars. It’s unmissable.”

The older Itadori internally swore, wondering if the entire universe had just upended and gone entirely insane. 

Though he was a bastard through and through, even Sukuna could admit that having his future wife and hookup slash sorta girlfriend under one roof would be a disaster waiting to happen. 

You could never find out about him and Este. 

“That’s… interesting.”

“You can join us if you want,” Jin adds, “Only if you can keep your partying tendencies on hold for three days.”

“Just for three days?” Sukuna smirks, and Jin finally turns around, giving a look he is all too familiar with.

Throwing his hands up, the older Itadori shrugs, trying his best to look as innocent as possible.

“You know me, Jin-Jin. I’m always on my best behavior.”

“Darling, we must hurry,” your father scolds, and you struggle to keep up with them in your tottering heels. Behind you, your mother shoos you down the tarmac, towards the humming private jet ready to depart. 

“We can’t keep the Itadoris waiting!” 

The maids rush with your bags, one of them carrying your fur trimmed hat in case it flutters off your head.

Once the butlers had stowed away your luggage, each of them formed a line and bowed to you and your parents as the three of you climbed up the airstairs, waving you off with polite smiles.

“I can’t believe we’re going to spend three whole days with the Itadoris,” Lia gushes as the cabin crew starts to pat down the overhead compartments, doing their final checks. She looks radiant in her mink-trimmed fur coat hanging off her shoulders, the picture of elegance with her sleek bodycon dress and sparkling golden jewelry dripping from her throat and ears.

Relaxing into the muted beige seat, you nod. “Me, too. I wonder what activities Itadori-san likes.”

In comparison to her, you're dressed in all monochrome; your stylist came in at the nick of time to take inspiration from some of his ex-girlfriends' winter fashion—settling you into a ribbed sweater dress with some stylish earmuffs and a black trench coat that feels like a million bucks under your splayed palms.

Your mother turns to your father who was trying to catch his breath, shaking out his handkerchief to pat his shining face.

“Jiro, darling. Do you think it’s brazen if we request for them to share a room together?” 

Your father looks over his half-moon spectacles, tilting his head to the side. “Itadori-san and our daughter? Well, I don’t see why not.”

You blanch, but before you are able to voice your discontent, an air stewardess glides by with three flutes of champagne. Setting it down, she asks in a soft voice if you were all ready for refreshments.

Unsure how to broach the subject, you stew in your disappointment for the entire plane ride to Hokkaido, glad you chose the window seat so you could spend a little more time alone in your thoughts.

Your phone vibrates with a text, and you switch it on to find Utahime sending you a GIF of a cat waving a good luck banner.

Smiling to yourself, you respond with another cat GIF, this one sticking its face to a window with its whiskers twitching sorrowfully, and put your phone on silent for takeoff.

Iori could always make you smile, no matter how nervous you are. You kind of wish she could be here with you. Staring out at the passing scenery below, you tilt your head back, wondering what kind of carnage awaits at the base of mountainous Hokkaido.

Since striking lucky with his marriage to your mother, your father began divesting his profits into property, and the 5,000 feet lodge instantly became the highlight of his purchases. 

Imposing and standing firm on fortified concrete to withstand the harsh, cold mountain air, your childhood days were spent playing in the narrow hallways, fashioned similarly to the labyrinth-like interior of Europe’s oldest castles. Your parents absolutely adored German architecture with its spiraling spires and brick red slates upon such historical monuments, and wanted to emulate the design right on the slopes of Hakodate. 

It’s been years since I’ve seen the lodge. 

The last time you were there, you were just shy of your sixteenth birthday. 

Bright-eyed, and romantically wistful. You often imagined how pretty it would be to walk along the grand balcony as the sun performed its final best for the day; orange rays soaking your skin from head to toe as you admire nature's best while hand-in-hand with a man you love.

And now, your fantasies have a chance of turning into reality. 

You wonder how Sukuna will feel when he sees the spires, the chimneys, and the cozy old brick walls that allows for the warmth of the house to seep into them despite the persistent chill.

He would be impressed—you like to think he might be a bit more polite once he sees your family is just like his. Just as powerful and grand and worthy. 

Smiling secretly to yourself, you swallow down an Ambien, slip on your headphones, and settle into the comfortable seats for the start of your wildest hopes coming true.

The private car taking them up the winding road almost makes Sukuna turn green around the edges.

Jin sits beside him, a faint flush on his cheeks from the cold despite not having reached the mountain’s first base. Their mother used to always tease how he was the easiest to blush or bruise; so much different from his staunch older brother.

“The weather is lovely,” his twin muses.

Sukuna stares out the window, not bothering to hide his sulky mood. His phone is off, his last text from Este snidely insulting the L/N’s on how they only had two private hot springs in their lodge went unreplied. 

He hasn’t bothered to respond to her because he’ll see her soon enough. 

Fuck… this is some twisted shit. A part of him still can’t wrap his head around the fact that his situationship and future fiance would be in the same room together. 

Jin hums, breaking him from his thoughts, and after a brief lull, shoots up excitedly, tapping the driver’s seat. “It’s this one! We’re here.”

Unable to match his enthusiasm, Sukuna sighs deeply and rolls his eyes. The driver stops the Jeep right in front of the lodge, and for a split second, Sukuna wonders if the Ambien he took on the private-plane ride here accidentally knocked him out long enough for them to appear in the middle of Heidelberg or some far flung place in fucking Europe. 

This lodge had fucking spires, for god’s sake. 

He can’t help the bubble of distaste gurgling in his chest when he sees such opulence in the middle of nowhere. Inaccessible to the base unless with a Jeep and a day’s worth of travel, one could only imagine the amount needed to keep a money drainer like this going. 

They’re rubbing their wealth in our face, he sneers inwardly. What a nouveau riche thing to do. 

A butler rushes out to hoist their bags, allowing Jin and him the leisure to crane their necks and take in more of the grand rooms. Wooden timber floors echo the dull thuds of their boots, high beams in the same honey color wood arching and intersecting, opening the living room into an expansive ceiling and windows that seem to touch the sky. 

The interior is tasteful with accents of natural wood on the walls, a spiral staircase, and a large fireplace that’s happily belching heat across a sunken pit fitted with black corduroy sofas. A flat screen TV is on, and Sukuna almost misses a bundle moving from the end of the chair, walking right to them.

You're in a silky black dress with a sweetheart neckline, house slippers on your perfectly manicured feet. So different from the beige and bland girl he saw at the cafe that Sukuna has to hide his double take behind a sudden cough, the tips of his ears feeling a little bit warmer than before.

Jin is the one who smiles widely, bowing low. “Y/N. It’s good to see you.”

Returning his gesture, you grin. “It’s lovely to see you too, Itadori-san,” and not forgetting Sukuna, you added, “You too, Itadori-san.”

“Please, call me Jin,” the younger twin extends a note of familiarity and you receive it graciously with another smile. 

From the corner of his eye, Jin glances at Sukuna, as if expecting him to drop all formalities with the woman who was soon to be his wife. But, the older twin did no such thing; nodding to you in greeting while keeping his antipathy closely tucked to his chest.

“Hello again, Y/N.” 

Though his abrupt unfriendliness puts you off, you plaster on your best hostess smile, about to show the two brothers to their rooms when your mother’s shrill voice pierces through the quiet. 

“Jin-san! Itadori-san!” Exuberant, she bounces down the steps, fresh from a shower and wearing a new coat of makeup after the dreary flight. “You’re both here!” 

Jin takes her hand, and in a gallant gesture you never expect him to do, presses the back of it to his lips. “Lovely to see you again, Lia.”

You never thought you’d see the day when your mother stutters like a schoolgirl in love. She coughs, batting her lashes and turns to the older twin. “Itadori-san.” To him, she bows slightly, showing him deference as the older brother in this dynamic. This time, Sukuna returns her bow, knowing full well that to lord his rank over them would be disrespectful to his host.

“Lia-san. You look well.”

Beaming at the two men, your mother sinks her fingers into your shoulders. “I’m so happy you finally got to meet Y/N in person, Jin-san. Isn’t she lovely?” 

Diplomatic to a fault, the younger twin nods. “She is as lovely as you are, Lia-san.” 

Expectantly, she turns to Sukuna, who clears his throat, his skin suddenly crawling from all eyes on him. “The cold air does wonders for all of us,” were his words. You feel your mother’s fingers digging deeper. 

Sparing the room from an awkward note, you clear your throat. “Shall we show them to their rooms, mom?” Emphasizing on the last word, you effectively break Lia’s spell, her million dollar modeling smile back on. 

“Yes. Yes. Jin-san, I hope you don’t mind rooming with Gojo Satoru when he arrives. He barely sleeps, but then again, so do you. I’m afraid his father couldn’t make it due to a sudden stomach bug so he’s the only one representing the Gojos.” 

Jin remains genial. “I would love to catch up with Satoru when he arrives.”

“Perfect.” She turns her smile to Sukuna, who feels every expectation surrounding him amplifying; dread pools in his stomach when the physical embodiment of lies and deception starts deepening her grin. Lia unclasps one hand from your shoulder to grip Sukuna’s bicep.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty to make a special arrangement for you, Itadori-san.”

He wonders if they’re going to put him with your father in a separate room; already the picture of the older man’s twisted words and smarmy grin come to his mind, trying to force his hand to hurry up and marry you.

But, what Lia says is much worse than his imagination could conjure. Her hand on his arm burns hot and prickles his skin past the cashmere sleeve.

“I’ve put a room together just for you and my daughter, of course.”

Jin swears he’s never had to drag Sukuna out from a room fast enough. 

His brother seethes, hands clenching open and close while he tries to find a quiet enough spot so the older twin doesn’t explode into a raging temper tantrum. 

“‘Kuna, it’s okay,” he consoles, but Sukuna doesn’t want to hear it. 

“How dare they think they can do this!” His jaw tenses, veins popping from his neck. The kitchen is empty, though for it to be free of errant eyes and ears, Jin can’t be sure.

“Hey, come on—don’t lose it here now,” Jin begs. 

The older twin’s volatile temper is hard to predict and even harder to cool down once he reaches that peak of no return. To think it would be triggered by a simple room assignment would be comical if Jin has had a few beers, but this just solidifies to him how acutely Sukuna truly resents you.

It takes Jin aback. You’re such a sweet person; a kind soul. Why would his brother react in such a way to you was a mystery to the younger man. He doesn't have time to prod further. Voices ring down the hallway, and Jin recognizes Adam Nara’s jolly baritone, following Gojo Sr.’s cheerful greeting to your father.

The other players have entered the game. Jin couldn't afford to lose face now.

He grabs his brother by the shoulders and shakes him a little. 

“Listen, shit face. Our enemies and alliances are just beyond this door. If you love ka-san and oto-san—” Scratch that. Sukuna cares for no one but himself. Jin shakes his head. “If you care about the money and getting your inheritance, I need you to pull yourself together. Just for this evening. Got it?”

Sukuna doesn’t respond, and Jin’s no longer the nice, younger brother he has to be in front of others. He transforms into Itadori Jin, de facto Chairman of Itadori Holdings, his shoulders squared and mouth set in a firm line. Purely meaning business.

If he wasn’t in such a rage, Sukuna would find the change impressive; he’s almost quivering in his boots. 

“You’re going to go out there, and you’re going to play nice, you hear me?” There’s a threat hidden behind his calm words—the edge of a sharp knife wrapped in between soft sheets. “You will be polite to Y/N, treat her parents with respect and you will be married by the end of this month, am I clear?” 

It stung. It bruises his ego to have Jin control his life. 

But, didn’t you give up the crown when you decided to leave the family and make it on your own? A small, bitter voice in the back of his head quips. 

He’s quick to shoot it down, though a lingering sense of loathing balloons in his chest. It’s humiliation and resignation all in one. Sukuna pauses for a second, letting Jin stew in his anger, before slowly nodding.

His younger brother exhales, and releases his death grip from his twin’s shoulders. 

“Good. If you’re antsy about the room situation, you can always tell Lia you want to protect her daughter’s virtue. It’ll be a decent enough reason and score you brownie points with the family.”

Jin’s words which were meant to soothe and comfort him, strikes a chord, flipping the switch in his mind. Excitement bubbles right in the pit of his stomach.

If I can’t change my fate in this arrangement, maybe I can influence it. 

“No,” he says coolly, taking his brother aback. “I’ll do it.” Jin stares at him as if someone had just swooped in and switched his twin with a different man. 

Is he planning something insidious? Though the Itadori Chairman has his suspicions, he can’t outright call his brother out on it—not when Sukuna is making the effort to appease and honor the deal.

“Okay,” Jin says slowly, though the note of hesitation and distrust is palpable. 

Sukuna maintains his innocent facade with a blank mask, the markings on his face starker under the orange light.

Jin represses a shudder, trying not to let the memory of that day come up again.

The voices outside grow louder, and he can scarcely ignore them.

Duty’s calling and he has to answer.

“Alright,” he murmurs into the quiet. “Let’s go outside to meet them.” Before Sukuna can leave, Jin grasps his shoulder, forcing him to round back and look at him.

Wearing a look awfully similar to Wasuke, Jin wags his finger. 

“Remember, ‘Kuna. No fucking funny business.”

He stops, rolls his eyes and plants a crooked smile in place. It’s the smile that could win any girl over into his bed for the night no matter her relationship status; reassures the most fidgety investor that their returns would be safe with him.

“You have nothing to worry about, Jin. No funny business—I promise.”

Itadori Wasuke wasn’t just a father—he was the blueprint to Jin’s lifepath. 

Ever since he could walk and talk, Jin loved following his dad around—tottering into meetings, plopping himself onto the older man’s lap and grabbing the papers on his desk to drool over them. 

Despite his status as a ruthless businessman and one of the shrewdest minds in transportation, Wasuke loved nothing more than to indulge his boys with time, wisdom, and guidance. He would never push his youngest away—always with a firm hand and a soothing voice to lead him in the right direction. 

Rainy days were Jin’s favorite. His father usually sat himself in the parlor with a cigarette and the latest paper, relaxing after a day filled with nothing but meetings.

The memory of him clambering on the couch next to him, curls of nicotine smoke filling the air, was such a vivid one Jin still thinks he can smell the tobacco on his skin. 

