ʙʟᴏᴏᴅʟᴜꜱᴛ • [ᴊᴜᴊᴜꜱᴛꜱᴜ ᴋᴀɪꜱᴇɴ]

by Minhon

Summary:

They offered shelter.

Lost, tired, and desperate under the brutal Texas heat, eight college friends thought Toji and Naoya were just good ol' boys—kind, simple locals willing to help strangers in need.

Toji's easy smile and handsome face made it easy to trust him, and Naoya's polite manners only reinforced the illusion.

But that kindness was a lie, a carefully crafted trap.

Every warm word was a thread tightening around them, every friendly gesture masking the slow, inevitable unraveling.

There was sadistic amusement in Toji's gaze as fear smothered hope.

They didn't mean to save them.

They meant to slaughter them.

But for Y/N—

Toji meant submission.

"I wanna go home.." she whispered, throat raw from screaming.

Toji cups her face, all soft and low drawl, the kind that sounds almost gentle if you weren't already bleeding.

"Y/N... You are home. Now shut up 'n start actin' like a good girl. Been waitin' for a girl like you."

One by one, the friends fall: Gojo, Shoko, Nobara, Yuji, Mei, Choso, Sukuna, and Y/N. Blood-soaked games, carved-up truths, and the kind of love that carves deep into your flesh.

Chapter 1: 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬/𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐨.

I will be updating all content warnings soon! These are generally accurate, but I want to make them clearer and adjust anything that may not fully fit the story.

𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐭 ― 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 「 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 ‼ 」

This story is heavily inspired by Texas Chainsaw Massacre and House of 1000 Corpses. Expect violence, psychological torment, sexual tension, and dark themes — including obsession, betrayal, lust, manipulation, and emotional decay. Please take that into consideration before reading. Reader discretion is advised.

I want to be absolutely clear: there is no depiction of rape in this story. However, this story does contain heavy and explicit sexual content and related themes, alongside non-consensual violence, abduction, non-consensual touching, and psychological torment.

Content warnings may evolve as the story continues—some may be added or removed. Please read knowing this and proceed accordingly.

────────────── . ᛪ༙

「 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 」

݁𝐄𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬

⟢ Cheating, secret affairs, and hidden betrayals

⟢ Obsession, possessiveness, and controlling behavior

⟢ Betrayal between friends, lovers, and allies

⟢ Toxic romance, unstable love triangles, and complicated relationships

⟢ Emotional manipulation, gaslighting, and psychological control

⟢ Blurred or complicated consent dynamics

⟢ Power imbalances in relationships

⟢ Fixation, obsession, and unhealthy attachment

𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭

⟢ All characters in sexual scenes are 18+

⟢ Rough, dominant, and aggressive dynamics

⟢ Kink-adjacent and risky encounters

⟢ Voyeurism and public teasing

⟢ PDA-heavy couples

⟢ Degradation, marking, and restraint

⟢ Cheating sex and raw sex

⟢ Dirty talk, choking, and name-calling

⟢ One-sided obsession during sexual encounters

𝐏𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬

⟢ Gaslighting and coercion

⟢ Captivity and loss of autonomy

⟢ Paranoia, fear, and isolation

⟢ Survival horror and psychological torment

⟢ Unstable group dynamics

⟢ Emotional trauma and broken trust

𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐨𝐫𝐞

⟢ Graphic murder and assault

⟢ Knife and gun violence

⟢ Blood, gore, and body horror

⟢ Disturbing, brutal imagery

⟢ Psychological sadism

⟢ Forced moral or physical choices

⟢ Horror-based “games”

𝐑𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫

⟢ Party scenes

⟢ Reckless decisions

⟢ Heat exhaustion and environmental danger

────────────── . ᛪ༙

「 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫-𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 」

𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐙𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧 .⋆♱ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 

⟢ Extreme physical sadism & ruthless control

⟢ Persistent sexual & violent threats

⟢ Emotional manipulation & power games

⟢ Exploits vulnerability & past trauma

⟢ Terrifying presence + dark arousal

⟢ Mockery during sexual & violent acts

⟢ Views most women as disposable (except Y/N)

⟢ Cruel enjoyment of emotional & physical suffering

⟢ Savoring fear—silence & restraint as weapons

𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢 .⋆♱ 𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬/𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫

⟢ Power-driven dominance, fear-based arousal

⟢ CNC-leaning themes (blurred consent)

⟢ Degradation, objectification, corruption kink

⟢ Oral fixation, bloodplay, knife & breath play

⟢ Spitting, restraints, sensory control

⟢ Photography during sexual acts

⟢ Selective gentleness to intensify torment

⟢ Intense vocal dominance & casual cruelty

𝐍𝐚𝐨𝐲𝐚 𝐙𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧

⟢ Mocking cruelty & sadistic teasing

⟢ Emotional manipulation & gaslighting

⟢ Rough, degrading sexual encounters

⟢ Blurred emotional and sexual boundaries

⟢ Possessive behavior & emotional instability

⟢ Flirty yet venomous, misleading interactions

⟢ Sexual threats with ambiguous intent

⟢ Dominance driven by insecurity

⟢ “Jokes” that are not truly jokes (psychological manipulation)

𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐑𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 (black hair in this AU)

⟢ Secret obsession with Y/N

⟢ Photographing sexual acts without hesitation

⟢ Brutal language and aggressive behavior during sex

⟢ Emotional detachment from others

⟢ Violent temper hidden beneath calm exterior

⟢ Possessive, voyeuristic tendencies

⟢ Jealousy and destructive impulses

⟢ Cheating, lies, and raw, intense intimacy

────────────── . ᛪ༙

✦ As some of you know, I originally had much clearer, more detailed warnings, but I realized they gave away too much about the characters. I decided to tone them down a bit, but just know—the Zenins, and Toji especially, are brutal, and it only intensifies as you progress through the story!

✦ This story is meant to thrill, disturb, and entice—all at once. Please proceed with caution. If you're unsure whether this is for you, it might not be. I will most likely add content warnings as the story continues. However, I won't include them at the start of every chapter to avoid spoilers. If you think this story isn't for you, simply do not read.

✦ I do not own any characters besides Y/N. This is an Alternate Universe using Jujutsu Kaisen characters. I only own this storyline and Y/N.

That's all from me... enjoy!

Chapter 2: 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 - 𝐒𝐚𝐲 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞!

𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤, 𝐓𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐬 – 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟑

"Oh god... please, please don't..!"

His voice cracked as he screamed it for the third time.

His knees were soaked in blood. His face was barely recognizable under the bruises and swelling. One eye sealed shut. His lips split wide and wet. He wasn't standing anymore.

He couldn't.

He was on all fours, chest heaving, arms trembling as he looked up at the towering man across the lawn.

Six foot seven. Built like a nightmare. Broad. Shirtless. Covered in sweat and dried blood. The gun in his hand looked like a toy in his grip.

The girl screamed beside him.

Not because she was hurt. But because she knew what was about to happen.

The man didn't respond.

Didn’t speak.

Didn't warn them.

Just lifted the revolver like it weighed nothing.

BANG.

The boyfriend's head snapped sideways. A splash of red misted the air before he collapsed face-first into the dirt. Dead weight. His body twitching for two, maybe three seconds before going still. Completely still.

The girl fell over herself trying to reach him.

Her hands clawed at his back.

She was sobbing.

Snot, spit, pure panic—everything spilling loose at once. Her screams were animalistic. Like the noise wasn't coming from her throat but from somewhere deeper, somewhere primal.

The man began walking.

Heavy boots crunching over dry earth, slow and certain.

She barely had time to react.

By the time she tried to scramble to her feet, a hand was already in her hair. Fisting it, ripping her backwards with a yank so violent she nearly passed out.

"Get the fuck off me!" she shrieked.

He slammed her down into the ground. Hard. Face-first. One knee on her back. A massive hand pressing her cheek into the dirt.

"You done screamin' yet?" he asked. Calm. Lazy. Like they were having a polite conversation.

She wailed, thrashing underneath him.

"Let me go! You fucking killed him..!"

"Oh, hush now," he drawled, leaning down so close his breath warmed her ear. "You didn't even like him that much. You were just scared of bein' alone."

He whispered the last part, almost tender.

He yanked her head back by the roots, her scalp screaming with pain. 

He dragged her across the yard. Her knees bumping on sticks, rocks, the edge of a rusted shovel. She kicked at him uselessly; he didn't even slow down. He was too strong.

Inside the house.

The old wood floorboards groaned beneath their weight. Peeling wallpaper. The stench of rot and iron.

He flung her toward the worn-out couch. Her body hit it hard.

Before she could crawl away, he was on her again.

One hand wrapped around her throat, the other already on the gun, dangling casually.

"You got any idea what I could do to you?" he muttered. "Out here? No neighbors. No cops. Just you, me, and whatever the fuck I decide."

She tried to scoot back, but he pressed his weight into her, holding her hips firmly against the couch.

Without breaking his grip, he climbed over her, straddling her, and dragged her hands above her head with one giant palm.

"Want me to fuck you?"

She choked, stiffening beneath him.

"Wh-What...?"

"That's what this was gonna be, right?" he sneered. "Lil' spring break road head in the back of his shitty truck? Thought you'd be wild, free, a lil' slut in the dirt?"

He leaned down again. Forehead nearly brushing hers.

"Tell me. You want me to fuck you?"

"N-No!" she sobbed. "God, n-no... please just let me go!"

His grin twisted, like that answer entertained him.

Then he shifted.

Straightening his upper body while still straddling her.

He released her wrists.

Instantly, she thrust her hands against his bare chest, trying to push him away, to create any space between them.

He didn’t flinch. Slowly, he reached behind him and pulled something from his back pocket.

A camera.

Old. Square. Clunky. Polaroid.

The red light blinked to life.

"Shoulda said yes," he said lowly, cocking the camera. "You coulda died quicker."

She whimpered, pressing against him.

"Please... please don't..."

He aimed the camera.

Mascara streaked her cheeks. Her mouth hung open. Her hair stuck to her skin in tangles. Her boyfriend’s blood dried under her nails.

"Say cheese for me, baby."

 

 

Author's Note:

Omg, I have so much planned for this story, this is just the beginning.

I'm especially excited about one of the characters (not saying who 😏), but their character development is gonna be chef's kiss… like, unhinged in the best way possible.

Chapter 3: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟏 - 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞!

Three Months Later...

Summer Break, Texas – 2003

6:53AM

"Cheese!" Gojo called out, holding his Polaroid steady as the three girls huddled close together in front of the booth.

It was early, like way too early for real clothes. Everyone was lounging around the modest breakfast area of the motel in wrinkled t-shirts and pajama pants. The place smelled like maple syrup and burnt coffee, and the waffle machine in the corner was buzzing nonstop.

They had pulled into this tiny Texas town late last night, crashing at a no-frills roadside motel on their way to Gojo's family's farmhouse. Everyone was barely awake but too hungry to sleep in. Nobara flipped her hair dramatically at the last second. "Wait, let me fix-"

*click-whrrr... fssht!* The camera buzzed and spat out the Polaroid.

"Yuji!" Nobara shrieked as the photo developed in Gojo's hand. Yuji had launched himself across the booth at the last second, landing right into the girls lap mid-pose, his tongue out, peace sign, and eyes wide like a maniac.

He rolled off them dramatically and landed on the floor, arms raised like a gymnast. "Perfect ten! I just won us gold, baby!"

"Yuji!" Nobara huffed. "What're you doing?"

He scooped her up in a playful bear hug, carrying her off. "Just saving the shot, babe," he teased, leading her toward the self-serve counter. "Breakfast apology."

Nobara smirked despite herself, already pointing toward the toaster. "Okay, gold medalist- grab me a blueberry bagel, and don't forget the cream cheese this time."

Yuji planted a quick kiss on her cheek as he set her down. "One bagel. One redemption arc. Coming right up."

Back at the table, Gojo waved the Polaroid dry, grinning. "Honestly? Yuji added flavor. Iconic, really."

Shoko didn't even glance up from her Revolver magazine- Peter Steele glaring from the cover in dramatic black eyeliner, his shirt unbuttoned like a gothic romance novel. "Iconic like denim on denim," she muttered into her coffee. "You could do it, but should you?"

Mei laughed at Shoko's comment but her attention was elsewhere.

Watching Yuji and Nobara.

Laughing-

Enjoying each other's company.

She sighed softly. "Man, those two are so healthy it's almost annoying."

Gojo was still fanning the Polaroid dry in his hands, nodding along with Mei's comment.

Nobara suddenly slipped up behind him and snatched the photo away. "Yuji! You literally ruined it!" she whined, holding up the photo like evidence.

Yuji, mid-chew with a mouth full of donut holes, turned around and mumbled through the crumbs, "Sorry, for stirring up a little chaos. Just trying to balance out all the boring."

He motioned in a lazy circle toward the table with his half-eaten pastry, then turned back around to shovel in another bite. "You're welcome!"

Gojo barely blinked, smirking at Nobara.
"You could've asked before stealing it out of my hands, though."

Nobara rolled her eyes but said nothing, busy admiring the photo.

Mei chuckled softly. "It's whatever. Nothing's ever simple with you guys."

Shoko glanced up from her magazine, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, chaos really is the only constant around here."

Sukuna's voice suddenly cut through the light banter, low and deadpan. "You guys are the most annoying people I've ever met."

Gojo clapped him on the shoulder. "Aw, don't be jealous, man. We'll get your cute side next."

Sukuna didn't even glance over. He sat man-spread across the booth seat, elbow propped on the table, jaw resting on his closed fist. His gaze, however, was locked down the narrow motel hallway.

His mind drifted back to just fifteen minutes ago.

"Don't wait up," Choso had said through the cracked door, voice casual but smug.

"She wants to show me something," he added, smirk tugging at his lips as Y/N pulled him back into the room by the hem of his shirt. Her fingers curled into the fabric, her laughter light, breathy, slipping into something more suggestive as the door clicked shut behind them.

Sukuna had watched from the end of the hallway, eyes narrowing slightly. He saw nothing. But he imagined everything.

Now, back at the booth, Sukuna's thumb tapped against his RAZR flip-phone under the table. Old messages still lit up the screen.

Friday, Jun 14th at 10:58 PM

Y/N:
still thinking about how i sounded last night?

Sukuna:
you mean when you were gagging on my cock and begging to cum at the same time?

yeah. i've replayed it all day.

Y/N:
shut up

Sukuna:
why? you didn't shut up then

you were moaning through it like a good little slut.

Y/N:
you're horrible

Sukuna:
and you're addicted

next time, i'm folding you in half and not letting you look away.

i wanna see that face when you cum

Y/N:
...

Y/N:
[image attached]

It was grainy, low-lit, and cropped. Her face mostly out of frame, shirt yanked up, one perfect tit exposed. She'd sent it quick, like her hands were trembling, like she needed him to see her even if the quality was shit.

And he did. He saw everything.

Sukuna leaned back in his chair now, thumb brushing over the old message, jaw tense.

Two nights ago, he did exactly what he promised.

Folded her in half right there on his couch, knees pressed to her chest while her arms clung to him, her breath catching with every snap of his hips. He didn't let her look away. He fisted her hair and forced her to keep her eyes on him. Every time she tried to shut them, he slowed down, made her whimper until she opened them again.

She came twice like that. Then a third, crying out so loud he had to clamp a hand over her mouth just to muffle it.

The way she looked under him: tear-streaked, flushed, eyes locked to his. It burned itself into his memory. She looked like she'd fall apart if he stopped, and she begged like she didn't care if she did.

His cock twitched at the thought.

And then-

"Whatcha smiling at?" Mei slid into the booth beside him, thigh pressed to his.

Sukuna nearly groaned, locking his phone and forcing his face blank before she saw anything.

Fucking timing.

He blinked once, mask snapping back on. "Was I smiling?"

She giggled, draping her arms around his neck. Her perfume hit like a floral bomb. "A little. I hope it was about me."

"Of course it was," he lied smoothly, tucking his phone away. "Who else would it be?"

Mei whispered against his ear, "After breakfast, maybe we sneak off?"

"Sure," he muttered, already zoning out again.

"Okay, seriously-" Nobara snapped her pink bedazzled RAZR shut.
"Your family's loaded, Gojo. We could be in Cancun right now. Why the hell are we wasting summer break at some crusty farmhouse in the middle of nowhere Texas?"

"Because," Gojo grinned like a game show host, "my parents bought this giant-ass farmhouse years ago. Seven bedrooms, middle of nowhere, and no neighbors for miles."

He leaned back, grinning. "Cancun's cool and all, but this? This is better. No rules, no curfews, and no one to call the cops to stop us. We can party, drink," ...he smirked "-and fuck our girlfriends whenever we want."

Nobara rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, sounds like a frat party waiting to happen. Could've just booked us a trip to Cancun though."

Gojo just smirked, leaning back with that cocky grin, clearly enjoying the moment.

Yuji slid in next to Nobara, finishing the last bite of his donut. "Wait! Did I hear 'fuck' in there? You know I'm all ears for this."

Nobara gave him a sharp look. "Yuji, seriously?"

Shoko glanced up from her magazine, shooting Gojo a teasing smile. "Smooth talker, huh? Promoting party, drinks, and fucking your girlfriends like you're trying to sell us a vacation package."

Gojo winked at her. "Only the best for my girl."

Shoko rolled her eyes but couldn't hide her grin. "Keep dreaming, Toru."

Gojo just laughed, unfazed. "Gotta keep the sales smooth, babe."

Yuji leaned across the table and nudged Sukuna's arm, eyeing him with a grin. "Dude, why the grumpy vibes? You look like someone stole your last slice of pizza."

Gojo interjects. " "Yeah, why do you look like you're five seconds from dissociating?"

Mei rested her chin in her hand, smiling sweetly. "He's fine. Just didn't get any last night." She winked. "He gets all broody and sulky when he's neglected."

Sukuna didn't even blink. "Maybe I'm just realizing I left civilization for a shack in the middle of nowhere."

Yuji raised his brows. "Damn, dramatic much?"

Sukuna cut him a look. "You'll see. When a chainsaw guy walks out of the woods, I'm pushing you first."

Nobara, still scrolling on her pink RAZR, barely looked up. "Wait! speaking of murder vibes..."

She looked at Gojo now. "You're sure no one's squatting at that farmhouse, right?"

"Honestly, wouldn't shock me," Shoko muttered.

"Dude, what if we find, like, a cult?" Yuji chimed in, perking up. "I'd join. If they had free food."

"No one's joining a cult," Y/N said, appearing from the hallway with Choso. She looked a little too refreshed, lips pink, cheeks flushed. His hand rested low on her waist, firm. He wore that smug, slow grin that screamed yeah, I just got laid.

Sukuna's eyes flicked to her. Just a second too long.

"Y'all eat yet?" Choso asked, sliding into the booth beside Sukuna and dapping him up.

Y/N sat down next to Choso with a smile, adjusting her skirt as she crossed her legs. Skirt riding up a bit too far. Y/N didn't notice. Sukuna did. He always did.

"Yuji inhaled half the breakfast platter," Gojo said, nodding toward the self-serve counter.

Everyone turned to Yuji.

Yuji threw up his hands instantly. "Okay, I was hungry, and those muffins weren't gonna eat themselves, alright? What was I supposed to do?" He jabbed a finger teasingly at Gojo. "Besides, who dragged us out to this creepy-ass farmhouse in the middle of nowhere anyway?"

Gojo rolled his eyes. "I was just trying to sell you guys on the farmhouse. Thought it was a solid plan."

"You're such a narcissist," Nobara shot back.

Choso smirked. "He's lucky Shoko hasn't smothered him with a pillow yet."

Shoko didn't miss a beat. "I like keeping him alive. Someone's gotta verbally abuse him before noon."

Laughter bubbled up around the table, breaking the tension completely.

And as they all stood to grab the last bits from the motel's self-serve breakfast counter after Yuji's rampage, Sukuna stayed seated a moment longer. His thumb idly brushed over the edge of the table as his eyes locked onto Y/N and Choso across the room.

laughing, close, undeniably in lov-

Before he could dwell on it, Mei reached over and grabbed his arm, pulling him up with a bright smile. "Hey, you sulking or what? You gotta eat, mister." She giggled.

She didn't notice the tension lingering in his gaze.

He didn't look at her. "Just thinking."

Mei gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "Well, come on. Let's get some food before it all disappears."

Sukuna finally stood, letting her pull him toward the counter, though his thoughts lingered elsewhere.

Chapter 4: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟐 - 𝐇𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐫.

7:26AM

They shuffled down the motel hallway like hungover college kids- which, to be fair, they kind of were. Pajama pants dragged along carpet, someone's flip-flop slapped off rhythm, sleepy yawns echoed, and the buzz of burnt coffee and waffle syrup still clinging to their clothes from their early breakfast.

Y/N clung to Choso's back in a lazy piggyback ride, her arms looped loosely around his neck.

"Why do you always smell so good?" she murmured near his ear, voice still sticky with sleep.

Choso smiled, one hand casually hooking under her thigh. "Told you. I sweat pheromones."

She giggled. "Nah, it's 'cause you keep using my body wash."

"You love it."

"I love you smelling like me," she whispered, soft and low like a secret just for him. "Makes me feel like I marked you."

Choso chuckled, dark eyes flicking up at her. "Mark me all you want. I'm not going anywhere."

Behind them, Gojo sighed, hands in his pockets. "Do y'all ever stop flirting? Or is this just your base setting?"

Shoko sipped her coffee, deadpan. "I think this is them toned down."

Nobara passing ahead with a sideways glance, tugging Yuji by the wrist as she went.
"At least we wait 'til we're behind closed doors to act like that," she muttered, flashing Y/N a pointed look before tossing her hair over her shoulder.

Meanwhile, Yuji was tuffing Nobara with him completely ignoreing the conversation, jingling the motel key like it was a riddle he hadn't solved yet. The tarnished brass clinked against the red, sun-bleached tag-Room 13, printed in faded numbers almost too chipped to read.

He stopped in front of the wrong door, already shoving the key into the lock.

"Wait-Yuji," Nobara started.

Too late.

He jiggled the knob harder, frowning. "Why isn't this working?"

"Because that's not our room, dumbass!" Nobara cut in, exasperated.

"They all look the same!" Yuji argued, turning to her.

Nobara pointed to the key in his hand. "It says 13. You literally have one job."

Yuji looked down at the tag.

"Oh-"

"Yeah," she muttered, brushing past him.

He trailed after her. "Whatever. The numbers are faded. Could've happened to anyone."

"Sure," Gojo smirked. "But it didn't."

They reached the actual door and this time, Yuji managed to unlock it. The knob turned with a click, and the door creaked open into a stale, humid mess of a motel room.

Everyone stopped.

Condom wrappers. Plural, littered the carpet by the bed. Blankets were half-kicked off, one pillow on the floor, the mirror fogged up like someone took a shower with the door open... or maybe they just didn't make it to the shower.

Nobara blinked. "Ew."

Gojo stepped in like a detective surveying a crime scene. "Well. Someone got busy."

Shoko stared blankly. "That wasn't here when we left."

All eyes turned to Y/N and Choso.

Gojo crossed his arms. "She just wanted to show me something," he quoted mockingly. "My ass."

Choso shrugged, unapologetic. "Never told you what she wanted to show me."

He turned his head slightly to look back at Y/N still hanging on his back, grinning.

"But if you really wanna know..."

Y/N laughed, cheeks flushed. "Don't ask unless you want details."

"God, please don't," Nobara muttered, heading straight for her suitcase.

She scoffed and grabbed her bag. "We need to pack and never speak of this again."

Gojo rolled his eyes, looking around with a sigh. "I feel violated, and I wasn't even in here."

Yuji grabbed his hoodie off the floor and sniffed it cautiously.

As everyone started gathering their things, someone finally asked what no one had noticed yet.

"Wait," Shoko said, glancing around. "Where are Sukuna and Mei?"

They all paused.

Gojo looked toward the door.

"Don't tell me they snuck off to do the same thing."

Y/N raised her hand lazily from Choso's back. "They were at breakfast, guess they ghosted while we were grabbing extra waffles."

"God knows where they went," Nobara said, zipping up her bag. "Probably somewhere gross."

 

...

 

"Harder!" she whispered-yelled, voice trembling. "I'm so close. Please."

The back of the motel reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke, but Mei didn't care. Her leg slithered higher, wrapping tight around Sukuna's waist, drawing him impossibly close. She pressed forward, grinding against him, her lips dragging down his jaw with shameless hunger.

But his own desire was a ghost, fading with every repeated touch.

"Don't tease," she murmured, panting into his neck. "Come on, baby... you know I can take it."

Sukuna didn't say much. He never really had to with her. His hands settled low on her hips, steadying her, holding her up. His eyes never met hers. He wasn't even looking at her.

He was watching the way their bodies moved,  the way his cock slid in and out of her- Wet, tight, her back arching with every thrust like she thought it'd do something to him. Like the sight of her straining, moaning, clawing for more might finally spark something.

But it didn't.

Not for her.

It hadn't been there in months. Not since Y/N.

Mei moaned louder, rocking her hips. "Harder," she begged. "Please, harder- I'm so close."

Sukuna blinked slowly. He wasn't close. He wasn't even hard when they started.

But then...

 

He thought of Y/N.

 

The way she whined under him. The way she said his name like a secret.
The sound she made when he bit her thigh.
The way she grabbed his face and begged to look at him while he-

A groan escaped him, low and guttural.

Mei shuddered at the sound, smiling against his neck. "There you are," she breathed, lips brushing his skin. "That's it. You always know how to ruin me, huh?"

Sukuna didn't answer. He finally moved. Faster. Deeper.

Mei cried out, clinging to him like she could melt into his body. "You feel so good, fuck, I'm gonna come-"

He shut his eyes and saw Y/N's lips instead. Her nails dragging down his spine. The sweet, breathless way she'd whisper, "Don't stop."

His head dropped forward.

"Fuck-" he growled.

Mei moaned like he'd just said it to her.

She always did that, took anything he gave and spun it into love. Into meaning. Into hers.

When it was over, she stayed clinging to him, her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, peppering soft, slow kisses across his jaw and cheek.

"I love you like this," she whispered. "When you let me have all of you."

Sukuna stayed silent, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder, eyes open and blank over her shoulder.

He didn't love this.

Didn't love her.

But he kissed her back, gently.

For now.

 

...

 

All the bags were already stashed in the car. Nobara and Yuji had taken care of that while Sukuna and Mei were no where to be seen. Them all waiting for them gave time for Shoko and Nobara to stir some gossip...

Nobara and Shoko leaned against the vending machine, sharing a crinkled bag of Cheetos and passing a cigarette back and forth. Their voices were low, but full of sharp-edged curiosity.

"Have you noticed Sukuna acting... off lately?" Shoko asked, eyes narrowing.

Nobara nodded, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Totally. Like he's stuck in his own world 24/7. It's weird."

Shoko bit her lip, flicking ash. "Yeah. And Mei? She's still so touchy with him, but he's barely there. Like, physically, but not really with her."

"Exactly," Nobara said softly. "I kinda feel bad for her. He used to be so alive around her, always all over her. Now it's like he's just going through the motions."

"Wonder what's really going on," Shoko mused, eyes flicking toward the motel's back door where Sukuna and Mei had disappeared earlier.

A little ways off, Gojo and Yuji had wandered down to the pond by the edge of the parking lot. Yuji crouched low, picking up a smooth stone and eyeing the water.

"Alright, I'm calling it," Yuji said, voice full of confidence. "Whoever gets the most skips on their stone gets to pick dinner tonight. No complaints."

Gojo raised a brow, smirking. "You're on. But if I win, you owe me your last donut."

Yuji's eyes widened. "Deal. But if I lose, you're buying drinks all weekend. And no backing out."

Gojo chuckled. "You're really setting yourself up for disappointment here, dude."

Yuji flicked the stone expertly, watching it skip across the water. "Three skips. Ha! Beat that."

Gojo crouched, cocked his wrist, and sent his stone flying. It skipped six times, cutting through the air like a pro.

Yuji groaned dramatically. "No way. Okay, rematch. This time, whoever loses has to try and kiss the other's girlfriend."

Gojo laughed, shaking his head. "You're ridiculous, but fine."

Yuji launched his second stone- it barely skipped once and sank.

Gojo threw his up again, smooth and easy. Six skips, again.

Yuji groaned, throwing his hands up- immediately paled. "Wait, wait, hold up! You know Shoko would kill me before I even got close. And Nobara? God help me if she sees anything."

Gojo grinned, seeing Yuji's panic, and held up a hand. "Alright, alright, I'll give you an out on this one."

Yuji exhaled sharply, relief washing over his face. "Thank God."

"But you owe me that donut," Gojo smirked, holding out his hand.

Yuji's face fell for a moment before he reluctantly handed over the half-eaten donut. "Fine, fine. Here. Happy?"

Gojo laughed, popping the donut into his mouth. "Very."

Back at the car, Y/N leaned against the hood of the car. Thighs spread just enough for Choso to stand between them. His hands were everywhere, gripping her waist, sliding up her back, fingers curling into her hair as their mouths moved together in a hungry, breathless rhythm.

The motel parking lot was quiet, sun warming the metal behind her, but neither of them seemed to care if anyone noticed. Her hands tugged at his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. Choso's hips pressed forward, grinding into her slow and deliberate, like he wanted to brand the moment into both of them.

"You make me so fucking hard," he whispered into her mouth. "You feel what you do to me, baby?"

Y/N let out a breathy laugh, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt as she rocked up into him. "You're always so needy for me."

His grin turned sharp, mouth dragging down to her neck, licking a slow line along her jaw. "Only 'cause you make me this way. Keep talking like that, and I won't stop 'til you're screaming."

She giggled- light and lazy, like nothing about this was new, but everything about it still got her heart pounding. His hand slid behind her head as he leaned in again, kissing her deeper this time, guiding her gently down until her back pressed flat against the warm car hood.

Her breath hitched. He hovered over her, lips barely a whisper from hers, free hand braced beside her head as he started to climb up, mouth curved in another filthy promise-

"Have you seen our bags?" Mei's voice cut through the moment like a brick through glass.

Choso froze mid-motion, groaning into Y/N's neck as he straightened up with visible frustration.

Around the side of the motel, Mei strutted up, brushing leaves off her skirt like she hadn't just been getting railed behind a dumpster. Sukuna trailed behind her, hair a mess, shirt still untucked, belt halfway done. His face was unreadable- but his eyes? His eyes found Y/N in an instant.

She sat up slowly on the hood, brushing her hair back and smoothing her shirt, pretending her cheeks weren't still flushed and her lips weren't kiss-swollen. Her gaze locked with Sukuna's, silent and electric.

He didn't say a word. Just looked at her.

Y/N bit her lip, barely, almost too subtly to notice.

But he noticed.

They both knew exactly what the other was thinking.

Two nights ago.

Choso, already brushing off his jeans, nodded toward the car. "Over here. I set yours and Sukuna's bags near the backseat."

"Ugh, lifesaver," Mei said, flipping her hair and following him.

Y/N slid off the hood, adjusting her skirt, pretending she wasn't rattled in the slightest. She turned just slightly as Sukuna passed behind her, the barest brush of his arm grazing hers.

He leaned in close enough that only she could hear. "So that's how you sound when he makes you moan?"

Y/N smirked, eyes still forward. "Jealous?"

"Don't flatter yourself," he said- flat, but his tone said otherwise.

She laughed under her breath, soft and knowing. "Then stop staring."

Sukuna's mouth curled into something smug, something dangerous, the start of another biting remark on his tongue.

But the slam of the car trunk cut him off.

"Finally," Gojo called out as he rounded the side of the car, keys twirling around one finger. "The two horniest people alive have rejoined the rest of society."

Sukuna gave him a slow, sideways glance but didn't say a word.

Mei only tossed her hair over her shoulder with a smirk. "Sorry I was busy keeping Sukuna conscious. Not everyone here can be satisfied in under five minutes."

Yuji bounded up next to Gojo, tossing a granola bar in the air. "We literally packed the whole car while you two were gone. I deserve snacks. Multiple snacks."

Shoko and Nobara strolled up behind them, flicking ash from the ends of their cigarettes, laughter still lingering between them from their gossip sesh.

"Can we go now?" Nobara asked. "If I sweat through this tank top before we hit the next gas station, I'm blaming Sukuna's stamina."

"Oh my god," Shoko muttered.

Everyone started piling into the van without much coordination, half-bickering, half-laughing. Gojo claimed the driver's seat, spinning the wheel dramatically. "Alright, my degenerates. Next stop... probably hell."

Sukuna slid into shotgun, silent as usual, slamming the door shut without looking back.

Y/N and Choso ducked into the farthest row, almost disappearing from sight. Choso immediately threw his arm across the back of the seat, his face already too close to Y/N's, whatever he said making her snort and giggle like they were in on some filthy secret.

Mei ended up somewhere in the middle row beside Nobara, already touching up her lip gloss in the cracked rearview mirror, while Yuji wedged himself between Shoko and a bag of cooler snacks, already whining about being crushed.

The engine revved. Gojo turned the music up.

And just like that, they were back on the road.

But Sukuna's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror- and for just a second, he caught Y/N's reflection.

Her smile was wide. But her eyes?

Locked right on him.

Chapter 5: 𝐂𝐡 𝟑 - 𝐂𝐚𝐫 𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞.