“What’re you doing here?” His father’s faded pink hair, a rarity in this world which he passed to his two sons, shone like silk under the amber lighting, those red-brown eyes dancing with mirth at the sight of his golden child. 

Jin fiddles with his fingers, suddenly aware of the secret he was holding and how much it could ruin his father’s mood. But, he had no choice. He had to tell his dad before the maids could beat him to it and get his nii-san into more trouble than he already was in.

“Um… it’s ‘K-Kuna, oto-san.”

At the mention of his oldest, Wasuke snaps the paper close, the fine lines around his mouth deepening.

“What happened to him? Did he do something wrong again?” 

Blaming Sukuna was a default in the Itadori home. Sometimes, Jin overhears his father lamenting to his mother past the thin doors, wondering where and how he went wrong in raising two sons who were as different as day and night.

“He… made a bet at school and…” Jin sucks in a breath.

Putting the newspaper down, Wasuke’s attention was fully on him, those vermillion eyes ablaze. “Well? What happened? Did he hurt someone?”

Flinching, Jin shakes his head. His brother may be a jerk and a rebel, but Sukuna would never hurt someone intentionally. Deep down in his heart, the youngest twin was sure of it. 

“He made a bet with some boys and lost and he—” Jin exhales out the last part in one, frighteningly quick breath. “—hewentandgothisfacetattooed.”

His father blinks. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt, pushed past his elbows were stretched across his taut arms, as if he was holding himself back from slamming his fists into the table.

“Where is he?” Deceptively calm; a storm brewing in the distance.

Jin naively hoped his father would put things right again—talk some sense into Sukuna to get those tattoos removed from his face and arms.

They were the Itadoris, a respectful house.

How was his nii-san supposed to lead a company when he didn’t look professional at all? And not to mention, they were both fifteen—they were too young to think about permanent inks and bets.

Wasuke seems to echo his youngest son’s thoughts, sinking back into the plush, leather sofa and pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Jin can tell his father is going through a range of emotions—the blood rushes to his face, leaves his cheeks red, puce, and then sickeningly green around the edges.

This is bad. This is very, very bad.

“Thank you for telling me, Jin,” his father finally manages to compose himself enough to pat his head. “You can go back to bed now. I’ll speak to Sukuna when he comes back home.”

Stiffly, the youngest twin stands, bowing once to his dad. He wishes the old man a goodnight and trudges back to bed, unaware of a woman lurking in the corner who slinks into the room, having heard everything that transpired between her husband and son.

“—what did he do now?”

A resounding crash shakes the walls, and Jin freezes, darting behind a potted plant to listen in.

His mother’s shrieks filter past the flimsy wood; their argument front and center for the whole house to hear.

Jin hears snatches of the altercation, his heart plummeting right to his stomach.

“—your son!” His father roars.

“You mean, our son!” his mother yells back. There’s another crash, and Jin covers his ears, shaking his head from side to side.

Make it stop, please. Make it stop. 

The guilt eats him alive, especially when he hears what his father says next.

“Fifteen years I’ve been tolerating that boy, but it has to end here. He can’t keep misbehaving as if the world owes him everything at his feet. If this keeps up—” Wasuke swears, and a heavy object crashes into the wall. His mother shrieks. “—I’ll make Jin my heir!” 

At the mention of his name, the young boy freezes, not daring to even breathe.

His father can't make him the heir. It would break his older brother's heart.

“You can’t!” she sobs. “It’s against the natural rule of things! Sukuna is set to inherit the fortune. You can’t change the order of our world, Wasuke!”

His father laughs, a terrifying, full belly roar which makes the ground shake and his chest cave in. 

“I can and I will. You watch me, woman. The will is mine and mine alone to execute. If you keep this up—protecting that stupid boy when he doesn't deserve it, I will send him to the military and keep him there until he finally grows a spine and some common sense, you hear?! I can have him killed in battle—”

Kasumi screams again, and this time, it claws straight through Jin’s soul; a wounded animal sound of a mother terrified for her young.

“Dear, please. He’s only a boy. Only a child. You can’t expect the world of him. He is your blood and flesh—”

“Someone this idiotic and foolish will never be my son and I will never claim him!” 

From the corner of his eye, Jin spots movement by the stairs. His brother, backpack slung across his shoulder, skin around his face and arms mottled and red from the tattoos, pauses at the top step.

“He has done nothing but bring shame to the Itadori name!” 

Wasuke bellows, his next words rattling the roof and breaking every heart within the vicinity; most of all, his oldest son’s who had innocently stumbled into the middle of the fray without any warning. 

“I wouldn’t care if he lived or died! I have Jin and he’s the better choice.” A loaded exhale—a reloading of more emotionally charged bullets. 

“You and that bastard can fucking rot to death for all I care."

Sukuna rubs a hand down his face, feeling the steam clinging onto his pores. 

The onsen was quiet tonight, everyone in the house either up in the parlor drinking, smoking, or by the sunken sofa fireplace, exchanging gossip about another up-and-coming family or an investment scheme gone wrong. 

He’s never been one to belong in a world like this, so Sukuna had taken his leave early after dinner with the excuse that he was feeling a headache coming along. The maids had already hauled his suitcase up to the suite he would be sharing with you, and thankfully, you were locked in a conversation with Gojo Satoru, the only other person around his, Jin’s, Este’s, and your age on this trip to notice he had gone missing. 

While his brother plays along with the whims of the upper echelon, Sukuna prefers to submerge his tired body in the mineral-dense waters. 

Though the woman he was fucking was here, too, Sukuna had reservedly given her a one-sided hug when Este walked in, green eyes sparkling and looking like the picture of allure in her ermine coat and slinky black dress. Throughout dinner, she kept on glancing at him, and he tried to pretend like her eyes didn’t bore holes into the side of his head; that her accusatory glare didn’t feel hot on the back of his neck when he was forced to sit beside you during dessert, striking up an awkward conversation.

For your part, you had no idea the woman whose bed he warms is in the same room as you, and Sukuna likes to keep it that way. There will be hell to pay if word of this gets out. 

Footsteps resound, prickling his ears. Through the steam and fog of this glass room, he makes out a familiar figure walking right towards him, clad in just a towel.

“Sukuna-san.”

Este stands, long brown hair shimmering like a coat of silky chocolate down her back, the rise of her collarbones already flushing red from the steam. There’s a look in her eyes that spells trouble when she slinks closer towards him.

Acutely aware of his nakedness, Sukuna does nothing but a cock a brow in her direction.

“Getting bolder now, I see.”

But, he doesn’t stop her from sinking one foot into the natural hewn pool, her towel melting off her body and falling in a heap behind her.

He unabashedly drinks in her curves; the mole on her left breast he loves to bite down on, those puckered nipples tightening from the humidity. The planes of her abs defined from years of pilates led right to a smattering of dark hair near her pubic bone, and he caught the slightest glance of that little hole he loves when she parts her legs, sitting comfortably against the rock across from him.

Rolling her neck from side to side, Este sighs deeply.

“What a bore this is. I honestly thought mom would let me smoke here, but she says she doesn’t want to give the Gojo’s a wrong idea.” Her full lips twist into a sneer. “You’re not looking any better.”

He scoffs, splashing her with the warm water. Este shrieks, giving him a murderous glare.

Outside, a light snowfall starts to descend, tiny flakes lingering on the transparent dome. It’s ethereal and romantic, though the woman in front of him ruins his view. 

You stand by the door, unsure if you should step in when you see Sukuna and another gorgeous woman in the onsen. They’re both bickering, and Sukuna stops when he notices you about to turn and leave.

“Hey. Join us.”

His low baritone is crisp. Commanding.

You can’t turn away, not when he’s already noticed you.

Plastering on a fake smile, you shake your head, trying to beat a hasty retreat. “M-my bad, Itadori-san. Nara-san. I thought the onsen was empty—”

Este, daughter of James Nara and one of the richest trust fund babies in Japan, snorts. She’s beautiful, but something about her sharp features and those plump lips makes a shiver run down your spine. It’s as if she’s a bloodhound, trying to sniff out your weakness. She bares her too white teeth and you’re reminded of a Great White seconds away from snapping a fish’s spine in half.

“Nonsense. This is your house, Y/N-san. You should join us. We want to know everything about you.”

The back of your neck prickles, and it’s not from the heat. 

Sludges of white gather atop the dome, trickling down to the packed ground like you were stuck inside a live snow globe. Your smile tightens around the edges and you clutch the towel in a numb grip, mind blanking out on an excuse.

These onsens were your private escape from the real world, and you rarely took a dip naked in front of your own family, let alone a pair of strangers.

Sukuna rolls his eyes, growing annoyed at your floundering and hesitation. “Look. Either you join us, or you leave us to continue our conversation. We were in the middle of something.”

Cheeks flushing warmly, you felt the chill deepening in your soul. Your smile never broke, but you darted your eyes away from his indifferent expression, corners of your lips quivering.

Snapping your mouth shut, you nod. “I… I’ll leave you two alone, then.”

The minute you leave the room, Este turns to him. “Ouch. That was kinda harsh.”

Sukuna snorts, and with the knowledge of you not returning into the room now that he had humiliated you, he brazenly draws Este to his lap, nuzzling his face into her neck.

She purrs, looking like the cat who got the cream when she straddles his lap, letting him feast his hungry eyes over her perfect body. The tip of her acrylic traces down the tattoo near his jaw, and that diabolical smile of hers deepens. 

“That was your fiance, Ryomen. You should be nicer to her.”

He makes a sound of disagreement in the back of his throat, moving his cool lips from the hollow of her neck to the rise of her breasts. Licking and sucking at her nipples, he alternates, biting down on the flesh, blowing on those buds to watch them harden into stiff, pink peaks. Her soft moans carry together with the steam rising to the top of the glass ceiling; those verdant eyes rolling back into her head from the shivers he was wracking in her body.

“Stop talking about her,” he murmurs, lifting her up slightly by the hips and sliding his already throbbing cock deep into her twitching heat. She winces, stabs her nails into his shoulders from the sudden stretch. “I need to fuck you.”

She ticks her hips forward, a little slutty show just for him. Sukuna can tell the idea of fucking him with you under the same roof is driving her wild.

“m’not on the pill today,” she whispers into the hot shell of his ear, running her tongue over the delicate ridges. Sukuna’s fingers are bruising her hips, rutting deep into her. He likes how she takes him without complaint or prep—the perfect hole to be used and abused. 

He’s thrusting into a spot inside of her that’s too deep to reach, snaking his hand around her throat and squeezing down hard.

“Don’t care,” he breathes heavily, vermillion eyes hooded; harsh tattoos lining his face jumping out from under the low light. “Just pop something after.”

He’s evil and tantalizing—the devil she readily gives her body to whenever he snaps his fingers.

Este nods, leaning back to brace her hands against his strong thighs, eager to please him. 

“Yes, Sir.”

It was once said that the greatest artists in this world found contentment within their own solitude where their wildest inspirations could come to life with no judgment from the public eye. 

Though you could not compare to Van Gogh or Monet, you had to admit that there was a shred of truth to those words. 

Mountain air fills your lungs, and you span your gaze towards the horizon as your eyes can see. The easel you requested the butlers to prepare was your standing guard, the blank canvas leaning on it your enemy to parry with.

Like a writer hunched over their incomplete manuscript, your art block was equally as vicious. The lines and colors eluded you, and you could not focus a single thought on what was to be the final outcome. 

You could paint the view, but it was overdone and frankly, expected.

Maybe you could dig deep into the stinging pain in your chest you felt the night before and scoop it up, smear it across the blank whiteness, and stain it with your embarrassment and indignation.

Sighing deeply, you lean back on the stool, setting your paintbrush down and rubbing the back of your neck.

“Art block can be a bitch, huh?” 

You whirl around to find a tall man with a mop of white hair approaching you with his hands in his bathrobe pockets, wearing a charming, lopsided smile. 

“Gojo-san,” you immediately straighten and he waves your formalities away. 

“Satoru,” he says and looks you up and down. “You left last night. After dessert. Smart.”

Letting out a gust of breath you didn’t know you were holding, you tilt your head to the side in confusion. “Did something happen?”

“Oh, just your parents pulling us into the parlor for some charades,” he chuckles at the recollection, and this close, you can’t help but notice even his eyelashes are the color of powdery white snow. “It’s been a while since I went on a family getaway. I’m not much of a homey son, you see. I rarely spend time with family and would much rather be handling business.”

“Ha,” you snort, and then, slap a hand over your mouth as if to cover for your mistake. 

Though word in your world runs rampant, no news came faster (even to a wallflower like you) of how rebellious and unorthodox the Gojo family’s only son was.

Satoru’s bright eyes, the color of a melted icy river in the middle of summer, seems to twinkle at your slip-up.

“Did I say something amusing?”

You quickly shake your head, though your warm cheeks betray you. “N-no, Gojo-s—Satoru.”

Cursing your careless mouth and actions, you take this moment to turn back to your canvas, picking up your paintbrush and pretending to concentrate on your next stroke.

Undeterred by your lack of forthcoming conversation, you feel him approaching you from the back, coming to stand over your shoulder.

“You know, if you wanted to lie, you could’ve done so by telling me how I absolutely do not deserve the Gojo Chairman position.” Those eyes sparkle with barely concealed mirth. “Or, don’t you agree with what everyone else is saying?” 

Gaping, you turn to him. “Wh—Satoru, that’s a cruel thing for me to say to someone I barely know!”

That amused grin never left his sightly lips, and you couldn’t help but notice how well-moisturized they were. Not even a dry fleck of skin on them, despite the atrociously cold weather.

As if noticing your train of thought, Gojo smiles and changes the subject. “It’s awfully cold out here. Why are you painting in the middle of such freezing weather?”

The words tumble past your defenses before you could rein them in, yet another slip up from your distracted morning. “I find the cold air to be refreshing. It helps to clear my mind.”

Gojo stands there, back straight, and for a single moment, you can imagine him in the middle of a boardroom, scrutinizing a subordinate and catching them in the middle of a flimsy lie.

But, you were not his employee, and Satoru was a welcomed guest under your roof. He could not overstep his boundaries.

“I see.” 

It seems he has something he wants to say but can’t put forth; the minute struggle in those cerulean blue eyes gives away a deeper meaning. The vulnerable connection that trembles between both your held gazes dissipates like fine mist—never there in the first place—and he’s back to being his usual cryptic, teasing self.

“I shall leave you alone then, Miss Y/N. Ah, my apologies.” He smacks his forehead, correcting his mistake instantly. 

“Wrong name. I hope you have a wonderful painting session… Mrs. Itadori to-be.”

That night, you return to the huge double rooms to find your fiance out cold.

His broad back turned towards the wall, arm dangling from the edge of the huge, ornate sofa your mother personally sourced from Istanbul. You try and fail to hide your surprise, wondering what he’s done to venture into your part of the room.

The memories twist and turn, rising like black smoke from the ashes of your dismay and stinging disappointment at how petty Sukuna could be.

“You’re sleeping on the sofa,” he mumbles, “I don’t do well with company in my bed.” 

You’re about to argue, when he takes the room, slamming the door closed and clicking it shut. At least the maids had left out some pillows and a blanket on the sofa for you both to divide and claim… but if Sukuna didn’t want you near him, shouldn’t he be a gentleman and take the couch instead? 

There’s no soothing the prickling shame you feel when you realize your fiance has given you the cold shoulder in a space that belongs to your family. Belonged to you. Is this how he will treat me for the entire marriage? You approach the door, about to bang on it with your fists when you hear the first stirrings of a snore. 

Faltering, you bite your lower lip. To risk waking Sukuna up and infuriating him further which would ruin the entire arrangement your family was trying to secure for you… or to bite your tongue for a night and hope he would be more forgiving come morning? 

You sighed, plodding over to the sofa, still in your dress which Okura-san sourced straight from an underground Chinese designer—the same talent Sukuna’s last ex-girlfriend, Sora Hyuk, was fond of. Thumbing the hem, you feel like tearing it off and throwing it into the fireplace, your cheeks warm with embarrassment and resentment.

If only your parents could see you now. 

The truth was, you could tell them what Sukuna had done—how he had embarrassed you so openly and without hesitation right in the heart of your vacation home. But, knowing your parents and how diligent they were with moving up the ladder, your complaints would be nothing but fodder for them to sneer at when they were both alone.

A daughter is nothing but a bartering chip. That is what your mother had once told you. 

And that is why, despite how coldly Sukuna had locked you out of the shared room, you took comfort in the antechamber where no one, not even the maids, could come in without your permission. 

Good thing the fire is burning, you thought, as you kicked off your slippers and sank into the soft couch, trying to drift off into an uneasy sleep. I'll count that as a small blessing for today.

Blinking back the painful reminder, you’re about to roughly shake him off the sofa, marching towards him with your expression scrunched up in anger.

Grabbing his shoulder, you give it a push, and he barely moves.

“Oi,” you huff. “Wake up. You’re in my spot.”

Another push. Sukuna doesn’t even groan.

Suddenly, a chilling sensation seizes over you. Without wasting time, you flip him onto his back, bracing yourself on the edge of the wide sofa. 

Sukuna’s eyes are rolled back into his head, the whites of them shining under the warm, orange light of the chandelier above. You scream and try to shake him, smacking his shoulder to rouse him back from unconsciousness. When he doesn’t move, you grab the first thing you see—a cup of tea you were halfway drinking in the morning, long cold and still with the tea bag attached—and throw it right into his face.

Immediately, his eyes snap back, pupils smaller than pinpricks as he roughly grasps you, dragging you under his bigger build.

Flecks of black tea fall into your face, almost dripping into your wide open mouth, frozen in a mid-shriek.

“What the fuck did you do?” He snarls, and without warning, the tea bag clinging for its dear life on top of his head slides off his pink locks and plops right onto your cheek. 

Sukuna grabs it and brings it closer to his face, sneering at the small brown-soaked sachet and tossing it over his shoulder with his scarily fast reflexes.

“You weren’t responding,” you stutter, pointing one trembling finger to his eyes. “And your eyes were rolled back. I—I thought you were having a seizure.”

“I wasn’t.” His nostrils flare, and those piercing red-brown eyes feel like they could dig right into your soul; scooping up your second-hand embarrassment and smearing it all over your shell-shocked face. “You had no fucking right to pull such a stunt on me—who the fuck do you think you are?”

It’s the most he’s ever spoke to you, and it riles you up how defensive he’s being—like you were some nuisance of a toddler purposely destroying his expensive things and not someone who was trying to save his fucking life.

Who did this man take you for?

You open your mouth, but he beats you to the punch. 

“Don’t ever touch me without my permission. Do you understand me?” 

You snap your mouth close, feeling the chagrin and indignation brimming behind your eyes. If he didn’t let you go right this instant, you were going to burst out in tears right in front of him—an act which would surely annoy him more rather than make him suddenly tender to your afflictions. 

It’s like he doesn't even have a heart.

Thankfully, Sukuna releases your wrists and rolls off you. 

“We both can’t sleep on the sofa since it’s fucking stained with tea—no thanks to you.” His expression is like someone had shoved sour powder down his throat. “I suppose… there’s the room.”

You don’t even try to hide the disbelieving confusion bleeding across your face. This man who nearly threw a fit because you had tried to resuscitate him… was buying into the idea of sharing a bed with you? 

“But, I thought you didn’t want me to touch you without your permission?”

An honest inquiry. You had only wanted to remind him of the words he said to you in case he thought you hadn’t clocked it in.

However, the reaction you receive confirms everything you implicitly knew and more: Sukuna, without a doubt, hated your entire guts for reasons unknown to you. 

Those vermillion eyes become glacial, freezing over any attempt at diffusing the tension in this situation you were trying your hardest to salvage. 

“Who said you would be on the bed?” He gestures behind his back, towards the room you were forbidden from sleeping in despite your family name stamped on this lodge.

“The floor’s comfy,” his callous words chill you right to your soul; you think you might actually start to lose it because of how cruel he’s being to you. “You can take it, can’t you?” 

Biting your bottom lip, you physically have to will the tears away—not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry. 

“Yes,” you murmur softly, turning your gaze to the floor. 

You have to do this—you don't have a choice. 

For the sake of this arrangement. For the sake of your father’s business. 

“You can take the bed. I’ll take the floor… Itadori-san.” 

After another day in the mountains, your mother thought it was a good idea to bond with you over a foot massage. 

There’s a Thai massage parlor down at the base of the mountain, their herbal baths and footstone rubs rumored to cure even the worst altitude sickness. Driving past the winding mountainous edge slowly, the car ride was bumpy, jolting you with jerkish movements that make your head spin. As the Range Rover idles to a stop, the driver opens the doors, and your mother steps out, barely paying him any attention.

Meanwhile, you turn to the older driver and whisper, “Thank you,” while handing him a ¥1,000 bill. He takes it with a bright grin, tips his hat, and waits inside the humming vehicle as you both get started on your pampering session. 

“Sit here, Y/N,” Lia waves you over, completely ignoring the masseuse ushering her to another seat further back.

You follow your mother obediently, taking the reclining chair next to her. 

The leather creaks under your weight as you slowly slide to a comfortable position. Glancing at your mother, you’re surprised to see her eyes sparkling, and she’s close enough to grip your arm, excitedly shaking your shoulder. “So?” she demands, and you give her a confused look.

“So… what?”

“Sukuna, you dummy,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. If there was a man here, he would stop dead in his tracks, enamored by your mother’s alluring and natural sass. 

Thankfully, the masseuses were all foreign women, and as they washed your feet with soap and warm water, you hesitantly updated here about your living situation with Sukuna.

“He’s nice enough,” you mumble weakly. Lia taps her milky white French tips on the chair’s arm, waiting for you to add more. 

“Um.” You flounder. “He’s a heavy sleeper, too—barely moves when we sleep next to each other.”

Another lame addition. This time, her nose crinkles. If only she could be a fly on your bedroom wall, seeing how Sukuna treats you with disdain and exasperation; making you sleep on the floor while he hogs the king-sized bed all for himself.

“It sounds like you’re both barely speaking to one another,” Lia deduces, arching a perfectly groomed brow. “Is that right?” 

You deflate. If there’s one person in the world who can call you out on your bullshit, it would be the woman who birthed and raised you. “Yes.” You finally admit. “I can’t seem to crack through him, mom. He’s so guarded.”

At your rising frustration, she hums and leans back, eyes falling close. You follow the same, feeling the older masseuse’s firm knuckles rubbing up and down your aching Achilles tendon. 

There’s nothing filling your senses but the smell of lemongrass oil and the warmth of the heaters blowing hot air circulating around the room. Someone places a cup of tea and biscuits on your left side table, and you open your eyes; picking up the brew and enjoying the sourish sweet tang of lemongrass tea on your tongue.

“Sukuna-san is a notoriously hard man to know because of his upbringing.”

You pause, cup hovering close to your lips. Setting it down on the lacquered wood table with a crisp click, you frown. 

“What do you mean, mom?” 

Lia opens her eyes, staring up the ceiling as she rummages in her memories for a recollection you weren’t aware of. 

“Sukuna-san’s mother—Kasumi—passed away when he was just 18. Wasuke, his father, followed her 3 years after, and they made Jin Itadori heir because Sukuna fled Tokyo and stayed in Madrid for almost a decade.”

Filled with curiosity, you furrow your brows. “Did they say why he left home in such a rush?” 

“No one knows,” your mother clarifies. “But, one day, he showed up, and Jin took him back in—the prodigal brother making his return.”

“I bet it would’ve been interesting to be a fly on the wall for that conversation,” you snort.

Lia gives you a look. “It wasn’t. I heard the rumors that both brothers were more than estranged—they barely spoke to each other in that decade when Sukuna was missing. But, Jin has always been a kind man, and he let his brother’s misdoings slide—just wanting him to come back home.”

You feel a begrudging sense of respect for the younger Itadori twin. “He seems more like my match than Sukuna-san.”

Your words were meant to be a joke, but it rubs Lia the wrong way. She scowls, lifting a brow. “Don’t you even dare to think of something like that, Y/N.” 

Instantly chastised, you quieten. Lia continues, on a roll from your careless remark. 

“Jin-san loves his wife too much—she passed away during childbirth and he treasures Yuuji more than any gold in this world. He would not spare you a second look, and so, Sukuna was chosen for you.”

“But, why?” 

Frustration bedevils you, and you spew out the first question on your mind. “Why would Sukuna-san be a better match for me? We have nothing in common.”

The masseuses are pretending not to listen in to the conversation, heads bent low and focusing all their attention on melting away the stress that was mounting more and more with every passing second you spent in your mother’s presence.

Lia’s left eye twitches, a sign she’s growing more irritated by the second. “Y/N, don’t spit in fate’s face when they give you a golden egg. Sukuna-san is perfect for you because he’s not picky. He would have anyone familiar with the ways of our society… even if they call you a Wisteria Woman to your face.”

Hurt bleeds through her tone, and you’re reminded once again of how low your family standing is compared to the Itadoris. While they were a family from old transportation money back during Tokyo’s electrical motor boom, your family rode on the backs of your grandfather’s standing to give your father’s ideas a chance to win over prickly investors. 

Eventually, he clawed his way through the world of politics through grit and a good dose of ass-kissing, earning a cushy spot at the top where he’s starting to see his results flourish—the first one being your marriage to a well-established house.

But, it wasn’t always a smooth journey to where your family was now. 

Your mother had to endure years of other rich wives' subtle digging and whispers behind palms—calling her a “Wisteria Woman”—mocking her patience in clinging onto your father as he steadily rose to popularity; calling her a foolish woman only concerned with social status.

It was an insincere attempt at making her an object of ridicule, at best. Your grandfather’s wealth as the king of department stores before his demise could buy over any of these small family’s trust funds three times over.

“They don’t know what they’re saying, mom,” you remind her. “You’ve always stood by dad’s side because you believed in the man he could become one day. And it’s paid off—they’re the ones eating their words now.”

Lia fixes her gaze on you, her expression softening. You think she might even reach out and pat your head. But, she only gives you a single piece of advice, further solidifying that despite all your protests, your marriage to Sukuna has already been woven in the threads of fate long before you were even aware of it. 

“Y/N, I want you to remember this well—no matter what these people say to your face or whisper behind your back... don’t you ever give them the satisfaction of seeing that they’re right.”

a/n. drama on the mountains alert! drama on the mountains alert!

btw feedbacks and reblogs will always be loved <3 thank you for supporting my story thus far i luv u

©️ lalunanymph. do not copy elements of my work, repost, change the sentence structures, translate across any other platforms. and claim as your own

AMBROSIA

dragon-hybrid knight x mage!reader| 18+| 15k

One day, you are approached by two informants of the Witch Queen of Noss. They come bearing gifts of wealth and opulent fruit. The fruit, you are promised, from her orchard is enchanted with her magic and she welcomes you to Noss to take it.

Guided by the loathsome Knight of Noss; a half-human, half-dragon abomination and the Witch Queen's butcher, you set out on the long journey. Along the way, you are kidnapped by the Sisterhood of Gosha, a group bent on dethroning the Witch Queen, and are given a guarantee to what you desire in exchange for helping them.

Their condition? You must seduce the Knight of Noss.

story warnings; dead dove do not eat, explicit sexual content, dubcon-ish, armor is on during sex, blowjob, premature ejaculation, cumshot on thighs, size kink/can't fit, descriptions of genitalia (dragon), dark fantasy, mc is morally ambiguous, manipulation, possession, heavy implications of torture, mentions of abuse (not to mc), mentions of animal death and cruelty (infrequent, mostly metaphorical), extreme body horror + grotesque details, extremely prose + detail heavy, vague magic system, this is an exploration of morality + choice + consent.

dividers by; @/strangegraphics & @/omi-reaources

proofread by my beloved @hantaslittlearsonist

shout-out to @noctis-kingfisher for lending me a tiny hand as well.

this story is purely a work of fiction. I do not condone the attitudes and actions of the characters therein.

this concept piece has taken me two months of writing and pulling out my hair. if you've enjoyed reading, PLEASE leave me feedback and reblog!! I desperately want to hear what y'all think of this labor of love!! 🧡💛

The Witch Queen of Noss had sent two informants to your doorstep with gilded chests braced in their arms, and an enormous black carriage waited at the edge of your hermitage pulled by six lustrous, silvery-gold stallions.