10:42AM

They'd been on the road for three hours now. Nothing but flat stretches of cracked highway, dusty brushland, and the occasional thicket of trees that broke up the otherwise endless sun-bleached terrain. The van was warm with laughter, music, and the constant hum of wheels against asphalt, cicadas buzzing like static in the background.

Up front, Gojo had one hand lazily on the wheel, his sunglasses reflecting the pale blue sky, while Sukuna sat in the passenger seat, legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest.

"So what're we throwing on the grill when we get there?" Sukuna asked, eyes fixed ahead.

Gojo grinned. "Burgers. Maybe some ribs. Depends if Choso remembered the charcoal."

Sukuna scoffed, eyes still fixed on the empty stretch of highway. "Choso's too busy trying to keep his dick wet to remember anything," he muttered, low and sharp, like the words tasted bitter in his mouth.

Gojo laughed, easing into the turn. "He's in love, man. Let him have his romance era."

Sukuna chuckled under his breath, cocking his head with a crooked grin. "Can I ask you something?"

Gojo glanced over. "Shoot."

"You're always taking pictures. Polaroids. Camcorder. Like, every five minutes. What's with that?"

The question hung for a second too long.

Gojo's smile faltered- not visibly, just enough for Sukuna to catch it. But then he answered, smooth as always, his tone lighter.

"I like memories. Pictures make 'em last."

Sukuna nodded, pretending to accept that. But after a beat, he smirked. "Right. Memories. That why you're always pointing the camera at the girls?"

Gojo glanced over, caught the curve of Sukuna's smirk, and stiffened slightly. For a moment, he thought Sukuna was serious- his stomach dropped, but then he saw the glint in his eyes. Just teasing.

He opened his mouth to shoot back something snarky, but-

"Yuuujiii! That was my last Cheeto, you fatass!" Nobara's voice cracked through the van like a whip.

"Survival of the fittest, babe!" Yuji chirped, munching with a proud grin.

"Shut up!" Shoko groaned from the middle row, flicking her lighter. "I'm gonna kill both of you."

"Seriously," Mei added, filing her nails. "Keep arguing and I'll personally throw one of you out the window."

In the far back of the van, Y/N and Choso were curled together under a blanket. From the outside, they looked like any couple dozing off mid-drive, heads tilted close, whispers exchanged like sleepy secrets.

But they weren't sleeping.

Choso's eyes were half-lidded, his breath coming slow, shaky. Y/N's hand moved beneath the blanket, deliberately slow, stroking him with a rhythm that made his head tip back against the seat.

"Fuck..." he whispered, his voice barely audible over the chaos around them.

Y/N leaned closer, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "You like that?" she whispered, her voice all silk and sin. "You gonna be quiet for me like a good boy?"

Choso bit his lip, his fingers curling into the seat. He didn't answer. Couldn't.

His eyes fluttered shut, and his fingers dug into the cushion of the seat. He didn't answer. Couldn't.

No one noticed.

Nobara was mid-rant over some stolen snack, throwing chips at Yuji while he howled with laughter. Shoko had her headphones in, legs propped on the seat in front of her, oblivious. Mei to busy filing her nails. Gojo and Sukuna were still up front, loud and easy in their banter.

Y/N stroked him again, her words soft.

"You're being so good for me," she whispered, teeth grazing the edge of his ear before she bit down just enough to make him flinch. "Maybe I'll let you finish in my hand before we even make it there."

Choso groaned softly in response, his hips twitching beneath the blanket.

He was right there. About to break.

Y/N moved again beneath the blanket- slow, cruel, and just a little bit mean. Her fingers grazed the head of his cock and then stilled. The ache of it made Choso twitch.

He gritted his teeth, muscles pulled tight under her touch. His usual dominance dissolved under the weight of her teasing, the way she knew exactly how to unmake him when she wanted.

"You wanna come for me?" she murmured, her tongue tracing a slow line up his neck. "Right here, like this? In my hand, in the back of the van... while everyone's too distracted to realize how filthy you really are?"

Choso exhaled hard through his nose, jaw ticking, eyes squeezed shut. He was close. Right on the edge.

And just when he was about to tip over-

The van jerked suddenly, a loud metallic groan shaking through the floor.

Everyone lurched forward.

"Shit," Gojo muttered from the front.

Choso's head thumped back against the seat in frustration, hips twitching with the loss of contact. Y/N pulled her hand away with a smug little smile, wiping her fingers on the inside of the blanket as if nothing happened.

She looked at him and grinned sweetly, brushing her lips against his cheek. "Guess you'll have to wait, baby."

Choso let out a low, guttural, "Fuuuck..."
It spilled from his throat like he'd just been yanked out of a dream, the tension in his body coiled so tight he could barely breathe.

"Mmhm," she hummed, biting her bottom lip as the van doors creaked open and the others piled out, stretching their limbs under the hot Texas sun.

 

. . .

 

About ten minutes had passed since the van sputtered to its death, stranding them in the thick of nowhere. The sun was relentless overhead, beating down through patches of trees that did little to help. Sweat clung to their skin, the air heavy with heat, silence, and the rising panic of no cell service.

Y/N stood near the van, her arms crossed tightly as she stared at her dead phone. "Still nothing," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

The group was scattered- some pacing, some fanning themselves, others just trying to stay calm under the brutal sun.

Then came the rumble of salvation.

A beat-up pickup truck came trundling down the dirt road, tires kicking up clouds of dust that shimmered in the light. The engine slowed as it neared, then came to a grinding stop a few yards away. For a second, no one moved.

Then the doors creaked open.

Two men climbed down from the truck- both tall, both worn in the way only men who belonged to the land could be. One was leaner, with a cocky stride and dark, swept-back hair. The other... bigger. Easily towering over everyone, built thick and solid, like the kind of man who could carry a body through a field and not break a sweat. His shirt clung to the muscles in his arms, dirt and oil streaked across his exposed skin. The veins on his forearms were visible even from a distance.

They didn't say anything at first. Just walked up slowly, boots crunching the gravel beneath them, radiating an easy confidence that made it clear this wasn't their first time rescuing someone off the side of the road.

The girls exchanged looks almost instantly.

Mei leaned into Nobara with a smirk, whispering something that made her snort. Shoko pushed her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose for a better look. Even Y/N felt it- her throat suddenly dry, legs squeezing together involuntarily before she forced herself to look away.

There was something magnetic about them, maybe it was the sweat-slicked sun, maybe the desperation of the situation- but none of the girls could hide their curiosity. They tried, barely, to suppress the soft giggles and hushed whispers between them. It wasn't subtle.

If the men noticed, they didn't show it.

Their eyes were on the van as they stepped up to the front, where Gojo, Sukuna, Choso, and Yuji were gathered near the hood.

The taller one broader, quieter- let his gaze sweep over the busted engine, then back to the group of men. His voice was gravel and honey, smooth but edged with something unreadable.

"Well now..." he said, calm and unbothered, "what got y'all stranded out here?"

Chapter 6: 𝐂𝐡 4 - 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐎𝐥' 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬.

10:57AM

It had only been five minutes since the two men stepped out of that truck, but it felt like they'd been there forever- like they belonged to the land, the road, the heat. Strangers, but not unfamiliar.

The taller one didn't speak much. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his flannel, dark hair a little messy like he'd run a hand through it one too many times. His expression was calm, unreadable, but there was something about the way he stood- relaxed, powerful, watching. Like he wasn't just looking at the group... he was assessing them. Calculating. Planning. And Y/N couldn't shake the feeling that, somehow, she was exempt from whatever thought process was playing out behind those cold green eyes.

The other man, though- he was all charm and smirks. Dirty blond hair, lips curled in a cocky grin, voice dripping with something just shy of mockery. Animated. Loud in a way that demanded attention but didn't beg for it. His boots hit the dirt like he owned it.

The sun beat down hotter than sin, and the guys were all crowded around the busted van with the two strangers, the tall- dark-haired one and the other one, the blonde one with the cocky smile. Their voices were low and lazy, full of southern grit and engine grease, something about the belt being blown or the engine fried, whatever. The girls weren't listening.

Not to the car talk, anyway.

They were too busy eyeing the men like they'd been dropped from heaven in dirty boots and sinful grins.

"Okay but... look at the taller one," Mei muttered under her breath, sunglasses sliding low on her nose as she shamelessly stared. "I know he's probably old enough to be our daddy- which is fine, but that man's got the kind of back I wanna scratch up."

Nobara snorted. "You wanna scratch it? I wanna bite it. Look at the way he walks, he moves like it's big. Like he doesn't even have to try. That slow, heavy strut?? Yeah... he knows.""

"No, like... he's built like revenge sex," Shoko added coolly, a sly smirk tugging at her lips. "You'd wake up with bruises and still aching for more."

"Mm-mm," Mei hummed, fanning herself with her hand. "That man's voice could get me to drop out of college."

Y/N didn't say much, but her eyes hadn't left the dark-haired one, for more than a second. She watched how he stood, arms flexing beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel, his voice all low and Southern. He didn't talk much, but when he did? Her thighs clenched before her brain could stop it.

"Y/N," Nobara leaned in, teasing, "you're way too quiet. Spill."

She blinked, heat blooming across her cheeks. "I just... the tall one. He looks like he'd ruin your life and not even say sorry."

"Oh, baby," Mei grinned, licking her lips, "he doesn't do apologies. He'd just grab your chin, say 'that's what you needed, huh?' and make you thank him."

Y/N whimpered, soft and breathy, not meaning to, and Shoko bit her lip to hold in a laugh.

"I bet he doesn't even ask," Nobara said, wickedly amused. "Just pulls you into the truck bed and makes you sit on his-"

"Stop," Y/N hissed through a laugh, trying to pull herself together. But it was no use. The fantasy had sunk its claws in.

And the blonde one? He wasn't much better. Cocky little smirks, dirty blonde hair, lips that moved like they had something filthy to say all the time.

"He walks like his dick's too heavy to carry," Shoko said, raising a brow. "That's not just confidence. That's a warning."

"He probably talks during sex too," Nobara whispered. "And not cute stuff. I mean, nasty."

Mei was still grinning, her eyes locked on the taller one's hands. "I just wanna know what they feel like."

"Girl, I wanna know what they do." Shoko exclaimed.

The girls all exchanged wide eyes, trying not to burst out laughing, but every breath felt heavy with heat. The air, the men, the tension- it was thick.

Still, somewhere in the back of Y/N's mind, something twitched.

They looked too good. Talked too smooth. Came down this empty road at just the right time.

But when dark-haired man glanced toward her, just for a second, those dark green eyes locking with hers like he already knew something, she forgot all about the little voice in her head.

Because his mouth tilted into a slow, devil-made grin.

And Y/N?

She fuckin' loved it.

 

. . .

 

The sudden clang of a hood slamming shut cut through the girls' chatter like a gunshot.

The dark-haired man stood upright, wiping his hands on a grease-streaked rag, the sun catching on the sweat at his temples. He glanced over his shoulder toward the van, then toward the group, his voice low and thick like molasses when he spoke.

"Well," he drawled, "that engine's toast. Belt's snapped clean through. Y'all ain't drivin' anywhere today."

The blonde one chimed in right on cue, more animated, his smirk stretching wide. "And with no cell service? You're basically stranded. Cute, right?"

Gojo let out a long, loud groan. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

Y/N's chest tightened. "This is so fucking stupid," she snapped, spinning toward Gojo, eyes wide with disbelief. "This is your fault. You brought us out here to your haunted-ass family home in the middle of goddamn nowhere, and now we're stuck? No phone? No help?"

Her voice cracked near the end, frustration bleeding through. It wasn't even about the car. It was the isolation. The heat. The sudden feeling of being... trapped.

Gojo just blinked at her, sheepish.

Choso laughed softly, the kind of chuckle that rumbled low in his chest. He walked over and slung an arm around Y/N's shoulder, tugging her close. "Hey, relax," he murmured, brushing some hair from her face with a crooked smile. "We'll figure it out. You yelling is cute and all, but you're too pretty to stress."

Even Mei giggled. "He's not wrong."

The taller one, still leaned against the van, watched the whole thing unfold with barely concealed amusement. But his eyes never lingered too long on anyone.

Except her.

"Got a place just up the road," he said casually, voice a little slower now, a little deeper. "Ain't far. Plenty of space, cold drinks, hot food. Y'all can crash there tonight. We'll tow the car in the morning."

He didn't speak to the group. Not really.

His gaze was on Y/N the entire time.

She could feel it. The way he laced his words with just enough heat to make her stomach flip. Smooth and easy, like the offer wasn't just about shelter. Like he knew what he was doing. Like he wanted to see her squirm.

"You serious?" Yuji asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

The cocky one turned, already grinning. "Yeah, man. We got rooms. Shower. Beer. Unless you'd rather bake out here with the mosquitoes?"

The calm one- mouth curved slightly, that devil-may-care smirk barely tugging at the corner. "'Sides," he added, his voice like smoke on skin, "looks like the ladies don't mind the idea."

That line hit like a matchstrike.

Nobara scoffed, but her smirk gave her away.

Shoko bit her lip.

Even Y/N's cheeks burned- not from embarrassment, but from how casually he said it. Like he already knew how she'd react.

And the worst part? He did.

. . .

The boys lingered for a second too long, exchanging glances. Yuji scratched at his neck. Gojo looked toward the van like it might miraculously start. Sukuna leaned back against the hood, arms crossed, an almost bored expression on his face. Even Choso hesitated, his arm still slung protectively around Y/N.

"Look, we don't wanna intrude," Gojo started, though his tone lacked conviction. "You sure it's okay?"

The loud one leaned against the truck like he'd been waiting for that question. "Oh, we're real friendly 'round here," he said, smirking. "Wouldn't be right leavin' y'all to rot in this heat. 'Sides-" his eyes flicked toward the girls, "-we don't get much company. Makes the day a little more interesting."

His smile stretched a little too wide. A little too eager.

"Yeah," he added, voice dipping suggestively, "we get real hospitable when folks drop by."

That earned him a sharp side glance from the taller one- subtle, but present- before the taller man spoke up.

The air was thick with heat and exhaust as they made their way toward the truck, shadows stretching long behind them. The taller man was already at the back, swinging down the tailgate with a low clang that echoed into the quiet.

The cocky one leaned casually against the side, watching them file in with that ever-present grin tugging at his lips.

"Y'all look like pigs headin' to a slaughterhouse," he said, eyes flicking over each of them with slow, deliberate amusement. "All lined up for the ride."

Yuji snorted. "Damn. At least feed us first."

Sukuna didn't miss a beat. "Shut up."

The blonde man chuckled. "Y'all are a lively bunch."

The taller man gave him a sharp glance- not enough to draw attention, but enough to silence any more of the blonde’s mouth for the moment.

The group hovered awkwardly near the open bed, still not fully sure if this was a good idea.

The loud blonde clapped his hands together once, loud and easy. "Well, since y'all are comin' with us, might as well swap names, yeah?"

"Toji," he said simply, voice rough and deep like it'd been rolled in gravel. Then he jerked his chin toward the blonde. "That's Naoya."

"Pleasure's all mine," Naoya grinned, flashing teeth.

Gojo shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm Gojo."

"Yuji," followed quickly.

"Sukuna," came gruff, almost bored.

"Nobara," with a confident smirk.

"Mei Mei," she said lightly, adjusting her top.

"Shoko," calm and disinterested.

"Choso," came last, voice cool but watchful.

Y/N opened her mouth, ready to speak-

But Toji was already there.

He didn't help anyone else. Didn't touch a single one of them.

But when she stepped forward, his hand caught her waist like it belonged there.

"And what about you, sweetheart?" he asked, low and warm- like a private question meant only for her. "Bet it's a real sweet name."

Her breath caught.

"Y/N," she murmured, barely audible.

Toji's grin turned slow, deep. "Yeah," he said, voice dipped in something dangerous. "Sounds even better comin' from your mouth."

Then he lifted her- hands strong, deliberate and set her into the truck bed like she was breakable porcelain no one else was allowed to touch.

It was effortless.

And it made her pulse jump.

The others climbed in without help. Toji didn't offer. He didn't care.

Only her.

Then he headed to the driver's seat, climbing in without another word. Naoya slid into the passenger side, still grinning, like he was already looking forward to whatever came next.

"Well, ain't this a party?"

Chapter 7: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟓 - 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞.

11:24 AM

The truck rolled over cracked pavement and loose gravel, tires humming under the weight of rust and heat. Wind whipped through the open truck-bed where the boys lounged, arms thrown over the edges, shoes kicked off, sweat glistening beneath the high sun.

Gojo had one knee pulled up, Polaroid camera in hand, squinting past the glare as he called out over the wind, "Yo, ladies- group up. Look hot or something."

Y/N, Nobara, Mei, and Shoko were in a tight little huddle near the front of the truck bed, hair blowing wild, laughing too loud. Nobara threw up a peace sign. Y/N rested her chin on Mei's shoulder. Shoko just blinked slowly at the camera, deadpan.

Gojo smirked. "Smile!"

Click.

The film slid out with a mechanical whir. Gojo shook it for no reason, then squinted down at the fading image. "Damn. This one's goin' in the spank bank," he muttered, mostly to himself, slipping the photo into his back pocket.

Then he flopped back down, stretching out like he had nowhere better to be.

Choso was already mid-convo, picking up right where he left off without skipping a beat.

"Anyway, like I was saying- Y/N's head game? Bro. Astronomical. Shit had me grabbing the bedsheets like I was about to fall off a cliff."

Yuji laughed, half-curled on his side, chin propped on his hand. "You said that about her riding game last week."

"Different genre. Different trauma."

Gojo snorted. "Shoko? She's like... efficient. She clocks in, clocks out. I respect it."

"Damn," Yuji said. "That sounds clinical."

"It is," Gojo said proudly. "But she gets the job done."

Yuji shrugged. “Nobara’s good. But she gets distracted. Like she’ll be doing it and suddenly ask if I ever bid on that eBay thing for her. Ruins the immersion.”

They all laughed- loud, easy, dumb laughter.

Then Gojo pointed his chin toward Sukuna, who was lighting another cigarette with one eye open.

"Alright, devil boy. What about Mei?"

Sukuna didn't look up. "Eight outta ten."

"Only eight?" Yuji said, eyebrows raised. "She looks like she knows her way around a dick."

"Oh, she does," Sukuna said, cigarette between his lips. "Takes her time. Keeps eye contact. Little pressure with the thumb, slow drag with the tongue- real focused."

Choso made a face. "Wait. The thumb thing?"

Sukuna just exhaled smoke. "What about it?"

"Y/N does that too," Choso said, eyes narrowing a little. "Exactly that."

Gojo sat up slightly. "Weird coincidence."

Sukuna shrugged, cool as hell. "I taught her."

Everything went still for half a second.

Choso blinked. "Taught who?"

"Mei," Sukuna said. "She taught Y/N. So technically, I taught Y/N."

Yuji squinted. "That's a wild fucking logic jump."

"You're overthinking it," Sukuna said, flicking ash off the edge of the truck bed. "It's not that deep."

Gojo, oblivious as ever, leaned over and snapped another Polaroid of the girls just as Y/N threw her head back laughing at something Mei said. He didn't even notice Sukuna watching that moment like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

The wind picked back up.

And Sukuna smiled without humor, dragging from his cigarette like the conversation never touched him at all.

 

. . .

 

Sukuna blew another stream of smoke into the wind, the sound of tires against dirt muting most of their conversation. The truck bed rattled as they hit a small bump in the road. Gojo leaned back again, humming as he looked over the second Polaroid, thumb tracing the fresh photo.

Choso was still mumbling about Y/N under his breath. Sukuna didn't say a word. He didn't need to.

Up front, with the truck window cracked and the radio hissing static, the voices were colder.

. . .

Naoya's fingers tapped erratically on the inside of the door, fidgety with excitement. His tongue darted across his bottom lip like he was already tasting something.

"I was thinkin'," he said, eyes pinned to the rearview mirror, watching the girls giggle and pose for the camera, "we should play a few games with 'em."

Toji didn't respond. Eyes ahead, thumb tapping once against the wheel.

Naoya lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, too wired to sit still. The wind from the open window dragged the smoke back into the truck-cab, curling through the air like it was listening.

"I say we start soon," he muttered, licking his teeth. "That loud bitch? Nobara? I bet she bites when she's scared. Might have to find out."

Again, Toji didn't respond. Just kept his eyes locked on the road, that pale house growing clearer in the distance like a bad dream surfacing.

Naoya continued anyway. Couldn't help himself.

"Like- let's see who screams first. Or better yet, who begs to be last. Ooh- what if we blindfold 'em and spin 'em around like pin the tail on the fucking corpse?"

Toji's fingers twitched against the steering wheel.

Naoya grinned. "And that sweet little Y/N? Fuck me, I bet she'd beg real nice. Cry with those pretty eyes. Voice cracking, lips trembling, sayin', 'please, don't hurt me.'"

He didn't even get to finish before Toji slammed the heel of his hand against the dashboard- hard.

"Shut the fuck up."

Naoya blinked, startled for a second. Then laughed.

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you're going soft on me."

Toji's voice was low, hoarse with something feral. "She's not for that."

Naoya stared, curious now. "Not for what?"

Toji turned to look at him, jaw tense, veins showing in his neck.

"She's not for killing."

Naoya tilted his head. "So what- she gets to live while the rest of her little college friends are coughing up blood and teeth? You gonna keep her like a pet?"

Toji didn't flinch.

"She's a different kind of pretty," he said, almost like it was a fact. "You don't kill that kind. You keep it. You teach it."

Naoya let out a long, slow whistle. "You're really gone, man."

Toji leaned back, calm again. "Maybe."

Naoya chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Well, shit. Guess we found your soft spot."

Toji turned his eyes back to the road, but his next words were anything but soft.

"She's not a soft spot. She's the reason the rest of them are gonna die real slow."

And Naoya? He just grinned wider. "You want her to see it, don't you? Her little boyfriend choking on his own blood. Friends screaming. You want her to feel it. Not die- just break."

Toji's voice finally cut in- quiet, cold. "They get one night."

Naoya paused, blinking. "Huh?"

"One night to feel safe. Let 'em laugh. Fuck. Eat. Take pictures." Toji's tone was even, but every word had an edge. "Play house."

Then, he looked at Naoya.

"And then we take everything at dinner."

Naoya let out a breathy laugh, head hitting the seat. "God, you're a sick fuck."

Toji didn't answer.

His mind was already miles ahead. He didn't want Y/N to die. No- he wanted her to be the last one left. Wanted her eyes on him when the lights went out. Wanted her to remember him long after her knees gave out and her screams stopped.

She wasn't like the others.

She was going to mean something.

Naoya shifted, looking out the window toward the distant sunset. "You gonna fuck her before or after she begs?"

Toji smiled faintly, just barely. "She'll come to me eventually."

He didn't say how.
Didn't say why.

Just that she would.

And in his mind, it wasn't a question.

It was already a promise.

. . .

The truck rolled to a stop on the gravel, a long, dragging screech as dust kicked up around the rusted tires. The old farmhouse stood tall and weather-worn in front of them, like something out of a dream you wake up from sweating.

Naoya stretched like a cat, crackling his neck, eyes lighting up with something unholy.

"Show time," he grinned, almost singing it-like a ringmaster about to pull the curtain on a fucked-up circus.

Toji didn't say a word. Just adjusted his shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and strode over to the truck bed like he wasn't about to play the role of a lifetime. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were already locked on her.

The back of the truck opened with a metallic creak.

Before anyone else could react, Toji was already there- hand outstretched, ignoring everyone else like they weren't even real.

"Careful now," he said, voice low, gentle, as he helped Y/N down like she was something delicate. "Don't want you twisting an ankle before the fun even starts."

His hand stayed around her waist a second longer than it needed to.

"School going good? You look like the studious type," he added smoothly as he began walking her toward the house, like this was just a polite conversation on a sunny Texas day.

Choso watched from the truck bed, his jaw twitching, arms crossed tight against his chest.

Gojo clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Relax, man," Gojo said, elbowing Choso with a grin. "He ain't gonna fuck her or anything." He said, even though his eyes narrowed just a little too long at the way Toji's hand lingered on Y/N's lower back.

Meanwhile, Shoko was adjusting her sunglasses, hopping down without asking for help- but Gojo stepped in anyway, offering his hand like a knight. She accepted with a half-smile.

Sukuna jumped down next, and Mei- practically glowing, held her hands up like a child wanting to be picked up.

"You gonna help me or what?" she asked.

He sighed, rolled his eyes, but lifted her down with a one-arm pull, his other hand already reaching for a cigarette. No kiss, no thank-you. Just an annoyed grunt.

Yuji jumped out like a golden retriever, stretched with a loud groan, then turned like he forgot something.

"Wait... where's my-"

"I'm right here, dumbass," Nobara snapped, arms crossed, waiting by the truck's edge.

Yuji smirked, took a few dramatic steps like he was gonna help her-

Then turned around and walked off.

"Rude!" she shouted.

Before she could jump down herself, Naoya was suddenly there, like a vulture on a wire.

"Let me get that for you, sweetheart," he said, flashing teeth that were a little too white.

He took her hand, gripped her wrist tighter than necessary, and helped her down slow- eyes dragging up her legs with no shame.

"You ever model before?" he asked, voice syrupy and sharp all at once.

Nobara squinted at him. "No."

"Mmm. Shame."

She pulled away the second her feet hit the ground.

Back on the porch, Toji and Y/N had already made it to the front steps. His eyes flicked down at her shoes, like he was taking inventory.

"You know," he said, eyes dragging slow across her face, "you've got the kind of pretty that makes a man think twice..."

He stepped up beside her, holding the old screen door open like a gentleman. But the glint in his eye wasn't gentle. It was possessive. Standing just a little too close, his voice dropping lower now that it was just the two of them on the porch.

"You ever get the feeling when something's too good to be true?" he asked, almost like a joke.

Y/N blinked, heart skipping once- but before she could respond, the crunch of boots and chatter from behind interrupted it all.

The rest of the group was filing up the steps now, Gojo whistling as he waved the Polaroid in the air, Yuji still laughing at whatever joke Nobara had made, Mei Mei practically hanging off Sukuna's arm. Just loud enough to shatter the moment.

And he smiled.

But it didn't reach his eyes.

. . .

Toji's smile didn't falter.

"Come on in, kids," he said, stepping inside and holding the door open wide. "I'll show you to your rooms. Girls on the left, boys on the right. Keep it cute, now."

His tone was light, almost teasing but that look in his eye lingered on Y/N one last time before he turned away, deeper into the house.

Like he already knew which room she'd end up in.

Chapter 8: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟔 - 𝐈𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐮𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐢𝐥.

12:00PM

The front door creaked shut with a heavy finality, swallowing the sound of cicadas behind them.

Dust hung thick in the light streaming through warped windows, catching on old picture frames and floral wallpaper too faded to still be charming. Something about the air inside felt off, like it had been holding its breath, waiting.

Naoya stepped in behind the group, boots dragging just a little louder than necessary. His eyes swept lazily across the room, lingering on Nobara for a moment too long- studying her from head to toe like he was sizing her up, not appreciating her. Then, just before slipping away, his gaze landed on Y/N. Brief. Measured. Cold.

He didn't say a word.

"Gonna get started on supper," he muttered finally, more to himself than anyone else, already moving toward the kitchen with that same unhurried saunter.

Toji watched him go, jaw ticking.

Then, without a glance back at the group, he stepped toward the staircase.

"Let's get y'all settled in," he said, voice low but firm- carrying. "Follow me."

He started up.

He didn't wait for agreement. He started up, slow and deliberate.

Y/N followed right behind him, her sandals soft against the wood. Toji's hand rested lightly on the small of her back- not forceful, but guiding. Familiar.

She didn't even flinch.

Didn't seem to notice the way his fingers lingered longer than they should have, like she liked the attention. Her soft laugh floated up the stairs after something he murmured low under his breath, too quiet for the others to hear.

Behind them, Choso's entire body had gone rigid.

His jaw was locked. His brows furrowed. Hands clenched at his sides like they were waiting for a reason.

One more second and he was gonna say something- was going to lose it-

But before he could open his mouth, Sukuna stepped in front of him, cool and calm.

Then grabbed him.

His hand clamped over Choso's mouth and with the other, he gripped his shoulder, forcing him to lean in.

"Hey," Sukuna murmured, voice low, sharp, venomous. "Shut up and look at his boot."

Choso's eyes darted down.

Just a flash- barely a glimpse under the cuff of Toji's jeans. But it was there.

A gun. Caliber was big. Real big.

"That's not a hunter's piece," Sukuna whispered against his ear. "That's an execution piece. You wanna get us all killed 'cause your girl's got a daddy kink?"

Choso yanked his head away, breathing hard.

Didn't say a word.

Just stood there, swallowing it down, jaw ticking.

Sukuna stepped back, satisfied.

Toji, halfway up the stairs, didn't look back, but maybe he didn't have to. His hand lingered on Y/N's lower back a beat longer, thumb just slightly pressing in.

And Y/N?

She was smiling at something he said. Oblivious. Drunk on charm and the way his voice dropped when he said her name.

. . .

Toji showed the boys their room first, two queen beds pushed to opposite walls, windows cracked just enough to let in stale summer air.

"Boys get this one," he said, gesturing without looking inside. "Don't break the beds. Or each other."

Choso barely even looked. He was still watching Y/N.

Gojo clapped his hands once. "Damn, so he really splitting us up like it's summer camp."

Toji didn't laugh.

He just turned to the opposite room and pushed it open.

"Girls get this one."

Nobara walked in first. "Smells like sawdust and a grandpas attic."

Shoko followed. "Well, there's beds. Beats crashing in the car with eight people and zero leg room."

Y/N stepped in last.

But Mei paused in the doorway- and grinned.

"Wait, wait," she said, grabbing Toji's wrist. "We didn't get a proper tour."

"Yeah," Y/N added, not even thinking, "You gotta show us around."

Toji raised a brow.

"Don't wanna bruise any egos," he said, glancing over his shoulder at the guys still outside the door, his voice like silk cut with smoke. "But if the girls are pulling me in..."

Mei giggled, grabbing one arm. Y/N, the other.

Nobara didn't help.

Shoko leaned against the dresser, unimpressed but watching.

The girls yanked Toji into the room, laughing, and slammed the door behind him.

Gojo blinked. "Well... that feels like a morale blow."

Sukuna rolled his eyes. "Relax. Let 'em fawn over their silver fox. He's probably just showing them a creepy old photo of his dead mama to score sympathy points."

Choso didn't speak.

Still hadn't moved.

He was staring at the closed door like he could burn a hole through it.

. . .

The door shut with a dull thud behind them. The air was musty- old wood and dust and something else that made the back of Choso's neck itch.

Two queen beds. One cracked window. Bare walls. No real charm.

Gojo flopped dramatically onto the mattress nearest the window, sighing like he was on vacation. "Ah, rustic serial killer chic. Love what he's done with the place."

Yuji kicked his sneakers off with a grunt. "Feels like the kinda place that's got a Bible in the drawer and a taxidermy squad hiding in the closet."

Sukuna leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Choso.

"Yo," he drawled. "You done clenching your fists like a damn obsessed psycho boyfriend yet?"

Gojo grinned, chiming in. "Dude, relax. Toji's not gonna steal your girl."

Choso didn't respond.

Didn't even look at them.

His jaw was tight, gaze fixed on the floorboards like they'd done something wrong.

He knew he was being irrational. Knew how it looked. But still-

He'd seen it.

The way Y/N's laugh fluttered when Toji said something low. The way her eyes softened when she smiled up at him. The way her body leaned into his hand on her back like it was natural.

Maybe she didn't realize how she looked to other people.

Maybe that's what made it worse.

Choso's thoughts spiraled, dark and fast.

He wasn't dumb.

He knew his friends looked at her. Even if they didn't say anything. Even if they had girlfriends of their own. He'd caught the flickers in their eyes, split-second slips that said more than words ever could.

And he didn't blame them.

Y/N was a damn hidden treasure.

All soft edges. A girl you didn't just want to fuck- you wanted to keep. He'd been lucky to have her, to hold her. But now?

That guy... Toji- was bold with it.

Didn't even try to hide how he looked at her. How he touched her. That wasn't just some friendly welcome to the house shit. That was claiming.

And if- fuck- if Y/N felt even a flicker of attraction to him? If she liked the way he handled her?

He was screwed.

He knew it in his bones.

"Fucking hell," he muttered under his breath, fingers digging into the back of his neck.

Then-

"AAAAH-FUCK!"

Yuji's scream cut through the air like a gunshot.

Choso jumped, startled out of his spiral.

Yuji was hopping on one foot, clutching the other, face twisted in pain. "I stubbed my big toe on the bedframe! I think I broke it! I think I'm gonna die!"

Gojo cackled. "Bro, are you crying?"

"I'm leaking from the eyes!"

Sukuna groaned. "Jesus Christ, you're so dramatic."

But Choso just exhaled, slow and shaky.

His head throbbed. His heart hadn't slowed down. He was still tense as hell.

But at least for now, the spiral had stopped.

Even if the knot in his stomach hadn't.

. . .

The girls room smelled like old cedar and fabric softener from another decade. Lace curtains, yellowed from the sun, swayed in the slow churn of a ceiling fan. There was a radio in the corner that barely worked, some forgotten Dolly Parton hum stuttering in and out like a ghost.