“She has searched for one of your magical prowess with seemingly no end for many centuries now. She says that your magic has a different smell to it, chews differently on her teeth. There's grit to it, feels unrefined in her hands and cuts through her bloodstream. She says you've got that raw magic ability. She likes it and wants you as part of her council.”

Of the two informants—one man and one woman—the man was the only one who spoke throughout the encounter. Or, more appropriately, he was the only one capable of doing so. Since the woman’s face, previously pale, now glowed scarlet and her eyes watered. Her arms trembled as perspiration turned her hairline oily.

This was as opposed to the man, who stood with a straight, rigid back. Dry in the eyes and on the skin despite having the appearance of a malnourished beggar. One of the wretched trying to wedge his fat tongue down the slender necks of empty beer bottles for any residual taste.

He did not look like the sort to find employment in the Witch Queen’s house.

Then, you took a real good look at his eyes which were brown, bulbous, staring-back things with a faint black film spread across the exposed parts of the organ.

To those who could not see, he would have been mistaken as marked by wyrmwort spray for chasing ladies in the night, or yet another unfortunate diseased by plague. But, the appearance of it was far too thin and had spread too uniform across both eyes for it to be of natural causes.

“It's bad taste to possess your own subjects in hopes of influencing an outcome, don't you think?” You spoke in pitying tones, both for the man unlikely to have consented to the possession, and the Witch Queen who had already revealed her desperation to you. “A normal man swept off the streets wouldn't be able to describe magic as he had just now. You are old, but not wise.”

“Wisdom falters in the face of might. Those who are wise eventually wither and rot, and the world soon forgets them. But, might? Power? It creates mountains and canyons, the very stars in the sky. It leaves scars like fissures in the land, in the weak, and you are always remembered.”

The Witch Queen bobbed the man on translucent black threads of magic, which wound him in dissipating mist. She commanded his left arm to rise. It did so with the unnatural, jerky stiffness of a ball-jointed doll. He was gesturing to the woman struggling adjacent to him.

“I have searched far and wide for magic of your caliber. It is simply unfathomable to me that you have chosen to hide and squander it.”

You were no longer looking at the man, but at the woman trying to strategically balance the chest on one arm, while opening its great maw for you to see inside.

Gold and silver medallions spilled out of it, plinking on the flagstone walkway underfoot. Faceted gemstones in regal rings and dripping necklaces gleamed with pristine, polished finish. There were even chess pieces among the contents, crafted from ivory, eyes embellished with orange-pink sapphires.

This chest alone contained wealth far exceeding that which belonged to rural kings. It was enough to feed the entire ruined city of Rûregar in the northeast region for seasons. And yet, the Witch Queen wielded this bribe without shame, in the failing arms of this woman burning and sweating under the yellow beat of the midday sun.

“Why do you hide?” asked the Witch Queen in the man’s slow, imprecise rumble. “Such raw, delicious power. I will admit that had it not been for my knight, you may have stayed concealed. But, dragons are most intimate with magic. They know it so viscerally, sensually, even, that I used to find myself envious every time I looked at him.”

In your recent past before self-imposed isolation, you’d heard rumors of an abomination. The grotesque spawn from a human father and dragon mother, so the story was told. An imposing butcher arrayed in black iridescence. Armor made of dragonscale and adamantine, brandishing a massive blade made of the same stuff.

Some stories insisted upon his existence being one of restlessness and carnality. Seasons turned to decades of waiting and engaging in the most perverse acts; savage romps with both humans and beasts alike. For his bloodlust best stayed dormant that way, and he went unchecked by his Master until he stood center in the great orchestra of war, severing spines, bodies in half with a single sweep.

Other tales were whispered to you conspiratorially after some coaxing with free booze and attractive enchantments. The word was that the knight didn’t exist at all, that there was no body inside to pilot the heavy suit of armor. It was all illusory; a cunning, convincing lie perpetrated by the Witch Queen to hold her throne and residence in Noss.

But, you'd already seen through one of her tricks. You doubted that she could maintain an intricate ploy such as that for over a millennia.

“I hide because,” you paused, eyes cutting across the man’s shoulder towards the black carriage when you caught movement around it belonging neither to the stamping stallions nor to the frazzled coachman trying to wrestle them into submission by cracking the reins. “I hide because there is nothing interesting and I am bored. I spend my days enchanting the soil and watching flowers grow. I change the color of waterfalls, and I gossip with the birds in exchange for seeds. My rice is plentiful and I always have wine to pour. My bed is the most comfortable place to exist in any realm.”

The Witch Queen reciprocated such ordinary sentimentality by using the man’s arms to open the second chest, revealing to you fresh, honeyed overabundance in the shape of a toppling mound of fig fruit.

Your curiosity pushed you to take one in each hand, mentally measuring their weight and studying their magenta roundness. You relished their succulent sweet, woody aroma when you pressed them under your nose. And, when she told you to eat them, you did so by sinking your teeth into both, alternating your bites between them.

They tasted of nostalgic summertimes carried on a balmy breeze. Each bite into the figs was decadent and pulpy with pale pink nectar overflowing the impressions your teeth left behind in its soft purple flesh. It was the most delicious thing you'd ever tasted.

“You should feel honored. Fruit from my orchard is forbidden. It receives all of my love that cannot be given unto others. I have grown my fig fruit from seedlings in enchanted soils, and quenched them in elixirs of life. My magic dwells within the orchard, in the air and all of the trees. It is a soft susurrus through the leaves and grass. It ripens my figs and allows me to keep my throne and my vitality. Noss shall never see another queen.”

“Where is your magic?” You did not taste it in the fig fruit in your hands, nor in others that you grabbed out of the chest and ripped with your teeth. Suddenly, you were captivated by the thought of the Witch Queen’s power being within you.

Would it chew like pork fat between your teeth, or lay across your tongue like thick oil, or snap and fizzle against your cheeks until they reddened raw and bled?

You ground another mouthful into watery mince. Let it slide down the back of your throat. “Where is it? Your magic. Where is it?”

“It waits for you.” She answered through the man, whose voice was starting to crack and unravel. The cords in his throat pulled taut, strained as though played across with the bow of a stringed instrument. His leaning house of bones had started sagging more left, and the skin under his eyes drooped like red sandbags. His eyes were slowly receding into the back of his head. “Come to Noss. Come to Noss. Come to me. Come to me. Come to me and taste my orchard. Lysander will guide you.”

You were fast to sidestep from the spilled chest of figs and the sinking body of bones and shriveling innards. Closer to the fatigued woman who'd fallen to her knees on the scorching flagstone walkway.

The chest she still clutched was so heavy that it pinned her folded legs to the stone, melting the flesh off her shins, and the polished brilliance of the gems and coins inside had burned her face and neck to stiff brown leather, and baked her eyes a blackened prune color.

“In their wickedness, they chose their own fates,” spoke a dour but potent voice from nearby. You'd been so fixated on the man rotting, deflating within his own skin-suit, and the woman dying on her knees, that you hadn't seen the Witch Queen's Knight approach. “The man was a violent thief. He had burglarized a merchant’s wagon and killed the merchant. Done far worse to the merchant’s young daughters. In the mind of the Witch Queen, there exists no death that she’d find satisfying. He did not always look so humble. She made it so.”

“And the woman?” you asked, queasily.

“Aye, that one was part of the Sisterhood of Gosha. They wish to usurp the Witch Queen by placing an imposter on the throne in her place. Skilled assassins, spies, politicians. Their sbires hide in ordinary faces. We must be wary of all: mothers with infants, beggars, and embroiderers. Even the young girls with flowers in their hair. Now that they know you have the Witch Queen’s favor, they will be coming for you.”

You moved back as he came forward, leaning down with his enormous mass to offer the armored bulk of his arm. “Come along, I will be ensuring your safe travel at the behest of the Witch Queen. I am Lysander, the Knight of Noss.”

The knight anchored himself like that for a long time as you refused to touch him.

He was an abnormal creature: immense in size, his precise silhouette concealed by his invulnerable black armor, but you could see his shape was not entirely human. The length of one of his arms was more than half of your whole body, and at his full height, you expected you'd only ever see the point of his broad chest that began to concave, narrow into a long waist wrapped in cloth and dragonscale.

You became flustered the moment you realized you would not be rewarded with a glimpse of the monster underneath, as there were no revealing gaps in his armor, which was all jarring angles and ungentleness. No war-worn chips or missing fragments, tears in the breathable fabric against the bend of his elbow, or under his helmet.

And, it was his helmet that you found most fascinating of all.

A heavy, sharp design with flattened protrusions pushed towards the back of his head like wings on a bird. The adamantine and dragonscale had been pounded smooth and pinched in the front. There was only a narrow slit across the eyes for him to see out of, and six or seven long, symmetrical vents set along a hinged jaw piece for him to breathe through unless he lifted it.

You wondered what you would see underneath the helmet and emboldened yourself to reach for it. He winced away only when the hinges made a screeching sound of unuse, not as your sticky fingers padded along the piece and raised it far enough to see a dark, textured chin.

“Do you know no fear?” Lysander hesitated to show you his arm again to help you across the thick sea of boiling red-brown flesh and entrails. “You've heard the stories, haven't you? You mustn’t be so brave in my presence.”

If you stayed focused on him, then you would think less of the possibility of human rot sticking to the soles of your boots. A very wrong, gummy sensation that you expected would feel like being suctioned down into a mud pit after a long rain.

“So, it's true you're an abomination? Hideous and monstrous? An unfathomable union between man and she-dragon?”

“Aye. I am,” he said. “That and much worse. C’mere now. Come closer to me and raise your arms.”

Any closer and your toes would touch the bubbling mass crawling over the edges of your walkway, suffocating the fertile soil and grasses you'd painstakingly grown. That would be enough to make you scream, yet you held it in your chest, locked away behind your ribs.

Intrigued still, you asked him, “And it's true that you engage in every one of your carnal whims without second thought? With all kinds? Humans and beasts?”

“Aye. All of it.” He gave you no pleasure or disgust in his response, speaking in a way that sounded manufactured. Unthinking. Detached. “I am insatiable. My carnal lust and my bloodlust. Now, do not tempt me with either. Come my way.”

“And,” you instigated further, enjoying harassing him, “It’s true that it was you who led the Witch Queen here to disturb my peace? You are the Witch Queen’s whore?”

This gave Lysander pause, his adamantine face gazing down at yours. The slits scored into his helmet perpetuated all of the malice he claimed was factual. But, within the shadows inside his helmet, you thought you heard something click and grind—not metal or scales, but his jaw.

“Aye. Truly, I am deserving of your abhorrence. It was I who infringed upon your sacred place as asked of me by the Witch Queen. My dragon half never knows rest and the pull of magic, no matter how small, is ruthless to me and my mind. Your skill is tremendous, but your magic is more so. There were cracks in your enchantment. Magic overflow that slipped free and found me, grasped me, and led me to you.”

More curious than aggravated after his confession, you were docile when he finally took you away from the human puddles and figs wrinkling in the sunlight. He had reached across it all and plucked you up with one arm around your waist before then situating you in both, cradling you in a way that was not unkind, but certainly foreign to him.

“I’m not diseased. Don't drop me.” Afraid that he would, you stayed still and shrank yourself in his arms so as to not brush his scorching armor.

He moved with surprising swiftness for his size, smooth enough that the sound of his armor did not crash through the conversation and distract you. “Have you seen the Witch Queen’s orchard? Is it as ripe with magic as she says it is?”

“It is a powerful place. Invigorating. Raw. Her magic is leached into the soil and is a part of everything. It goes unchecked,” he said, adding nothing else on the matter.

You were settled back on your feet by the edge of your flagstone walkway, right in front of the black carriage’s open door. Its interior was as wholly dark as its exterior and lightless, except for what wan sunshine could slither in through gaps beneath the heavy curtains hanging across the windows.

Lysander’s mass thwarted your view of your doorstep and the informant's amalgam of liquefied parts drying, stiffening, and cracking on the hot stone. You thought about what red-brown clay looked like when it was spread out and left to bake in the sun. It was easier to imagine that was the reality that you would be leaving behind, and what you'd sweep clean with a broom once you returned.

“Inside. We've got a long way to Noss.” He made a gesture over your head with the tip of his chin to the carriage's wide mouth leading into nothing but shining satin seats and floorboards of exquisite deep color that you feared would cut your legs off at the shins.

The air inside was cold against your back, serpentine; invisible coils that caressed your neck and huddled close to your spine through your robes as though trying to steal your warmth for itself.

“And, if I decided I don't want to go? Would you stop me?” you asked.

Lysander’s armor made an awful ruckus as he hinged forward, leveling his helmeted face with yours. You stared through the narrow slot for his eyes with intention and felt your neck hairs rise as two gleaming purple things looked out at you.

“Aye. There is no turning back now. Get inside.”

────────────────────────

Two fortnights into your travels, the Sisterhood of Gosha remained such a perpetrator of evil in Lysander's mind that it was seldom you experienced true rest. His paranoid particularities were most prevalent when it came to indoor accommodations as opposed to lying on cold, dewy grass beneath a backdrop of black-blue sky. Starless. Unending.

He was comfortable with his body open to the great expanse of the world because, in those amazing spaces, he knew he would always prevail. None other than his own kin and formidable magicians could fell him. And yet, now more frequently than ever, he was misplaced—landing in slanted wood buildings filled with small things and far too many windows.

Those things haunted him so terribly that he started encroaching on your privacy by barging into your lodging at all hours, claiming that walls and windows and doors created cramped spaces that made it easier for all the wrong sorts to hide. Imagined wretches, shapeless and malleable in shadows, molded into every little crevice that he could not maneuver.

Often, for this very reason, he would remove furniture from whichever room you chose to occupy. He abandoned them in the corridors for the staff to shove against walls so other guests could get around.

It left you with slim arrangements for sitting and eating. Fortunately, he came with enough sense about him to leave the beds alone, but windows must be locked at all times, and you were not allowed a room with doors leading to adjoining rooms.

One night, while staring out an open window at a blackbird roosting on a rooftop nearby, waiting for the maid assigned to boiling water to fill your bathtub, you thought about defying Lysander and just how strongly palatable an urge it was.

Paltry retaliation that held your stomach in unseeable hands, twisting it around into some awful mass. When the feeling started to subside, your stomach was placed center in those faced-up palms mockingly—a reminder that you could feel things beyond deep relaxation and deep boredom. You were only human.

The maid emerged from the corner after she'd emptied her bucketfuls into the tub, filling your room with pale steam. Wispy stuff that smothered your nostrils in wet heat, gave your skin a greasy shine. It moved swiftly towards the window and fogged the cool glass opaque gray as it passed straight through into the night air.

“Ah, this is no good. You could catch a cold. I will close it for you once you're in the bath,” said the maid, who then spun away with mechanical stiffness upon noticing you unfastening buttons and removing clothing. “I—pardon me. If you'd like to get comfortable—”

“The window is fine as is.”

Such a frank refusal was met by the maid lightly pacing in place, long skirts fluttering and winding her ankles. “My apologies, but the knight would disagree with you. It was difficult for the owner to convince him to let me even see the inside of this room to fill your tub. I fear what he may do if I do not…”

The longer you listened to this madness, the more desperate you were to disobey Lysander. In your hermitage, you’d gorged on absolute freedom as if it too had been in endless supply like your wine and rice, forgetting that the world beyond your barrier could not be as ungovernable as you were.

“Lie to him then, if it's something that bothers you so much,” you told her. It seemed so inconsequential to you, but the maid’s entire body jerked with emotion, the intention to turn around to look you in the face.

She did not, likely thinking of how close you were to full nudity at that point. “I—did you not hear that I'm afraid of him? We all are. We do not want to wear away his patience.”

“Then, tell him I've kicked you out before you could close the window. Surely it's easier to ask for forgiveness for something you weren't given the opportunity to do.”

This pacified her, albeit poorly, as she continued to fidget as though she'd forgotten how to do anything else. Her acquired silence were moments spent conjuring up ways to challenge you more on the matter, whereas you used it to search the endless depths of pocket space on your robes until you found what you were looking for.

A very generous nugget of gold was placed at her eyeline and at first, when she gasped, you thought it’d been more of a throaty scoff of affront. But, then, she snatched it from your hand, examined it closely, tried to magnify imperfections and falsities in it with just the twitching wet globes in her head.

She would find none because you'd been careful. It had taken you hours to transmutate it from an oddly shaped stone you'd found while urinating behind thorned brush just off the main road where the Witch Queen’s carriage traveled, into the smooth, glowing prize that it was now.

“Is—is this real?” asked the maid.

“Of course it is. I made it myself,” you said.

The maid tucked the gold into her apron, curtsied in the wrong direction, and hurried from your room. You tracked the swift patter of her feet across the floorboards until they faded, intermingling with all the rest of the sounds permeating the inn.

That calming, faraway ambiance was as fast to fracture as your respite was, however. From down the hall, metal scraped and rattled and approached your door quickly. You were fully unclothed, having gradually added each piece into a neat stack set aside, and gathered bathing soaps and balms and fragrances to take with you into the water. You dropped those on the floor and darted across the room.

You envisioned the Knight's neck slanted, pressed to his shoulder within the confines of his armor as he strided to your door, as most establishments never anticipate having to accommodate dragons or creatures larger than orcs.

You yanked the linens off your bed and wrapped yourself in them just as he opened the door.

He took in the unusually revealing sight, not moving for a long time. Some of your lasting uncertainties about him went away that night, while new ones surfaced.

How humorous was it that the Knight of Noss could be disoriented by a meager state of undress?

How concerning was it now that he truly knew you existed?

He could no longer starkly ascribe you as ‘the disgruntled magician’. No longer were you just the robes you wore. You were all asymmetry, gooseflesh, shedding hair, and tough calluses from years of wandering hard terrains in the same boots.

Your utter humanness in that moment of stillness had softened you to him, even with your dour expression and acerbic tongue.

“Some knight you are.” If you couldn't crack his armor, you wished to do so to his pride. You weren't malicious by nature, but embarrassment and unknowable things made your skin itch and bittered your mood. “Out of here, fool!”

“Allow me to intrude for a moment. I'll check now before you bathe.” He said this somewhat laboriously, as if suddenly struck through the back, winded by surprise and pain. “Step aside.”

You dragged layers of linen with you to the door and stood in his way. “No. You intrude too much. I went into isolation because people intrude too much and want too much. Begone, Knight.”

“Will you check the windows yourself tonight, then? You've got more to worry about than just thieves and cats getting inside. Open windows while you sleep thins the veil between our realm and others.”

When you pushed him out with half the weight of your body against the door, he went willingly into the hall with its low ceiling and compact walls. The sight of his armored mass in the incommodious space, tight and bent like items crammed inside a box, made you claustrophobic.

“That’s just old superstition,” you said.

“Aye. That it may be, but all superstition stems from a single truth. And visitors in the night coming through open windows is no superstition.” There was no denying he was right in saying that, but even so, you would not give him pleasure by letting him back inside. “It's a meager thing I'm askin’ of you.”

“Fine. I'll be sure to check them.”

Had Lysander been a true dragon without the innate patience and good-naturedness of his human blood, your flippant response would've been perceived much differently. An egregious act of disrespect to a superior being, of which dragons largely believed that they were. But, for all of the harsh edges of adamantine and dragonscale he wore, and his precise, guttural intonations which always made your chest quiver, he was remarkably even-tempered.

At first, when he did not immediately go away, staying hunched over in that strange wadded shape of black iridescent protrusions and looking straight at you through the slit in his helmet, you thought you'd finally agitated him inside that suit. Yet, as the moments passed without change, you grew increasingly aware of the scratchy linen against your bare skin and warmth reaching up your neck.

He could've been admiring your frame drowned in heaps of fabric, or observing the soft, swaying glow on your shoulders from nearby candlelight. If the grotesque stories about his unappeasable lust were to be believed, surely the opportune silence was his sizing you up, comparing you to his past conquests.

The most despicable part of leaving your isolation was all the wondering you did now. When before you'd been kept far too busy by vicious snapdragons in the garden and birds gossiping on a branch overhead about the baker’s wife and his cousin.

But, once you thought of the Witch Queen’s succulent figs, and the magic you’d been promised a taste of, suddenly your focus returned. Everything else was mediocre.

Lysander could think of you however he pleased.

“Goodnight,” you told him.

“Ah,” he livened at your voice, “aye. Goodnight.”

Afterwards, you discovered the bathwater to be lukewarm and beyond the possibility of enjoyment, but scrubbed yourself clean with soap and coarse sugar anyway. You let your hair halfway dry by leaning back in a chair, head tipped out the window to catch the nighttime breeze. It moved lethargically, cradling your scalp with cool fingers and flicked pearls of water dangling off strands back onto your face.

When you had tired of that, you left the window alone, enticed into doing so by lasting threads of defiance. You snuffed out candlelight and laid wide awake under the prickly linens for a short while.

Light feet shuffled down the hall. The smooth undersides of their leathery soles were an effortless glide across the floor boards. Explosive laughter pushed through cracks in the walls and the gap under your door, reaching you from across the inn where the guests inclined to nighttime wakefulness congregated in the common room. Its carefree nature, buoyant in the way of a life loved and well-worn despite hardship was contagious.

You smiled.

Outside, a beggar serenaded the moon peacefully, uncaring of just how badly he truly sounded. A bird startled from a high place close by and took flight. Meanwhile, in some distant alleyway, tomcats yowled and fought, and would likely die fighting. You closed your eyes.

The next time you opened them, you were not in your bed at the inn.

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Hunsiya was the name your captor gave you though you hadn’t asked for it, mere moments after rousing into some state of wakefulness. Your face and tongue were swollen from having been slouched across your thighs for an indeterminate period of time, nose heavy with pressure, hands anchored behind your back by glowing gold twine that pulsed with enchanted heat.

You could feel the magic coming off of it and rolling around the dim room where you were held hostage in. It permeated the space with smothering density, swathing you in prickly warmth and cold like a coat made of sanded down briars. The downy hairs on the back of your neck stood up; tiny spines, for magic of this magnitude could only mean there were many magicians present within the Sisterhood of Gosha, and you hungered for what they had.

“Mortal magic eaters are an impossibility, and yet, here you sit before me! Terrifying!” Hunsiya pierced a chunk of rare meat with her fork, raising it up, a toast you didn't reciprocate. “It was worth us waiting to catch you, because you did all the hard work for us, didn't you? Letting us right in and commanding a dragon. Not an easy task, my friend.”

She had removed your bonds and led you to a different room. Bursts of orange lantern light made it bright, forcing you to blink rapidly as your eyes reddened and watered in an effort to acclimate. You were situated in another chair. Lush cushioning pulled you deep into luxurious softness that molded your thighs and gripped them unrelentingly. Strongly scented wood polish lifted off the armrests as your fingertips moved across their silky luster.

Your stomach pressed lightly into the edge of a long table with a sumptuous feast stretched across it. Hunsiya only had to make a stately gesture with her arm across the table for you to fill the empty plate in front of you with as many delicacies as you could.

Tender meat dishes oozing blood and oil. Savory, herbal stews. Glazed, softened vegetables. Thick sauces in vessels with pinched spouts. Fruit desserts arranged like tiny islands in bowls surrounded by oceans of hot, caramel-colored syrups. Everything that could go into your mouth without coming back out, did.

Hunsiya watched appraisingly as you gorged. The twirling fork between her fingers told you there were things she wanted to say, thoughts important to investigate, but would doubtlessly mean less than nothing to you if she spoke of difficult things too soon.

So, she bided her time by asking trifling questions to which you only gave half-answers or simply swished your head in response. Once your consumption slowed to pretty cuts, thoughtful shapes in the fruit dessert, lapping at thin layers of syrup on the back of your sterling spoon, her verbal onslaught began.

“The Sisterhood of Gosha wants to dethrone the Witch Queen. But, we want to do this discreetly, without it being known to the city or her council. We will remove her and have one of our own replace her. All this you already know,” she proclaimed, “but, we will have you help us do this.”

Her words were forceful, stacked with ruthless confidence; fearlessness that could've only belonged to someone whom others believed was untouchable.

You knew her type: affable leaders with pitch black hearts and slippery intentions that never truly included the people they'd claimed to love. They embraced and kissed tear-stained cheeks soothingly before sending them away to their deaths. Later, these autocrats sat upon their thrones, which were erected upon a foundation of discarded loyalty and bones.

“I have no interest in that. Why not threaten to kill me instead?” you asked, now drawing lines through the cooling sauces with a blunt knife, watching the viscous stuff slowly ooze back into place.

Hunsiya smiled. “Because even I'm not foolish enough to believe that'd get me anywhere. You magic eaters are walking, living, breathing bombs.” She leaned back in her seat to observe your etching, saying after a time, “What if I told you I could guarantee you a way into the Witch Queen’s orchard?”

Your skillful motions in the sauce ceased. “She's already promised me the fig fruit from her orchard.”

“A promise is so hollow, my friend,” Hunsiya insisted with crinkling, deep-set eyes the color of aged honey. Many wrinkles appeared, creating uneven terrain above her cheekbones. The lines in her face were beautiful, disarming and alluring, but not in the least bit kind.

“A promise doesn't mean anything to a person who sees no value in it. A guarantee, though? That has tax. It has weight. A guarantee means that there is work to be done and there's a reward at the end of it. People are much more inclined towards rewards than maybes and promises.”

After such a large meal, you were growing drowsy and distracted. The only thing keeping you awake was no longer having a bed to lay in (you even craved the scratchy linens), and the thought of the Witch Queen’s magic on your tongue being oddly stimulating.

“Perhaps,” you relented begrudgingly, dragging each part of the word in a listless slur. “What does your ‘guarantee’ entail?”

“Nothing too difficult. You're almost there already. You need to claim absolute loyalty from the Witch Queen’s Knight.” Hunsiya said. “Who else better to inadvertently orchestrate the fall of a sovereign than her own servant? Who else better to help you into the orchard than someone who already knows it intimately?”

What foul and underwhelming logic.

It was a further notch in your motivation to end this expedition quickly and return home to your hermitage. You missed the roaring waterfalls with their colorful froth, the news from nearby towns carried by chirruping birds with roundabout ways of saying things, the carnivorous plants in your flower beds bristling at the sight of you nearing with shears to snip their thorns so they'd be more docile and only feed on rodents.

You'd only been away for a short time, but your mind reconstructed the snug shelter where you had lived for countless days.

Inside, you imagined a sheer layer of grime settling across all your things like ugly pale gray-brown organza: tabletops, chairs, bedsheets, and the bath towels with long, wooly naps that left behind handprints when you touched them. You'd have to vigorously scrub every surface, lovingly polish dust off of shelves of baubles and tomes, summon the wind within your walls to push the motes of dirt and time out.

But then, you always recalled the taste of the Witch Queen’s figs; their ambrosial sensations. The smooth, tender flesh splitting against your teeth as succulent nectar seeped into your mouth, spreading numbness across your tongue when the fruit’s overbearing sweetness made your cheeks tingle and pucker.

More than the fruit itself, you wished to sink your teeth into her magic and meld it into oneness with you. Absorb it. Consume.

Consume.

Consume…

“After tonight, he sees you differently. He no longer can witness you as his queen’s newest procurement. Now, you are substance. You are his longing. His painful yearning. He would lay with you if you allowed it.” Hunsiya was impatient, her voice a thunderous demand for obedience. “What I am saying is that he is more than willing to give into your every whim.”

“Dragons are unfalteringly loyal to those that they choose,” you argued. “Even if what you say is true, what he may now think of me doesn't compare to the millenia he's devoted to the Witch Queen.”

Hunsiya’s smile was vulpine; long and cunning in a way of a woman with secrets that you did not know. It sent heat to your head, behind your eyes, into the fingertips busy pounding out a rhythm on the tabletop.

“Fine, then.” You'd entertain her for a while longer. To sedate your annoyance, you reached far onto the table to pluck a handful of glistening, pinkish grapes from the bushel in a woven basket. You ate three. “You're telling me to seduce the loathsome Knight of Noss. How do you propose I go about doing such a thing?”