The girls were sprawled across two worn queen beds, half-laughing, half-sweating, drinking lukewarm sodas from a plastic cooler. The air had that lazy tension, like static building before a storm.

Toji leaned in the doorway. Not talking. Not smiling. Just there.

Nobara sauntered in first, folding her arms. "So, Toji, you live way out here with just you and Naoya? Sounds kinda... lonely."

Mei twirled a gum wrapper between her fingers, eyes playful. "No cable, no neighbors, no drive-thru? How do you even survive?"

Shoko snorted. "Probably chats with raccoons and collects tin cans for fun."

Toji chuckled low under his breath, pulling a hunting knife from the sheath on his belt- casual, like it was habit. He flipped it once in his palm and started twirling it slowly between his fingers, the blade catching flecks of dying sunlight.

"Peace and quiet's a gift," he said, voice smooth and deep. "Out here, you get to hear yourself think. Most people don't know how loud they really are 'til it's just them and the dark."

Y/N stood a little behind the others, her gaze flicking to the knife in his hand, then to his face.

"But..." she said softly, "doesn't it get lonely?"

Toji's eyes shifted- subtle, but direct locking with hers in a way that made the air hitch in her throat. The knife paused mid-spin.

"Lonely's just a word people use when they're scared to be by themselves."

Shoko raised a brow. "That's kinda bleak."

He glanced at her, then twirled the blade again like it was nothing. "Dark's where people get honest."

Nobara gave a half-laugh, nudging Mei. "He's either deep or totally unhinged... but like, kinda hot either way."

Mei leaned forward, letting her voice drip with flirtation. "So... you single or what?"

Toji didn't miss a beat. He smirked and looked back to the blade, running his thumb along the spine, not the edge.

"Single enough to enjoy good company."

Then his eyes slid back to Y/N, slower this time, like he was sizing her up in a way no one else noticed. That stare lingered heavy, seductive, charged.

"To live out here, takes the right kinda person," he said, knife still moving in slow, idle turns. "And the right kinda woman to handle me."

The girls laughed off his tone like it was all in good fun, too distracted to catch the silence from Y/N- or the way her pulse had started to quicken.

Mei leaned back, trying to shake it off. "Alright, fine. What's the freakiest thing you've seen out here? Like, Bigfoot? Aliens? Some dude in a goat mask?"

Toji looked at her, dead serious.

"Freakiest? Girl walked into the woods once and didn't come back out. Her boyfriend tried to find her. He didn't come back either."

Everyone fell quiet.

Toji let that sit for a second, then shrugged.

"Coyotes, probably."

Shoko muttered, "Probably?"

Y/N spoke again, voice soft. "That's awful..."

Toji turned back to her, eyes heavy with something that felt like interest, maybe obsession. "That's nature. You wander off, nature don't wait for you to figure it out."

Then he grinned- but it was small, strange. Wrong.

"But I'm guessin' you're smart enough not to go wanderin'."

Y/N just nodded, a little too quickly.

Toji let his eyes linger a second too long.

Then he turned toward the hallway.

"Dinner's at six. Don't go pokin' around where you don't belong."

He was halfway out when he added without looking back-

"And some things out here? They don't like bein' found."

Click.

The door shut behind him.

Silence.

Then Nobara blew out a breath. "What the hell was that?"

"Lowkey?" Mei whispered. "I think I just came a little."

Shoko stood, brushing her hands on her jeans. She sarcastically spoke, "We're soooo gonna get murdered."

But Y/N just kept staring at the door. Cheeks warm. Heart knocking.

And for some reason... she didn't feel scared.

She felt seen.

. . .

The sun bled orange through the warped screen door, casting long shadows over the dusty wood floor. Muffled laughter echoed faintly from upstairs- the kind that made Naoya's skin crawl with excited anticipation.

He was hunched at the kitchen table, dragging a whetstone along the edge of a hunting knife. Long, deliberate strokes. The shhhk... shhhk... of metal being honed filled the room like a ticking clock.

Toji stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, jaw tight. Watching the embers of sunlight flicker across the old brick.

Naoya didn't look up. "So which one first?"

Toji didn't answer.

Shhhk...

Naoya grinned. "C'mon, man. You always got a favorite. Don't tell me you're goin' soft now just 'cause that little college girl batted her lashes at you."

Toji's eyes darkened. "She didn't bat shit."

Naoya barked a laugh. "Sure she didn't. You practically had your hand on her ass guiding her up the stairs. If that'd been me, you'd be pissed."

Toji said nothing.

Naoya turned the blade, checking the edge. "Let me guess. You wanna take out the muscle first. That boyfriend of hers- what's his name? Chosen? Charlie?"

"Choso."

"Right. That one. Real clingy motherfucker." Naoya licked his front teeth. "You wanna gut him, don't you?"

Toji finally moved. Took a slow step forward. Voice like gravel. "I wanna kill him slow."

Naoya looked up.

Toji continued, quieter now. Calculating. "He's in the way. The way he looks at her, touches her... like she belongs to him."

Naoya smirked. "She doesn't?"

Toji's nostrils flared. "No."

Shhhk...

Naoya went back to sharpening. "So what? Dinner time slaughter or midnight snatch-n-drag?"

Toji turned toward the front window, peering out at the long, empty stretch of dirt road. "Dinner. They'll be full, sleepy. Comfortable. All that comfort? Ripped away in a blink."

Naoya chuckled. "Brutal. You want her to watch?"

Toji's eyes narrowed. "Every fucking second."

Naoya gave a low whistle. "You think she's gonna scream?"

Toji stared at nothing. "Not right away."

Shhhk... shhhk...

Naoya leaned back in his chair, tapping the blade to his temple. "And when Choso starts crying? Begging?"

"I hope he begs," Toji muttered. "I want her to see what kind of man he really is when it matters."

Naoya's grin twisted. "And you? Gonna be her knight in blood-soaked denim?"

Toji didn't answer. He just walked to the table and grabbed the second blade Naoya had laid out. Tested its weight in his hand. Ran his thumb across the edge.

"Clean this place up. Make it look good. Last thing I want is for her to think this ain't a home."

Naoya laughed. "Shit. You're in love."

Toji looked down at the knife in his hand. "No."

Then his eyes flicked up, calm and cold.

"I'm in control."

. . .

The boys' room looked like something out of a summer camp horror movie, two rusted twin bed frames pushed against opposite walls, a fan creaking in the corner, and old posters of cows and tractors tacked lazily onto wood-paneled walls. It smelled faintly of pine, sweat, and the dust of years long gone.

Yuji and Gojo were half-lounging on the beds, a bag of chips between them as they bickered about which Polaroid turned out the best. Choso sat at the edge of the bed, quiet, still visibly tense.

Then came the knock.

Not loud. Not secretive either. Just a sharp tap tap tap.

The door creaked open and in spilled Nobara, Shoko, and Mei Mei, all grinning like they'd just pulled off a heist.

"We're bored," Nobara announced. "This room's more fun."

Mei flopped dramatically onto Gojo's bed, nearly kicking Yuji in the side. Shoko handed Choso a piece of gum wordlessly before sinking cross-legged onto the floor. Just like that, the mood started to lift.

But Gojo squinted. "Wait. Where's your shadow?"

Shoko looked up. "Y/N said she had to pee."

Nobara shrugged. "Yeah. She said she'd be back in a minute."

Yuji frowned. "Sukuna's not back either. Said the same thing- bathroom."

No one thought anything of it at first.

Because it was innocent, right?

Just two people in a big old house with one bathroom. Coincidence. Nothing weird.

Gojo smirked. "Bet he just said bathroom to cover up his nicotine fix. Dude's probably out there puffin' like a chimney."

Nobara hummed in agreement.

Mei smirked. "Maybe Y/N fell in. It's not exactly modern plumbing out here."

They all laughed.

Except Choso.

He looked at the door for just a second too long, that flicker of something sour twisting behind his eyes. But he didn't speak.

Not yet.

Instead, he leaned back on his hands, letting the others fill the silence with playful chaos.

Because it wasn't like Y/N and Sukuna were together.

That would be ridiculous.

Right?

 

. . .

 

"Fuck-"

The sound of skin on skin echoed softly between the cracked tiles and fogged-up mirror. Y/N was barely upright anymore, braced only by Sukuna's body pressed flush to hers, her forearms trembling where they gripped the sink edge.

Y/N's palms were flat against the cold porcelain, nails dragging faint lines into the grime as Sukuna's body slammed into hers from behind- relentless, tight, brutal.

One hand was tangled in her hair, yanking her head back until her mouth parted in a silent gasp. The other was clamped hard over that same mouth, palm slick with her heat, silencing every moan that threatened to escape.

His breath ghosted over her ear, voice thick and rough. "Couldn't fuckin' wait, could you?" he snarled low. "Had to drag me in here like some desperate little slut."

She whimpered beneath his hand, eyes fluttering shut- but Sukuna wasn't having that.

"Eyes up," he hissed. "I want you lookin' at yourself while I ruin you in some stranger's bathroom."

She blinked, lashes wet, gaze locking onto the foggy mirror, seeing her own smeared lipstick, her arched back, his tattooed forearm flexing around her jaw like a vice.

"You just couldn't wait until we left this place, huh?" he rasped, rolling his hips with deliberate cruelty. "Had to feel me in you. Had to sneak off like a filthy fuckin' cheater while your boyfriend in the other room."

His grip tightened when her knees buckled.

"You like feelin' used, don't you?" he rasped, voice gravel and lust. "You like being the dirty little secret I drag into the bathroom just so I can shut you up with cock."

Her eyes rolled back at that- a twitch in her thighs, a silent plea.

"Fuckin' knew it." He bit down on her shoulder, grinning as her body shivered beneath him. "You need this. Not sweet talk. Not slow kisses. You want a man who takes what he wants, who splits you open just because he can."

His palm slid from her mouth to wrap around her throat, not choking, just holding, grounding her, reminding her who owned every inch of her right now.

His free hand left her hair and fumbled for the flip phone in his back pocket. He flipped it open one-handed, the dull click loud in the small bathroom.

He angled it just right, the cracked screen barely catching their filthy reflection. Her glassy stare, her parted lips, her body bouncing slightly with every thrust.

Click.
A photo, kept just for him.

His hand went back to cover her mouth, fingers spread wide, calloused palm damp with her moans. The other had moved back to her hip, pulling her onto him with brutal precision. Each stroke landed deep, heavy, calculated. The kind of rhythm that made her legs shake and her stomach flutter.

"You fuckin' love this," he murmured against her temple, breath hot, words dripping venomous praise. "Gettin' stuffed like this.”

She whimpered beneath his hand- not in protest, but in pure submission. And it only spurred him on.

He pulled out just long enough to slap her ass hard the sound sharp, obscene- before plunging back in with a growl.

"Bet you thought about this all night. Bet you touched yourself with your boyfriend sleeping right next to you. Thought about my hands, my voice, how I make you feel so goddamn filthy."

She gasped, finally able to whisper through clenched teeth, "I did."

Sukuna groaned, his fingers tightening on her hips. "Fuckin' knew it."

Then his voice dropped again, pure venomous heat against her ear. "So go ahead, baby. Let me see how desperate you are. Rub that pretty little clit for me- quiet. You come on this cock, and I'll keep the picture."

She obeyed instantly, one hand sliding down between them, slick with need.

"You were made for this," he growled. "A girl who needs to be ruined to remember who she belongs to."

Y/N let out a muffled cry, trying to keep it in. Her thighs trembled violently.

His next thrust hit deeper, rougher.

"You're gonna stay quiet," he warned, his lips brushing the curved of her ear, "or I'll keep fuckin' you until someone knocks on that door wondering where the hell you are."

And Y/N?
She didn't dare make a sound.

Her eyes fluttered, breath stuttering as the wave finally hit her- hard, fast, overwhelming. Her whole body shook in his grasp.

"Good fucking girl.”

 

. . .

 

Laughter erupted from the boys' room, loud enough to echo down the narrow hallway. Gojo was in the center of it, sprawled across one of the beds with his arm draped over Yuji's shoulder like it was storytime in a kindergarten class.

"-so then the RA bangs on the door," Gojo was saying, eyes wide with mock horror, "and I swear to god, Shoko still had the stupid little nurse cap on, and I'm standing there with my pants halfway down, like, 'sir, she's treating my broken heart.'"

Yuji was practically wheezing. "Nooo-"

"And Shoko didn't even blink," Gojo added proudly. "She just goes, 'He's got acute trauma to the groin. I need to finish my examination.' Dead serious."

Shoko cracked a giggle from where she sat in the corner, arms crossed. Nobara and Mei, having snuck in just moments earlier, were leaning against the foot of the bed, laughing along with them.

Even Choso had loosened up- his usual tension replaced with a reluctant smile. For once, his eyes weren't darting around looking for Y/N. The story had caught him off guard, tugging a laugh out of him he didn't expect.

"Swear to god," Gojo grinned, clapping a hand to his chest like he was still proud. "Shoko should've gone pre-med. She had the bedside manner of a goddamn serial killer."

"Still does," Nobara said dryly, flicking a chip at him.

The room lit up with another round of laughter. The moment was warm, loud, easy- like nothing could go wrong.

Like they weren't already being watched.

Chapter 9: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟕 - 𝐀 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞.

12:45PM

Back in the bathroom with Sukuna and Y/N….

Sukuna had just slipped out of her, both of them breathless, clinging air in the bathroom thick with heat and the echo of lingering moans. Their chests rose and fell in sync, flushed skin sticking to porcelain and tile.

Y/N leaned forward slightly on trembling legs, one hand bracing against the counter, the other tangled in the hem of her skirt.

Sukuna was already behind her, palms warm and gentle on her bare shoulders, smoothing over the goosebumps scattered across her skin.

"You okay?" he asked softly, the usual sharp edge in his voice completely gone. "Was I too rough?"

He didn't wait for her to answer. He was already reaching for a wad of toilet paper, carefully blotting between her thighs.
"Sorry- hold still- lemme get this."

Y/N blinked at the sudden shift, her brows furrowing as she felt his hands lift her panties back into place, then gently tug her skirt down. His touch was careful. Too careful.

Still behind her, Sukuna brushed her hair back with the same hands that had just gripped her like she was a fucking addiction.

"You good?" he asked again, quieter this time. "Did I hurt you?"

She blinked, lashes still wet from how hard she'd come.
"I'm fine."

But he didn't buy it. His brow furrowed deeper.

"I was rough. Too rough. I- fuck... I didn't mean to get lost like that- "

"You're doing it again," Y/N cut in quickly, catching his gaze in the mirror.

Sukuna blinked.
"Doing what?"

"That face. The way you talk and act. You always do this after we fuck. Like you're... thinking too hard."

He shrugged lazily.
"So what?"

Y/N turned slightly, brow raised.
"Why?"

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He looked away, jaw tightening as his fingers grazed the edge of the sink beside her.

"I don't know," he muttered.

Y/N studied him for a moment, then turned fully to face him. She reached up and grabbed his jaw firm, but gentle and guiding his eyes back down to hers. They still drifted away.

"Look at me."

He hesitated but then finally did.

She tilted her head up, trying to reach his gaze even though he was already leaning forward, hands braced on the porcelain sink between them.
"Kuna, please answer me. Why do you always act like this after?"

Sukuna paused, his fingers curling slowly into fidgeting fists.

"Act like what?" he said, but it was obvious he already knew exactly what she meant.

"Like this," she said. "All... boyfriend. You don't have to be so nice to me, Sukuna. You got what you wanted."

His jaw tensed.

Then he stepped back, like her words had physically struck him.
"Are you serious?" he asked, blinking. "You think I'd just... leave you like this?"

Y/N crossed her arms.
"I don't know. Isn't that what this is?"

He looked away... actually looked away- biting the inside of his cheek like he was holding something back.

"Kuna."

She stepped toward him.
"What the fuck is going on?"

He didn't answer.

His mouth opened once, then shut again. Shoulders stiff. Brows tight.

Then he looked at her, quickly- then down at the floor.

"I want more than just fucking in bathrooms," he muttered so fast it almost didn't register.

Y/N froze.
"What?"

"I said..." Sukuna groaned, backing away. Panic hit his chest like a fist. His hands flew to his face, dragging down.
"Fuck-fuck. I shouldn't've said that. Shit. I'm sorry-I don't-fuck."

He kept pacing in a tight circle, like a dog that had just set its own tail on fire, muttering under his breath, dragging fingers through his hair.

"I'm so fucking sorry, just pretend I didn't say that-I don't know why-fuck-"

Y/N let out a soft laugh.

Sukuna stopped dead.

She giggled again reaching out, wrapping her fingers around his arm and tugging him gently back toward her.

He didn't look at her. Couldn't.

"Why are you laughing?" he mumbled, eyes glued to the floor.

"Because," she whispered, voice breathy with disbelief, "I want more too."

He snapped his head up.

His eyes flicked over her face like he couldn't believe it.

"You do?" he whispered.

She nodded, a smile tugging at her lips.
"I do."

He blinked.
"Say that again," he whispered. "Please."

"Kuna, I do too," she giggled, cheeks warm.

He lit up like she'd handed him the whole fucking universe.

"Oh my god-fuck-come here-"

Her eyes widened, breath caught in her throat, still laughing softly.
"Kuna!"

He grabbed her waist and kissed her. Once.
"What?" he muttered, then kissed her again. Then again and again, peppering kisses across her lips, her cheek, her forehead, her jaw like he was trying to make up for every time he hadn't been allowed to touch her this way.

She gently pushed at his chest, but he wore that smug smirk, and Y/N couldn't help but smile a little too.
"You know... I had a thing for you freshman year," she said.

Sukuna's eyes widened.
"Are you fucking serious?"

"You were a fuckboy," she added quickly. "You would've ruined me."

Sukuna groaned dramatically.
"We could've had this since freshman year? You're evil."

She laughed-until her breath caught as he dropped to his knees in front of her. His large hands glided down from her waist to her thighs, resting there gently.

"I wouldn't've ruined you," he said, locking eyes with her. "I would've worshipped you."

He kissed her inner thigh- soft, reverent.

Y/N's breath hitched.

He grinned and rested his head against her legs, arms looping loosely around them like he didn't want to let her go.

Her fingers slid through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

Sukuna groaned.

"What?" she asked softly.

"I should've never helped Choso get you."

Her hand froze.
"You what?"

He looked up at her, regret sharp in every feature.
"I helped him. Sophomore year. He said he wanted to ask you out, and I-fuck-I told him how to do it. What to say. I didn't want to make it obvious I liked you. I was already with Mei, using her as a distraction. I didn't know how else to deal with it."

Y/N's lips parted, heart hammering.

"I want a life with you," Sukuna said, voice cracking. "I want to get away from all this. Get married. Have kids. Give you everything."

Her eyes widened.
"Wait... really?"

He scratched the back of his neck, flustered like never before.
"I do," he mumbled. "I picture you barefoot in our kitchen, yelling at our kids to stop running, and me behind you trying to grab your ass while you're yelling at them-"

"Oh my god," she laughed, pushing his shoulder.

"You think I'm joking, but I'm not," he said, dead serious. "I want all of it. I wanna wake up to you every day. I want to spoil you until you're sick of me."

Y/N giggled, then bit her lip, glancing toward the door. Her voice turned soft.
"It's not that easy..."

He reached for her hand instantly.

"You said you wanted me. You said you wanted us."

She looked at him, eyes wide, hesitant, and slowly nodded.

"Okay," she said.

He exhaled like he'd just been resuscitated.
"Okay?"

She smiled.
"Yeah, okay. Okay-we can do that. I want this. Us."

Sukuna grinned like a kid who'd just been handed the world.

She stared at him for a beat longer, then leaned in and kissed him slow and soft and full of something that neither of them knew how to name yet.

"Kuna..." she whispered, pulling back slightly. "What are we going to do about Choso and Mei?"

"End it." He said it fast. Desperate. "I'll break up with Mei. After the trip. I swear. Just- let me fix this."

Y/N stared at him, heart in her throat.

"Okay," she said finally. "Okay... that can work. I'll end things with Choso after break too."

Sukuna's whole face lit up. He stood and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight hug.

"Wait," Y/N added, easing back just enough to point at his chest. "You have to promise me something."

"Anything," he said, instantly taking her hand and intertwining their fingers. "Please."

"We act like we're still happy. With them. Until the trip is over. No slipping. No drama."

"Yes." Sukuna nodded fast. "I can do that. I swear."

Y/N smiled softly and patted his head. He leaned into it, heart full.

She adjusted her clothes, checking herself in the mirror.

Before she left, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

Sukuna looked like a lovesick puppy-warm, dazed, and grinning like he'd just won the one thing he thought he'd never have.

"Fix yourself up," she whispered. "Leave in ten."

And just like that, she slipped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Sukuna stayed there, palm pressed to the counter.

Grinning like an idiot.

So in love it was disgusting.

"I promise."

. . .

Sukuna stayed long after Y/N left, her warmth still lingering on his skin.

I could've had her since freshman year.

The thought drilled into his skull like a nail.

He turned himself around slowly, hands braced against the sink as he stared into the fogged mirror. His reflection looked... different. Softer somehow. He almost didn't recognize the man staring back at him.

Choso. Loyal as hell. Good guy. The type who'd throw himself in front of a train if it meant saving someone he loved.

But still.

Was he just being selfish? Biased?

Maybe. But every time Choso opened his damn mouth around the guys, it was always the same shit- nothing but sex. Positions. No sweet moments. No soft words. No little things. Just bragging and grinning like Y/N was some conquest.

And yeah, that was how they all talked sometimes, shooting the shit, locker room jokes and everything. But Choso never talked about her smile. Her laugh. The way she cried watching stupid romance movies or how she got so excited over bookstore stickers.

It pissed him off.

Sukuna adjusted his belt, still watching himself in the mirror.

I'd treat her better. I'd protect her. I'd love her right.

He exhaled, rubbing his jaw.

And now... now they had a real shot.

He grinned at his reflection, just a little.

No more sneaking around. No more guilt. No more pretending this was just about hooking up behind closed doors.

It was real now.

This is it.
He looked down, laughing under his breath.

It won't just be sex anymore. It would be a relationship. A future. He'd give her everything. Spoil her. Worship her. Put a ring on her finger the second they were done with college. And even when death came, even when time rotted away his bones-he'd still yearn for her.

He caught himself smiling way too hard. Giddy like a goddamn teenager.

"Get it together, man," he muttered, straightening his posture. His expression tightened again. Time to face the war zone of a clingy-ass Choso, always on Y/N like a lost puppy, and Mei, sweet but suffocating, never reading the room.

Y/N...

...His girl.

Fuck, he was so ready.

He turned the knob and opened the door-

-and immediately jumped back, startled.

Toji stood there.

Waiting.

Expression unreadable.

Chapter 10: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟖 - 𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢.

1:03PM

Toji leaned against the far wall of the hallway, directly across from the bathroom door. Arms crossed. Like he'd been waiting.

Listening.

The whole damn time.

His expression was unreadable, but the faint grin curling at the edge of his mouth said enough-amused, maybe. Or maybe something worse.

"Sukuna, right?" His grin tugged wider now. "Or was it Kuna?"

Sukuna's whole body tensed.

Shit.

His hair was still messy, mouth still tinged with her taste, heartbeat just beginning to settle. He adjusted his shirt and tried to keep walking with a sharp, quick nod of acknowledgment-it was just a short trip down the hallway, back to normal, nothing to see here.

He barely got a step out before Toji spoke again. Clear as hell he wasn't done.

"Cute name," he added, that grin deepening. "She say it a lot when she's under you like that?"

Fuck.

Sukuna stopped. His jaw flexed as he turned halfway, eyes narrowing, not bothering to mask the suspicion in his stare.

"What are you getting at, man? You tryna be funny or something?"

Toji peeled off the wall slowly, deliberate-like a lion deciding whether it felt hungry.

"Nothing," he drawled. "Just thought I heard a girl moaning Kuna down the hall." He tapped the side of his head. "Thin walls, y'know."

Sukuna scoffed. "You didn't see or hear shit."

"Didn't say I did." Toji shrugged, his tone still unsettlingly smooth. "But I gotta say, for two people sneaking around, y'all make a hell of a lot of noise."

Toji was walking toward Sukuna now, step by heavy step. Sukuna turned his body fully, squaring up without thinking.

And fucking hell, he had to look up.

Toji towered over him-6'7, maybe more. Broad shoulders, thick arms, presence loud even in silence. Sukuna wasn't used to looking up at anyone.

Because Sukuna wasn't small. 6'3, built and dangerous in his own right.

But next to Toji? He felt... young.

Inexperienced.

And it annoyed the hell out of him.

Toji cocked his head slightly. "If I'm not mistaken... pretty sure that girl is spoken for, yeah?"

Sukuna's hands curled into fists at his sides, but he forced a smile.

"I appreciate all the hospitality and shit, but that's kinda personal-"

Toji tilted his head, that smirk never leaving. "You sure? See, when people start fucking in my bathroom, in my house..." He laughed, dry and low. "Kinda starts to feel like it is."

Sukuna didn't move. His body was tense. On edge. He wasn't afraid-he didn't get afraid. But his instincts were loud.

"You gonna tell them?" he asked, voice tight. "You gonna run your mouth now?"

Toji chuckled at that-low and dry, like something unspoken curled underneath.

"Nah."

He reached out and gave Sukuna a heavy, two-finger tap to the shoulder. Not friendly. Not casual. Dominant. Claiming the space.

"Relax. I like you."

Sukuna's breath hitched just slightly. Toji noticed. Of course he fucking did.

"You seem the least... boyish out of you city boys."

He took a step back now, just enough to let the air in again. Sukuna could breathe-but only barely.

"Let's call it a truce, huh?"

Sukuna exhaled. A shaky, measured breath.
"Yeah," he said. "Truce. Thanks."

But Toji tilted his head like he was studying him.

Toji wasn't done talking.

"You want to start a life with her?"

The question landed like a gut punch. Sukuna blinked. "What?"

Toji's expression didn't change.
"You gonna build something with her?"

Sukuna's throat was dry. He hesitated. "Yeah. I might."
He stared back, defiantly now. "What's it to you?"

"Oh, nothing."

But that nothing felt heavy. Loaded.

That nothing said everything.

It crawled up Sukuna's spine.

Toji turned, stepping toward the stairs like the conversation was done. For a second, it seemed like he might just walk away.

But then-halfway down he paused. Glanced over his shoulder.

"Be careful with that girl," he said smoothly, tone almost bored. He twirled a finger by his head in slow circles. "Some women... they'll make a man lose his mind."

And with that, he disappeared down the steps.

Leaving nothing but silence in his wake.

Sukuna stood still. Frozen.

His heart started to pound now-not from fear, exactly. But instinct. Like something in him knew this wasn't a man you wanted knowing your secrets.

The words didn't sit right. His brain tried to shake them off-tried to tell himself Toji was just being cryptic, maybe a little territorial. Some backwards, rural intimidation shit.

He shook his head and muttered, "Yeah," to no one in particular.

Then he headed toward the room.

 

. . .

 

Downstairs, the basement was dim and cold, the concrete slick and damp beneath their boots. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, casting twitchy shadows across blood-stained walls.

Naoya was rummaging through the tool cabinet, letting out an irritated grunt.

“Where the fuck is it?” he snapped, shoving aside a bucket of bones and rusted blades. “Where’s my cleaver? I can’t have any fun without it-how the fuck am I supposed to slice through tendons with this butter-knife shit-”

“Shut up.”

Toji’s voice cut clean through the air-low, flat, final.

Naoya froze mid-slam, hand still on the dented drawer. He turned, blinking slowly at the older man.

Toji stood at the bottom of the stairs, face unreadable. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but his jaw was locked tight, and something dangerous flickered in his eyes.

“New plans,” he said.

Naoya raised a brow. “Oh?”

Toji walked in slow-silent and steady like a loaded gun with legs-and stopped just a few feet from his brother.

“We’re keeping Sukuna alive,” he said.

Naoya blinked. “Why? That guy’s always mouthing off. He’s practically begging to get diced.”

“Yeah,” Toji snapped. “And Sukuna’s been fucking Y/N behind the whole groups back. In my bathroom.”

Naoya actually laughed. “What? No way. Little Miss Daisy Dukes? Your Daisy Dukes?”

Toji didn’t laugh.

Naoya’s smile dimmed. “Okay. Damn.”

There was a beat of silence.

Toji didn’t move.

Naoya’s grin faltered. “Wait… you’re serious? That floaty, soft-spoken thing? The one that looks like she belongs in a painting? Sukuna’s been-?" He let out a low whistle. “Shit. No wonder the emo one’s always stuck to her like gum on a boot.”

He stepped back, grin returning.

“Damn. That’s good. Real scandalous. I’m starting to like this group.”

There was a beat of silence.

Naoya shifted, tried again. “So… we gut him first?”

Toji’s head turned slowly. His stare landed on Naoya like a blade.

“No.”

He didn’t move-just stood there, fists clenched at his sides, eyes distant like he was watching Sukuna die in slow motion. Over and over again.

The silence was thick. Too thick.

Even Naoya felt it.

Toji stepped forward-not fast, just deliberate. Naoya went rigid, sensing the violence leaking off him like steam.

“I want him to live,” Toji said, voice like gravel dragged across steel. “I want him to keep thinking he’s got a chance. That he can build something with her. Start a life.”

He let out a dark, humorless laugh.

“Can you believe that? The little shit actually said that to me. That he wants a house. A future. Babies. All that sunshine-suburbia bullshit.”

He spat at the floor.

“I’m gonna break him. Not just beat his ass,” -he grabbed a hunting knife from the table- “I’m going to ruin -break him. Strip him down piece by piece until there’s nothing left but regret. Guilt. The kind that eats a man alive.”

“I want that shit to last,” Toji hissed. “I want them to think they’ve got a chance. I want him clinging to Y/N like she’s his salvation-begging to stay in her orbit. I want him to hope.”

Naoya blinked. Then sneered. “What about Choso?”

Toji smiled-slow and terrifying.

“Oh, he still dies first.”

Toji still stood, casually flicking the hunting knife between his fingers, eyes cold and calculating. “You’ll gut him nice and slow. Make sure he knows what she’s been doing. That she’s been moaning another man’s name with his blood still under her nails. Let it break him before he bleeds out.”

Naoya finally found his voice. “Okay, damn, relax-”

“-And Y/N... she stays untouched,” Toji cut in sharply. “You hear me?”

Naoya raised both palms slowly. “Yeah. Sure. Fine.”

“She watches. That’s all,” Toji murmured. “She plays the games. But not a scratch. Not a bruise. You breathe on her wrong and I’ll cut your lungs out.”

“Toji…” Naoya said, voice cracking, “you’re not even mad about the sex-you're mad she liked it. You’re mad she ain't saving herself for you, huh?”

Toji rolled his shoulders back, neck cracking as he tilted his head. His jaw was tense.

Completely ignoring the question.

“She’s the only thing I don’t want blood on.”

Authors Note: yall im lowkey scared for choso and sukuna 😰

Chapter 11: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟗 - 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

3:47PM

It had been two hours since Naoya handed out beers and led everyone down to the living room-though calling it a “living” room felt like a sick joke. The space was more like a mausoleum, dressed up in death. Animal heads lined the walls like trophies, their glass eyes frozen mid-scream: deer with slack jaws, hogs caught in snarling grins, and a massive buck whose antlers stretched wide enough to gut a man clean through. Bones hung like twisted decor-ribs lashed together like morbid windchimes, a spine curved into a crooked S mounted above the fireplace like art.

But somehow, the group had made it feel… lived in.

The college students sat scattered across mismatched furniture-sunken couches, cracked recliners, even a bearskin rug stained darker in the center.

Y/N was curled on the floor beside Choso, tucked under his outstretched arm. Her legs were folded neatly on the patterned rug, her side pressed into his chest. Choso looked completely content, fingers occasionally playing with the strands of her hair, his other hand resting on a half-empty beer bottle.

To their left, Sukuna sat on the couch, legs splayed wide beside Choso. Mei leaned into his side with a dreamy smile, her manicured hand trailing lightly up and down his arm-but Sukuna wasn’t touching her back. His hands were between his thighs, elbows resting on his knees, the neck of his beer held loosely between his fingers. His eyes had drifted to Y/N more than once, who was merely twoish feet away from him.

His gaze was although was unreadable, but he looked like he was deeply in another world.

On the opposite side of the room, Nobara and Yuji were sandwiched together on a smaller loveseat, laughing at whatever wild story Naoya was spilling about the oversized badger. Yuji’s arm hung behind Nobara’s head, his cheek almost on hers, clearly too comfortable to fake any kind of chill. Shoko and Gojo had taken the floor too-Gojo sat and fumbled with his polaroid camera, Shoko smoking and nursing a beer at once.

Click.

A sudden whirring snapped lightly through the room.

Gojo was holding up the Polaroid camera now, grinning. “Don’t move. That was gold.”

Y/N blinked, smiling. “Wait, did you just-?”

The photo slid out from the camera’s mouth, and Gojo caught it mid-air. He stared down at it.

It was a snapshot of the four of them-Choso, Y/N, Sukuna, and Mei-framed in messy, lived-in comfort. Y/N’s cheek was lit up by her smile. Choso’s arm slung around her looked impossibly gentle. Mei looked like she was clinging to something that wasn’t hers. And Sukuna… well Sukuna just continued to stare into space really.