“Imagine a creature that's never known freedom a day in its life. It knows no existence outside of its cage of expectations and bonds it cannot see nor overcome on its own. What do you think would happen to the creature should it suddenly gain freedom?” asked Hunsiya, now leaning forward on her elbows, over a spot on the table cleaned of dishware and crumbs. “Think about it.”

“I don't need to,” you sipped water from a silver goblet which looked tarnished in the orange lantern light. “Your theory: an imprisoned creature that has never known freedom would go insane should it spontaneously gain freedom. Or, if it's a cute little dog, it’d just die in the wild. But, I suspect you're not talking about a dog.”

“Indeed.” Hunsiya stayed in her huddled shape of elbows and hands, head sideways to contemplate you. “The Knight of Noss is bound to his queen only because she makes it so. You're a magic eater. You've smelled it. You've seen it. The Witch Queen's magic that binds him. Yes, yes, I know you've seen it. And you can break it.”

Of course you'd seen it.

The magic that the Witch Queen used to bind Lysander was unlike what she had used to possess the melted man and the burned spy from the sisterhood.

Magic had a taste and what she had forced upon them was rancid and dead. A nauseating odor which spread through your nose and climbed down the back of your throat, clinging and throbbing like something alive, something infectious and vile. It was necromancy defiled by the lich and wayward magicians who'd sold their goodness in pursuit of something more.

Lysander's curse was that he was a bastard and his humanness could not eclipse the might of the Witch Queen's greed to keep him. She had wisely imprisoned the magical birthright his dragon blood gave him, thus, all he knew was colossal strength and the turmoil of a human heart.

In that way, you pitied him and his existence. You'd thought it the day he had approached you, carrying his burdensome armor and sword and the thick chains of hot white magic that had flickered in and out of existence before your eyes, descending from an empty sky. You wondered if he knew you could see them.

“It is unlikely that he is aware you're a magic eater, nor that his queen’s intentions are not so benign as simply keeping you as a trophy, and yet”—she gave you a derisive sneer— “you’re willingly walking to your doom. You know this, you just cannot resist temptation, can you?”

She found triumph in your silence and went on, “Dragons may be masters of natural magic, but he is no true dragon. He is impressionable, unsure of who he is if he is not a weapon. An enslaved butcher.”

“Free him.” Suddenly earnest, she thudded interlaced hands down onto the table, sending a ripple shuddering through silverware and plates and bowls across the table, up into your arms. “Free the Knight of Noss of the Witch Queen's hold. Do it slowly. Do it wisely. A dragon is most loyal to those who are most loyal to them.”

And, before you could speak your part, the spacious eating room swelled with ragged fluttering that you'd initially thought to be numerous coarse coats being shaken out behind you.

When you looked around, there were dozens upon dozens of blackbirds perched throughout the room, materialized from nowhere and reeking of magic. Their talons grabbed onto and into any surfaces they could find, wings twitching violently as if preparing to take flight, beady eyes aglow in orange light and focused intention.

The moment you sprung upright, knocking over your chair with the back of your legs, hands raised for invocation, the blackbirds surged at you in a hellish cacophony of shrill squawks and flapping wings. Your hands shrank against your head instead, protecting your face from their wind, their claws, as they encircled you, never making contact.

Through gaps in their wingspan, you watched Hunsiya slowly rise from her seat, smiling as though she were seeing off a cherished friend. Her fingers fluttered farewell through the small, moving apertures. Just then, the darkness of the birds and their shrieks closed in, encasing you in their strange smell of stale barnyard hay and uprooted greenery and soil.

Then, there was nothing.

Just as quickly as they had arrived to take you away from the feast and your comfortable chair, they hissed out existence just like a distant, dissipating mirage rising off of hot stone. What had remained of their magical essence was then carried off on the tails of an inky night breeze.

Although this region was in its ripest and hottest season of the year, the air billowing beneath your thin bed clothes made you shiver. You were exposed to the depths of the yawning streets of this nondescript town, lifting your bare toes off of the cobblestone road so they wouldn't freeze. Distantly, and then suddenly close by, you listened to heavy clatters charge through the nighttime veil with swift, monstrous strides.

It was like the earth shook and bent to the ruckus. These wild, fraught vibrations that made your bones ache. Only once he was standing still did that feeling subside.

“You! Where have you been?!” His wrath carried as far and as loud as his armor.

The birds had delivered you to the knight.

“I smell them on you! I smell the sisterhood’s wickedness on you! They stole you away just as I thought that they would. What have they done to you?” Lysander lowered his helmeted face to level to your own, voice dire and taut. “Speak! Your window was wide open and there was nary a thing in your bed except a single blackbird feather. I knew it, then. They came for you.”

You licked your lips. They had dried during your fast flight through the wind and cold, as brief as it was. A delicate sweetness lingered in the corner seams from the fruit desserts; the sticky syrups. “I—yes, I think they did. Maybe they did. I can't be certain.”

“Where did they take you?” he asked.

You tried to act in a way that made it seem as though your thoughts had been left askew, troubling you deeply, “Somewhere dark. Somewhere dank and foul and frightful. I was tied to a chair. I don't remember anything else. Now I'm here, with you.”

“Vile wenches!” he sympathized, perhaps so riled by the brazenness of the sisterhood that he wouldn't think of you anymore, despite remaining at eyeline with you. “There is no end to their evil, their depravity, their obsession to claim Noss for themselves. Those worshippers of a whore goddess!”

You instigated, “Gosha is disgraced.”

“Aye, a fallen goddess,” he agreed. “Mother of harlots.”

Then, he stilled like a forward-facing statue overlooking a wide garden, staring deeply into you, seeing you just as he had mere hours ago: vulnerable and nearly bear.

It was dreadful when he spoke again because his malice had detached from him like a scab. Beneath his vanished fury was an otherworldly patience, gentleness of a kind that couldn't survive in a world like this, much less what you deserved.

“Did you leave the window open?”

Your heart thudded in your chest, a sensation simultaneously unfelt, yet weakening as guilt deluged and rushed you bodywide. It hurt. It did things of its own volition: mimic the pulse in your neck, force a stone down your throat, and push all the blood in your body into your head to make it sweat and throb.

“Are you mad?” This voice was unfamiliar, but it was your own. You loathed its apologetic quietness. You hated him for luring more humanity out of you.

“Aye,” he said with his newfound softness still remaining. He added, “Verily.”

You replied, “I'm sorry,” and only meant it halfway, for what you were about to do was arguably heinous. You knew no remorse when it came to the need of magical satiety, which was something only the Witch Queen’s orchard could give you now.

Lysander was cold in your arms as you reached around the entire bulk of his head, the tips of your fingers unable to fully interlock. The protrusions on his helmet made for a precarious embrace, one which you kept as a featherlight touch in the event he grew to ire and tried to lash out by gouging you on the adamantine and dragonscale wings.

“Does nothing frighten you? What life have you lived to be so unafraid of all that I am?” He sounded stricken, winded by something unseen. Irritation led into confusion settling on the fringes of his words. “Your bravery is in a dangerous place. Have you forgotten the abomination and devil that I am? Have you so easily forgotten my bloodlust? My carnal desires? That neither human nor beast are spared of me when I choose it?”

You kissed his cool forehead, making a sound against the armor before returning to his level and pressing your lips to the hinged jaw piece. He was sure to feel the fog of your warm breath through the scored vents, swirling slow and seductive around his face, perhaps still tinged with the aftermath of your exorbitant meal.

“Is this the same mind that left the window wide open in spite of my warning? If so, I fear for what will become of you. You don't know what you're doing.” He declared, saying this only so he wouldn't be confronted with the revealing silence.

“If you're so fearsome, then push me away. I'll never touch you again,” you said. “We’ll travel the rest of the way to Noss without a word. You'll send me off to your queen, and you’ll be rid of me. Sounds convenient, right? So, push me away.”

He didn't.

Instead, Lysander enfolded you in his arms, pulling you high onto your toes, and against the less perilous points on his armor. He was aware of this threat because he held you self-consciously; close enough to feel the heat of a fire while fearful of it burning him.

For you, the proximity was exhilarating in the way of explorers who sometimes lose their minds to euphoria when they find something no one else has.

For you, this indicated that there were no obstacles barring you from the Witch Queen’s sinful fruits, as the one thing that could've stopped you was holding you flush to his chest of ice and cradling the back of your head with a leathery hand. The claws of his gauntlet were a light scratch on your scalp, but their weight was an anchor straining every muscle in your neck.

He pulled your face into him, into the deeper dark of his mass as the hinges on his helmet let out their shrill outcry of nonuse, and kissed you. It was a fervent moment where his lips roamed yours top to bottom, pressing the corners and the nooks where syrupy residue stuck before letting out quivering breaths against your mouth to diffuse his excitement.

Lysander was up against the halves of himself, both radical tormentors that craved to split him into separate parts so that they may become a whole of themselves. His humanity was devastating, as it was what felt the most and desired so hopelessly to draw you in and never let go. His dragon blood was passionate, but it was wise and used to waiting for these fleeting morsels of good fortune which willed him to live on.

You let him kiss you through his turmoil while using this to your own advantage. Your fingertips moved inside his helmet and touched the skin of his jaw. The feel of it was unusual in that it did not mold or divot with human fleshiness, rather it was perfectly solid like a rough stone, tapering down into a fine chin lightly knocking your own.

The skin was craggy and heavily scarred with rounded, uniform indentations larger than the pads of your fingers could fit. Something had existed in place of these scars at one point, leaving behind disfiguring injuries and memories equally as torturous. His lips were of lesser toughness than his face, thick and slippery smooth with moisture from your breaths and saliva.

It was you who withdrew then, satisfied with the taste you’d given him and his yearning. He had little fear of being seen by you in this lightless hour, so he didn't immediately withdraw into his enormous adamantine husk by covering himself with the slotted vents.

“Forgive me, I should have resisted. I reacted poorly to your words, but I was not dishonest in what I did,” said Lysander with somber candor. Although he no longer held you in his arms, several of his long, leather-clad fingers wrapped your wrist in warmth. “It was wise of you to stop. When you touched me, it was… unlike anything I've ever known. You would've met my carnal lust, then, and I would not have thought anything of hurting you to fulfill myself.”

“You're pitiful, Lysander.”

They were harsh words spoken kindly. Arising from a place of knowing fear and desperation and profound loneliness so hollow that it leached away the joy of fuschia sunsets, of fresh spring afternoons laying arched with the hillside and smelling honeysuckle, of comforting oneness during gatherings at end week markets where young children wove flower stems in your hair and stuck them in the pockets of your robes.

You had once been part of that world before isolation, whereas it was a world he had never known—not with his servitude to the Witch Queen of Noss.

“Aye, I suppose that I am.”

Then, your eyes cut above his head as the Witch Queen’s bonds blinked into existence: bright yellow-white, interlinked holy halos descending from nothingness. The sheer number of them was what made the sight terrible, far more troubling from the first time you witnessed them.

The chains swayed, clinking into one another against a breeze somewhere faraway before abruptly yanking taut, looking like countless lashes of white light moving in unison. They gave Lysander a start, but he made no sound. His agony was discreet, indicated only by subtle metallic scuffing between armored fingertips as they writhed and soothed with his hand not holding your wrist.

For the Witch Queen to feel compelled to expend this much of her power to demand subservience meant that the magic Lysander had been endowed with was frightful at least.

“I don't blame you for your urges. You're half of a whole dragon, after all.” As you outstretched a hand into the sky, around one of the chains which glowed and pulsated and burned deliciously in your closed palm, you tried to remember the conversation from before. “My magic must not be easy for you to withstand.”

“Nay, what I confessed had nothing to do with your magic.” Lysander surrounded you in his fortress of jagged peaks and impenetrable dragonscale, just as he had before. “Your touch was burning—scorching me, even. I've never felt anything like it. That softness. Such gentleness. You did not touch my skin like someone cursed, like the abomination that I know that I am. I fear I will never feel it again.”

You hardly heard him over the sound of brittle magic shattering into airless black. Clusters of white burst apart over yours and Lysander's heads, flickering out of existence without landing; a false image; fatigued eyes tricked in this is unordinary hour. And then, the Witch Queen’s banshee screams echoed from somewhere far, far away.

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Skewered and halved blackbird remains followed the Witch Queen’s glossy black carriage like a funeral cortège. Some fell out of trees, wings flapping, bodies crumpling out of existence much the same way as burning paper wasting into crisp embers before ending as specks of ash. Magic exhausted. Untraceable. Gone.

Lysander made an example out of the rest; the majority he had slain. Where they landed was where they stayed, turned into cold and unmoving parts of the landscape, making for an audacious trail leading right up to your bumper. This was a challenge he wanted, a chance to prove his malice, retaliate the embarrassment of being outwitted.

The result had been a terribly effective deterrent because in the weeks of traveling in broad daylight by way of the most worn paths, you hadn't seen another soul—human or otherwise. The chittering and scampering of animals dampened against a crescendo of silence, making a pleasant summertime breeze into a violent windstorm through the fluttering tree leaves of the forest, flanking either side of the carriage.

At some point, you had become familiar with the noisiness of the chassis underneath your feet. In particular, how the frame would quiver if one of the skinny wheels struck a craggy rock raised too far above the dirt and detritus, or one of those same wheels slipped out of the well-worn impressions left behind on the pathway by other carriages and wagons hauling special things.

You were often bored as Lysander preferred to stride alongside the carriage, door-side, superbly blocking your exit. It left you with little to do other than speak with him when he could tolerate it. Transmutate strange things you grabbed off the ground and hid within your bottomless pockets while urinating in the thicket and behind trees. The hard wear in the road made success nearly unachievable.

You'd even memorized what movements the silvery-gold stallions made to evoke wrath and whip from the coachman staring down at their backs from his high wooden perch.

Once or twice, you'd been irritated enough by the cruelty and echoing crack of the whip in the sky that you raised roots on the path ahead to catch every wheel so, when they were caught in the thick, wriggling greenery, the carriage would lurch violently and propel the coachman into the throng of horses below.

They were no ordinary horses either, as their ethereal glow and intelligent eyes indicated they'd once carried gods and goddesses on their backs and ate golden apples from orchards across the cosmos. But, they'd been defiled by the Witch Queen’s magic centuries ago and now they were here: bright as the sun and proud, helpless to defy the magic which confined them to this fate.

In return for your kindness, the horses were as watchful over you as Lysander was. They allowed you to stroke their long, lustrous faces and untangle their silvery manes with your fingers until you could let the hairs fall away like threads of tinsel. Sometimes they fell asleep like that, heads hung low, ears flattened outward.

“You've made a great ally in them,” said Lysander one evening. A fire was already going nearby with the bruised and battered coachman huddled next to it, silent and seething as always. You were sitting far away from the flames, outside of reach of the ring of orange, pulsing light when the knight approached.

He held something small and black and dripping in one of his hands before tossing it aside into the brush. Your eyes followed, spotting its landing and rustling among the briars and thick shrubbery, resembling nothing but a shuddering mass in the dark.

“The stallions, you mean?” you waited for the bush to stop shaking before looking away. Lysander had come to join you where you sat on a large boulder, armor grinding as it turned into a typical wadded shape when he crouched low and hunched between his thighs. You never thought he looked comfortable that way. “They were once steeds of the heavens and now they're enslaved by the Witch Queen's magic in much the same way as you are, you know? How could I not be moved to do something for them? Revenge is warranted by things held against their will.”

“Do you pity them as you do me?” he asked.

You leaned across your legs to be nearer to his helmeted face, hoping against futility that, perhaps, you'd discern a pair of gleaming amethysts through all of the shadows. When you did not, you settled into that arched posture, lightly touching across the hinged jaw piece with your fingertips. He no longer stirred when you did this, desensitized to the disbelief that no creature in possession of their own mind would dare to.

“Right now, I'm thinking more about how you're on the verge of wiping out local blackbird populations,” you quipped, but you were worried that it was true. “Leave them, Lysander. The birds are innocent, and even the birds made of magic are at the mercy of their conjurer.”

“Aye, that may be, but do not forget that the Sisterhood of Gosha stole you from your bed in the dead of night. It had taken a single moment of poor judgment for them to do so.” He pressed his face forward against your fingers, as though relishing the thought that your warmth could reach him that way. “Birds are inconspicuous. They are as much vermin as rats and rabbits. The sisterhood knows how to conceal their magic and when they contain it in creature's as small as birds—I cannot always distinguish a roosting blackbird from one exuding magic and malice. It troubles me.”

“That is largely in part due to the Witch Queen’s power over you. You know this.”

Whenever he would sigh, it made a muffled whistling sort of sound that no doubt ricocheted off the adamantine and dragonscale around his head. You imagined it would be a tiring thing to be hidden away inside a helmet, breathing fresh air through narrow slots, forgetting the softness of pillows and a bed partner’s bosom.

But, time passed and you realized that his helmet was as much of a boon for him as it was an obstacle to things he desired.

Inside of that blank space swelled in darkness, you had no way of knowing what expression he looked at you with right now—if he were even capable of maneuvering his tough skin into a grimace or a smile. You had no way of knowing how he’d looked at you after kissing you back then.

“The blackbirds,” he went on tersely, tearing into the quiet moment as easily as he did the poor creatures, “I can’t allow what happened then to happen again. I'll continue to ask for your forgiveness for such minor atrocities if it means you are safe.”

This was like him: roughly shifting conversation away from your prying to get him to divulge a true opinion about his enslaver. He seldom implicated the Witch Queen of evils she committed; how enmeshed she was in the entire fiber of his being. You supposed that if she was all he had ever known, even he himself could not comprehend the wickedness which still imprisoned him.

You fitted fingertips into the vents of his helmet, but your eyes were elsewhere now, up at the empty sky and the razored peaks of tall trees which seemed to grow inward, encircling you. It was as claustrophobic as when you witnessed Lysander bent sideways in manmade spaces. The Witch Queen’s halo of chains remained stubbornly, in numbers so many that it tired you to simply look at them.

Already, you'd destroyed countless but there were countless to go. Time had regained urgency only to belittle you, telling you that you would fail. Those long days from before felt squandered, lost to sultry summertime hazes with no relief and perfumed bathwater filling your head with sweltering fuzz.

You mourned what you should've done but didn't do. Considered solemnly that Lysander might have continued to live on unhappily, yet uncomplicatedly, if you had cast him away from your hermitage and never met him.

At Noss, it was expected that you would be destroyed once you were in the audience of the Witch Queen, for the humiliation you had caused her was unpardonable, no matter how prodigious her lust of you truly was.

You remembered before, when she had been so desperate as to be willing to entice you with a living organism—her forbidden orchard. It was her: breathing her magic, her essence tilled into the soil, her soul within the core of every luscious fruit on low-hanging branches. Her magic was at its apex in Noss, amplified by the orchard.

Your might would not overcome hers alone.

Was it worth it, then? To even hope for a morsel of her fragrant fruit, the magic weaving throughout toothsome meat, ripe flesh bright as jewels.

Was it worth it, still? To be weakened by insatiety because you were a magic eater; one of the most selfish entities to exist in any realm. If it meant a lick, a bite, a taste, a swallow, you were convinced that it would fulfill the savage hunger coiling inside of you like writhing parasites finding ecstasy after being without for so long. It made you fearless. It made things like suicide meaningless; inconsequential for the seconds of bliss before the endless shadow.

Yes, yes, you were exasperated and dismissive even within your own head. This will be my end, that I am certain. I will never see outside of Noss. I will never see my home again. Everything will keep gathering dust. Moths will eat my nice robes; they'll eat my tomes. My garden will rot and die. What a curse, what a shame. What a shame…

You flinched as Lysander’s cold claw, darker than the night itself, stroked the underside of your jaw. He drew your eyes back into his chasm, the hinges raised. They had been soundless this time, or you’d simply become unobservant of most things now that the world was unexciting.

“Are you unwell?” he asked, carefully pacing the words as though unsure of the sort of outcome they'd inspire. He wanted something and didn't know how to ask for it. “Speak. What's troublin’ you? Don't think I've ever seen you quite this way before.”

“It will all end soon,” you said, nebulously, without a trace of fear because your fate was ineluctable. A fish beating its fins upstream against the current only to become exhausted and be seized by the jaws of a bear. The starving rodent, obeying its very nature to seek out food and shelter, finds a house with crevices and pungent tidbits on a spring-loaded trap.

You were the fish, and you were the mouse. You threw yourself into the strong current, snuck into the drafty house with moldy daubs of food tucked away in a corner. It was innate. According to your own will.

But, you thrived in asking questions. That was all you could do. “What will happen once we arrive, Lysander? What will happen to me? To you?”

“I cannot say,” he admitted, “I do not know. My task will be complete once you are delivered to the Witch Queen's doorstep.”

He sighed in the oblivion of night, soul weary, but went on nonetheless, “You and I will be separated, and it will be the same as always for me. I will be sent away to wait until I am beckoned again. I will be dispatched to subjugate insurrections. I will waste hundreds, thousands more with my blade on the battlefield. I will see carnage and only myself still standing. I will see endless patrols in the darkness. I will see the four stone walls of my cell where I am kept. Nothing else. There will be nothing else for me.”

“And, that is what you want? To be separated? For there to be nothing else?”

To this, Lysander receded into his suit, into silence, as though confronted in a way he had never been before. You were pushing him to answer something difficult. Something foreign, selfish, disastrous.

“Nay,” was all he could bring himself to say.

You looked away again, up at the clattering chains, wondering if more of their numbers were obscured within themselves. The Witch Queen was aware of your intentions, gleaning from them that the Sisterhood of Gosha had reached you first, and she would not let you have the weapon she’d adroitly honed over a millennia so easily.

This was what magicians with power to flaunt did best: fought from hidden places with wit, tug-of-war over lesser things. There could never be a clear winner because these grudges spanned eternities; to the heavens and the underworld, along the misty galaxies dotting the cosmos.

But this was Lysander, he was not less nor was he other. The Witch Queen’s cleaver on the battlefield; the appalling Knight of Noss, and he was kissing you again.

You gave yourself to his passion; fragile, fraying restraint like time-worn threads on a garment. He pressed your lips separately, then together, a rough sort of kneading that pinched, numbed, could've swallowed you if that's what he had in his mind to do.

Unlike times before, you didn't busy your hands on his face to map out his odd anatomy. It occupied too much space in your head to visualize, stole away your enjoyment in blind snatches. Whenever you did, you still searched for softness in his cheeks, as his unyielding flesh made him more dragon than human when you felt it. The patterned scars etched into his flesh were repulsive, abnormal, and doubtlessly still made him ache on the worst of days.

Lysander would never be willing to let you see his face because of them, this you understood now.

You reached for buttons to unfasten your robes. Neatness fell apart, layers glided down the slope of your shoulders with silky lightness despite their number, what great weight they should've been. Such boldness invited a whip of black breeze to lash your skin, your bare chest and abdomen. The shiver made you feel attractive, whittled you down into a small thing enclosed by his mass.

The dark felt protective; blending you seamlessly with its opaqueness, camouflaging you from everything but his eyes. Ones which saw you exposed to him. Invited him into you.

He was motionless. A tamed beast presented with raw slabs of crude meat still red and smelling of coins. It provoked innate temptation, both exhilarating and frightening because something needed to be done since it was there, but what would be the cost?

“I'll hurt you,” said Lysander in his gentlest rumble, out of true goodness and sincerity. “If I could, I'd always keep you this pristine and lovely. Unsullied by me, or anyone else.”

His cold leather hands touched your body and stayed nowhere for very long. It gave you a start, a shock down your spine whenever he moved for a different handful of your flesh, curve, and fat. The claws overhanging his gauntlet threatened subtly, but he was aware of them with everything that he did.

“Then, walk away, Lysander. You have that choice here. Possibly one of the few you've ever had, or ever will have.”

It was an awful thing to say.

It was meant to be.

“If you want things to stay the same as they've always been, I'll say nothing else. This will be forgotten. I'll even show you one of my magic tricks; wipe this moment from both our minds. I'll wipe the others as well. All that will be left is formality. Wouldn't that be wise for us in the short time we have left? Just say the word, I'll say my own, snap my fingers, and it'll be done. Simple. Harmless.”

Lysander stroked at you lightly like you were flames spitting at his fingertips, or pin-thin briars he was pulling without gloves. His helmeted face closed in on yours once again, his breaths long and hot; a dragon exhaling from the darkness of its sauna-like cavern.

“And what of the other choice?” His interest was half-hearted, genuine in moments of clarity. “There are always two options. Opposites of each other. What is the other?”

You shifted on the boulder where you sat, rested back on outstretched arms and open palms. The real stone under your hands was unlike Lysander's terrain, lifeless and bloodless. You much preferred the feeling of him.

Your nudity was displayed, posed for him, to lure him into a decision you both wanted. With your unclothed chest and fleshy stomach and hips peeking through heaps of fabric, you suggested defiance to him; something he wasn't supposed to do, but would because he chose it for himself.

“The other option is that you choose this, you choose me. And you would be doomed, Lysander.” Indubitably, it would be an unspeakable betrayal. This reclaim of ownership of a body to do with what he pleased. “Things will be changed. We will never be able to go back to how it was before. You will never be the same. You will never be forgiven.”

“Aye, I will be reproached. I will be disgraced, and doomed as I've ever been.” Then, his armored silhouette eclipsed the forest canopy above you. “So be it.”

Gone were the treetops sprawling explosively into starless skies. Treetops as skeletal spires seeming to reach oneness with the night. His enormous husk of ungentle edges and cold was far blacker, more imposing than the ancients, yet his touch spread warmth through you.

He kissed you fast and fleeting from within his sanctuary, and then under your jaw with an open mouth. Shuddering heat and wetness slowly made a descent along your neck, his teeth a glistening concept though not felt. As he explored you, molded the softness of you with his fingers and pinching claws, he found your utter humanness to be divine. The surreality of it stifled his exhilaration.

His lips smoothed across your chest where heat now rose to the surface of your skin. There he rested, seeking to leach it from you, meld it with himself completely, unbelieving that mere centimeters of bone and viscera separated him from your thudding heart. It knocked rhythmically against your house, could've been a clockmaker’s best work with how strongly it reverberated in his head, throbbed in your ears, propelled blood through all of your incomprehensibly tiny places.

A long tongue with some thickness emerged from his helmet, came out serpentine with winding eagerness. It was split severely, nearly halved, and those halves glided across your breasts in damp, lightweight strokes. They caressed the hard peaks of your nipples, made them so sensitive to his lips, the precise flicking of his tongue, that you moaned. Pushed at his adamantine forehead feebly and clenched your thighs for friction.

Your head bloomed with heat that moved, flowing like lava from behind your ears to nestle between your eyes. Barely a touch and you were already full of perversions, haughty courage, flickering urges pulling wool over your soundness, and you wanted things you'd forgotten were possible to be wanted.

Then, you spoke like you were outside of yourself; a spectator looking in on depravity, “I want to touch you. Show yourself to me, Lysander,” and you used a leg to rustle the heavy fabric and chainmail hanging down the front of him.

By then, he had plunged his face down to your stomach, sampled your bathing fragrances and brine produced from your sweat with his tongue. The halves of his tongue were wormlike, slippery, trying to delve below the robes which kept him from smelling you, tasting your arousal.

You wouldn't let him go further. He was at the mercy of your whims, your leg pestering him to hardness. Strain building behind layers.

“Right now, I know no other tormentor as beautiful and devilish as you. I feel weakened by you and your magic. Intoxicated. You're a trickster god come down to seduce me,” said Lysander, through raspy breaths and stones tumbling in his throat. While he thrust his hips against your thighs, he reached past his coverings, loosened them, and let his cock fall.

You were startled by the weight of it as he continued to hump you, insides awash with cold guilt, wrenching in anticipation for what was to come. This was not what you deserved to receive for your crookedness, but you would take it from him, regardless.

For now, your hunger was quiet. For now, you were distracted by his adoration. How he revered your body, your temple of mortality like it was something truly enviable and memorable.

Lysander’s heavy cock wept invisibly on your skin, unseen to you in the dark. The first strokes you laid on it were featherlight, experimenting, yet all the same coquettish and making his entire body flinch with feeling. A groan started within his chest, deep and resounding pleasure rising high in his throat. It diffused into warm, bestial hums so separated from anything human that it astonished you. Aroused you more.