Naoya stood at the center like a performer mid-act, beer in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other as he told some story-something loud and bloody involving a nail gun, a raccoon, and “the dumbest man I ever met.” The punchline made Yuji wheeze and Nobara choke on her drink.

"And the idiot still tried to run, with a damn nail sticking outta his neck!" Naoya laughed, sharp and breathy, like the sound came from his throat, not his chest.

That’s when the front door creaked open.

Everyone looked.

Two figures stepped into the threshold.

The first was an older man-tall, broad, with a graying beard and a thick scar running down one side of his neck. He wore a black button-down tucked into weathered jeans and carried the kind of presence that made your instincts go cold before your brain caught up. His hand rested on the shoulder of the second figure.

A boy.

He looked young-maybe eighteen-dressed in worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a black t-shirt that clung to his tense frame like he was ready to bolt. His eyes swept the room once, quick and cautious… then again, slower this time-until they locked onto Y/N. And stayed there.

The boy's breath hitched.

His cheeks flushed pink.

Naoya noticed, a slow grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Ah, he thought, so the little bastard sees it too… She really is a fine piece of meat.

“Well, look what the fuck the wind dragged in,” Naoya said, voice dripping amusement. “Gentlemen and ladies-meet our patriarch, Naobito Zenin. And this broody little thing here…” He raised his beer in mock salute. “That’s Megumi. Youngest of the pack. Our baby brother.”

Naobito stepped in further, hands spread in a gesture that might’ve looked welcoming if it weren’t for the deadness behind his smile. “Hope we’re not interrupting. Always a pleasure meeting the next generation.”

His gaze swept over each of them like he was picking out cuts of meat. “Nice-looking bunch.”

Sukuna’s jaw ticked, shifting in his seat.

Gojo, leaning forward with a drink in hand, gave Naobito a smooth nod. “Pleasure’s ours. I’m Satoru.”

The rest gave names. One by one.

Naobito’s eyes landed on Y/N last.

She smiled, soft and polite. “Y/N.”

There was a pause. Just a breath too long.

Naobito chuckled, slow and deep. “Pretty name.”

Megumi stiffened beside him.

Naoya tilted his head toward his father. “You lookin’ for Toji?”

Naobito didn’t look at him as he answered. “Where is he?”

Naoya took a sip of beer, dragging out the silence before he answered. “Red barn. Out back.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other-father and son.

A beat passed.

Something unspoken passed with it.

Then Naobito gave a single nod. “Of course he is.”

Megumi finally cleared his throat. “Can I be excused?”

Naoya waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, sure. But you better be down for dinner.”

The boy turned sharply on his heel and disappeared down the hallway-not upstairs. Out the back door.

To the barn.

The room fell quiet again for a moment, the weight of Naobito’s presence pressing on everyone like a heavy fog.

He smiled, finally stepping deeper into the room.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, as he reached for a beer from a nearby crate. “I just wanna hear the rest of that raccoon story.”

Naoya smirked and picked it back up like nothing happened.

But no one laughed as easily this time.

Because something about that smile said he already knew the ending.

. . .

The screen door slammed behind him, the clap echoing into the thick Texas heat. Megumi didn’t stop to look back. His boots hit the dirt hard, fast, straight toward the red barn like he was walking into the mouth of hell.

He knew what the barn was for.

He’d grown up knowing. Had heard screams from inside as a kid, had learned early not to ask questions. It was where people disappeared. Where flesh met metal. And he never cared.

Not until now.

Not until her.

That girl. Y/N.

She wasn’t supposed to be part of this. She looked like she belonged in sunlight. Not duct-taped to a chair, screaming for her life in a blood-soaked barn.

Even if she was guilty of something-hell, Megumi didn’t know-girls like her don’t just disappear quietly. A girl like her missing would flood billboards. News alerts. Candlelight vigils. She was the type people looked for.

He shoved open the barn door hard enough it bounced off the inside wall.

“Toji!”

It was dark, humid. The air inside clung to his lungs like rot. Toji’s back was turned, near the far end of the barn, doing something with chains. Thick metal links clanked against the floor.

“Toji, what the fuck are you doing?” Megumi’s voice cracked slightly. “That girl-Y/N-you can’t do this. You can’t just kill everyone who steps on the property because you're bored.”

Toji didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance back.

He was huge. Built like something that didn’t belong indoors. Naoya was tall-6’5, lean but strong-but even he didn’t match what Toji had. Megumi was solid, six foot, muscle from working the land since he could walk. But Toji…

Toji looked like he gutted pigs for a living. His forearms alone could snap a man’s jaw. His hands… Megumi had seen what those hands could do. Even when they weren’t doing anything, they still threatened.

Toji rolled his shoulders with a slow crack, the sound sharp in the silence.

“She’s not gonna die,” he said finally, voice low.

Megumi blinked. “...What?”

“She’s the only one that’s gonna live.”

Megumi hesitated. Something about the way he said it made his stomach drop.

“You don’t do that,” he muttered. “You don’t let people live. You promise, sometimes. Then you kill them anyway. So what makes her different?”

Toji stood fully then, rising like something out of a nightmare. He turned slowly, the heavy chains now slung over one shoulder like they were nothing more than rope.

That face was unreadable. But those eyes…

“She’s different,” Toji muttered, eyes dark. “Too soft to throw away. Too pretty to end up like the rest."

He took a step forward. The barn creaked beneath his boots.

“I want her to see-every scream, every drop of blood, I want her to know what kind of place this is. What kind of man I am. And still…” he exhaled, slow, “still want to stay.”

Megumi stared, throat tight.

“You’re gonna keep her?” he said, voice strained. “That’s sick. That’s not better than killing her, it’s worse. She’s not some pet, Toji.”

“She’s gonna carry me,” Toji said, gaze darkening. “My blood. My name. Maybe even start to like it.”

“You’re insane.”

Toji smiled-slow and wide, like Megumi had said something cute.

“What’s wrong, Megs? You sweet on her too? You want her to moan your name instead?” His voice was mocking, but there was something dangerous underneath.

Megumi flinched. He didn’t move, but something in him recoiled.

Toji stepped closer.

“You want her belly to swell with your kid instead of mine? Huh?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Megumi snapped, voice sharp-but there was a tremor in it.

And Toji saw it.

That made him grin wider.

Megumi turned, ready to bolt.

But Toji’s hand landed on his shoulder like a vice-massive and immovable.

“Not so fast,” he murmured.

“You’re gonna help me set up.”

And Megumi froze. Because deep down, no matter how many times he told himself Toji wouldn’t hurt him…

That voice?

Still made him feel like he could be next.

. . .

4:15PM

It had been about twenty minutes of silence and sweat in the barn.

Chains clinked. Chairs scraped. The place stank of rust, hay, and old blood. Toji moved with a kind of precision that made Megumi nervous-like he was building a trap more than setting a scene.

“All the fuckin’ chairs face each other,” Toji muttered, pacing around the growing circle. “I want their damn eyes locked. No lookin’ away. No hiding. I want every single one of ‘em to watch one another beg for mercy.”

Megumi bent down, dragging another dented chair into place. His shoulders were tense. Toji's voice hadn’t softened once since they started.

“You know the emo-lookin’ bastard-Choso?” Toji spat, waving a hand like the name tasted bad. “Poor sap’s got tunnel vision. Thinks that Y/N-his girl walks on fuckin’ water.”

Megumi nodded once.

Toji let out a bitter laugh. “She’s fuckin’ his best friend.”

Megumi blinked, his grip on the chair tightening.

“Sukuna,” Toji said with venom. “That tattooed dick’s been sneakin’ off with her. Thinks he’s clever. Thinks he’s owed something. They even made a deal-end of the trip, break up with their partners, and play house together.”

He snorted. “Fucked in my bathroom. You believe that shit? My house.”

Megumi stood quiet, the chair still half-turned in his hands.

“What are you gonna do to them?” he asked finally, voice low. Eyes facing the floor.

“I’m gonna let it all blow up right here,” he said. “Right in this goddamn circle. Mei’ll find out Sukuna’s been balls-deep in someone else. Choso’s gonna hear every dirty detail-every lie Y/N whispered between his kisses.”

He turned toward Megumi, expression unreadable.

“And she,” he said, almost softly, “is gonna sit there and realize everything she thought was real-wasn't.”

Megumi swallowed. Something about the way Toji said “she” turned his stomach.

“Wait, I thought you weren't going to hurt her?” he asked, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

"No." He quickly snapped.

“Not a scratch,” he muttered. “No bruises. No blood. Nothing that leaves a mark on that skin.”

He stepped closer, chains clinking with each slow step.

“I want her broken on the inside. I want her chest hollow, her trust shattered. I want her looking at me like I’m the only steady thing left in her life.”

He crouched, tossing a chair into place with a loud clatter.

“She’s gonna sit in this circle, lose everything, and when she finally shatters… I’ll be the one picking up the pieces. Building her back how I want. She won’t even realize I’m the one that broke her to begin with.”

Megumi stayed quiet. His hands felt cold. The barn was hot, but it didn’t matter.

Because nothing about this felt like just another setup.

This was personal.

And Toji?

He doesn't ever do personal.

Chapter 12: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟏𝟎 - 𝐉𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝-𝐏𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐞𝐬?

5:15PM

 

The kitchen smelled like smoke and spice-iron pans sizzling over the open flame of a propane stove, oil popping like static. Meat crackled. A radio played something twangy and old, but low enough not to compete with the voice that rumbled in from the living room.

Toji’s voice.

It drifted down the hall like molasses, casual and commanding, filling the silence with smooth half-truths.

Megumi tried not to listen, focused instead on the cutting board in front of him. Naoya leaned on the counter nearby, peeling potatoes like it offended him, a blade glinting in his palm. Naobito sat with a beer in hand, half-sober and half-slumped in the corner, just close enough to supervise.

"...hunting mostly,” Toji’s voice carried. “Barn’s for dressing game, old family thing. Lotta folks don’t like seein’ how their food gets made.”

There was a pause, then a few of the college kids laughed awkwardly.

Technically, it wasn’t a lie.

Naoya smirked and elbowed Megumi. “You hear that? Smooth as ever.”

Megumi didn’t answer. He sliced the last piece of bell pepper and stared at it like it had something more important to say.

“You good?” Naoya asked, voice casual. “You’re zoning out. Don’t fuck up dinner-we’ve got company.”

Megumi didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to look to know Naoya was smiling like a man who already knew he’d be wiping blood off the floor in a few hours.

Then came the nudge. Sharper this time. Naoya’s elbow dug into his ribs.

“Hey,” he said. “Go get the juice.”

Megumi blinked. “Seriously?”

Naoya smirked, lips curling around the edge of his teeth. “Yeah, seriously. Next round of beers. Just a lil’ something to wind them down, y’know?” He wiggled his fingers. “Night-night juice. They’ll be out by sunset.”

He said it so casually, like it was just seasoning for the food.

Megumi hesitated. Then sighed, wiped his hands on a towel, and turned toward the hallway. He didn’t even get a second step before Naobito’s voice dragged through the air behind him.

“You heard him, boy.”

It wasn’t loud. But it was firm.

Megumi didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. That tone meant do it. And no one in the family said no to Naobito-not even Toji, not really.

The light buzzed to life overhead, flickering once. Shadows crawled across concrete walls and rusted shelving units. It looked like a supply closet for nightmares-traps, ropes, hunting gear, bottles, knives dull with rust but sharp with history.

He crossed the room and crouched by the crate tucked behind an old workbench. There they were-two bottles filled with that amber-colored drug mix. The juice. No label. No warning. Just glass and poison and a quiet promise of sleep.

He grabbed them both.

And that’s when he saw them.

The Polaroids.

Tojis Collection.

Lined up on the far wall. Some pinned. Some taped. Others stuffed into gaps between wooden beams. Dozens of faces, most of them women. Some looking confused. Others crying. Some barely clothed. None smiling.

Underneath each photo were notes. Handwritten. Sloppy, quick.

“Delicate mouth.”
“Soft jaw.”
“Pale collarbones.”
“Wide, scared eyes.”
“Perfect hair.”
"Shy."
"Pretty throat."
“Too loud.” (That one had a red X through it.)

Megumi stepped closer, the bottles clinking softly in his grip.

It was obsessive. Precise. Like Toji was cataloging features-not just women, but parts of women. Traits. The way a nose curved. The way a hand looked when it trembled. The shape of a throat mid-cry.

And then it hit him.

They all added up.

Every single note-every trait Toji had listed out over the years-Y/N had all of them. Every fucking one.

The realization sank in like rot.

It wasn’t just that Toji liked her. It wasn’t even that he wanted to fuck her. No.

Toji had been looking for her.

Piece by piece. Year after year. Through screaming girls and crying women and bodies buried out back.

Y/N was the end of the road. The final result. The woman he’d been building in his head without knowing it. Or maybe he’d always known. Maybe he was just waiting for the universe to cough her up.

And now that he had her?

He wasn’t going to kill her.

He was going to keep her.

Megumi didn’t scare easy. He grew up around monsters, was raised by one. But standing in front of that wall with the bottles in hand and Y/N’s ghost echoing through every line of ink…

He felt something cold crawl up his spine.

Because no one escapes a man like Toji.

Not once he decides you’re his.

Megumi stared at the floor, jaw tense. He’d never cared before-not really. The victims came and went. They all did. That was life around here.

But this time?

This time he hoped-hoped-someone would get out.

That she would get out.

Because what Toji wanted from Y/N wasn’t just possession. It wasn’t just control.

It was forever.

He wanted her in his house. In his bed. In his name.

He wanted to breed her. Love her. Fucking love her.

And that word felt foreign coming from a man like Toji-like it didn’t belong in the same breath as murder and power and blood.

But Megumi remembered what Toji said, hours earlier, right as they walked back from the red barn.

“I’m gonna love her. Protect her. She’s gonna carry my name.”

And in that moment, Megumi knew:

This wasn’t just obsession.

It was a different fucking reality.

And Y/N was never getting out of it.

He turned away, eyes burning, and started back up the stairs. Halfway up, he caught the sound of laughter echoing from the living room… and then a scream.

Sharp. Muffled. Real.

Fuck.

His grip tightened on the bottles.

Shit.

Had it already started?

 

. . .

 

5:35 PM

The wooden stairs creaked beneath Megumi’s boots as he climbed, one hand braced against the wall. He expected blood. A scream. Something mangled and wrong.

A body maybe. A hand chopped off. Eyes rolled back.
Something.

But what he saw when he stepped into the kitchen, turning his head to the living room nearly made him drop the fucking bottles.

Y/N.

Bent over Toji’s shoulder, laughing breathlessly like she’d just been swept off her feet at a bar downtown-not dragged into the belly of hell by a man who planned to destroy everything she knew. Her hands gripped the back of his shirt for balance, her legs kicking gently as he teased her, bounced her a little.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Toji rumbled low, like a threat wrapped in velvet. “You say one more cute thing and I might not put you down.”

And she giggled.
That soft, high sound girls made when they were flustered but flattered. That sound that made you think it was all innocent.

She had no idea.

Megumi froze, one foot still on the last step.

What the fuck.

The living room had gone quiet, save for the crackle of the radio and the faint simmer of food behind him. Everyone was watching, eyes flicking between Toji and Y/N like they weren’t sure if they were witnessing a joke or a threat.

Choso sat at the edge of the couch, body coiled tight, fingers twitching where they rested against his knee. He forced a smile-pretended like everything was fine.

But Megumi could see right through it.

The low simmer behind his eyes.
The way he sat too straight, too still.
The tension in his jaw every time Y/N let out another soft laugh from the porch.

Yeah. Choso knew.
And he didn’t like it one bit.

He hated the way she was smiling at another man-laughing like she wasn’t someone’s girlfriend. Like she wasn’t his.
He knew he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, not when the man she was smiling at was Toji.

Megumi’s eyes shifted.

Sukuna, slouched across the room, looked like he couldn’t care less. One leg draped over the other, beer in hand, gaze wandering like he was bored out of his mind.

But Megumi caught it.

The way Sukuna’s fingers curled tighter around the bottle.
The sharp click of his jaw as he ground his teeth just once before settling back.
The cold flick of his eyes toward the the two-then quickly away.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to.
He saw it just as clearly as Choso did.

Y/N was giving Toji attention.
And that alone was enough to piss them both off.

Toji didn’t give a shit. He dropped one heavy hand down the back of Y/N’s thigh, sliding it up with a familiarity that made Megumi’s stomach twist.

“See?” Toji said, addressing the room without looking at them. “Told you she’s light. Like she was made to be carried.” He smirked, turning his face toward hers, voice lowering so only she could hear the next part.

“Made to be taken care of too, huh? Guess I’ll hold off on that ‘til we’re alone.”

Y/N’s face flushed, but she smiled-still drunk on the charm, oblivious to the rot beneath it.

Megumi’s grip tightened on the bottles.

She doesn’t know.
She thinks he’s flirting.
She thinks he’s just bold.

Toji whispered something in her ear. She laughed again, softer this time, and he finally-finally-set her down on her feet. His hand stayed on her lower back.

And then they started walking.

Out the front door.

Together. Alone.

Like this was just some country vacation and she wasn’t surrounded by death.

Megumi took a step forward, about to follow, to say something-anything-when something snatched the bottles from his hand.

“Easy there, lover boy,” Naoya whispered near his ear, already turning away with the drinks. “You jealous or something? Big brother hoggin’ the girl, huh?”

Megumi shot him a glare. “Shut it.”

Naoya grinned, unbothered. “Relax. He’s just stretchin’ his legs. You know how he gets when he finds a toy he likes.” He wiggled the bottle in the air and disappeared back into the kitchen, singing something off-key under his breath.

Megumi stood there for a second, heart pounding.

It was all happening too fast.

Toji wasn’t even pretending anymore. He was claiming her right in front of all of them-her boyfriend, her friends, her fucking affair-and no one said a damn thing.

Because no one told Toji what to do.

And the scariest part?

He didn’t force her.

He didn’t threaten.

He didn’t even raise his voice.

He was just… good at it.

Too good.

Megumi turned back into the kitchen slowly, picking up the knife he’d set down earlier, pretending to go back to chopping onions-but his hands felt numb.

The smell of spice and smoke filled the air again, but none of it grounded him. Not this time.

He kept seeing her face.

That smile.
That flush.
That laugh like she was falling in love.

And maybe she was.

He should’ve looked away downstairs. Shouldn’t have stared at those Polaroids. Should’ve pretended they were just trophies like everyone else thought.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about those scribbled notes-every preference, every feature, every fucked-up fantasy written out like Toji had been designing his dream woman over the years.

And now she was just outside, on the porch. Breathing. Smiling. Real.

Y/N wasn’t on the wall because she wasn’t like the others.

She was it. The final draft. The one he wasn’t going to hurt-not physically.
Not the way he did the others.

No.

He was going to love her.

Breed her.

Keep her.

And that was worse than death.

Because at least the others were allowed to die.
Y/N? She was going to live in his cage.

She was so fucked.

Fucking-fucked.

Especially in the way Toji looked at her like that.
Like something divine.
Something owed.

And no one escaped a man who thought he was owed something.

Not even a girl like Y/N.

 

...

 

The porch door creaked behind them, easing shut with a dull click that somehow made the air feel thicker. Y/N stepped out first, the wooden boards cool under her sandals, the air carrying the scent of dust and warm grass.

She was still smiling from what Toji had whispered in the house-something smooth and half-sweet, almost playful:
“You ever seen flowers that only bloom for the prettiest girl in room?”

It had made her laugh. A harmless, flirty little line, right? Just southern charm. He was older, handsome in a rugged, unapologetic kind of way, and maybe a bit intense-but harmless.

At least, she kept telling herself that.

She leaned back against the porch railing, arms folded, watching the land stretch out like a painting that never ended. She didn’t hear Toji behind her right away, not until she caught the sound of something-fabric-and looked just in time to see him lift his cowboy hat.

Without a word, he leaned in and placed it right on her head.

It was big, worn, smelled like smoke and leather and something distinctly him.

Y/N blinked, tilting it back with a little laugh. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

Toji didn’t answer right away. He just stepped in closer-too close-until his chest nearly brushed hers and his arms rose to cage her in, hands pressing to the wood on either side of her frame.

He leaned down, his mouth grazing the shell of her ear as he murmured:
“It means I noticed you. Means I don’t plan on anyone else doin’ the same.”

Her breath caught. Her brain stuttered.

She tried to play it off, tried to focus on something else-anything-but all she could register was the sheer size of him. How easily he blocked out the porch light. How the scent of him filled every breath.

“I-I have a boyfriend,” she said quickly, eyes darting to the side. “Toji… I’m with Choso.”

Toji scoffed under his breath.

“Bullshit,” he said, low. “You’re fuckin’ Sukuna.”

Her whole body stiffened. Her smile dropped like a stone.

“I-What?”

“I’m not stupid, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice almost bored. "I see the way he looks at you. How your eyes track his. The way your little boyfriend’s never suspicious because he’s too busy sniffin’ the ground you walk on.”

Y/N opened her mouth to protest, but the words never made it out.

Toji’s hand moved fast-two fingers and a thumb catching her jaw, turning her face back toward him with a slow, firm grip. Not painful… but definitely not gentle.

She gasped quietly. Her eyes flicked to his hand.

God. It was huge.

His fingers were long-thick, rough and veined. She couldn’t help it-her brain jumped somewhere else. Somewhere low and filthy.

What else could he do with hands like that? What would it feel like to-

“Eyes up,” he said quietly.

Her breath hitched. Her lashes fluttered.

“I don’t like liars,” he continued. “Makes me think I can’t trust a girl. And if I can’t trust her…”

He let that trail off.

Y/N bit her lip, chest rising and falling too fast. She wasn’t sure if it was fear, guilt, or some twisted mix of both.

Finally, she nodded once. “It’s true.”

Toji’s eyes softened just enough to look like he was pleased-but the hunger in them didn’t go anywhere.

“There you go,” he said, thumb brushing her bottom lip just enough to make her freeze. “Honesty looks good on you, baby.”

Y/N swallowed. She felt hot. Trapped. Her body didn't know whether to run or lean in.

“You really think Sukuna’s gonna give you the life you want?” he murmured. “Choso? He’d let you run the show. Let you wear the pants. What kinda man lets his girl lead when he’s supposed to protect her?”

Y/N stayed silent, but he saw something shift in her eyes.

Toji leaned closer. The heat of his chest pressed into her just enough for her breath to catch again.

“Me?” he said. “I’d protect you from every damn thing out there. Keep you sweet, keep you pretty, keep you mine. You wouldn’t lift a finger unless it was to touch me.”

He let her jaw go, slow. Then patted her cheek lightly, like he was proud of her.

“Good girl,” he said softly.

And Y/N just stood there, blinking, dazed-still thinking about those hands. About that voice. About the way the porch suddenly didn’t feel so safe anymore.

But god, he sounded so sure of it all.

Toji’s hand moved again-this time slower, rougher, fingers spreading as he cupped her face. His grip wasn’t kind. Her cheeks gave under the pressure, a subtle squish of soft flesh pressing out between the seams of his fingers. His thumb grazed the hollow beneath her eye. Her breath caught again, heart skipping like it was trying to warn her-but her body stayed still, obedient, lips parted just enough for him to notice.

He tilted her face slightly upward, watching her like he could already taste the surrender sitting just behind her eyes.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice a low scrape of gravel and silk, “I think I might-”

“Dinner’s ready!” Naoya’s voice cut through the air like a whip crack-loud, smug, cocky as ever-as the porch door creaked open behind them. “They’re all waiting. You done flirtin’ with your lil houseguest?”

Toji didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Y/N turned her head slightly, blinking toward the sound. But Naoya… the second he stepped out and actually saw them-Toji’s hand still cradling her jaw, her body caged between his arms, eyes wide and dazed-his grin faltered.

Like a dog realizing it just barked at the wrong thing.

Toji still hadn’t looked at him. Still hadn’t said a damn word.

Naoya's stomach dropped.

Fuck.

His tone changed instantly-backpedaling with a forced chuckle, hands raised halfway in surrender. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he muttered quickly. “Just lettin’ you know the food’s out. They’re all waitin’, that’s all.”

No answer.

Toji’s jaw flexed once. Slow.

Naoya took the hint. He backed toward the door like he was escaping a cage, eyes darting between them before slipping inside without another word.

Y/N blinked up at Toji, still a little pink in the cheeks.

Toji’s hand still lingering, almost reluctant to let go, like peeling away something he hadn’t finished savoring. He turned back to her fully, that unreadable expression settling again-cool and smooth.

And deep down?

Possessive.

Like he’d just been interrupted in the middle of claiming something.

Something he had every intention of finishing later.

Toji didn’t move. His jaw flexed once. Slow.

But then, after a beat, he pulled back-not before dragging his thumb gently down the edge of Y/N’s jaw, letting the last touch linger.

Naoya disappeared as quickly as he’d come.

Toji turned, looked down at her.

She was still watching him.

Still smiling.

And that smile? That sweet, effortless little curve?

Fuck. It was working.

She didn’t even know what she was doing to him.

Didn’t know what kind of man she’d just let under her skin. Didn’t know she’d already let him crawl in and nest between her ribs like he belonged there.

Toji let out a low breath through his nose, composed, then turned and opened the porch door for her.

“Ladies first,” he said, lips tilted into something sly.

Y/N brushed past him with a soft laugh. “I hope there’s mashed potatoes,” she said as she stepped through. “Those are my favorite. Especially with gravy-it really tops it.”

Toji chuckled under his breath. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you always get what you like.”

And fuck, he meant it.

He hadn't thought about marriage-well- at all. Hadn't thought about anything that long-term. He wasn’t that type of man. Wasn’t built for picket fences or promises.

But watching her float through that doorway like she belonged here?

Hell.

She deserved a ring, didn’t she?

Not some dainty little thing, a real one.

By him.

His wife.

His.

Though if things didn’t go according to plan, his father might just have to officiate it himself.

Y/N’s voice pulled him from the thought. “Wait-we never saw the flowers!”

Toji smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured as he followed her in. “We got all the time in the world.”

She laughed softly, already weaving back toward the others.

And Toji? He just watched her go-eyes trailing her frame, head tilted slightly like he was studying the shape of forever.

Because in that moment, standing in the doorway of his family’s house, hearing her talk about potatoes and gravy like she hadn’t just let a killer back her against a railing-

Toji knew.

Yeah. This is it.

Authors Note: i feel like some of yall might not like soft toji but i swear the way he is acting and inner thoughts is for a reason so please trust me with this.

Chapter 13: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟏𝟏 - 𝐋𝐞𝐭’𝐬 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐀 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞.

Dinner had been... warm. At least on the surface.

Toji had insisted Y/N sit to his right, just beside the head of the table. Choso had said something about her wearing a hat when she entered, confused but gentle, his brow creasing as he asked where she’d gotten it. She’d replied innocently-'Toji put it on me'-like it hadn’t meant anything.

That’s when Toji had appeared, just behind her, like a shadow catching up to its flame.

And Choso? He had shut up immediately. One look from Toji was enough. That stare heavy, unreadable, almost bored but something in it said I could end you right here.

No one else seemed to notice.

Not even when Naobito, leaning lazily from the opposite end of the table, took sudden interest in Y/N’s presence beside his eldest son.

“So you’ve taken an interest in my boy?”

Y/N, flustered, cheeks a little puffed, had tried to laugh it off. “Oh! Um-no, I’m actually with Choso, I-"

“Then why the hell’s my son’s hat on your pretty little head?” he’d asked, voice all syrup and suspicion.

Toji cut in before she could get overwhelmed, brushing his fingers along the rim of his glass with a tone so smooth it was practically code.

“Thought she looked cute in it, that’s all,” he said. “Didn’t seem like anyone else was lookin’ close enough.”

That exchange, brief and quiet, had carried more weight than anyone could name. It was an understanding. Something beneath the words.

Naobito had let it go.

Now-

Now the dining room was humming with conversation. Laughter echoed off the walls. Plates scraped gently against wood. Everyone was loosening up. Even Choso had relaxed, one hand resting protectively on Y/N’s thigh beneath the table, thumb stroking lightly almost like a silent apology for his earlier silence.

Sukuna had been unusually quiet too. His eyes occasionally flicked across the table to Y/N, the tension in his jaw giving away more than his stillness ever could. But whatever sharp comment he’d thought to make had never come. Toji’s presence, his dominance at the head of the table, was like a ceiling. Heavy. Suffocating. And not even Sukuna wanted to speak beneath it.

Yuji, bless him, was mid-joke-something about the way Naoya poured his beer like he was trying to baptize the damn glass when it happened.

One moment, his laughter was bouncing off the table. The next-

THUMP.

Yuji collapsed face-first into his mashed potatoes.

There was a beat. A pause. A shared moment of confusion.

Then-

“Oh my God-Yuji!” Nobara shrieked, scrambling to lift his head out of the bowl, his face coated in pale gravy. “He had so much to drink, I’m so sorry, this is so embarrassing-”

She tried to shake him, laugh it off, even as her voice cracked a little at the edges. “He’s fine-he just... Yuji, get up, you idiot-”

But he didn’t move.

Not even when she shook him harder.

Everyone turned. Forks hovered. Conversations cut off mid-word.

Then Sukuna slumped sideways in his chair.

A soft clatter followed-his silverware hitting the plate.

Mei was the first to gasp.

“Baby?” she whispered, reaching for him-but his head lolled to the side, eyes already closed, lips slightly parted like he’d gone out mid-breath.

And then-

One by one-

Gojo. Shoko. Nobara. Mei. Choso.

Each one collapsed. Glasses tipping, food forgotten, limbs limp and slumping wherever they landed.

Y/N sat frozen in her chair, breath caught in her throat.

Everyone around her-slouched, unconscious.

The air turned thick. Off. Like the room had just changed shape and she hadn’t noticed.

Her eyes flicked across the table.

Toji was still seated.

Still watching her.

Still calm.

The last thing she saw before her vision blurred was his hand-reaching lazily for the gravy boat-like nothing was wrong at all.

And then everything tilted.

Darkness bloomed behind her eyes.

And Y/N finally went still.

 

. . .

 

There was a taste in her mouth.

Something metallic. Something wrong.

Y/N blinked slowly, the light above her flickering through lashes she couldn’t quite lift all the way. Her head felt heavy-like her brain had been packed in sand, soaked, and left to rot. Every breath hurt. Her body ached like she’d been thrown into something hard, dragged, dropped.

The light overhead was red.

No, not red-just the bulb covered in a dusty filter. Or maybe it was blood. She couldn’t tell.

She tried to move.

Couldn’t.

Her arms were bound. Tight. Behind the back of what felt like a wooden chair. Ankles, too. Something rough and coarse scraped at her wrists-rope. Her mouth was dry, something stuffed in it. She couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe through her nose.

She wasn’t alone.

The sharp sound of wood creaking echoed through the space, and slowly, through the blur, Y/N made out shapes around her.

Seven of them.

Everyone.

They were all there.

Shoko. Gojo. Nobara. Yuji. Sukuna. Choso. Mei.

Tied. Gagged. Slumped forward in chairs just like hers, forming a wide, ugly circle in the center of what looked like-

A barn.

She swallowed hard, gag pressing against the back of her throat, the thick scent of iron, steel, old rot-like decaying meat and rust-clawing at the inside of her nose. She coughed into the gag, and it only made the taste worse.

To her left, someone shifted.

Sukuna.

He was already awake.

His eyes were open-wild, almost feral. Wide like he’d seen something terrible. Bloodshot, unblinking. The second she noticed him, he snapped his gaze to her.

She froze.

Those weren’t the same teasing, cocky eyes he usually gave her when they locked across a room. This wasn’t lust. This wasn’t mischief. It wasn't love.

This was fear.

Pure, animalistic fear.

She whimpered-soft, barely audible through the gag.

Across from her, Choso stirred, his body jerking as he woke up with a sharp inhale. His head whipped side to side, groggy until he saw her.

His eyes went wide.

He tried to speak-choked it out through the fabric in his mouth.

“Mmgh-!”

That noise was enough to stir the rest.

Gojo blinked awake, thrashing slightly. Nobara gasped into her gag. Shoko’s chair creaked under her as she jerked upright, eyes darting wildly. Mei sobbed behind the cloth in her mouth, shoulders shaking. Sukuna didn’t move. Yuji was the first to scream-a strangled, gurgling sound as he tried to stand and only succeeded in tipping his chair slightly.

Panic exploded in the room.

Eight college students. Eight confused, terrified faces. All bound. All gagged. All staring at each other, unable to speak.

Unable to understand.

Y/N's breathing quickened, eyes flicking from Choso-his muffled cries desperate-to Mei, who looked on the verge of hyperventilating. Nobara was crying openly now, tugging at the ropes. Shoko had gone completely still, just staring across the room at Gojo, who was fighting his restraints with such force that blood started to bloom around his wrists.

Y/N’s vision blurred.

Tears were pouring now. She couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t blink them away. Her breath caught again in the gag.

And still-

There was no sign of the Zenin men.

Not Toji. Not Naoya. Not Naobito.
Not even Megumi.

Then-

Creeeeaaaak.

The sound of a heavy wooden door scraping open pierced the silence like a blade.

It came from behind her.

Slow. Deliberate.

And then… footsteps.

Thick boots against barn floorboards.

Someone was coming.

The boots stopped. Whoever it was stood just behind her chair.

A pause. A breath.

Then, a voice-low, gravelly, soaked in amusement and something far, far worse:

“Let’s play a game. First one to scream loses.”

Chapter 14: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟏𝟐 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧.

*Right after everyone passed out*

They dropped like flies-one by one, heads slumped, eyes rolled, limbs went limp. The laughter had barely stopped echoing through the dining room before silence crawled in to claim it.

And the Zenins?

They didn’t blink.

Not Toji. Not Naoya. Not Naobito. Not Megumi.

In fact, it was almost… choreographed.

Toji rose first, slow and casual, like he’d just finished dessert. He tossed the napkin beside his untouched plate, then glanced at Y/N’s unconscious form slumped beside him, her cheek barely grazing the table’s edge.

“You’re still breathin’,” he muttered with a crooked smirk, brushing her hair from her face. “Good.”

“Fuckin’ finally,” Naoya groaned, shoving back from his chair like the act of sitting still had nearly killed him. He stood, cracked his neck to one side with a sharp pop, then exhaled like he’d just shed a mask. His eyes flared, teeth bared in a grin far too wide.

“I was getting real fuckin’ tired of pretending to be normal.”

His gaze swept the table-bodies slumped, limbs twitching occasionally in drugged stupor. He looked like a starving man surveying a buffet.

Megumi stood quietly behind him, arms crossed, shadows under his eyes.

Naoya walked slowly around the table, cocky swagger in every step. He stopped behind Sukuna first, eyeing him like a challenge.

“This one,” Naoya said, voice bright with mockery as he stepped toward Sukuna’s slumped body. He grabbed his jaw roughly, forcing it open like he was inspecting meat at a butcher counter. “I bet he’s dreamin’ about himself and Y/N all married and shit, livin’ some perfect little life.”

He tilted Sukuna’s head from side to side, watching the sluggish pulse flutter beneath his neck.

“Aww,” he cooed darkly, “look at that. Thought forever meant somethin’, huh? Thought you were gonna marry her?” He laughed high, sharp, and mean. “Hate to break it to ya, lover boy, but your girl’s gonna be in Toji’s bed. Not yours.”

Naoya leaned closer, breath sticky against Sukuna’s temple. “You’re not her hero. You’re not even competition. You’re just the extra body she was fuckin’ on the side before she found out what a real man is.”

He slapped Sukuna’s face lightly, taunting. “Should’ve stayed in your lane.”

Sukuna didn’t flinch.

Still out cold.

Naoya scoffed. “Guess the big bad wolf forgot to set his alarm.”

He dropped Sukuna’s jaw with a light slap, then turned back to the group.

“Toji,” Naoya said, voice lilting like he already knew the answer, “if you’re keepin’ her… can I keep one too?”

Toji was crouched by Y/N, his fingers tracing the corner of her lip like it meant something. He didn’t even look up.

“She’ll probably like the company,” he muttered. “Just don’t break yours. I want mine to have someone to talk to.”

Naoya grinned wide.

“Shit, seriously?”

No one said anything.

Then Naoya turned again, eyes flicking over each of the unconscious girls. Mei? Nah. Shoko? Not his type. Nobara?

His grin widened.

“There we fuckin’ go.”

He stepped up to her like he was approaching a mannequin in a storefront window. Adjusted her hair. Tucked a strand behind her ear.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “She’s the one.”

With a grunt, he threw her over his shoulder like luggage.

That’s when Naobito spoke.

“Hold up.”

His voice was slow but steady, something like a warm knife dragging across butter. He was leaning on the doorframe, one hand on his cane, his whiskey glass still in the other.

“Nobara can wait,” he said, nodding toward Toji. “Let’s talk about her first.”

Toji didn’t flinch.

Naobito’s eyes flicked down at Y/N.

“She’s got good hips. Pretty eyes. You keepin’ her for real?”

Toji finally stood upright, towering.

“She’s gonna be my wife.”

“Wife,” Naobito echoed, smirking slightly. “Hm. Well, ‘bout damn time we had a woman ‘round here who stays longer than a weekend.”

Megumi shifted.

He hadn’t said a word since they started moving bodies.

Naobito raised his glass in a half-toast. “Let’s hope she can carry boys. Lord knows we need new blood. A little more like you,” he nodded to Toji, “and a little less like your brother.”

Naoya didn’t even pretend to be offended. He was busy adjusting Nobara’s limp arm so it didn’t dangle awkwardly.

And then-

Megumi spoke.

“I want to keep one alive.”

The room stilled.

Toji’s head snapped toward him.

“What?” Naoya laughed. “You wanna keep Mei? She’s got those weird sexy teacher vibes, huh?”

“No,” Megumi said, tone flat. “I want Sukuna.”

Even Naobito blinked at that.

“Alive alive,” Megumi added. “Not for fun.”

Toji was already stepping forward. “Absolutely fucking not.”

“He means something to her,” Megumi said, standing taller. “You want control, right? Then keep him around. She’ll behave if he’s breathing.”

Toji was inches from him now, chest rising. “You really think I need help keepin’ her in line?”

Megumi didn’t flinch. “No. But you want her loyalty, not fear. It’ll last longer.”

A tense silence stretched.

Then-Naobito sighed.

“Boy’s got logic,” he muttered. “But he’s wrong. He’s thinkin’ with the wrong head.”

He pointed at Mei with his glass. “Grab her. You carry her. You want to help? Then help carry dead weight.”

Megumi’s fists clenched-but he obeyed.

Naoya adjusted Nobara on his shoulder again. “Can I go now, or y’all want another family meeting?”

Toji didn’t answer. He was already lifting Y/N-carefully, gently, like she was made of glass and memory.

She looked small in his arms. Soft. He stared down at her face for a long moment. Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward the barn.

The others followed-dragging, hoisting, hauling the rest like trash.

Yuji’s sneakers left streaks in the floorboards. Shoko’s head knocked against the doorframe. Gojo’s body slumped face-first into the dirt. Mei was tossed over Megumi’s shoulder like a sack of grain.

But Sukuna-

Sukuna was carried with intention.

Toji barked the order.

“Put him next to her. Close enough to hear her cry, not close enough to protect her.”

Naoya smirked.

“Damn, that’s poetic.”

The barn loomed ahead.

Blood. Rope. Dust. A circle of chairs.

One by one, the dolls were set in place.

And then the doors were shut.

Tight.

The calm before the scream.

*Present moment*

"Let's play a game. First one to scream loses." The voice drawled from the shadows.

The barn fell silent.

The words hadn’t finished echoing before a large hand clamped around Y/N’s jaw, forcing her chin upward. Her body jerked, breath stalling in her throat.

The man behind her stepped forward into the light-slowly, deliberately-until the full weight of his presence pressed against the back of her chair. The hand on her jaw was rough with old scars, fingers tightening just enough to make her eyes water.

Toji.

His breath brushed against her ear as he leaned down, nose almost buried in her hair, and she heard the sound of him inhaling.

She gasped sharply.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, eyes dragging over her face like he was carving her into memory. “Look at you.”

His voice was low and sticky, dragging heat up her neck for all the wrong reasons. He leaned in, breath tickling the shell of her ear.

“You know,” he murmured, voice shifting into something slow and velvety, “I used to fuck girls like you in my head.”

She froze.

His lips brushed her skin-not kissing, just there, hovering.

“Innocent. Soft. Like sugar left out in the sun. You melt real pretty, don’t you?” he whispered. “Bet you moan like a prayer when it hurts.”

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream-not from the gag, but from fear clawing up her throat like a hand.

Toji chuckled. “Don’t cry yet, sweetheart. You haven’t even seen what we’re gonna do.”

He stepped away like he was bored of her already.

But his eyes never left her.

The ropes dug into their wrists, mouths stuffed with cloth, dirt clinging to their skin. Every face twisted into some variation of horror.

And then-

The barn door creaked open again.

Naoya strolled in, whistling, flipping a hunting knife from palm to palm. The blade caught the light each time it turned. Megumi followed, eyes glued to the ground, jaw clenched tight. His footsteps were silent compared to the chaos building around him. He walked straight to a wall and slid down into a corner, arms wrapped around his knees like he was trying to disappear.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t look at anyone.

Naoya ignored him entirely. He was vibrating with excitement-his grin too wide, eyes twitching as he scanned the room. “Fuckin’ finally,” he groaned. “I was this close to cutting someone just to hear the sound.”

He twirled the knife once more. “Y’all ready?”

Toji’s voice broke through the tension like a hot blade. “Take their gags out. I wanna hear ‘em beg.”

Naoya wasted no time, stalking down the line, ripping gags out with jerky movements. The moment Y/N’s gag was pulled free, she let out a shaky sob.

“Please,” she whimpered, voice thin and broken. “You don’t have to do this. Just let us go. You can-please-”

Toji crouched beside her again, his hand finding her thigh with disturbing ease.

“Every time you beg,” he said softly, “I fall a little more in love with you.”

She flinched, pressing her legs together instinctively.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, brushing her hair from her cheek. “Beg prettier.”

Her mouth clamped shut.

Toji stood and turned to the group. “It’s real simple. One by one. You get cut. If you scream, you lose. And if you lose…” He shrugged. “Well, we’ll get creative.”

Naoya stepped forward with a whistle, spinning the blade in his fingers as he stopped in front of Yuji.

“Let’s start with sunshine,” he grinned. “He looks like he’d cry if he stepped on a bee.”

Yuji tensed, jaw clenched.

Naoya tilted his head, then casually dragged the knife across his cheek.

A thin line opened-slow, red, hot.

Yuji hissed, body jolting-but he didn’t scream.

“Good boy,” Naoya purred. “Bet your girlfriend’s proud.”

Nobara whimpered softly in her seat, hands twisting against the rope.

Next was Gojo.

Naoya grabbed his face hard, tilting it up with a chuckle. “Well, if it ain’t Mr. Model. How’s your face insurance holding up?”

Without waiting, he slashed the knife across the corner of Gojo’s mouth-splitting lip and cheek.

Gojo reeled back with a grunt, blood spilling down his chin. He spit onto the dirt floor and glared up, eyes wild but silent.

The tension doubled.

Shoko’s fists were trembling. Mei turned her head to avoid the blood. Choso was breathing so hard his chest heaved under the rope. Everyone could feel the pressure, the dread ratcheting tighter and tighter.

Then-

Naoya stopped in front of Y/N.

Toji’s eyes sharpened instantly.

Naoya didn’t touch her-but leaned in, smiling like a snake. “Bet she screams real good-”

“Don’t,” Sukuna said, voice low-desperate.

Everyone froze.

Even Naoya stilled, brows lifting with curiosity as he turned his head toward Sukuna. “Huh?”

Sukuna’s chest was heaving. His jaw clenched, and his eyes-dark, wild, terrified-locked onto Toji first, then flicked back to Naoya.

“Don’t touch her,” Sukuna ground out. “Just-double it. Do it to me instead.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. Her mouth parted, breath caught in her throat.

Even Toji blinked once at the offer-then grinned.

He walked over, crouched beside Sukuna, and leaned in close-one hand covering his mouth, voice low and sharp like a blade as he whispered just for Sukuna to hear.

“You make one more sound-a peep,” he muttered, voice low, “and I’ll tell everyone in this room about what you did with her. Every filthy fuckin’ second of it. You want that?”

Sukuna froze.

“You want him to know?” Toji whispered, nodding toward Choso. “Or her?” His eyes flicked toward Mei.

Sukuna’s jaw flexed. Silent.

Toji reached out, tapped his cheek twice. “Thatta boy.”

Without a word, Toji flicked his gaze to Naoya and dipped his chin, the gesture sharp, commanding. A silent order: go on. Make it hurt.

Naoya, on the other hand, grinned like Christmas came early. “Well, fuck,” he said, flipping the knife in his hand again. “Wasn’t expecting hero complex tonight.”

He didn’t wait.

In a flash, he turned and slammed the knife into Sukuna’s thigh-then again, this time deeper, twisting with a satisfying crunch.

Sukuna’s body bucked, a sharp guttural sound ripping from his throat. His jaw clenched so tightly it looked like he might crack teeth. Blood sprayed across the dirt floor, steaming in the barn’s warmth.

The others flinched-Y/N cried out softly, eyes filled with horror.

Naoya stepped back, practically buzzing, blood splattered across his chest and face like warpaint.

Sukuna’s head hung low, shoulders shaking, sweat slicking his forehead.

That’s when Toji approached, again.

He crouched beside Sukuna slowly, gaze level with the bloodied man’s barely-conscious stare. One hand gripped Sukuna’s jaw, forcing it up so their eyes met. Again, whispering just low enough for Sukuna to hear.

“You really thought,” Toji said, voice low and mockingly sweet, “that you’d get the happy ending, huh?”

Sukuna didn’t answer-he couldn’t. His mouth opened, but no sound came.

“Thought you’d keep sneakin’ around,” Toji drawled, “fuckin’ her in secret like some filthy little fantasy, whisperin’ forever into her ear after dark?”

He chuckled-mean and quiet.

“You wanna know how your story ends?” Toji whispered, leaning in so close his lips brushed Sukuna’s blood-spattered cheek.

“She’s gonna be in my bed. My wife. My fuckin’ girl. Cryin’ my name while I put a baby in her. Over, and over, and over again.”

He smiled then-wide, wicked, and dripping with cruelty.

“I’ll make her love me, Sukuna. And you’ll be right here to watch it happen.”

Toji released Sukuna’s jaw with a hard shove, letting his head drop forward like a discarded ragdoll. Then he stood to his full height and turned away without another glance.

He walked back to Y/N’s chair, his presence towering behind her like a shadow that wouldn’t leave.

Hands on the top of her seat, he stayed silent, looming behind her-his claimed possession.

And with a nod to Naoya, he gave permission without a single word.

Naoya was trembling now-shaking with pleasure. The blood on his hands had him almost vibrating.

He licked his teeth and turned toward Choso.

The hunting knife dripped fresh blood.

And the room held its breath.

Chapter 15: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟏𝟑 - 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐭.

The barn was silent but for the heavy, ragged breaths of the tied-up group and the steady drip of blood hitting the dirt floor.

Naoya’s footsteps echoed softly as he slowly approached Choso’s chair, eyes glinting with cold amusement.

“Look at this,” he sneered, voice low and sharp. “You got Sukuna watchin’ over Y/N, but where’s her real boyfriend? What kind of man lets someone else protect his girl?”

Choso barely opened his mouth-just enough to try and explain himself-
But he didn’t even get the chance.

Without warning, Naoya yanked Choso’s hair back hard, forcing his gaze upward. His tight grip was unforgiving.Cutting off whatever Choso was about to say.

He tapped the bloodied hunting knife against Choso’s cheek. Click. Click. Click. The rhythm was slow, and taunting.

"Fucking pathetic."

Choso’s eyes flickered nervously to the blade, dread pooling deep and wide.

Then Naoya leaned in close-too close, whispering something so low and quiet that no one could hear but the two of them. His lips barely brushed Choso’s ear.

A cruel smirk spread across Naoya’s face.

Choso’s eyes went wild-desperate, pleading. Almost feral.

They darted to Y/N, brimming with panic. “No-no, please,” he begged-gasped, voice cracking. “Not her… don’t do that to her…”

His gaze snapped wildly between Naoya and Toji-eyes pleading, broken. Like he couldn’t decide which one might listen.

He looked to Naoya with a flicker of misplaced hope. “Please, man… don’t let him-don’t let him do that to her, please…”

Then to Toji, behind Y/N’s chair, fingers still toying lazily with strands of her hair like he owned her.

Choso’s voice shattered.

“She doesn’t deserve that. Please-please, I’ll do anything, just don’t touch her-”

Toji only smiled.

That slow, cruel smile that said everything: there’s no mercy coming.

It was slow, sadistic, like he was savoring every second.

No one dared speak-just listened, watched, as Choso begged for whatever nightmare Naoya whispered not to happen to Y/N.

Even Y/N stayed silent, too far gone-zoning out, trying to forget she was trapped in this hell. But behind her, a man she didn’t want touching her toyed with her hair making it hard to forget.

Before Choso could say another word, Naoya yanked his head back again, forcing their eyes to meet.

Naoya let out a low laugh, the kind that made skin crawl. “Oh, kid,” he said, voice thick with mockery, “you really thought I’d help you?”

He leaned in closer, breath hot against Choso’s face.

“I’m not your savior,” he whispered, lips curling cruelly. “I’m the fuckin’ devil they send when you start prayin’ too late.”

Then-fast and brutal-the hunting knife plunged deep into Choso’s gut.

Choso didn’t scream, but a guttural groan tore from his throat.

“Fuck-fuck... fuck...shit” he gritted out, pain flashing in his eyes.

He tried to lean forward, desperate to ease the agony-but Naoya’s hand tangled back in his hair, jerking his head up hard.

“Look at me,” Naoya growled, eyes burning.

Choso whimpered, terrified and trembling, caught in that dead-eyed stare.

Naoya grinned, eyes glittering like a blade in moonlight.
“I ain’t done with you yet,” he sneered.

Choso’s bloodied face twisted, eyes flicking up in confusion-like he hadn’t heard him right. Like maybe, maybe, it was over.

Naoya caught the look and leaned in closer, voice dripping with cruelty.

“What-you thought that was it?”

Naoya pressed the blade deeper into Choso’s gut, twisting once.
Choso coughed, a spray of blood flicking against the hay-strewn floor.

From the circle of chairs came soft sobs, gasps, a chorus of horror-the girls crying, the boys stiff with fear. But the moment that made Naoya smirk was Gojo’s low crack:

“Jesus, man…”

It came from dry lips, as he leaned forward in the chair, blood trickling from the split at the corner of his mouth. Naoya heard it over Y/N’s whimpers and the girls’ cries.

That was enough. Naoya finally let go of Choso’s hair and yanked the blade from his gut-slow, deliberate. Choso let out a louder, choked groan, his body twitching in agony. But Naoya didn’t even glance back. He just stepped away with that same leisurely cruelty, like he hadn’t just torn someone open.

Naoya stalked across the circle, blade still in hand, approaching Gojo’s rigged-up seat. Each step was measured, calculated: this was performance, intimidation as art.

He stopped in front of Gojo and demanded, calm but vicious:

“Spit in my hand.”

Gojo’s eyes shot to Toji-a silent plea? But the moment stretched, blood sliding from his parted lips. He coughed again, wet and reluctant, and finally spat-red and thick-into Naoya's open palm.

Naoya laughed sharply. He didn’t hesitate-he wiped the mixture across Gojo’s face, dragging it from chin to cheekbone, smearing-painting humiliation into his skin.

Gojo recoiled, frozen in place-dignity dripping off him with blood and spit.

But the silence cracked-not from Gojo, not from the girls' quiet sobs-but from Shoko.

“…Don’t-”

Her voice was barely there. A whisper. A crack in the silence she didn’t mean to let slip. But it slipped anyway.

“Don’t do that.”

She flinched the second the words left her mouth. Like even she hadn’t expected them to come out.

Naoya’s head turned sharply, eyes zeroing in on her like a hawk spotting prey. She instantly looked away, shoulders tight, eyes wide. It wasn’t defiance. It was fear.

The air in the barn changed.

Not from bravery.

But from a mistake.

Toji didn’t speak. He was still behind Y/N’s chair, fingers lazily twirling a lock of her hair, lips curved in amusement. He let it hang there-let the silence grow heavy around Shoko’s accidental outburst.

Naoya looked away from shoko and back to gojo, lips twisted into something just shy of a grin.

“Spit,” he said calmly, holding out his palm, again like it was the most casual request in the world.

Gojo stared up at him, blood and spit still smeared from when naoya just painted it on his face.

“Go fuck yourself. I'm not doing that again” he muttered, voice hoarse but steady.

Naoya’s smile didn’t waver, but something behind his eyes sharpened-meaner now. Quieter. Like a warning.

“Spit,” he said again, voice like a knife. “Or I’ll open you up, piece by piece. I’ll make it slow, Satoru. I’ll gut you, and we’ll see if those pretty blue eyes can still sparkle while your insides steam in your lap.”

The room went still.

Gojo’s throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing his pride. He didn’t move for a second too long-but he wasn’t stupid.

So he turned his head, gathered what little blood and spit was in his mouth-and spat it straight into Naoya’s outstretched hand.

Naoya didn’t even flinch. Just looked at the thick, red smear in his palm.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Then-he turned.

Walked slowly, deliberately-toward Shoko.

She stiffened instantly, hands jerking against the rope, eyes wide. Her lips parted, breath hitching as she realized exactly what he was about to do.

“Don’t,” she whispered, shaking her head, voice trembling. “Please-Naoya, don’t-”

But he was already there.

He grabbed her face hard, fingers digging into her jaw. She tried to turn away-tried to yank her head to the side-but his grip only tightened.

“You wanted to speak up, yeah?” he said with a smirk. “That little ‘don’t’ you let slip? This is what it gets you.”

Then-slow and cruel-he smeared the blood and spit across her face.

Gojo’s blood and spit.

Across her cheek. Her mouth. Her nose.

She whimpered-eyes squeezing shut, body writhing in the chair as she tried not to gag.

“You’re matching your man now,” Naoya whispered, nose close to hers. “Cute, right?”

She couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. The bile climbed high in her throat, but she swallowed it back, eyes watering.

And Naoya just laughed.

Like he was proud of himself.

Like he hadn’t done enough yet.

Then he turned his back on her, blood-stained fingers flexing.

Naoya’s grin split his face like a razor’s edge, sharp and merciless. His eyes flickered with a cruel hunger, cold and predatory, as if savoring the taste of fear before the first cut.

“This little game…” His voice dropped, slow and thick, dripping with menace and something darkly seductive. “It’s grown… dull.”

He circled them like a beast stalking its prey, the silence stretched tight enough to snap, the barn soaked in sweat and dread.

Then, his breath warm and close, he whispered-too low for most to hear, but heavy with promise and threat:

“Let’s switch it up. Something a little more… revealing.”

He straightened slowly, the smile spreading across his face like a disease-rotting sweet.

“You see…” he drawled, turning his gaze across the circle, “your little group’s got a problem.”

His voice was syrup-thick, soaked in mockery. “Secrets. Lies. Filthy little betrayals rotting you from the inside out.”

He walked slowly, dragging the tip of the knife across his palm-not enough to cut, but just enough to draw focus. A warning. A reminder.

“And what better way to let it all spill out than with a game?” His grin widened-feral now, gleaming with anticipation. “I like to call it Truth… or Gut.”

The name landed like a blow.

The girls whimpered, cries cracking through the tension, while the men’s breathing turned heavier-ragged with dread, like they were all waiting their turn.

“You answer honest,” he continued, tone sing-song, like he was describing rules to a party game. “Ugly, raw, humiliating truth-or…”

He raised the knife, mimed a slow plunge into his own belly.

“...I dig it out of you.”

The silence was suffocating.

“You lie?” He clicked his tongue. “That’s gut.”

“You refuse?” Another click. “That’s gut.”

“You hesitate?” The blade twitched in his hand. “That’s gut, too.”

His eyes sparkled like broken glass, glancing from face to face, watching the fear twist and bloom behind their eyes.

“You bleed either way. The only difference is whether it’s from your mouth… or somewhere far more fun.”

Naoya slowed his pace again-dragging the moment out-and then crouched right in front of Y/N.

She stiffened immediately, the heat of his attention making her stomach coil.

His smile was slow and knowing. Too knowing.

“Well now,” he murmured, almost kindly. “You’re the pretty little centerpiece, aren’t you?”

She refused to meet his eyes.

“You must know things,” he continued, cocking his head. “Delicate little truths people would kill to keep hidden.”

Her jaw tensed.

And Naoya leaned in further, voice dipping just enough that the room could still hear-but the meaning stayed thickly veiled.

“I mean, c’mon…” His breath fanned against her cheek. “No one really thinks you’ve been sweet and faithful this whole time, do they?”

Her eyes snapped to her left. Sukuna.

It was quick-barely a flick-but Naoya caught it. They all caught something.

Sukuna didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He kept his stare locked like everyone else. But his jaw clenched, his nostrils flared-and for the briefest second, he looked away. Down. Like he already knew what was coming.

Like he’d already lost.

Naoya’s smile curved wider, wicked and gleaming.

“Secrets, secrets,” he whispered, finger trailing along Y/N’s knee. “Bet you’ve got ones that’d tear this whole group apart.”

She finally looked at him-just once.

And the hate in her eyes was sharp enough to carve bone.

But Naoya only hummed, rising to stand with a stretch like he was bored already.

“Whatever,” he sighed, brushing his bloody fingers against his jeans. “You’ll spill eventually. They all do.”

He turned, walking away casually, letting the game build in their heads before it even started.

But it wasn’t Naoya that made Y/N want to run-even with a bloodied hunting knife glinting in his hand.

It was Toji.

Still behind Y/N’s chair. Still lazily winding strands of her hair between his fingers.

He leaned in, so close his lips barely brushed the shell of her ear, voice deep and smooth-mocking but warm in a way that made it worse.

“You really thought it’d be you and him in the end, huh?”

Y/N didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Toji’s voice dipped lower, curling like into something darker, more intimate.

“Gonna let you in on a secret of my own, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You were never meant to ride off with the boy. He doesn’t get to fuckin’ win.”

His breath was hot, his tone so slow and filthy it made her stomach turn.

“But me…” he murmured, lips grazing just behind her ear now, “I’ll make sure you get your ending.”

A pause. Then:

“One you can feel in your fuckin’ spine.”

authors note: Guys... it’s about to get real messy!! And I don’t just mean guts on the floor... I’m talking secrets. Like, full-blown 'omg?!' moments. Everyone’s hiding something. Maybe you’ve picked up the clues?? Or maybe you haven't. Either way you'll find out soon enough!

Chapter 16: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟏𝟒 - 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐆𝐮𝐭. [𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞]

The barn felt colder now, like the blood pooling beneath their feet was sucking the heat from the air.

Naoya wiped his blade against his jeans, slow and satisfied, then turned to face the trembling circle of students like a gameshow host drunk on power.

“Alright,” he said brightly. “Round one. We’re gonna keep it light.”

A few of them twitched at that.

Naoya’s version of light was already soaked in blood.

He raised the knife, waving it lazily in the air like a teacher commanding attention. “Just to get warmed up,” he continued. “Ease you in, loosen your tongues. Foreplay, if you will.”

He let that linger, eyes glittering with amusement before he stopped directly in front of Mei.

She stiffened instantly in her chair, every inch of her body pulled taut. Her eyes darted to the knife, then to Naoya’s mouth, like she was bracing for something sharp from either one.

“Mei, baby,” he purred. “You look like the type to have secrets... filthy ones.”

“I-I don’t,” she stammered. “I swear-”

He raised the knife slowly and she went dead silent.

“Don’t waste my time,” he said, voice dipping into something far less theatrical. “I’ll make it simple for you.”

Then, with a smile that made her stomach twist:
“What’s the dirtiest thing you’ve let your little boyfriend do to you?”

A wave of discomfort rolled through the group.

Mei Mei’s mouth parted. “Wh-what?”

Naoya tilted his head. “You heard me. Let’s hear it, princess. Details.”

She glanced to Sukuna-who stared ahead blankly, eyes unreadable-and then quickly back at Naoya. The blade dipped closer to her lap.

Her voice cracked.

“He… he once bent me over a sink at a party,” Mei said, voice barely above a whisper.

Naoya stared at her blankly for a second, knife tilting in his hand.

“That’s it?” he asked, unimpressed. “That’s the wildest thing he’s done to you?”

Mei flinched.

Sukuna’s jaw flexed.

“There were people outside the door,” she added quickly, like it might help. “I don’t think he cared if they heard.”

A pause.

Naoya tilted his head, lips twitching like he wanted to laugh.

“That’s supposed to make it better?” he scoffed. “Jesus. I was expecting blood, rope, maybe a belt-something with teeth. That just sounds like a Tuesday.”

She shrunk in her seat, eyes darting away, heart pounding in her throat. But Naoya didn’t press her further. Just gave her a final smirk before moving on-already bored.

“Next.”

He landed in front of Nobara.

She stared up defiantly-but there was a tremble in her breath.

“Your turn, red,” he said, flicking the bloodied knife between his fingers. “What’s your preference in bed? Do you like to be in control… or folded in half?”

Nobara swallowed hard, eyes darting to Yuji.

“Answer,” Naoya warned.

“…Folded,” she muttered, cheeks flushed, voice low.

“Speak up,” Naoya said sweetly. “We’re all friends here.”

“Folded,” she repeated, louder this time. “I like being folded.”

Yuji’s face twisted in quiet shame.

Naoya laughed.

“This is fun,” he grinned. “Let’s keep it going.”

He didn’t even slow down. He walked the circle, firing off questions like bullets.

He snapped his head towards Gojo. “You ever jerk off to those Polaroids?” Naoya asked, head tilting with a lazy grin. “You sure as hell take enough pictures of the girls.”

Gojo didn’t miss a beat. Even with blood and spit drying on his face, he kept that trademark charm. “Please,” he rasped with a half-smile. “I take them for the memories… not the mess.”

Naoya chuckled at that. “Smooth.” He let it go and turned.

He turned to Yuji.

Naoya’s eyes gleamed with a sharp, mischievous edge as he leaned forward, voice dripping with mock curiosity. “What’s Nobara’s head game like?”

Yuji didn’t hesitate. “Fucking incredible.”

The words hung in the air, confident and raw.

Naoya blinked slowly, then chuckled darkly, a grin curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Good to know,” he said, almost too casually-like he’d just been handed a clue to a much bigger game.

But it wasn’t just something to file away.
The way he said it… it wasn’t good to know. It was a warning. A quiet promise that he’d use it-soon, and deliberately.

He turned on his heel, eyes sliding over to Shoko now.
The knife swung with him, and he lifted it like a microphone, grin carved wide like he was the host of some fucked-up gameshow.

“You ever think about cheating on Gojo?” he asked, flicking the blade in Gojo’s direction.

Shoko’s jaw tightened. “No. Never.”

“Shame,” Naoya muttered. “You could do better.” He shrugged, already moving on.

Naoya stopped in front of Y/N. A little too long. A little too eager.

That grin stretched wider. “What’s your biggest fantasy you haven’t experienced yet?” he asked, voice thick with amusement-no, anticipation. He didn’t even try to hide it.

Y/N flinched-heart in her throat. But Naoya’s eyes weren’t just curious. They were... delivering. Like the question wasn’t entirely his.

Toji stayed behind her, quiet. But Y/N could feel the weight of his presence-how still he was, how much he wanted her to answer.

Like if she leaned back even an inch, she’d hit him. His silence was worse than Naoya’s taunting.

Her mouth opened-then closed. Her skin burned.

Naoya tilted his head, fake-pouting. “Don’t play shy now. Everyone’s been so good.” He looked to Mei. “Even your little friend over there shared her party fun.”

Y/N’s heartbeat thundered. Her lips were dry. She felt heat crawl up her neck-not from desire, but from exposure. Humiliation.

But she couldn’t hesitate. Not now. Not when Mei’s voice had cracked. Not when Choso was bleeding just a few feet away.

She forced her voice out, steady but hollow.

“I guess… rougher stuff,” she muttered, forcing the words out like they didn’t matter.

She didn’t flinch-but inside, her chest was tight, her pulse jackhammering in her throat. It wasn’t exactly a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either. It was what she thought he wanted to hear. Simple. Surface-level. Easy to move past.

She still didn’t look back. Not at Sukuna. Not at Choso. And especially not at Toji.
But even without looking, she could feel the way the room responded.

A beat of silence that felt too heavy.

Like her answer had painted a new kind of target on her.

Naoya’s smile grew sharper, eyes glinting. “Mmm.” He leaned in a little, his breath brushing her cheek. “That’s more like it.”

Y/N looked down anywhere but at Naoya-but her eyes caught on Sukuna.
He was already looking away, jaw tight, eyes locked on the floor like none of this mattered anymore.

It was easier that way.

But Naoya didn’t let it stay easy.

He was already moving, slow and deliberate, boots dragging across the floor as he sauntered toward Sukuna-intent on forcing his attention back into the game.

“Eyes up,” Naoya snapped, jamming the blood-slick knife beneath Sukuna’s chin and forcing his head back. The blade didn’t just lift-it threatened. Held there, cold and biting, as Naoya leaned in with a smirk. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

“You seem like the type into some weird shit,” Naoya said casually, knife spinning once in his fingers. “You ever record? Take pictures during sex?”

Sukuna didn’t even flinch. His voice was calm.
“No.”

Y/N’s stomach knotted instantly.

That was a lie.

A bold, blatant, dangerous fucking lie.

She stiffened, breath hitching as she waited for the sound-metal against flesh, a scream, something.

Naoya had to catch it. He had to.
Her eyes squeezed shut.
But… nothing.

No slash. No blood-curdling yell. No cruel laugh to follow it.

Just silence.

The kind that made your skin crawl.

She didn’t know if Naoya caught it. He gave no indication. Just blinked slowly… then looked away like it wasn’t worth pressing.

But Y/N couldn’t shake it.

He told me once he doesn’t do that with Mei. Only with me.

A chill slid down her spine-not just because Sukuna lied, but because of why. Was it to protect me? Himself? Us… both?"

Naoya grinned, twirling the knife.

Then, slowly, he turned to Choso.