You couldn't fully grasp his girth, not even partway. Only the head fit in your fingers; a silky, spearhead shape which pulsated, oozed sticky heat into your palm as you kneaded it, smeared the stuff around the large slit with your thumb.

The rest of him was unordinary and textured, harsh against your hand as you stroked his length. Flared segments grew severe at his thick base, unsharp ridges grabbed your skin with each pass, creating delicious resistance that earned you his praise with more thrumming; throaty purrs.

A being this substantial was never meant to be experienced by a human, even though he was half-bastard, and despite his unbelonging to either of his bloodlines. You speculated that he'd never been given the option to know any creature so intimately, not with how he shuddered within his jaggedy husk as your mouth sucked the head of his cock, swirling saliva and substance with your tongue.

He would not go far past your teeth, so you did what you could by wetting, prodding his salty slit while both hands wrung his shaft, groped his hefty sac, felt through the coverings and chainmail he had undone for his abdomen. It was strong, clenched, yet jutted out in response to unfamiliarity roaming him. The span of flesh you could traverse without his writhing was the same as the rest of him: scarred and uniform. Something had been taken from him.

“Gods—that’s enough. Enough, now. Quickly. Off of me, you filthy thing!” He was stricken as he spoke, voice urgent and taut, guttural in the way that you liked. You were pushed off of his cock, back down onto the boulder while he rutted hard through your thighs, using all of your flesh and fat and pliability to surround him.

Your body moved like a straw doll; weightless to him, jolting to you. It was over suddenly with a potent groan, his helmeted face thrown up to the sky, and an explosion of hot cum spraying across your thighs. He twitched with more dripping out onto you, but he never went soft.

It had happened so fast that you were left disoriented once everything stopped.

“Lysander—”

“Aye,” he rasped out, winded. “I really am no better than a beast, am I? Forgive me, I didn't know that would happen. You—I hadn't expected you would do that. I never knew it was possible to feel as I just did. What pleasure. What agony. What relief.”

You opened your legs as his spend cooled on your skin, bothered by the way it tightened, dried honey-stiff and tacky.

“The stories about you are all false, then?” you asked, docile as he shucked off your robes and laid them on the ground. A summer quilt spread out over dewy grass. “The stories about your carnality. Your lust for humans and beasts and eagerness to lay with them. Was there any ounce of truth in them?”

“Far be it for me to speak on stories that have grown and aged alongside the trees in this forest. They do me no harm personally, as they remind me that I am still alive. Alive enough to still hear them,” said Lysander, recovered and breathing evenly within his panoply. “You can believe what you'd like.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“Aye, looking at you, I suppose there could be some truth to it.”

You wished your vision could spear through the lightless world, into the dark entanglement of his helmet to see his expression as he looked at you now. Was he smiling? Frowning? Wincing as the threads of his identity unraveled?

“C’mere, you.” He hoisted you off of the boulder to lay you across the soiled robes he'd put down. Satisfied, he stared at you, long and thorough, at your complete nakedness arranged for him to see. “You're such a sight. I've seen much in this life of mine, enough that I would've believed it if I was told I'd seen it all. You? If part of my punishment was for my eyes being removed, I'd regret nothing. If my punishment were to be death, and my final memories were of this time with you, I'd regret nothing still.”

Shame sobered you. Wrapped your head close like a red burning wreath, singed your ears, and made your scalp itch with prickly heat. Your eyes felt sore and reddened, precariously tilting towards tears, which would've been devastating.

“You can still stop,” you blurted, wincing through a kiss, sharp teeth grazing down the column of your throat. He didn't bite you, only teased the idea with them. Soon, his mouth was on your abdomen, forked tongue probing lower still. “Lysander, you can still stop. Choose differently. Spare yourself.”

“Nay,” he replied, throatiness returned. “I've chosen you. You've bewitched me and I want for nothing else. Allow me to return your kindness.”

There then came clattering beside you, of heaviness falling from a height and vibrating the earth as it struck. It shook up through your spine, danced along the back of your neck with thousands of spindly legs. You squinted at the night and saw something darker, a helmet.

Before you could've glimpsed his face, freezing leather pressed to your eyes, fluttering your lashes. He told you not to look at him in his clearest voice. He almost pleaded for it.

“Eyes closed.” His breaths scorched down your thighs, words damp in the seams. “See nothing. Feel everything. Hear me ravish you, and let me hear you be ravished.”

It was his tongue that went first, laving decadently, thoroughly, bunching the serpent halves together; a well waiting for collection, to be filled. He swilled what arousal he could take from you with his saliva and kneaded you with a short, flat nose. You thrashed your hips against him, away from him, anchored in place by his heavy hands, adamantine gauntlet embedding ten stingers below your skin.

Lysander was unclean with you, indecorous in how he sucked and swallowed, kissed into you, ate as far as he could go with seemingly no satisfaction. It was repugnant and ferine, his most subdued self now at the surface and freed. He went on with that intensity until you trembled, body writhing across fabric and grass as you came up onto bent elbows, feeling through a suffocating void of dark and pleasure cinching around you for the top of his head.

You moaned achingly while trying to perceive what you were not allowed to see. Nothing stimulated curiosity more than what was forbidden, and you fathomed why as your fingertips worked to decipher his features, transmitted the rough etchings into bleary images with no beginning or end.

“Do you fear what you feel?” asked Lysander, without ire, but miserable in his yearning. He gave you permission to translate his darkness, make sense of the pits in his flesh, all of the stony, broken protrusions which had been filed down to stumps and never grown back. They were fused to him, bone and cartilage excruciatingly removed, emerging from the sides of his head and his temples. “Does my hideousness frighten you? Am I the abomination that you dreamed of?”

“I know no fear,” you said, and Lysander’s coarse cheeks raised, folded, and strained against your thighs as he smiled. “To me, you are merely Lysander. Not the abomination. Not that damned armor that you wear. Let that be enough.”

Pleased, he returned to you with fervor, to savor more of your push and pull. The jounce of your hips. Wanting him close as much as you wanted to shove him away.

He was mostly an amalgam of nonsense in your head; physical pieces unable to interlock into anything whole. Complicated.

It frustrated you that he would not let you set your eyes upon his true visage. It frustrated you that he was delaying your gratification because he liked licking, sucking you raw so you'd cry out sharply from your chest and not your head.

But, he had become anxious from anticipation, tormented by inevitability, so he turned you over. Maneuvered you onto your knees, splayed them over the sodden robes and damp grass. His armor grated as he came closer, crunching into that unforgiving form of sharpness and cold, startling you with the heat of his cock filling the gap between your legs.

“I'll hurt you,” was spoken differently from before when he had wanted you, looked at you questionably, tried to use his enormity to frighten you. He was unhindered now. “I do not want to hurt you, but I will. I cannot deny what either of my halves crave. I have tasted excess, the essence from your body and your magic. I am yours.”

“I knew what would come from this, Lysander. I know what can happen.” He could tear you apart, perforate your organs, be inundated by desire and biology so immense that he consumes your body. It was far too late to trade this for another course. “If you're mine, prove it to me. Show me how loyal you are. Don't stop until you've left your mark.”

“Aye, as you wish.” His cock dragged firmly along your abdomen, hot and pulsing, twitching against you like a thing searching for a way in. “You say cruel things with such sweetness. I fear that my madness, my brokenness have manifested you, and when this is over, you'll only have been a figment of fantasy.”

You swayed with him, clamped him with your thighs weakened by his tongue. Lysander’s groan resonated, harsher without the helmet, sharp like his teeth.

“If this is a fantasy, however short it is, we should both enjoy it. Fuck me. I'm yours.”

“Aye. You are mine.”

Those hard-worn leather hands and frigid claws were on you again, spread wide everywhere. He could not grab you, enclose you with his iridescent fortress without gouging you on his spikes. Skin-to-skin, burying himself within you completely, that connectedness would always elude him.

So, he devoured you how he could. Had indulged with his entire mouth, his wild hands, and now his cock. His head was gluey and smeared a sluggish trail to your core where he stroked you with it eagerly. Fluids intermingled: his, yours, sweat, salvia, and earthy condensation. More of his seeped out, warm and heady, a thick layer to cover his cock before he took you.

He nudged himself inside, listened for your brittle gasps of shock to the stretch, the great and unnatural intrusion. They came right away. You surprised him by letting him continue, strained the muscles in your legs to accommodate depth, and whimpered only a little when he started to thrust slowly.

You couldn't route your mind to other things as he did this, moved fractionally to minimize your agony, pushed deeper to gape your significantly smaller anatomy. His jaw chattered from overhead, beckoning either in patience, or stifling what sounds of bliss he really wanted to exhale.

Even when he had rearranged you again, down onto one hip with your other leg settled on his arm, he could only sheath himself halfway. He had finally decided to stop after pushing too hard and hearing you gag, fractured the silent air with a startled cry, one which was accompanied by real tears. The only ones you could ever remember spilling, and swiped away as quickly as they had come.

Lysander turned his head to your leg on him, molded a kiss to your shin, and took his time thrusting into you. Eventually, he let you rest on your back with both legs strewn over his arms. His hands cradled the globes of your ass, lifted your lower body up for his cock to reach.

His immense girth with the rough segments and grappling ridges started to feel good. Nothing went missed, nowhere went without being stroked or prodded. Your breaths were as shattered as you felt by him, eyes gazing up vacantly at the starless sky, hands creasing fabric and tearing up black fingers of grass.

At your every moan, his thrusts grew a little more honed and his armor grinded hollowly with a beat, putting some irrational fear in you that he was unscrewing and would fall apart in pieces. His vocalizations were a combination of wild thrumming and bestial panting and bellowing.

The silvery-gold stallions were probably pacing timidly, snorting defensive fog into the air, alerting the disgruntled coachmen to the sounds. He would've heard your frailer noises intertwined with Lysander's and would ask no questions tomorrow, nor be able to bring himself to look at you again.

Lysander’s strokes inside your body reached deep, left you queasy in the head as he effortlessly jostled you on his cock. The segments along his shaft pushed and pulled the fine tissue around your entrance. It throbbed sorely. You detected blood and thought of the faint tang of copper slick on your skin; imagined a pink, creamy ring around his cock.

The ridges were what finished you, built up that orgasmic well in your stomach and loins. It overflowed when you touched yourself and choked from sensitivity, but kept going. The back of your head dug into your soggy robes, joining the grass and the earth and natural indulgences you had abandoned in isolation.

You withdrew behind clenched eyelids, a world made of wrinkled skin and twitching eyelashes. It forced you to focus on Lysander; his ripe, inhuman pleasure as close to climax as you were. It forced you to truly experience his cock, the sheer size of it impaling you again and again, foul and sloppy and never fitting right. The ridges tried to find purchase along your inner walls, adhere unrelentingly like briars to your clothes.

They were evolutionary for dragons, meant to massage to numbness, house a cock cozily until it was flaccid. What you possessed was smaller and far less robust, so with every pass Lysander made, the ridges teased your velvety insides with hard tugs until you were over the edge.

Tiny threads of fire ignited under your skin, carrying you through the white static in your head, torrents of electric writhing through each limb, finger, and toe. It crashed over you so powerfully that you were soundless as if submerged underwater, or trapped in some airless place. Just as fast as it had all come on, the pleasure lifted off of you like a spirit ascending to the gods, leaving you pleasantly spent in cool, static relief.

Lysander had seen your warped grimace, your subsequent facial softening and sighing. He had felt your walls clench him, trying to wring whatever they could from his cock but he hadn't been ready until he saw you calm, intoxicated by emptiness, sprawled open and unmoving below him.

He rutted into you savagely at the end, stirring you back into discomfort, but he was done and cum surged inside of you so strongly that it caused another reaction. You gasped nasally, shivered as he fucked you through his orgasm with feral moans, hips lashing your naked ass with the chainmail he hadn't removed.

His release overflowed; globs of it pushed out, around his cock as he withdrew. It leaked from you sluggish and plentiful, and you pretended for it to be pooling hot white beneath you, under your ass and legs once Lysander let them down gently.

Even in your sedated afterglow, your body stinging, sore and chafed from overuse, you could still think of nothing but catastrophe, soul fruit, and whether Lysander was capable of producing life, or if everything about him was truly damned.

You heard his armor scrape, his helmet returned to complete him: the atrocity known as the Knight of Noss. He had once again become loathsome and impenetrable, but he stayed with you there on the ground, watching your limbs shift around as though the relaxation you felt was everywhere, all around you. An aura radiating, vibrating like a pleased animal.

“Such a sight. I will never tire of it.” He said from within his castle of magnificent thorns. “My days from before feel far away, long gone. They're memories of someone else, someone destined to walk in darkness, through rivers of blood and decay. You see me as more. I am more.”

Your night sky descended, swallowing everything around it into its peaks and mass. He was careful not to come down so far as to crush you beneath his armor, but he covered you, concealed you perfectly from the spiral of ancient trees overhead, from always prying, hidden eyes.

He kissed you. You accepted his lips and his veneration, his chest of ice.

After a moment, “This is our end set in stone, Lysander. From here on out, we will be marching to our doom.”

“Aye,” he soothed grim reality with fearlessness, devotion pressed against your mouth. “We are doomed. But, we face it together.”

Maybe, it wasn't so foolish to hope.

Maybe.

Maybe…

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author's note: so, first and foremost, thank you so much for reading. the concept for the knight of noss has existed in my head for almost fifteen years. until the past three or four years, however, I have never had the skill to be able to execute any of the ideas. to see an idea like this come to fruition after so long is, honestly... overwhelming. to know that there people who wanted to see my explore this idea means even more to me.

if you're interested in the actual story, you're more than free to shoot me questions about it. I did have a massive amount of lore written out, but decided against including it here so as to not drag things on and on.

I hope you enjoyed reading this story, and I hope to hear your thoughts on it! I'll see y'all in the next piece ❤️🙂‍↕️.

Juniper and Earwig the knight.

Got some new fairy ocs to play with it's toxic yuri, its forbidden magic girly, its honor-bound knight conflict. It's Guard and Princess. All my current favourite juicy things. (f/f)

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

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