The air shifted.

Choso’s head was slumped forward, breathing shallow. Sweat dripped from his brow, mixing with blood from his open gut. His hands twitched weakly in his restraints. His lips were pale.

Naoya tsked.

“You’re still with us, Cho?” he said mockingly, crouching down in front of him.

Choso didn’t move.

“Let’s give him something easy,” Naoya mused. “Would you let Y/N fuck someone else if you got to watch?”

Y/N's head snapped toward him.

Choso didn’t speak. His chest barely moved.

“Hello?” Naoya waved the knife gently. “Cat got your guts?”

Still no answer.

Naoya straightened.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “looks like someone doesn’t feel like playing.”

He lifted the knife again.

“No!” Y/N choked out suddenly. “He-he’s not even-he’s losing too much blood-he can’t even think-”

Naoya didn’t even look at her.

Choso blinked. A flicker of life returned to his gaze, just barely.

“…No,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t let anyone touch her.”

Naoya froze mid-step.

Then, a slow, disappointed smile crept across his lips.

“Ohhh,” he cooed. “You answered.”

He paused.

“But you hesitated.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“No,” she whispered.

Naoya moved again-fast.

The blade sank into Choso’s abdomen with a sickening squelch.

Choso jerked forward in his chair, eyes wide-then went limp.

Y/N screamed. “Oh my God!”

The barn echoed with the sound.

Choso twitched once, head dropping again. Barely breathing.

Y/N turned her face away, eyes squeezed shut, gasping. “Oh my God oh my God oh my God-”

But Toji was already moving behind her.

She barely registered the hand until it was gripping her jaw.

Hard.

He forced her head around, fingers digging into her cheeks from behind, tilting her face until she had no choice but to look.

His voice was low, smooth. Right at her ear.

“Don’t look away from him,” he murmured. “You wanna pretend he’s okay? Then watch him.”

Her whole body shook.

Tears streamed from her eyes.

Choso sat there, blood seeping out like water through an active sink pipe. Barely there. Barely alive.

Y/N’s eyes flicked to Sukuna-desperate, pleading.

But Sukuna wasn’t looking at her.

His head was down, jaw clenched, eyes on the dirt like it was all he had left.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Defeated.

Just like Choso.

And just like her.

Toji's hand stayed on her jaw, firm and possessive.

“That’s it,” he whispered behind her ear. “Be a good girl and watch what happens to men who think they can protect you.”

Then softer, filthier. "Cause soon enough, baby… you'll forget who touched you before me-I'll fuck the memory right outta you.”

authors note: yall im scared for part two

Chapter 17: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟏𝟓 - 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐆𝐮𝐭. [𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨]

Y/N sat motionless.

Her jaw ached-deep, hot pain blooming from where Toji’s fingers had clamped tight just moments earlier, whispering filth into her ear like it was a promise instead of a threat.
Words she couldn’t scrub from her mind, no matter how hard she tried.

"I'll fuck the memory right outta you."

The syllables played on repeat-dripping with possession, soaked in sadism.

She couldn’t breathe.

The air felt too thick.

Everything-everything around her-was too much.

The blood.
Choso’s still body.
The heat of the room.
The rope slicing into her wrists.

She was drowning in it.

Her fingers twitched against the restraints. Then pulled. Then jerked.

The edges of her vision blurred.

Her heart raced. Her ribs heaved in rapid succession. A scream built up somewhere in her chest, but it couldn’t escape-not fully. It came out in frantic gasps. Her head whipped around blindly, her eyes wide and wild, pupils blown with panic.

“I-I can’t-!”
“Please-”
“It’s too tight-it’s-fuck-!”

She thrashed harder. The ropes dug deeper.

She couldn’t stop.

She was going to pass out.

Naoya had turned back toward the group, admiring the way Choso’s blood was still steadily leaking into the dirt like spilled wine-but her erratic movement caught his eye. A flicker. A flinch. The way her shoulders jerked. The cries that didn’t even sound human anymore.

He turned, slowly, brow arching with mild curiosity.

Y/N was hyperventilating now, mouth open but barely forming words, tears falling fast and messy. Her legs trembled. Her chest rose and fell with animalistic gasps, like her lungs didn’t know how to work anymore.

Naoya blinked.

"Ahhh," he sighed, tilting his head as if he were admiring a painting.

He crouched in front of her, almost leisurely.

Blood coated his hands-Choso’s blood, still fresh and warm. He didn’t care. He reached out with both, dragging his palms across her knees as he settled on his haunches, streaking her bare skin with deep red. She flinched at the contact.

The knife was still in his right hand. He shifted it-so the handle rested against her knee, the blade angled down.

Then he looked up at her, slowly.

Eyes narrowed. Smile lazy. Like a man trying to coax a feral animal into calm submission.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low, almost soothing, “this whole panic thing? Not a good look on you, baby. But I get it. It’s cute, in a pathetic little way.”

Y/N let out a sharp, broken sob.

“Please…” she begged, her voice cracking at the end, “please, I want to go home. I just-I wanna go home…”

Her head fell forward, shoulders curling inward, like she could disappear into herself if she just wished hard enough.

Naoya tilted his head. His fingers drummed lightly against her knee-caps.

“Home, huh?”
“A little late for that, sweetheart.”

She kept crying.

“God, you’re loud,” he muttered.

Before he could say anything else-

Toji shifted from behind her chair, sliding around to stand just beside Naoya, right in front of Y/N.

It was slow and deliberate.

She didn’t want to look.

But he didn’t give her the choice.

Toji’s hand tangled in her hair and yanked her head back, hard, forcing her chin upward. The cry that tore from her throat was hoarse-raw.

He leaned down close, just inches from her face. His breath was warm. Calm. Cruel.

“Y/N,” he said smoothly, like he’d said her name a thousand times before, “you are home.”

His fingers tightened in her hair as she squirmed.

“Now shut the fuck up,” he growled, “and start actin’ like a good girl.”

His smirk curled, eyes gleaming with something twisted.

“Been waitin’ for a girl like you.”

“No,” she whimpered, voice high and wet, “n-no, please-please no-!”

Toji’s smile didn’t waver. His other hand clamped around her jaw, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises.

“What’d I say about that attitude, sweetheart?”

She writhed.

“I-I’ll be good,” she gasped, desperate. “I’m sorry-I’ll listen-I’ll be good-please-!”

Toji just chuckled.

He didn’t believe her for a second.

His eyes flicked up to Naoya. His tone sharpened.

“Put the gag back in.”

Naoya grinned, drawing the cloth from his belt.

“Mm, see that? She’s past pleading now-just leaking noise. That’s the body trying to survive after the brain's already checked out.”

“Real poetic, Naoya.” Toji muttered, watching her eyes widen as the cloth neared her lips, "Now shut up and gag her before I lose my patience.”

Y/N shook her head frantically.

“No-no, please, I’ll be quiet-I swear-!”

But it was too late.

Naoya shoved the gag between her lips, tying it tight. The corners of her mouth stretched. Her cries were muffled now-desperate and wet, but contained.

Toji’s hand lingered on her jaw a moment longer, watching her gag and sob through it.

He leaned down, brushing his lips just beside her temple.

“Shh.” Toji whispered, low and teasing, a mocking pout tugging at his lips as if he was about to say something cruelly playful-then he stopped himself. His gaze shifted sharply to Naoya standing nearby, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he finally released her jaw.

And Y/N?
She slumped forward on the chair. Shaking so hard it rattled the rope. The taste of the cloth, the ache in her scalp, the tightness in her chest-it was all too much. She whimpered behind the gag, eyes glassy, head lolling to the side.

Naoya looked up at Toji.

“She gonna last through Round Two?”

Toji’s grin returned. Wide and knowing.

“She’ll do whatever I fuckin’ tell her.”

. . .

 

Toji back behind Y/N's chair. One large hand tangled in her hair, the other trailing slowly-intimately-along the nape of her neck. His fingers scratched lightly at her scalp, petting her like a damn dog.

Y/N trembled under the contact.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice warm with satisfaction, “learnin’ your place.”

A soft whimper escaped from behind her gag-wet and pitiful.

Toji smirked.

“Megumi.”
His voice rang out across the open space.

From the shadows near the barn wall, Megumi flinched.

“Go to the house. Get the box.”

Megumi hesitated.

His brows twitched, eyes darting to Y/N tied up in the chair-her face streaked with tears, gagged, gagging on them. Toji’s hand remained cradling her head like she was some prize he had won at a fair. She looked so small beneath him. So broken.

Megumi’s stomach turned. This… this wasn’t charm. This wasn’t even control. This was sick.

Still, he nodded once, stiffly.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He turned away quickly-before his expression could betray too much.

Naoya grinned, watching him go.

“He hates you, y’know.”

Toji just chuckled, brushing a finger under Y/N’s eye, collecting a tear on his thumb.

“He’ll learn.”

Naoya turned back to the group, face brightening as if this were some game show and not a blood-drenched torture den.

“Alright, Round Two."

He spread his arms, pacing slowly.

“This one’s fun. All about… truths- ....in situations.”
“Y’know-the dirty little kind. The ones you whisper in dark corners or never say out loud because they’d get you smacked or dumped or-well... murdered.”
“We ask a question. You answer it honestly. Or someone gets fucked up.” He pointed his knife lazily toward the group. “Real fuckin' simple rules.”

He stopped in front of Sukuna, looking him up and down.

“Let’s start with you, face-tats.”

Sukuna, arms still restrained behind him, glared up at him through his bangs. His jeans drenched in blood. Unamused.

“Pass.”

Naoya grinned wide, crouching in front of him.

“Aww, you don’t even know the question yet.”

He leaned in, blade twirling again between his fingers.

“So tell me-if you could fuck anyone here,” he drawled, “and you couldn’t pick your little girlfriend Mei...” he gestured behind him toward the girl who’d been quietly sobbing for the last hour. "...who would it be?”
“Girl, guy, I don’t care. Who gets you hard if it ain’t her?”

Sukuna scoffed. His eyes flicked to the ground.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Naoya’s smile didn’t waver.

He stood again. Turned slowly.

Walked up to Mei.

And pressed the knife flat against her throat.

Mei gasped-a sound full of panic-and began sobbing harder, her lips trembling, her body curling into herself.

“Don’t,” Sukuna barked, jerking against his restraints.

Naoya chuckled.

“Answer the question, loverboy. Or I open her throat like a gift on Christmas morning.”

Sukuna froze.

The seconds dragged.

Mei let out a choked sound-a sound not even of betrayal, but terror.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t kill me-please, please-”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched. His eyes burned into the dirt. His fingers twitched uselessly behind his back.

Then-

“Y/N.”

It was barely above a whisper.

Naoya perked up, as if delighted. He stepped away from Mei like he’d never been holding her life in his hands.

“Y/N, huh?” He turned back to Sukuna with a smirk. “Didn’t even hesitate once that blade kissed her skin.”

Mei didn’t react to the name.

She just let out a loud, wet sob of relief, folding into herself, shaking, grateful simply that the knife was gone.

Naoya clapped once.

“Okay, this is getting juicy!”

But something else caught his eye now.

Shoko.

She was muttering.

Mouth moving, eyes locked on Choso’s limp form, whispering syllables like she was trying to cast a spell. Her hands twitched against her restraints, fingers curling, as if doing calculations in the air.

Naoya squinted.

“Hey-hey, what the fuck are you doing, freak?”

Shoko blinked up at him.

“He’s not stable,” she said quickly. “He’s going into hemorrhagic shock-his pulse is thready, his breathing’s shallow-he’s already slipping into decompensated stages of trauma-if we don’t tamponade the bleeding or initiate some kind of hemostatic compression he’s going to arrest-”

Naoya made a face.

“What the fuck are you saying-speak English, bitch.”

Shoko snapped, louder this time:

“He’s dying.”

Naoya cocked a brow.

“And?”

“And if you let me help him, I can maybe stabilize him,” she pushed, voice shaking. “I can slow the bleeding-he might survive.”

She wasn’t bluffing. There was desperation behind her words-but also knowledge. Precision. She knew what she was seeing. The signs were clear.

Naoya paused.

He glanced toward Toji-still looming behind Y/N’s chair.

Toji wasn’t watching Choso.

He was leaned down, his lips ghosting over the shell of Y/N’s ear again, whispering something too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Y/N’s eyes went wide.

She flinched. Physically stiffened. A visible shiver wracked her spine.

Yet, whatever he whispered into her ear, she surrendered to without hesitation.

Toji smiled against her cheek. Then stood up fully and looked at Naoya.

“Let her go.”

Naoya frowned.

“Seriously?”

Toji’s eyes narrowed.

“Let her help him. But if she moves wrong, kill her.”

Naoya held up his hands.

“Alright, alright.”

He moved behind Shoko and undid her restraints.

“You try anything smart,” he hissed, “and I’ll gut you like the other one. Capisce?”

Shoko didn’t even flinch.

She dropped immediately to Choso’s side, hands trembling as she tore her own shirt and pressed it hard to his abdomen, applying pressure.

“I need more cloth-his shirt-tear it.”

Naoya raised a brow.

“Say please.”

Shoko didn’t even look at him.

“Please.”

Naoya rolled his eyes but moved to Choso’s shirt and ripped it with a harsh tug.

Y/N, still gagged, could only watch-eyes wide, heart pounding. Choso’s blood was still warm on her legs. The smell of it was in her throat.

But for the first time since this all began-

There was a sliver of hope.

And it was drenched in blood.

. . .

Shoko’s voice became nothing more than background static-mutters and murmurs as she worked frantically over Choso’s limp, blood-soaked body. But Naoya was already done with her. Bored.

He turned away, dusting his hands off dramatically and strolling back to the semicircle of terrified bodies still restrained, still awaiting their turn to be humiliated.

“Let’s see, let’s see…” he purred, spinning slowly. “How ‘bout you, Freckles?”

Yuji stiffened.

Naoya grinned wide, then walked right up to him, knife still lazily balanced in his grip.

“If you got to pick someone in this room-just one-to make it out with you. To live with you. Right now. Who’s it gonna be?”

Yuji didn’t hesitate.

“Nobara.”

His voice was hoarse, but steady. Honest.

Nobara turned her head toward him, her lip trembling slightly.

Naoya rolled his eyes.

“Fuckin’ predictable.”

He turned to Nobara, lips twisting into a grin.

“Alright hot stuff. Same question. Who you choosin’ to live with?”

Nobara, head high despite everything, answered without pause.

“Yuji.”

Naoya's grin faltered.

Then he scoffed and took a step closer to her, crouching low so his face was almost level with hers.

“God, you two are disgusting. Soulmates or some shit.”
“I mean, I could give you a real reason to want to live.” His voice dipped, sleazy and slow. “Bet pink boy over there doesn’t know how to make you scream like I could.”

Nobara’s nose scrunched in disgust.

“You’re not even worth the gag reflex, dickhead.”

Yuji jerked against his restraints.

“Don’t talk to her like that!”

Naoya smirked, amused, but before he could respond-

A loud click cut the air.

Toji’s hand moved smooth as a shadow from behind Y/N’s chair, the polished metal of a .357 revolver now glinting in the dim light. It was pulled from a holster under his belt, casual and deadly.

The barrel pointed straight at Yuji.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Everything stopped.

Yuji’s mouth hung open mid-reply, his eyes locking on the gun. The weight of death suddenly real, tangible.

Toji stepped out from behind Y/N, towering. Calm. Calculated.

He moved slow, like a panther-not fast, but purposeful.

And then his aim shifted.

Now the gun was pointed directly at Gojo.

The tension spiked like a knife across everyone's nerves.

Toji’s voice was low. Menacing.

“Your turn, pretty boy.”

Gojo’s head jerked up, dazed.

He hadn’t said a word since Choso collapsed.

His knuckles were white in a fist behind his back, restrained. His eyes were eerily still, like a porcelain doll cracked just beneath the surface.

Toji took a step closer, aiming the revolver directly at Gojo’s forehead.

“Answer this for me.”

The hammer cocked back with a snick.

“If it meant you could walk away right now-safe, untouched-who would you kill to make it happen?”

Gojo didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

“I’m not answering that.”

Toji chuckled, a dark rasp that vibrated in his chest.

“Why not?”
“You practically signed their death warrants bringin’ them all down here. What was it? Oh yeah-your family’s farmhouse, right?” He sneered. “You fuckin’ know how many sick freaks live out in the sticks?”
“But you brought your pretty little friends anyway. All for what? Nostalgia? Your daddy’s ghost?”

Gojo’s lip twitched. His chest heaved once.

Toji stepped even closer, pressing the barrel of the revolver right to the center of Gojo’s forehead.

“Answer the fuckin’ question.”

Yuji muttered something-Nobara flinched-Shoko stopped moving.

But Gojo didn’t speak.

So Toji began to count.

“Five.”

Gojo swallowed.

“Four.”

His breath caught. The cold steel against his skin sent ice down his spine.

“Three.”

Toji flicked the safety off. The click was louder than any scream.

“Wait-”

Gojo’s voice cracked.

Toji’s hand didn’t move.

“Two-”

“Choso!”

It exploded out of him like vomit.

Everyone stilled.

Gojo’s chest rose and fell, panic written in sweat down his temple. His throat bobbed as he tried to regain control.

“If I had to-if I had to pick someone,” he said, voice low, ashamed, “...it’d be Choso.”

Toji didn’t lower the gun.

Gojo’s next words came like a confession. A whisper.

“He’s already almost dead anyway. It’d… it’d be mercy.”

A long silence followed.

Then-finally-Toji pulled the revolver away.

Holstered it.

He looked down at Gojo for a long moment… then chuckled and turned his back, heading to stand behind Y/N once again.

“Mercy,” he repeated mockingly, resting a hand on the top of her head again. “How noble.”

Y/N whimpered softly under his touch, too afraid to move.

Everyone else?

They were silent.

Because now they understood-

No one was safe.

Not even the ones who thought they were.

. . .

Naoya, now high off the tension like a man sipping wine at a dinner party, tapped the knife idly against his thigh.
His eyes scanned the group once more, grinning.

“Well now, only one of you left…”
He gestured lazily toward Mei.

“Can’t leave you out, sweetheart.”

Mei blinked rapidly, lifting her tear-stained face. Her mascara had long bled down her cheeks, her blue tank rumpled and clinging to her skin from sweat.

Naoya smiled wide.

“After hearing lover boy say he’d fuck Y/N if it wasn’t you,” he tilted his head innocently, “what do you think? You think he actually wants to fuck her? Or maybe…”
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
“Maybe he already has?”

The silence after his words was vicious.

Sukuna growled under his breath.

“Come on, man. You don’t gotta toy with her like that.”

Naoya’s head snapped toward him, amusement never leaving his face.

“Oh?” he cooed. “You wanna go ahead and tell her your thoughts then?”

Sukuna shut his mouth, jaw ticking.

Y/N could feel him shift beside her. She didn’t turn. Couldn’t.

Naoya, delighted, returned his attention to Mei.

She hadn’t moved.

She stared ahead-eyes glassy, unfocused, lips slightly parted like she’d stopped breathing.

“Well?” he prompted, voice smooth and poisonous. “What do you think, Mei?”

A long beat.

And then…

“Yes.”

Her voice cracked.

Everyone turned toward her in quiet disbelief.

“If not Y/N…” she continued, barely above a whisper, “then someone else. He’s been… distant. For months.”
She sniffed, wiping her nose on her shoulder.
“I-I thought it was work or stress or something but… I don’t think it was me. Not anymore.”

The pain laced in her tone was raw. Honest.

Naoya let out a low whistle.

“Damn. You hear that, Sukuna?”
“You ain’t satisfying her no more.”

Sukuna didn’t move, head dipped down. Silent.

Naoya leaned closer to Mei, licking his bottom lip.

“If I wasn’t gonna kill you, I’d make you a real nice housewife. Keep you moaning and screaming.”

Mei's eyes snapped toward him in horror, more tears spilling as she shook her head weakly.

“No… no, that’s not-”

“Not yet!” Naoya teased, hands raised like he was warding her off. “Don’t get all antsy, sweetheart.”

Just then, the door creaked open.

All heads turned.

Megumi stepped inside, holding something clunky and metal. A dented military-style ammo box, rusted around the corners with leather straps hanging from the sides.

He looked pale.

Haunted.

The box dropped with a metallic thud right in the center of the dirt.

“Ah,” Naoya clapped gleefully. “Just in time for Round Three!”

Toji, meanwhile, behind Y/N's chair stops Megumi on his way back to the barn's dark corner.

He said nothing.

Megumi stood still-quiet-until Toji leaned down and muttered something into his ear. It was soft enough to be intimate. Cruel.

Megumi flinched.

Whatever it was, it unsettled him more than he let on. He hesitated for a moment, jaw tightening, before turning away and walking off with a heavy, disturbed weight in his steps.

He continued to saunter away, kicking a rock as he passed Shoko and Choso, not sparing them a glance. He slumped back down against the far wall like he was watching a movie-a fucked up one at that.

Y/N’s body seized in the chair.

Her breath hitched violently as she sucked in air, throat closing up.

Her eyes darted sideways-but she couldn’t see him.

Toji was still behind her.

His presence burned like an ember on her neck.

And then-

She felt the pressure of fingers.

On her wrists.

The ropes were coming undone.

Not roughly.

Not with violence.

With... care.

Confusing, intimate care.

Y/N’s heart thrashed in her chest, unsure what was happening-if this was some twisted act of mercy or the start of something worse.

And then Toji leaned down. Right to her ear. His lips barely brushed the skin as he whispered, slow and vile:

“You ever had a man ruin you so good you forget how to walk, sweetheart?”

Her entire body trembled.

It was time.

But-

The box still unopened.
Y/N’s restraints falling loose.
And Toji smiling behind her, hunger in his eyes.

authors note: yall round three is literally everything. 🤩 (it still isnt the part i've been itching to write but this next chapter will be a good read for ya'll!)

Chapter 18: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟏𝟔 - 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞.

Choso smiled at her across the candlelit table, nerves gnawing at the inside of his cheeks.

He had worked double shifts for weeks to afford this restaurant, to make it perfect for her.

And it was worth every hour.

Every dollar put into it.

Because what he was seeing wasn’t just a smile-it was her smile. She was talking about something, maybe about one of her professors or how she hated group projects, and all he could do was watch. God, the way she moved… the way she existed. Her voice was music. Her hands, delicate as they traced the lip of her glass. And her hair-he could almost swear it smelled like fresh strawberries, sweet and light. Even across the table.

She looked perfect. So fucking perfect.

And Choso? He had never been so nervous in his life.

“You okay?” she asked, sitting across from him, hands tucked in her lap.

He nodded, trying to hide the flush creeping up his neck.

Cause there she was, sitting so effortlessly beautiful, so perfect it made his chest tighten. Nervous as hell, because how the fuck did someone like her even want to be with someone like him?

Well...

She was the only person in the world who really got him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just… you look really pretty.”

Y/N laughed, soft and real.

Choso could still hear it-could still feel the way it made his chest ache, how he almost said I love you right then and there. But instead, he pulled the little velvet box from his jacket pocket and placed it in front of her without a word.

Y/N blinked, confused.

“...Choso?”

“It’s not-” he panicked a little, waving his hands. “I mean it’s not a ring ring. Not like that. I just-it’s a promise. I wanted to-fuck, I don’t know. I wanted to show you that I’m serious. That I want this. You. Us.”

She stared at the box.

Then at him.

Then she opened it-and he swore the world stopped spinning.

It was a silver band. Small, simple, with a tiny opal stone. It wasn’t expensive by anyone’s standards, but to him, it was everything-his promise. His heart. Three months into dating, and he was already so sure. She made everything feel real.

Y/N didn’t say anything at first.

She just looked at him. Looked so long and so deep that he thought maybe he fucked up, maybe it was too soon, maybe he was too much-

But then she leaned across the table and kissed him.

Slow. Soft. Sure.

“I love it,” she whispered against his lips. “I love you.”

Choso didn’t cry, but God, he wanted to.

That was the day he decided. The moment he knew. One day, he thought. One day, I’ll put the real one on her finger. I’ll marry her.

Now-

He couldn’t remember the last time she wore it.

It had been months, hadn’t it? At least since May. She stopped wearing it without a word-without a fight. He’d noticed, of course. Noticed the way her fingers looked bare, how she’d never bring it up. But he never asked. Never wanted to be annoying. Never wanted to push her.

Maybe it irritated her skin.

Maybe she just forgot.

Or maybe-

Choso swallowed hard.

So when she started declining date nights, offering sex instead, he didn’t question that either. He told himself she was tired. Stressed. He thought if this is what she wants, I’ll give it to her. So when the guys made jokes, when they talked about their girls, he joined in-told the guys about her moans. Her body. The way she’d ride him so sweet it made his knees go numb. How great the sex is. It was the only thing they really did anymore anyway.

He never mentioned that what he really wanted was to take her out again. He never said he missed hearing her laugh about her day over dinner. He never admitted how much it stung when she turned down his plans.

Because if she was still here-still with him-then it was okay. Right?

He could live with just the crumbs if it meant she didn’t leave.

And of course, he did.

Because he loved her.

Because he thought maybe this was just what couples did after a while-less dates, more fucking. And he liked the sex. God, he loved it. But not like this. Not like only this.

He thought maybe if he just held on long enough, she’d come back to him.

The way she had at the resturaunt.

The way she looked when she kissed him.

But now-

Now there was blood in his mouth.

Now his body screamed from the inside out, wounds soaked with betrayal.

And all he could do was replay that perfect moment, over and over, like a song he didn’t know how to stop singing.

He just wanted to go back.

Just for a second.

Just to see her smile at him again.

Just to hear her say I love you like she fucking meant it.

But even that was slipping through his fingers.

Like the ring.

Like her.

Like everything.

. . .

Naoya’s fingers gripped his blood-slick hair and yanked, unforgiving.

Choso was ripped from the memory like someone had shattered a glass frame around it, the moment breaking into shards that stabbed as they fell. His throat croaked out in pain, head dragged upright, and his vision blurred back into the dim, rancid light of the barn. His body screamed, but the ache in his chest? That was worse.

Naoya laughed, low and cruel. “Hey. Don’t pass out yet, lover boy."

He didn't say anything else.

That ache was final.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” Shoko begged beside him, her trembling hands pressing into the open wound on his side. “I need you to stay awake. Just stay awake, okay?”

He didn’t even know she was there. Hadn’t heard her voice. Hadn’t felt her touch. For those precious seconds, it was just him and her. Y/N with her smile. Her kiss. That ring.

Now the real world bled back in like poison.

The rope around his wrists dug into open skin as Naoya forced his chin higher, jerking his head to face somewhere... and that’s when Choso saw her.

Y/N.

. . .

She didn’t blink.

She just sat there, trembling in the chair-arms limp at her sides, rope marks burning into her skin. Her wrists were free now.

Toji hadn’t torn the restraints off.

He had unwrapped them.

Thread by thread. Finger by finger. Like peeling ribbon off a gift.

Gentle. Too gentle.

It made her sick.

The gag still cut into her jaw. She leaned forward slightly, just enough to ease the sting at her wrists. But she didn’t dare move more than that-not with him behind her.

Toji’s presence loomed. Hot breath against her hair. That same unsettling calm in the air before a something bad happens.

Then came the hand.

Slow. Heavy.

Sliding over her shoulder… down her spine… pausing at the small of her back.

He leaned in, lips brushing the curve of her ear.

“If you want me to take that gag off, sweetheart,” Toji whispered, fingers now stroking her throat, “then you’re gonna follow through on that little promise from earlier.”

She remembered.
Back when Shoko begged to help Choso.
Back when he was still bleeding out and she was desperate.
Toji had whispered it in her ear-

“If I let her help your pathetic little boyfriend,… you gotta give me something in return.”

She hadn’t asked what that meant.
She hadn’t cared.
She just said yes.

Because Choso was dying.

But now-now she understood. Now she felt what that “something” was about to cost her.

Her eyes shifted to Choso-and immediately regretted it.

He was barely conscious.

Naoya had a fist twisted in his hair, holding his head upright like a broken doll. Blood soaked the floor beneath him. Shoko was frantic, hands coated in red, trying to stop something that wouldn’t stop.

Y/N felt her lungs collapse.

This was for him.

This was her deal.

So she nodded. Slowly. Once.

Toji made a pleased sound behind her. A hand slid under her chin, lifting her face until she had no choice but to look forward, and the other gently unhooked the gag. He pulled it free like it was a silk ribbon, letting it fall with a wet thump against her chest.

“There,” he said softly, satisfied. “That’s better.”

Her lips were cracked. Her jaw throbbed.

She didn’t even get a breath in before Toji stepped around her.

Then he extended his hand.

Palm open.

Expectant.

Y/N blinked. Confused. Hesitant.

But she took it.

She didn’t really have a choice.

Her fingers slid into his and Toji guided her up-slow and smooth, lifting her off the chair like she weighed nothing. He shifted her aside, placing her just to the left of the seat she’d been tied to for what felt like hours.

And then he took it.

Her chair.

Toji sank into it like it had always been his. The way he spread his legs made the wooden seat seem comically small beneath him, like a preschooler’s desk built to humiliate a giant. His .375 revolver rested lazily on his thigh, safety off, finger loose on the trigger.

Y/N stayed frozen, just slightly beside him, unsure what came next.

He looked at her once-cold and certain-and jerked his chin toward the box in the center of the circle.

“Grab it.”

Her stomach twisted. But she moved.

One step. Then another. The room felt even quieter now. The others weren’t just still-they were holding their breath. Even Naoya, who still had a fist tangled in Choso’s hair, didn’t make a sound. He just watched.

Everyone watched.

Y/N bent down, picked up the box.

It wasn’t heavy-but it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

She turned, facing Toji again.

And that’s when he did it.

That little curl of his finger. A beckon.

Come here.

His gun was still in his other hand. Still loose. Still deadly.

Y/N swallowed hard, stepping forward slowly.

Toji didn’t say a word.

Then-he tapped his thigh.

A silent command.

Her chest tightened. Her heart thrashed violently.

But she went. Because what else could she do?

She sat carefully on one of his thighs, stiff and unsure. It was awkward. Cold.

Until he grabbed her waist and yanked her fully into his lap.

She gasped-but didn’t resist.

He adjusted her like a doll, arm resting around her like he owned her spine.

"Comfortable?" he murmured, voice all mockery and menace.

She didn’t answer.

He placed the box on her lap.

“Open it.”

Her hands shook as they reached for the lid. She tucked her fingers under the edge and pried it up.

The lid creaked.

Inside-

She froze.

Phones.

Their phones.

A note.

Polaroids.

Lots of them.

Her stomach flipped.

They were of her.

Only her.

At least ten. Maybe more.

Some of her mid-change. One of her in a bikini. A few of her in just underwear.

And then-

One where she was bare.

Her breath caught.

Her mind raced. These weren’t from Sukuna-he only kept photos on his phone, his little RAZR he never let go of.

These were real. Physical. Violating.

Polaroids.

Who…?

She looked at everyone.

Curious.

No one looked at her.

Not really.

Their heads hung low, like shame weighed more than gravity. The room felt starved of air.

Gojo had gone stone-still, as if even blinking might crack the moment wide open.
Sukuna’s jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might splinter.
Nobara looked seconds from breaking.

Yuji was pale and trembling, lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Mei kept swiping at her nose with her shoulder, barely muffling the soft, broken sniffles slipping out.

Shoko never even looked up. She was still trying to save what was left of Choso.

Her hands were soaked in blood, trembling as she pressed into Choso’s side.
Still trying.
Still hoping.
Still holding back death with bare hands.

As if she could save him.
As if it wasn’t already too late.

And Choso-

Choso was watching.

Watching her.

Of course he was.

Her mind had completely blocked out the photos.

All she could see now was Choso.

He looked… dead.

Not in the way bodies die. Not yet.
But in his eyes-like something inside him had already slipped away.
Maybe it was his soul.

They say the eyes are the windows to it.
And his… his were wide open.

Empty.

Like they’d already watched too much pain and decided it was time to leave.

Y/N felt her soul fracture.

She couldn’t stare at him forever.

Even grief has a breaking point.
Even love can’t hold its gaze when the soul starts slipping.

She had to look away.
Had to tear her eyes from his-
Like ripping off her own skin,
Like swallowing glass.

Because sitting still wouldn’t save him.
And every second she watched him fade
Felt like another nail in his coffin-
One hammered in by her own hand.

Her gaze dropped to her lap. Her hands folded neatly, like a scolded child. Like a girl who’d accepted her punishment.

She didn’t deserve him.

She didn’t deserve anyone.

She was filth.

Because what kind of girl sleeps with her boyfriend’s best friend? What kind of woman smiles through a lie, then watches the man who loved her fight to live?

A liar. A slut. A fucking whore.

She hated herself.

She hated that she ever let herself wear that promise ring-like she deserved it.
Hated how long she had pretended.
Hated that Sukuna still tasted good on her tongue.

They fucked like animals. Every day. Without guilt.
And she still kissed Choso goodnight.

Like she wasn’t a filthy, cheating whore.

She wanted to rip her own skin off.

Sluts don’t deserve rings, she thought.

Sluts deserve to suffer.

No one else still moved.

And worst of all?

Toji’s hand was still on her.

And her body didn’t move away.

Because maybe-to her own disgust-she really was just that kind of girl.

authors note: this took me way longer than i expected to write this chapter omg 😮‍💨

Chapter 19: 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞.

Hey guys!

I know this isn’t a new chapter (I see y’all waiting 👀), but it’ll be out either tomorrow or Monday, promise!

In the meantime, I’m really curious-how do you think the story’s going to end? I already have the ending locked in, but I’d love to hear your predictions.

Drop your thoughts, I’m nosy 🧐

Chapter 20: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟏𝟕 - 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐆𝐮𝐭 [𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 - 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨]

“P-please, Y/N-fuck, I didn’t mean anything by it-just let me explain-”

Gojo’s voice cracked, pathetic and trembling as Naoya yanked his head back, fist knotted cruelly in his hair. The knife at his throat pressed deeper-just enough to break skin if he swallowed wrong. His chest heaved, eyes flicking between the blade, the man holding it, and the girl he couldn’t bring himself to face.

Toji didn’t move.
He didn’t need to.

Round three had begun, and Gojo was the first victim in the game. Pandora’s box had been opened-and he was the first to feel its curse.

He stayed planted in his chair like a king on his throne, legs spread, Y/N tucked onto his lap like a pretty, delicate accessory. One hand rested heavy on her thigh, The other hand, the Polaroid dangled loose between two fingers-like a scrap of meat held above a starving dog.

“Didn’t mean anything?” Toji repeated, voice calm. Curious, almost. “You got photos of my girl in your bag, Satoru. And I’m looking at this one right now, and her tits are out, mouth slack like she just got fucked stupid. So,”

No one had even flinched when Toji said, “My girl.” Not Choso not Sukuna-and definitely not Gojo, no one dared to take that risk.

He held up the photo higher, pinched between two fingers.

“you wanna run that bullshit line again?”

Gojo’s lips parted-another excuse, half-formed and trembling on his tongue.

“It wasn’t-” he started, but Naoya cut him off with a sharp jerk of his hair, yanking his head farther back until the knife kissed deeper into his throat.

“Don’t fucking lie,” Naoya hissed, voice cold and merciless, like he was savoring the fear crawling under his skin. “Your body already gave you up, freak.”

Gojo’s breath caught. His panic surged-lips trembling, chest shaking. His eyes flicked to Y/N-still seated on Toji’s lap. Still silent. Still staring.

“I-I took it,” he choked, voice raw and humiliating. “The photo-I took it. A year ago. Before anything. Before she was with Choso… before I was with Shoko.”
A shallow gasp. His whole body shuddered.
“It was that frat party… we were drunk-both of us. She-she was so… fuck, she didn’t even know. She didn’t even see the camera. She was so fucked out, I don’t even think she noticed.”
His eyes dropped, shame crashing down like a wave.

“I thought maybe it meant something. That maybe we’d turn into something after. I waited. I fucking waited for her to say something-to say she remembered. But she never did.”

He swallowed hard, throat twitching under the blade.

“So I kept it. I couldn’t let it go.”

The room fell silent. It was the kind that made silence loud.

But then it broke.

Shoko let out a sob.

“I fucking knew something was off,” she choked, hands still pressed to Choso’s side as she tried to stop the bleeding. “You couldn’t even look at me when I undressed. Couldn’t fuck me sober. God, I feel sick.”

But before she could speak again, Choso cut in-his voice choked, raw with fury and heartbreak, desperate to tear into Gojo while he still had the strength to.

“Then why the fuck do you still have the photo, huh?” Choso rasped-barely able to lift his head, but his glare burned straight through Gojo.
“You pathetic fucking freak.”

“You’ve got a girlfriend of your own-why the fuck do you still have it?” Choso’s body shook under Shoko’s hands. His blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. “Answer me this-do you jerk off to it, huh? Is that what you do?”

The question dropped like a bomb.

Gojo’s eyes fell. Though-his head remained yanked up by Naoya’s grip.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, I-"

“Come on tell us, freak,” Naoya snapped, tightening his hold on Gojo’s hair, leaning in close. The blade pressed deeper into his throat. “Did you jerk off to it?”

Gojo’s breath hitched. It was clear he didn’t want to answer.

“C-come on… please,” he stammered, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “This isn’t fair-i-it’s too much, you lied-both of you-”

“You better fucking answer the question,” Toji cut in, flat and cold.
“It’s the least you can do, since that fucker’s bleeding out ‘cause of you.”

Gojo’s eyes burned. His skin had gone pale, flushed and sweaty. His chest rose and fell in harsh, shallow pants. And then, finally, his head dipped forward just slightly-throat flexing under the blade.

“…Yes.”

It was barely a whisper. But it gutted the room.

“Yes,” Gojo repeated, voice barely holding together.

“Fucking creep,” Choso spat.

He had managed one more breath-ragged, wet, barely strong enough to carry the words.

That was all he had left, for now.

His head dropped back into Shoko’s care. She didn’t say anything-just pressed harder into the deep-wound, her hands slick with blood, trembling. Her sobs were louder now, choked and relentless.

Mei’s voice broke through the quiet-but it wasn’t loud. It was stunned. Shaky.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, eyes locked on Gojo, her lips trembling. “Is that why you always take pictures of us?”

Gojo’s head jerked up slightly. Eye's wide.

Mei’s expression twisted-hurt, sickened, mascara streaking down her cheeks.

“All those Polaroids,” she said, like she couldn’t believe it herself. “Was it just… an excuse? Just to have more of her?”

Gojo shook his head weakly. “No-I-It wasn’t like that, I-”

“Don’t even try,” Nobara snapped, venom lacing every word. She turned her glare on him like a blade. “Don’t. You’re disgusting.”

She looked like she wanted to spit on him.

Yuji was quiet. Stiff beside her. His jaw locked, fingers twitching restlessly against the ropes binding his wrists-but he said nothing.

Sukuna slouched in his chair, his expression unreadable and distant. He stared past the chaos, he looked lost in his own detached world.

Gojo stopped trying to explain.

He couldn’t. Not anymore.

He was shaking now-face pale, glistening with sweat, eyes low and broken. He didn’t even notice the way Naoya's grip never wavered, the knife still teasing the soft skin of his throat.

That’s when Toji spoke.

He was leaned back slightly, relaxed. He looked fucking entertained.

“I got a question for you, Gojo.”

Gojo looked up. Eye's red.

“You happy Choso’s dying? Huh? Think maybe you’ll get another shot with Y/N now? That why you’re so calm, sittin’ there with a hard-on full of nostalgia?”

“No,” Gojo croaked. “No, I swear-I’d never-”

But he didn’t finish.

And that silence said more than anything he could’ve come up with.

Shoko let out a sob that broke into a laugh. Bitter. Broken.

“Oh my god,” she said, eyes rimmed red, voice shredded. “You’re not even denying it.”

Gojo didn’t speak.

“Wow,” Naoya grinned, leaning in to whisper by his ear. “Looks like the photo says more than you ever could, huh?”

“You don’t deserve her,” Choso spat energy entering him again, eyes glassy but locked on Gojo. “You never did. And I hope-I hope-you choke on your fucking guilt when I’m gone.”

“Why would he feel guilty?” Toji cut in smoothly. “He already got what he wanted. Something to cum to, and a chance to try again once you’re out of the picture.”

Gojo broke.

His body folded in on itself, head still held by naoya, his shoulders trembling as the tears spilled over. He wasn’t fighting anymore. Not the blade. Not the words. Not the shame.

Toji hummed, clearly amused with how quiet the room had gotten, just Gojo's sobs. He dragged his fingers lazily along Y/N’s thigh, watching Gojo shake like a pathetic animal under Naoya’s blade.

“You know what?” he said casually. “I think this little confession’s missin’ something.”

Gojo tensed again. Already over it.

Toji glanced down at Y/N. “C’mon, sweetheart. Tell me-how do you feel about all this?”

Y/N didn’t move.

Toji’s hand snapped up, curling around her jaw-not rough, but firm. Possessive. He turned her face toward him, holding her chin between his fingers like he was examining a doll.

“Eyes on me,” he said, voice low. “Now answer.”

Naoya mirrored him, grabbing a tighter fist of Gojo’s hair and yanking his head towards Toji and Y/N. The knife at his throat pressed tighter, just enough to draw a slow, threatening bead of blood.

Gojo gritted his teeth, trying not to whimper. His eyes were downcast again-anywhere but Toji... or her. But Naoya wasn’t having it.

“Look at her." Naoya sneered. "You owe her that much.”

The knife pressed in deeper.

Gojo flinched-and finally, his eyes dragged to Y/N’s face.

The moment was devastating.

His face was wrecked-lip split, blood crusting along his jaw, a slow tear trailing down one cheek. His breath stuttered when he looked at her. He didn’t see hatred in her eyes. He saw something worse.

Pity.

Toji chuckled darkly. “Now, Y/N. Let’s play a little game. You answer, he lives. You don’t…well.” He smirked. “Not your fault. Can’t blame a girl for lettin’ a freak get what’s comin’ to him.”

She said nothing. Still watching Gojo.

Toji leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

“First question,” Voice low and rotten. “Did you like how you looked in that photo? The one with your tits out? The one he fucking came to more than his own girlfriend?

She stiffened in his lap-but she spoke, voice low.

“I didn’t know he took it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A pause. She swallowed.

“…No.”

Gojo let out a shaky breath, eyes flickering shut.

Toji grinned. “Shame. You look real fuckin' good in it.”

“Next one,” he continued, louder now. “Be honest with me-did you ever fantasize about him after that night? Even once? Maybe when Choso was inside you, you thought about how Gojo used to touch you?”

Her stomach twisted.

“I… I don’t remember,” she whispered.

Toji laughed. “That ain’t a no.”

Gojo whimpered. He was shaking again, visibly vibrating with humiliation.

Naoya clicked his tongue beside him. “She’s savin’ your life, y’know. Most girls would’ve left your ass to rot for this.”

Toji wasn’t done.

“Here’s one: if I told you to fuck him right now-right here, in front of everyone-just to save his life, would you?”

Y/N’s eyes snapped to him. “No.”

Toji raised a brow, eyes glinting.

“No?” he said mockingly. “Even with him beggin' for his life?”

“No,” she said again, firmer.

He just grinned. “Good to know.”

Gojo looked ready to collapse, eyes wild, blinking too fast. His shame clung to him like a second skin. Blood was dripping down his neck now.

Toji licked his teeth. “Last one.”

His voice dropped dark and venomous. “Do you think about that night with him? Do you remember how he tasted? How he sounded?”

Y/N inhaled sharply.

She didn’t look at Toji.

She didn’t look at Gojo.

She just said, “It was a mistake.”

The silence that followed was jagged.

Gojo shut his eyes. That one cut the deepest.

So she did remember...

And Toji smiled, satisfied.

“See?” he said, running his hand along Y/N’s thigh again. “All that jerkin’ off, all those little fantasies. She don’t even think about you. Ain’t that somethin’, Satoru?”

Gojo didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

He was too ashamed-folded in on himself like something half-dead, breath hitching, eyes locked on nothing. Just trembling.

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet.
It screamed.

And then-
Naoya broke it.

He glanced down at Gojo, then tilted his head toward Toji, voice light-too light, like they weren’t surrounded by blood and ruin.

“So,” he said, smirking. “We doin’ the note now?”

Toji grinned, wide and slow.

His gaze slid toward Shoko. Her hands were drenched in Choso’s blood, but it was her face that looked worse-blank and hollow, like she’d already left the room.

“Yeah,” he muttered, almost tender.
“It’s time.”
He looked back at Gojo.
His smile split wider.

“Let’s read what your girl had to say... before she decided she’d rather die than fuckin’ look at you again.”

 

authors note: Y’all, Gojo is definitely a tough one to write, his character is honestly one of my favorites. I’ve got so much more I want to write about him, but… yeah, can’t spill it just yet 😩

Also, this is lowkey a draft, so please bear with me if you notice any mistakes. 😔

I’m also updating some of Toji’s content warnings, so if you like to check those before continuing to read for future chapters, make sure to review his specific warnings portion.

Chapter 21: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟏𝟖 - 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐆𝐮𝐭 [𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 - 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐤𝐨, 𝐌𝐞𝐢, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐚.]

“Let’s read what your girl had to say... before she decided she’d rather die than fuckin’ look at you again.”

That was five minutes ago.

Now the barn was thick with dread-air barely moving, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. The note lay abandoned on the floor, scrawled in Shoko’s unmistakable handwriting. Every sentence carved itself into memory like a cut: “I’ll wait until everyone’s asleep. This place feels like somewhere people go to die. I just don’t want to wake up again.”

Yuji looked sick. Nobara couldn’t lift her gaze from her lap. Mei sat frozen, wide-eyed. Sukuna barely registered any of it-still trapped in whatever dark corner of his mind he’d crawled into.

Gojo was the only one making noise.

He sat helplessly, restrained to the chair, voice crackling-shaking, breaking.

“You weren’t gonna tell me?! You were just gonna do it and what? Let me find your body in the morning? What the fuck, Shoko-you’re my girlfriend!”

She laughed-sharp and bitter. “Oh please, don’t throw that word around now.”

“Because it’s true!”

“No, because it’s bullshit!” Her voice cracked as she turned around, throwing a bloodied finger his way. “You haven’t looked at me like I mattered at all, Satoru. You’ve been sleepwalking through our relationship-and now I know fucking why! You fucker. Your head’s been up Y/N’s skirt the entire time!”

“Shoko-”

“Don’t even try to deny it!” Her fists were clenched at her sides now, full of months of resentment. “You think I didn’t notice? Your wandering fucking eye? Laughing too hard when other girls talked-especially Y/N? Or maybe I just imagined it when Toji showed us that photo-the one of her naked-the one you took," She choked back a laugh, broken and disbelieving. "Fuck-that's when it hit me-god, I didn’t want to believe it. But fuck, you really are that pathetic. I resent you.”

Gojo flinched. Visibly.

“That’s what I thought,” she spat. “So yeah, maybe I figured if I was gone, you’d finally be free to wander your eyes and your dick somewhere else-maybe even now you could fuck her without guilt. You could mourn me for a week, then move on. Hell, maybe you’d be relieved.”

He shook his head slowly, eyes glassy. “Stop. That’s not true.”

“You would’ve been happy,” she whispered, voice splintering. “Don’t lie to me, Satoru. You’d love if I were out of the way.”

And that-that-was when it broke him. His head dropped, and he just sat there.

Crushed.

Silent.

Like she’d knocked the air out of his lungs.

The room stayed frozen for a beat too long.

Then-

“Do you still wanna die?”

The voice was low, lazy.

Everyone turned at once.

Toji still sat like a king-Y/N still on his lap, revolver dangling loose in one hand, head tilted like he was asking something casual.

Shoko stiffened. “...What?”

He shrugged, stepping closer. “You said you were gonna do it. Just wondering if that offer’s still on the table.”

“Are you-” her voice trembled. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

“I don’t give a fuck what your boyfriend did.” He said it with a crooked grin. “I care about results. So... yes or no?”

Silence.

Then-soft, almost broken-Shoko said, “...No.”

Her lip trembled. “I don’t want to die anymore.”

She looked at Gojo, then down at the floor like she was ashamed. “I want to live. Even if it hurts. I don't want to die anymore.”

Toji’s smile curled wider. Almost… pleased.

Then his eyes went cold.

“Too bad.”

The gun went off like thunder.

Shoko’s body jerked mid-sentence, blood spraying across Choso’s already stained shirt as she crumpled against him.

Screams erupted. Nobara wailed. Yuji lunged forward but was yanked back by his restraints. Sukuna didn’t even flinch-still somewhere else, too far gone.

Mei collapsed in on herself, sobbing, her face buried in her fear-stricken tears. Choso trembled violently, Shoko’s blood painting his body like a second skin. Without her weight pressing on his wounds, the drowsiness began to settle back in.

Y/N screamed.

But Gojo-he didn’t move.

He just drooped forward, hands shaking behind him in the restraints, staring blankly at what was left of her.

His face was hollow.

His eyes wide.

Tears fell silently.

He didn’t even make a sound.

Toji sat back down in the armchair like it was any other day, revolver resting on his thigh.

Then he turned his eyes to Y/N.

Her face was soaked, shoulders trembling as she choked on sobs.

Terrified.

Body Shaking.

Teeth chattering.

Tears brimming.

He reached out casually, slowly, and dragged two fingers up her cheek-collecting her tears like he had every right to them.

“Don’t cry now, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick with something darker as his eyes dragged across her face. “You’re too fuckin’ pretty to waste it on someone else’s pain.”

His thumb swept beneath her eye with the gentleness of a lover.

It didn’t feel comforting.

Or gentle-

It felt like warning.

Y/N’s breath hitched. She shifted in his lap, trembling hands bracing against his chest as she tried to push herself off.

“Toji,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Please… I don’t wanna sit here. Let me go.”

His grip around her waist tightened-subtle but enough to freeze her. He didn’t look angry. He looked entertained.

“Let you go?” he echoed softly, like she’d said something stupid. “Now why the fuck would I do that?”

Her breath hitched. Her hands pressed to his chest to push off, but it was like trying to move a wall.

“Toji,” she tried again, panic creeping into her voice. “Please. I’m begging you.”

“Oh, Y/N.” He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Beg a little sweeter for me. I’ll show you what that mouth is really good for.”

She jerked in his lap, breath sputtering. “S-stop it. You can’t-please, Toji-”

She gasped, struggling against his grip.“I’m scared-I don’t want this. Please. Just let me go-”

“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” he cut in, teeth flashing, fingers digging into her hips. “You’re cryin’, tremblin’, beggin’-you don’t even know what you’re beggin’ for.”

“I’m begging to leave-”

“No, you’re not,” he growled, grinding her down into his thigh hard enough to make her gasp.

She froze.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Toji leaned in close, breath hot against her ear. “You don’t want this?” he whispered. “Then don’t squirm like you’re tryin’ to turn me on.”

Her whole body tensed. Her hands shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge.

“I said stop-!”

Toji pushed the box off Y/N’s lap and let it drop to the floor with a loud thud. He didn’t even glance at it.

Everyone flinched.

Y/N’s desperate struggle to slip from Toji's lap didn't go unnoticed by most, but no one dared make a sound.

In that moment, every mind screamed the same warning: don’t fuck with him.

He grabbed her wrists with one hand, easily pinning them against her own thighs. His grip wasn’t brutal-just firm enough to remind her that he could be.

“You wanna be safe?” he asked, tilting his head like he was being reasonable. “Wanna be protected, princess?”

Y/N blinked fast, nodding desperately. “Yes. Please-please.”

Toji’s grin widened.

“Then be quiet, sit still, and stop fuckin’ crying,” he said, voice silk with poison. “Or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

Tears welled up again-but this time, she didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Toji stroked her cheek one last time, slow and mockingly tender, before leaning back-his hand never leaving her leg.

“Atta girl,” he muttered, almost to himself. “That’s better.”

The silence stretched.

Thick.

Unmoving.

Until Naoya tilted his head toward the body slumped in Choso’s lap and asked, way too casually-

“So… what do you want me to do with her?”

That snapped everyone out of it.

Even Sukuna finally blinked. Nobara let out a short, broken breath. Mei looked like she might be sick again.

But no one said anything.

Toji didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

Then a voice-low, tense-cut through the quiet.

“You better not make me do what you made me do last time.”

Megumi.

He was standing near the barn door, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

Naoya burst out laughing like it was a goddamn joke. “Oh, come on, Megs. You act like it was traumatic or something.”

"It kinda was." Megumi murmured, to himself.

Toji spoke, cracking his neck. His tone was flat. “Basement.”

"Damnit." Megumi swore under his breath.

Naoya grinned. “You heard him.”

Gojo didn’t move.

Didn’t even look up.

He just cried-quiet, broken sobs punching out of him like his body had finally caved in.

Megumi walked forward without another word, dragging his feet, his expression hard. He crouched beside Choso, reaching for Shoko’s limp form.

Choso didn’t react.

Barely noticed.

He looked half-dead himself-eyes unfocused, skin pale, blood still seeping from his wounds. Shoko’s blood had soaked into his clothes, her cheek still pressed against his thigh.

Megumi hesitated.

Then pulled.

He had to peel her off of Choso, gently but quickly, and the moment her weight shifted, a sickening thump followed as her arm slipped and hit the floor.

No one breathed.

Megumi lifted her into his arms. She looked smaller now.

Lifeless.

The barn was still except for the drag of his boots against the dirt floor… and the soft, wet drip of blood trailing behind him.

Each step echoed like a countdown.

Drip.

Drag.

Drip.

Gojo’s sobs filled the quiet, cracked and weak like he was falling apart piece by piece.

The barn door creaked open.

Then slammed shut.

Only the dark smear of her blood remained on the dirt floor.

Then Naoya turned.

His smirk wide.

Sharp.

Naoya’s boots tapped lazily against the blood-slick floor, gaze flicking between the Mei and Nobara like he was picking candy off a shelf. His smile stretched, wide and wicked.

“Eenie…” he pointed at Mei.

“Meenie…” he shifted to Nobara.

“Miney…”

A pause.

“You.”

He pointed back and forth between them with a little shrug-clearly meaning both.

Nobara flinched like she’d been slapped. Mei looked up, tear-streaked and shaking.

Naoya just laughed, slow and drawn-out.

Naoya’s smirk didn’t falter as he sauntered toward the box lying in a sticky pool near Toji’s boots. He crouched with a lazy groan and popped it open like it was some kind of fucking treasure chest. His fingers dipped inside, rustling through its contents-discarded phones, wallets, keys, IDs-all the things that made them people.

Then he found what he was looking for.

He pulled out two flip phones, both scratched but unmistakably theirs-one hot pink and glittered with rhinestones, the other sleek silver with a keychain charm still dangling.

He held them up with a grin.

“Aw,” he cooed, “matching Razrs. How cute.”

Mei whimpered.

Naoya popped open Nobara’s phone first with a click, the neon screen flickering to life. “Only need one, but hey, why not get the full picture.”

He scrolled, thumb gliding across the keypad.

“Damn,” he said after a beat, eyebrows raising as a slow grin stretched across his face. “Y’all really ain’t ride-or-die, huh?”

He looked up briefly, flashing the screen toward the group like he was sharing a juicy joke.

“Let’s see what our sweet Nobara had to say first…”

He cleared his throat, then read aloud: ‘She’s such a fucking pick-me. Does she ever shut up about Choso? I wish she’d just disappear for one fucking day.’”

He barked a laugh. “Wow. Real sisterhood shit.”

Nobara’s face went white.

He kept going.

Naoya scrolled again. “Ooo, here’s one from Mei.”
‘She acts like she’s so sweet and innocent. It’s fake. Bet the second someone else gave her attention, she’d drop Choso like nothing.’” He gave a low whistle. “Damn, Mei. That you?”

Mei’s lip quivered. “I didn’t mean-”

He waved the phone like it reeked. “Nah, you meant it. Y’all sound jealous as hell. Honestly, almost like you wanted her gone.”

He looked down at Y/N, still frozen in Toji’s lap.

Then his eyes dropped to Y/N-still trembling in Toji’s lap, lips parted like she wanted to say something but couldn’t even find breath.

Naoya tilted his head, smiling like it was all just amusing.

“Wild, huh?” he murmured. “The girls who hug you the tightest are usually the ones hoping you’ll choke.”

Silence.

Y/N didn’t cry.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even breathe.

And for a long moment, she said nothing.

Then quietly-

Her lips parted.

Softly.

Almost like she was apologizing to herself.

“Oh.”

That was it.

No scream. No fight. No anger.

Just Oh.

Quiet.

Detached.

Like something inside her had simply… unplugged.

Toji let the silence stretch.

Without a word, his hand moved-slow and deliberate, up her thigh. His fingers slipping beneath the hem of her skirt. The warmth of her bare skin beneath his touch made her breath catch. He pressed hard, tracing slow, possessive circles over the soft flesh, leaving no doubt: he could do whatever he wanted.

A shiver crawled through Y/N.

But she couldn’t pull away-even if she wanted to.

She knew that now.

But then he whispered into her ear, voice thick and teasing.

“Mei’s really gonna hate you after she finds out you’ve been fuckin’ her boyfriend all this time, huh?”

authors note: I didn’t want to dive too deep into Shoko’s suicide note because it can hit too close to home for some people, so I decided to keep it short and simple, you know?

Also totally off topic, but does anyone here like Ateez?

Chapter 22: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟏𝟗 - 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐆𝐮𝐭 [𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 - 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐘/𝐍.]

The sky was blush pink, streaked with gold. Gentle waves rolled against the shore, each one quieter than the last-like the world had gone quiet just for them.

The ocean murmured somewhere below them, a distant hush against white sand. The air was balmy-thick with salt and sun, the gentle sway of palm trees casting shadows on the tiled floor of their balcony.

Their first night as husband and wife.

The ocean was still.
Not calm-still. Like time itself had decided to stop and let them breathe.

Sukuna leaned against the railing of their private balcony, a glass of something expensive sweating in his palm. Below them, the waves glittered like crushed diamonds. Somewhere down the coast, music drifted from another couple’s room, muffled and slow. Faint. Easy.

Behind him, the sliding door creaked open.

“Y’know,” Y/N’s voice was lazy, half-sweet, half-sin, “it’s rude to leave your wife in bed all alone after a morning like that.”

He turned.

And there she was-bare legs, bare shoulders, wrapped in nothing but a hotel robe that didn’t quite hide the marks he left on her. Her hair was a mess. Her lips swollen. Skin still flushed and glowing. And God-she looked good enough to keep all over again.

“You needed the sleep,” he said, voice low.

“Needed you more.” She smiled and stepped into his space, slipping her arms around his waist like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Besides, this place is too pretty to waste.”

He kissed her. Slow. Deep. Familiar.

Her hands slid up under his shirt, nails grazing over his ribs like she already knew where he was sore. She always knew.

"Let's never leave," she whispered.

"We won’t."

She lightly smiled against his mouth. Holding his jaw. Pressing her forehead to his like they had forever.

The robe slid off her shoulder. Just a little. Just enough to remind him of how she sounded a few hours ago, legs wrapped around his waist, whispering his name like a prayer.

“Round two?” she teased.

His grin was crooked, lazy. “You begging already, Mrs. Ryomen?”

She hummed, all fake-innocence. “Not yet-”

"-Wake the fuck up, loverboy."

A sharp yank at his scalp.

Sukuna’s head jerked back, pain cracking through the base of his skull as Toji’s fingers twisted into his hair-ripping him out of the dream and shoving him back into hell.

Back into the barn.

The blood-soaked barn.

Where their honeymoon-

...where it didn’t exist.

No.
No, no, no.

Fuck.

Why?
I just had her-
Right.. here.

I'm sorry-

“Motherfucker,” Toji voiced, dragging out the syllables like he was amused.

And boy, was Toji fucking amused.

He stood in front of Sukuna, leisurely cocking the slide of a pistol. A lazy smirk tugged at his mouth. “You were in a whole other fucking world, huh?”

Sukuna’s eyes darted, wild and disoriented, lungs clawing for air.

What-
What the hell is happening?

How long was I gone?
How far did I fall?

Y/N wasn’t in Toji’s lap anymore.

She was still in the chair next to Sukuna, slumped, too scared to move-eyes blown wide. Naoya loomed behind her, the edge of a hunting knife playing just under her chin, like a cat teasing a cornered mouse.

She was shaking.
Shoulders trembling.
Mouth open but barely able to breathe.

She looked at Sukuna like he was the only thing standing between her and this hell.

Fuck.
No-no, not that look.
Not like that.

Don’t look at me like I can save you.

Don’t-
Don’t make me lie to you.

I can’t.
I can’t.

“Sukuna,” she sobbed, choking on her own panic, “please-please, don’t hurt him. Please, just let him go-”

“Open your fucking mouth,” Toji said flatly. Ignoring Y/N's plea.

Sukuna’s heart stuttered in his chest.

“What?” he muttered, his voice raw, slow-his brain still catching up. “Wha-why?

Toji didn’t answer right away. He just grinned and stepped closer, pressing the muzzle of the gun against Sukuna’s lips.

“While you were off in La La Land, dreamin’ about white fences and baby bottles or whatever the fuck you sick bastards think about…” he tilted his head, amused. “She’s been beggin’ for your life. Sweet, ain’t it?”

Y/N sobbed. “Please stop-don’t do this-please-”

“Quit your whining,” Toji said, not even glancing at her. His tone wasn’t angry. If anything, it was light. Pleasant.

And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’m being generous here.”

Sukuna gritted his teeth, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

He didn’t open his mouth.

Toji pressed the barrel harder. “I said, open it.”

Still, Sukuna refused.

So Toji forced it.

His hand wrapped around Sukuna’s jaw, grip bruising, and shoved the muzzle past his lips. Sukuna gagged as the cold steel scraped the back of his throat.

It was dehumanizing.

Brutal.

The sight of Sukuna-Sukuna-like that made everyone recoil. Flinch. Not even five minutes had passed since that same gun ended Shoko’s life. Her blood hadn’t dried.

And now he was choking on the same metal.

His body trembled.

Fury, shame, and panic warring in his chest-but none of it mattered. The gun stayed put.

Sukuna’s eyes snapped to Y/N.
Her.
And the blade.
And the tremble in her hands like she’d fall apart if he blinked too hard.

Toji crouched beside him, speaking low-mock-gentle.

“I’ll take it out,” he said. “But you’re gonna nod for me. Just two questions.”

Sukuna’s breath rattled in his lungs.

But with wide-wild eyes he managed the smallest movement- a small nod.

Y/N tried to speak again. A desperate plea. “Please, please, Toji-”

He cut her off, still smiling. “Your real cute begging, sweetheart. But I'm talking to Kuna~ right now."

Then his eyes slid back to Sukuna.

That fucking nickname.

That motherfucker.

Sukuna's stomach lurched.

“You two been fucking like animals behind Mei and Choso’s backs for months now, yeah?”

Sukuna froze.
His whole body stilled.

Time split down the middle.

His limbs went still.
His spine turned to concrete.
His throat worked uselessly around the gun.

Eye's even more wild.

Shit.

His stomach dropped.

The metal still scraped his throat.

And the second the words hit the air-like a gunshot of their own, it was over.

Y/N didn’t say a thing.

She didn’t cry out anymore.
Didn’t defend him.
Didn’t even flinch.

She just looked at Sukuna, as if waiting for him to finally carry the weight.

And Sukuna-
Sukuna closed his eyes.

The heat flooded his chest and mind, suffocating and sick.

Shame.
Fear.
Guilt.

Not the kind you feel.
The kind that devours.

The gun didn’t move.
No one spoke.

It was so fucking quiet, but so fucking loud.

So Sukuna did what he had to do.
Eyes still closed.

No tears fell.

He didn’t get to cry.
He didn’t get that option.

He just nodded.

A small, shattered thing.

A man who felt no god left to pray to.
He felt abandoned by it.

Toji yanked the gun free with a wet click, like ripping off a bandage too slow.

The sound echoed.

Everyone gasped-flinched even.

And that’s when Choso lifted his head. Curious.

Blood was crusted at his temple. He looked sick, fevered, confused.

“…What did he say?” His voice was low. Hoarse.

No one answered.

Not even Mei.

She didn’t need to.
She already knew.
She just needed the confirmation.
And now, she had it.

She was already staring at Y/N-not crying, just empty.
Like her body was present but her heart had already left the building.

Sukuna didn’t look at either of them.

Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he couldn’t.

Because the silence in the barn was louder than the gun had ever been.

 

authors note: I know this chapter was super short, but I wanted to get something out asap since my power was out for a while lol. Who’s your favorite character so far? I’d say mine, but honestly… that would lowkey give away way too much about where this story is headed 😅 And ughhh there’s something I so badly want to tell you guys, but I have to wait until way later in the story… it’s killing me 😭 anyways thank-you guys for the support! i really appreciate it all! 🫶

Chapter 23: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟐𝟎 - 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐆𝐮𝐭 [𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐱 - 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚, 𝐘/𝐍, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨.]

“Oh, Kuna~ didn’t say a damn thing,” Toji drawled.

He clicked the safety back on the gun that had been shoved into Sukuna’s mouth not even a minute ago, then tucked it lazily into the back of his waistband-like the show was over.

But it wasn’t.

Stepping past Sukuna now like he was nothing more than meat in a chair. “But he nodded-real polite.”

Toji stopped in front of Choso and crouched, one elbow on his knee, head tilted like he was talking to a child who didn’t quite understand the rules yet.

“You wanna know what that little nod meant?”
A pause.
“I’ll paint you a picture."

Choso blinked slowly, brows pulled tight. His breathing was shallow.
He still looked down-it was getting harder to look up lately.

But he wasn’t angry.
Not yet.

Just broken.

Hopeful.

Curious.

“She’d sneak out after he'd blow her back out in my~ bathroom-bent her over the sink. Fucked her hard. Real messy. You could hear the tile creakin’. Her hands slappin’ the mirror. Little whimpers she kept tryin’ to bite down.”

Y/N’s entire body flinched.

Choso’s lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

Not yet.

The barn was dead silent.

No one breathed.

Choso’s head tilted.

Just a little.

Like maybe, maybe he’d heard wrong.

Like if he looked hard enough, one of them would laugh and tell him it was all a lie.

His voice came soft. Detached.

“No,” Choso said quietly, shaking his head. “No, she wouldn’t…”

Y/N didn’t lift her eyes.

“...Y/N?”

He looked at her-barely.

Just waiting.

But nothing.

His voice cracked. “Y/N… is that true?”

Again, silence.

She didn’t look up.
Didn’t breathe.

Just stared into her lap, hands knotted in her shirt, trembling.

“Y/N,” he whispered again.

Still nothing.

Toji was getting agitated waiting.

“Ohhh,” he crooned. “So she’s gonna stay quiet?” He glanced over at Sukuna, then grinned. “Well. Let’s give him his answer then.”

Toji pushed off his knee and rose to full height, still planted right in front of Choso like a tombstone.

The space beside him sat quieter than it should’ve.

Shoko’s chair-empty now-held the battered box. Her empty chair now repurposed for something much filthier.

Toji didn’t look away from Choso as he barked the next order over his shoulder.

“Naoya. Grab her phone.”

No sweet tone. No softness. Just a cold command.

Naoya didn’t hesitate.

Still posted behind Y/N, blade lazily grazing her skin like it was a game, he gave a slow, delighted sigh-then peeled away from her chair with one last lean in, whispering something low just for her:

“Don’t think about running, sweetheart. You’re not tied up, but you’re not going anywhere.”

He stepped forward now with that shit-eating grin of his, hands sliding into the box already knowing exactly what he was digging for. He rustled past old Polaroids, crumbled papers, and a half-empty pack of cigarettes until-

“Aha,” Naoya grunted. “This what you’re after?”

He held it up by the corner like it offended him. A cracked RAZR, cheap glitter smeared across the back like a middle-school sticker book. Y/N’s phone.

Toji’s eyes finally slid to the side, and he reached out without a word.

Naoya slapped the phone into his palm with a little too much satisfaction.

Toji stared at it.

Grinned slow.

Then flipped it open.

Toji didn’t take his eyes off Y/N’s RAZR-just grinned slow, biting his lip like he was savoring the damage he was about to do.

Y/N's heart stopped. “No-”

He held it up between two fingers like it was something worthless, like it disgusted him to even touch it.

But Y/N recognized it instantly. Faster than the other's. The little hairline crack through the corner. It was hers.

She shook her head, eyes going wide. “Please… please, Toji-”

He didn’t even glance at her.

"Funny thing about secrets," he said, casual, almost conversational. “They don’t stay buried. Not when they’re this sloppy.”

Toji strolled-slow and deliberate-toward Sukuna.

“You two must’ve thought you were real slick, huh?” he mused, flipping open the phone with a lazy flick of his thumb. “Backseat hookups, bathroom quickies, hotel meetups behind Choso and Mei’s back. Cute.”

Sukuna stared, jaw clenched tight, face pale under the blood still drying along his cheek.

Y/N’s breath was caught in her throat. She shook her head harder now, panic curling in her stomach. “Please-please don’t-”

“Months,” Toji continued, stopping right in front of Sukuna. “This ain’t some heat-of-the-moment, one-time mistake bullshit. This is commitment.”

And fuck Y/N and Sukuna knew exactly what kind of hell was coming.

“You ready to read bedtime stories, Kuna~?”

His gaze snapped fully to Sukuna, sharp enough to skin him alive.

"Cause this one’s got your name written all over it.”

Silence swallowed the room. The secret was laid bare-but the phone?

He held the phone up to Sukuna’s face.

“I mean, shit. You two were damn near in love.”

Then the other hand came up-the gun.

He pressed the barrel to Sukuna’s temple. “Read it.”

Sukuna didn’t move.

The silence sharpened.

Y/N’s breathing went erratic. “Toji-no-please-”

She was crying now, shaking.

“Please,” Y/N gasped, panic rising in her voice. “No, don’t make him say it-please, just stop!”

Naoya leaned in close to her from behind-again, knife still dangling between two fingers.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he whispered, mock-gentle. “You made your bed. Let him lie in it.”

But even now Nobara winced in her seat. Choso, barely conscious, let out a soft moan. Mei looked frozen. Gojo just stared into nothing. And Yuji-

Yuji snapped.

“This is fucked up!” he blurted, voice cracking. “This-This whole thing is-what the fuck is wrong with you?”

The gun never moved.

But Toji’s head turned slowly, eyes falling on Yuji like a snake sizing up its next meal.

“Shut the fuck up, kid,” he said, voice like ice. “You wanna talk secrets? ‘Cause we’ve got yours too, you little shit. And trust me, when we get to it? It’ll make this look like foreplay.”

Yuji shut up.

Instantly.

His whole body recoiled, eyes darting with panic. He shrank into himself.

Toji turned back to Sukuna.

Clicked the safety off.

The sound was deafening in the silence.

“You got five seconds to start readin’,” he said. “Or I’m startin’ with your kneecaps.”

Sukuna didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

His voice, low and ragged, came out like smoke. “Go ahead.”

Toji’s smile dropped.

That wasn’t the answer he wanted.

“Oh, yeah?” he said, leaning in closer. “You wanna act tough now? Real fucking noble, huh?”

Then he shifted.

The gun swung-not to Sukuna, but to Y/N.

Right between her eyes.

She gasped, a scream choking in her throat.

“No-no, please!” she cried. “Stop! Ple-please!”

But Sukuna’s voice came again, harder this time.

“Bullshit.” He glared at Toji. “You haven’t hurt her. Not once. You’ve hurt everyone else. But not her.”

He panted, defiant. “You haven’t even thought of hurting her, have you?”

Toji’s mouth twitched.

And for the first time, he didn’t look smug.

He looked… annoyed.

Like a man whose bluff had just been called.

His jaw tightened.

He bit his bottom lip for a moment. Thinking.

Then he did something no one expected.

He fired.

BANG.

The gunshot cracked the air-so loud, so close it made Sukuna’s whole body jolt. The bullet slammed into the barn wall, just an inch from Sukuna's ribcage.

Y/N screamed.

Everyone else flinched violently in their seats.

"Fuck!" Sukuna shouted. His breathing went sharp. His pulse roared in his ears.

Before he could recover, Toji was behind him-fast, snake-quick-and leaned down, lips to his ear.

“I’ll fuck her in front of you.”

The whisper was straight venom.

Deadly.

Low.

“I’ll keep you right there, tied to this chair,” Toji murmured, voice low and thick with threat. “Make you watch real close while I fuck her so good, she forgets you ever touched her. And when I’m done…” he grinned, slow and sick, “I’ll leave you here to rot.”

Sukuna’s blood ran cold.

His jaw clenched.

Eyes wide. Breath caught.

And then-
he broke.

“…Show me the phone.”

Toji backed up slow, smug again, lowering the gun with a click. He patted Sukuna’s shoulder twice-firm, condescending. “Good boy.”

Toji extended the phone toward him, fingers loose, daring.
“Read it. Out loud. Let’s hear what got her so worked up.”

Sukuna flicked a glance at Y/N-she didn’t look up. Just sat there, eyes fixed on her lap, fists clenched in the fabric of her shirt like she could disappear into it. Her shame was loud enough to choke on.

Sukuna’s eyes swept the rest of the room.

Nothing.

Everyone else looked down too. Like the ground had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the barn. No one dared to speak. No one even blinked.

His eyes scanned the phone-just a glance-and his gut twisted.
He hadn’t realized…
Not how filthy they’d gotten.
Not how vivid the messages were.
but every filthy word he'd sent, every needy response from her-laid out in ugly, undeniable text.
And now he had to read them.
Out loud.
In front of everyone.

Fuck.
This was bad.
Really fucking bad.

Sukuna’s voice was hoarse, thick with disbelief as he forced himself to speak. He cleared his throat, mouth trembling slightly as he stared at the screen.

But he read. Voice came quiet at first. Rough. Shaky.

“Can’t stop thinking about your mouth on me.”

He swallowed hard, eyes flickering to Toji- a plea.
But Toji's grin only deepened.

“Keep going.”

Trembling, Sukuna forced out the next message, voice cracking with every word.

"Can’t wait to fuck you again.”

Toji’s grin widened. “Another one.”

“You think he’s ever made you moan like that...”

Toji let it go on for a while. Long enough that the air felt thick with shame, every word sticking to the walls like blood.

Then, finally-

“Alright. That’s enough, lover boy.”

He tore the phone away from Sukuna’s line of sight and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans.

-And smiled down at Sukuna.

Then reached into his other pocket-and pulled something small.

A ring.

Delicate.

Simple.

"Choso's." Toji said flatly.

Toji held the ring up between his fingers, the cold metal catching the dim light as he dangled it now in front of Choso like a twisted trophy.

“Almost forgot about this,” Toji sneered-smirk twisted darker as he nodded at Naoya. “Untie him. Now. Put him in front of Y/N."

Without hesitation, Naoya stepped forward, yanking the ropes from Choso’s wrists and ankles. Choso sagged, weak, barely able to stand, but Naoya dragged him across the bloodstained floor like a broken animal.

When they reached Y/N’s chair, Naoya shoved Choso down hard-knees hitting the ground with a dull thud.

“Face her,” Toji commanded coldly.

Naoya grabbed Choso’s chin and forced his eyes to meet Y/N’s trembling gaze.

Toji crouched, holding the cold metal ring between thumb and forefinger, swinging it slowly like a sinister pendulum.

“Well?” Toji said, voice low, dripping with venom. “Tell her. Tell all of us what you had planned with this.”

Choso’s breath hitched, his voice barely a whisper, raw and breaking with grief and love.

Such desperate, shattered longing for love.
He looked like he’d been hollowed out from the inside-skin stretched thin over bones that didn’t want to hold him up anymore.
So pale, so broken, like he was already halfway dead.
But still, his eyes-somehow, looked hopelessly in love.

It was fucking brutal.

Just moments ago, he found out the one person he’d given everything to had been tearing his heart apart behind his back.
And here he was-bloodied, battered, crumpled on his knees in front of her.
The girl who had cheated on him.

Explaining, with a voice cracked by pain, why he carried that ring.

“I was going to ask her to marry me,” he said, eyes locked on Y/N’s. “At the farmhouse… just the two of us. I wanted it to be a surprise. I didn’t want anyone to know.”

Toji’s grin widened as if tasting the pain. “How sweet. And now? Now what good’s that?”

Naoya tightened his grip on Choso’s jaw, forcing him to stay locked on Y/N as tears welled and dripped down his bloodied face.

Choso didn’t speak.
not yet-

He just stared.

Like something inside him had snapped.

Not in anger. Not in rage.

Just quiet understanding.

A single tear slid down his cheek, catching in the dried blood along his jaw.

“It's Good,” he rasped. “Cause now… now I can rest knowing she’s got someone else to hold her when I’m gone. Someone to watch over her when I’m gone.”

He turned his eyes to Sukuna.
-And Sukuna?
He couldn’t look back.

Toji’s grin curled into something sharp, cold as a blade. He didn’t even give Y/N a chance to open her mouth-fuck that.

“Enough bullshit,” he spat. “Naoya, drag his ass to the basement.”

Naoya stepped up, grabbing Choso’s arm like he was already dead weight. Choso didn’t fight it-hell, he didn’t even have the energy to care anymore. Just let it happen-almost eager to escape this nightmare, even if it meant descending into deeper hell.

Y/N’s eyes shot to Choso, panic bleeding through, but Toji’s glare froze her in place.

“You better stay right there, sweetheart. Don’t even think about moving.”

Choso was hauled away, slow, broken, like a man who already gave up the fight.

The barn swallowed the sound of his steps-and took what little hope was left right along with it.

Toji didn’t speak at first.

Just turned.

Paced slow back toward Sukuna like the silence was his favorite part.

Then he stopped.

Stared at him.

“You want the girl?” he said-voice dipped in venom, eyes full of mockery. “Here.”

And before Sukuna could blink, Toji shoved the bloodstained ring deep into the front pocket of Sukuna's jeans.
Made sure it stuck.

Then gave it a few rough, condescending pats-like he was sealing a deal in hell.

A smile twisted across his face-ugly and mean.

“Congrats on your fuckin’ engagement.”

Then he turned his back, walking off without another word.

Like the ceremony was over.
Like the vows had already been broken.
And Sukuna had just been handed the corpse of what was to be.

authors note: I’m genuinely so excited for the chapters coming up, this one was a mix of intense and emotional to write. I think I like how it turned out… though it still feels a bit like a draft 😭 Either way, I hope you enjoyed it 🫶

Chapter 24: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟐𝟏 - 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐆𝐮𝐭 [𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 - 𝐘𝐮𝐣𝐢.]

The night air was thick and hot.

Every breath scraped his lungs raw.
Hitches of air-shallow and uneven.

He pressed one arm to his gut, trying to hold himself together in every sense.
His shirt clung to skin slick with sweat and drying blood.
Every step was agony.

It hurt so bad.
So-so bad.

Choso hurt bad.
Physcially.
Emotionally.

His legs barely worked. Each step felt like dragging himself through drying cement.
Breathing hurt.
Walking hurt.
Keeping his eyes open hurt.

But still-
Choso walked.

Or tried to.

He staggered again, one trembling hand cupped over his stomach where pain pulsed in waves.
His knees buckled.
He hit the dirt with a dull, breathless thud.

“Tch. You useless fuck,” Naoya spat behind him. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

A swift kick to the ribs. Sharp. Cruel.

“Don’t collapse now. We’re almost home.”

Choso barely groaned. His limbs twitched but didn’t move. His body refused.

Naoya crouched beside him, the gleam of his blade catching moonlight as he tilted his head.

“You hear me?” he asked, voice syrupy-sweet with venom. “You’re fucking useless, you know that?” Naoya sneered, yanking him upright by the back of his shirt collar. “If I let go, you’d drop like a sack of shit.”

Choso coughed, the taste of iron thick in his mouth. His voice was barely audible. “Then let go.”

Naoya gave a short smug laugh. “No... not yet. I’m savoring this.”

He grabbed Choso’s chin, forcing his head to face him roughly.

“You really think Sukuna’s gonna keep her safe?” Naoya grinned, eyes glittering.

Choso didn’t answer. He kept staring forward.

The farmhouse stood just ahead, a silhouette from a nightmare-moonlight painting it warped and unreal.
It smelled like something old. Rotten. Cursed.

Naoya clicked his tongue. “I asked you a question.”

“I heard you,” Choso mumbled.

“So?”

“I don’t think anyone keeps her safe.”

Naoya laughed. “Now that’s honest.”

Choso didn't respond.

“But what about you, lover boy?” Naoya went on. “You really thought you could protect her?”

“I tried.”

“That’s cute.”

“I failed,” Choso added flatly.

Naoya clicked his tongue.

“So… what did Toji say?”

Choso didn’t respond.

“Back in the barn,” Naoya pressed. “He whispered in your ear like you were his little bitch. And you haven’t said a damn thing about it since. Spill it.”

They moved forward, the dry dirt path winding toward the Zenin farmhouse. The windows stared like eyes, black and empty.

They were almost to the porch now. Choso stopped walking.

Naoya’s knife dug hard into his spine. “Don’t get brave now.”

Choso exhaled, slow. “He said… he was going to keep her.”

Naoya blinked.

“He said he was gonna have her carry his kids, for his bloodline,” Choso continued, voice low. “Said it like it was prophecy. Like she didn’t have a choice. But then-” He swallowed. “Then he said he was going to protect her.”

Naoya didn’t answer. His silence buzzed in Choso’s ears.

“Crazy part is…” Choso added, “it almost sounded like he meant it.”

“A-huh.” Naoya’s mouth curled, amused.

“I think he said it to hurt me,” Choso said. “To mock what I couldn’t do.”

Naoya leaned closer, whispering like Toji had. “And it worked, didn’t it?”

Choso didn’t respond.

The front door to the farmhouse opened before they reached it. Two shadows stepped out-Megumi, and beside him, Naobito Zenin, that sick little smirk already pulling at his cheeks.

“Well, ain’t this precious.”” Naobito drawled. “The little boyfriend."

Choso’s eyes narrowed.

Naobito looked him over like he was inspecting cattle. “You look tired.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Naoya snorted behind him. Megumi said nothing. Just walked past, eyes never meeting Choso’s. But Choso looked. And for a second-just a second-he saw something shift in the kid’s eyes. Pity? Shame? He couldn’t tell.

Naobito paused beside him.

“Romantic bastard, aren’t you?” he whispered, voice smooth. “Hope she was worth it.”

Choso’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.

The moment passed. They continued into the field, and Naoya shoved Choso forward.

“Let’s go, lover boy.”

The farmhouse interior was suffocating-hot, wooden, the air thick with mildew and blood. Naoya led him through a narrow hall and opened the basement door. The scent hit first. Rot, sweat, iron. Death. The inevitable.

Choso stared into the dark.

Naoya grinned and shoved him.

He stumbled down the stairs, catching himself just before he hit the bottom. When he looked up, he saw her.

Shoko.

Slumped in the corner like a broken doll. A neat bullet through the forehead.
Her face pale.

But her eyes-those were the worst part. Still open. Still staring. Like her soul was still within the flesh.

Choso didn’t flinch. His stomach didn’t drop. It was like his soul had already left his body before she died.

Naoya hummed as he moved behind him, rope in hand. “Not gonna cry for her either, huh?”

Choso said nothing.

Naoya forced him to his knees.

Arms yanked up-the rope dug in as Naoya bound his wrists to the ceiling beam. Tight. Aggressive.

Choso groaned, but it barely registered.

Naoya crouched in front of him.

“That’s right,” he grinned. “On your knees.”
He tilted his head.
“Just like her.”

. . .

“You know what I hate?” Naobito asked. “Secrets.”

Naobito entered the red barn like the monster he truly was, a chainsaw slung in one hand as if it weighed nothing. His presence was terrifying in a different way-colder, more calculated. He wasn’t chaotic like the others. He was experienced. Detached. To him, they weren’t people. Just meat for the hooks.

He paced between them slowly. “And we’ve got so many, don’t we? So much unspoken tension. Drama. Lust. Betrayal.” He stopped in front of Yuji. “But you… you’re my favorite.”

Yuji said nothing.

“Such a good boy,” Naobito cooed, mocking. “Always smiling. Always deflecting. Loyal to everyone. But here’s the thing-when you know everything, it’s not loyalty anymore. It’s control.”

Yuji looked at the ground.

“Tell them,” Naobito said.

Yuji didn’t move.

Naobito kicked his chair hard-Yuji’s head snapped back from the impact.

“Tell them. Or I start revving.”

Yuji shook, jaw clenched, eyes glassy. His throat worked once. Then again.

“I kept notes,” he croaked.

The barn went quiet.

Yuji’s voice cracked. “I knew… I knew everything. I saw it. All the little things everyone thought went unnoticed. I started writing it down. I thought… I could fix it. Keep the group from falling apart.”

No one spoke.

“I knew about Sukuna and Y/N. I knew about Gojo’s obsession. I knew Shoko was unraveling. I knew Mei was spiraling. I knew Choso was planning to propose. I knew Nobara, of course, had something against Y/N-that one wasn't hard, she would rant to me about it all the time."

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Everyone stayed quiet.

Terrified of what would come next.

Naobito chuckled. “Isn’t that something.”

Yuji sniffled. “I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.”

Naobito tilted his head. “Oh, but you already did.”

Then-

The chainsaw roared to life.

Terror spread like a shockwave-eyes blown wide, every body instinctively curling in, desperate to disappear.

Naobito let it spin, revving it once, twice, before clicking it off and grinning.
“Fuck-I just love the look of fear in people's eyes.”

Everyone flinched.

Naobito was full on smiling now. Watching the way Yuji’s eyes had started to dull. “No more use for the golden boy, huh?”

“None,” Toji answered. “He gave us the whole fucking map. The note? Might as well have been written in blood.”

Gojo lurched forward, bound to his chair. “Don’t touch him!”

Naobito turned and slammed a fist into Gojo’s face. Hard. Bone cracked.

"Shut the fuck up."

The echo of the hit lingered, Gojo slumping in his chair, blood dripping from his nose.

Then Toji moved.

Silent. Efficient.

He stepped toward Yuji and began untying him, slow and casual like he was unwrapping meat from butcher paper.

Yuji didn’t resist. His arms fell limp the moment the rope slipped free.

“What are you doing,” Nobara whispered.

Toji didn’t look at her. He grabbed Yuji by the scruff of his shirt and forced him down to his knees like a dog.

Nobara's voice cracked. “Please-don’t.”

Toji stood over Yuji, silent. His shadow swallowed the boy whole.

Yuji looked up-eyes glassy, no fight left. Only quiet understanding.

“I told you I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” he mumbled.

Toji tilted his head. “But you did."

Naobito’s chainsaw roared to life again.

Nobara screamed.

“Stop it!” she cried, writhing-thrashing in her chair. “Stop, stop, stop, please-he didn’t deserve this!”

Mei was hysterical now. “Yuji, get up! Don’t let them do this, fight back!” Her mascara ran with her tears. “Please-he didn't do anything wrong!”

Sukuna's entire body jolted forward in his restraints. “What the fuck are you doing?!” His voice was feral, raw. “You don’t need to kill him! He gave you everything!”

“He gave us everything,” Naobito echoed smoothly. “Exactly.”

Y/N’s voice cut in, panicked. “Toji-Toji, please!” Her eyes locked on him, trembling. “Don’t let him do this. He helped us. He’s not like the rest of us-he doesn’t deserve it!”

Toji glanced at her briefly, unreadable.

He smiled.

Then he reached down and yanked Yuji to his feet.

Yuji stumbled-barely able to stand-before Toji shoved him down again, harder.

There was a sharp, sickening crack-like bone shattering under pressure.

Yuji groaned, collapsing in on himself.

“Stop!” Nobara shrieked, her voice breaking on a sob. “Please! Kill me instead! I’ll do whatever the fuck you want, just don’t kill him!”

Yuji didn’t look back at her.

His eyes were empty now, shoulders slumped forward like he was already halfway gone.

“I was just trying to keep us together,” he said, barely audible. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Toji said nothing. Just stood there, watching him.

Naobito stepped forward slowly, the chainsaw rumbling in his hands.

“No, no, no-Yuji, move!” Sukuna shouted, voice raw. He struggled wildly, rope burning his skin. “Do something! Fucking get up!”

But Yuji didn’t run.

He didn’t fight.

He closed his eyes-tight. Terrified. He didn’t want to die-but what choice did he have? Fight back? They’d skin him alive for it. And he knew that.

Naobito tilted his head with a grin. “Sweet dreams, little golden boy.”

The chainsaw dipped-

THWACK.

A wet crunch of bone.

It carved straight through the base of Yuji’s skull, splitting bone like soft bark.

His body jerked once. Then collapsed face-first into the dirt, twitching before going still.

Silence.

Thick and complete.

The screaming stopped in an instant.

The only sound left was the chainsaw whining through muscle and marrow.

Blood fanned out in a grotesque arc, spraying across the hay-covered floor.

Splatters of blood hit Toji-still behind Yuji, holding him steady.

Yuji twitched once.

Then nothing.

Nobara let out a choking sob. “No… no no no…”

Mei and Gojo crumpled in there seat, shaking.

Sukuna’s head dropped, his chest heaving like a caged animal. His knuckles white in the ropes. Silent.

Y/N sat frozen-numb-staring at the pool of red spilling outward. Her breath caught in her throat, too shocked to cry.

Toji crouched.

Grabbed Yuji’s arm.

And hauled his limp, bloody body up with ease.

“Basement,” he muttered.

Megumi didn’t move at first.

Toji turned. “Now.”

Megumi’s jaw clenched. Then he stepped forward, quiet, hands trembling as he took what was left of Yuji.

Yuji’s head lolled. Blood dripped down his leg. His shoe scraped along the dirt behind them.

And just like that, he was gone.

Toji watched Megumi disappear into the barn’s shadows.

Then slowly… he turned to Y/N.

Standing behind her.

Hands sliding up and down her arms-slow, deliberate. Possessive.

Y/N flinched hard.

She had just watched him hold Yuji steady. Just watched the chainsaw. Just watched the blood. She could still hear it ringing in her ears.

“Toji…” she whispered, voice cracking around his name.

He leaned in closer. His breath warm against her ear.

“It’s time to come back to the house.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Her voice trembled. “No-I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Toji didn’t move.

Didn’t argue.

Just stared at her.

Like she was a rabbit already caught in the snare.

Y/N’s stomach turned.

She felt so small. She shook her head more firmly this time, eyes darting around the blood-soaked barn, still clinging to the image of Yuji’s crumpled body. “No-I said no! I’m not going with you-you just killed him! You let him die like nothing!”

Toji said nothing.

And that’s when Sukuna’s eyes snapped to him.

He stilled-completely.

The realization hit him like a truck-his face paled, eyes bloodshot red, every muscle in his body tensing at once.

“No…” Sukuna rasped. “No, don’t.”

Toji turned his head slightly-acknowledging him, but still focused on Y/N.

Sukuna’s breathing picked up-fast and shallow. His entire body locked in place, jaw clenched.

“Don’t fucking touch her!” he roared, yanking so hard at the ropes that they dug into his skin. “Don’t bring her in there-don’t do this!”

Y/N blinked, confused. “Sukuna-”

His panic spiraled. “Y/N, don’t go with him! You don’t know-you don’t fucking know what he wants! He told me everything-it’s so fucked up! Oh my God-please, don’t go with him-please!”

Toji’s hand came down.

Grasped Y/N’s wrists. Intertwining his fingers with hers.

Y/N recoiled.

But he held firm. Not violent. Just... final.

“Sukuna, what are you talking about?” Her voice trembled, lips barely moving.

His eyes found hers.

Red. Wet. Desperate.

“Don’t go with him.”

Toji started pulling her upward.

She stumbled, breath stuttering in her throat as her knees nearly buckled.

“Please,” Sukuna begged, his voice breaking. “Take me instead. Do whatever the fuck you want to me-I don’t care. Just don’t take her. You can’t bring her in there. You can’t do this to her.”

Y/N’s pulse thundered.

Toji said nothing. Just lifted her fully to her feet. Hands tight at her sides now.

“Please…” Sukuna choked again, quieter this time. A whisper through grit teeth. “She doesn’t deserve it. Not her-I do! I deserve it-Please!”

Y/N froze, trying to read his face, trying to understand.

But Toji was already turning her toward the barn door.

Dragging her step by step.

Sukuna made one last sound-guttural, like something inside him was tearing open.

“Please-Toji. Don’t take her. Not like this. Not for that.”

But no one else spoke.

Nobara trembled, teeth clenched, face streaked in tears-too broken by Yuji’s death to lift her head.

Gojo stayed slumped, blood dripping from his nose, too ashamed to speak.

Mei sobbed into her lap, mascara staining her fingers.

And Y/N?

Still trying to understand what Sukuna wasn’t saying.

She stood paralyzed.

Every step felt like a scream she couldn’t let out.

Toji’s hand slid around her waist.

Guiding her forward.

The barn door creaked open behind them.

Light spilled through.

And beyond it, the house waited.

Dark.

Hungry.

Inevitable.

authors note: poor yuji 😢 this is a draft so mistakes are well... probably somewhere in this. chapters are just going to get more and more juicy 😩 my one part of this book ive been wanting to write is coming up soon and omg im so excited to write it for you guys 😌

Chapter 25: 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞. [𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝.]

Readers Choice: Pick a number one through eight.

Okay y’all-here’s the deal. I’m giving YOU the power to slightly (or not so slightly 👀) influence the story.

Choose a number between 1 and 8.
No hints. No context. Just go with your gut…
Or think deeply if you’re the type to overanalyze 👁️

These numbers aren’t random.
They each represent something.
Your choice will affect what happens later… so choose wisely.

I’m gonna spin a wheel with all the numbers you guys choose, and whichever it lands on will affect the story.
Maybe I’ll tell you what it meant…
Maybe I won’t- 🤭

Drop your number in the comments ⬇️
I won’t say anything now… but when the consequences show up, you’ll know.

Chapter 26: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟐𝟐 - 𝐍𝐚𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐨.

Choso couldn’t feel his arms anymore.
The ropes had cut so deep into his wrists, it was hard to tell if the burning sensation was skin or muscle tearing. Blood had dried down his arms hours ago. Or was it minutes?
Time was slippery here.

His knees screamed against the concrete, numb but throbbing all at once. He couldn’t lift his head. He didn’t need to.
Not when all he could see-
was her.

Y/N.
The way she looked that first night they became official.

It had rained that day. She’d insisted on walking anyway, tugging him down campus sidewalks while the rain soaked them. Her laugh echoed under streetlights, wet hair clinging to her cheeks, eyeliner smudged. She didn’t care. She never cared about the stupid things.

They ducked into that tiny movie rental shop near the back of town, both of them dripping wet and leaving puddles on the tile floor. She picked some terrible horror VHS just because she liked the cover art, they lay tangled on the couch back at his dorm, curled into each other beneath two blankets, limbs heavy, steam rising faintly from their skin as the rain outside raced down the windows.

She had fallen asleep curled against him, hand gripping the edge of his hoodie like she didn’t want to let go.

It was the first night he realized he loved her.

And now-
Now that same girl was gone. With him. With them.
But fuck-he didn’t care. Even now. Not really.

Because thinking of her like that… laughing, warm, soaked to the bone with rain and life-
That memory was the only thing keeping him from screaming.

He could still smell the lavender in her shampoo. Still feel her fingers curling under his sleeve as she murmured sleepily into his chest.

It felt like all that never existed.

Choso blinked slowly, head still hung low, sticky blood clinging to the edges of his lips.
If he never saw the sun again…
he hoped she would.

Wherever she was.
Even if she wasn’t his anymore.

But then-
a sudden cry shattered the stillness.
High-pitched, panicked.

“No-please! I didn’t do anything... I swear, just let me go-!”

The stairwell groaned with movement.
Two pairs of feet-one struggling, the other deliberate.

Naobito.

Dragging someone down the steps.

Choso’s eyes opened sluggishly. Through blood-smeared lashes, he caught a blur of silver-blonde hair.

Mei.

She stumbled into view, wrists bound, her skirt dirtied and torn at the hem. She was sobbing, chest heaving with every breath, tears streaming down already ruined mascara.

“Get down,” Naobito grunted, shoving her forward.

She crashed to her knees beside Choso, hands straining against the rope. Her eyes darted wildly... until they landed on Shoko.

Still crumpled in the corner.
Still gone.
Still unmistakably dead.

Mei's scream was immediate, sharp, ripping from her throat like it had been waiting all this time to claw its way out.

“No-no, please, no-what the fuck are oyu going to do-!”

Naobito crouched beside her, smug and steady.

“Cry all you want,” he sneered. “You’ve got a lot to be upset about.”

He reached for the rope again, yanking her arms cruelly up-straining her arms, forcing them upward toward the ceiling beam. Mei cried out as the bindings bit into her skin.

“You and him,” he gestured lazily at Choso, “should have a real nice chat. After all…”
He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a near whisper.
“Your little golden boy and his perfect princess have been fucking behind your backs for weeks.”

Her sobs went silent.

Choso didn’t even flinch.
He just went deep into mind.
What was the fucking point?
They kept saying it-over and over.
She picked him. He picked her.
Like it mattered.
Like it changed anything.

What did they get out of telling them that? What satisfaction was there in twisting the knife deeper, repeating it like a chant?

They were going to die down here.
Soon.
And none of this would matter.
None of it would even be remembered.

So why did it still hurt like this?
Maybe that was the whole point.

Naobito smirked, tightening the last knot with a jerk.
“I’d say it’s poetic. But really-it's just pathetic.”

Then, to Mei:
“All that confidence, and he still picked her.”
He laughed. “Guess maybe being oblivious wasn’t your biggest problem after all.”

To Choso:
“You look like you want to die.”
He raised his boot.

And without warning...
kicked. Hard.

Choso’s body jolted violently as the impact tore into his ribs. A raw groan slipped out as blood dripped fresh from his mouth.

Naobito wiped his hands on his coat like he’d just taken out the trash.

“I’ll leave you two to sit with it.”

He didn’t even look back as he climbed the stairs.

The door slammed.
The lock clicked.

Silence fell again.

Not peace. Not comfort.
Just silence.

Mei trembled beside him, still breathing in sharp, choking sobs, still trying to comprehend what she’d just heard. What she’d just seen.

Choso didn’t say anything.
Couldn’t.
He didn’t need to.

There was nothing left to explain.

Just two broken people,
strung up like puppets,
haunted by the same betrayal.

Fuck.

Choso missed Y/N so bad it felt like dying.

And maybe that’s what this was.

Dying.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Choso didn’t lift his head.
He couldn’t.
Not with the taste of blood still pooling at the back of his throat. Not with his arms trembling, bound too tight to even twitch.

Beside him, Mei’s sobs had dulled.
Not gone-just quieter.
Hollow.

He could feel her shifting-ropes creaking, knees scraping concrete as she tried and failed to sit more comfortably.
There was no comfortable here.

And then-

A whisper.

“Did you ever think they loved us?”

Her voice cracked mid-sentence, but she didn’t cry again. She just said it like it had been eating her alive. Like she needed someone else to say no, even if they both already knew.

Choso let the words hang in the air.

Then, after a beat-his voice, low and broken:

“I don't know."

. . .

The wooden stairs groaned beneath Naobito’s boots as he climbed, each step echoing through the hollow farmhouse.

The sun had started to rise.

It spilled gold over the broken floorboards, soft and slow, like it didn’t know what kind of place it was lighting up. The farmhouse breathed beneath it-old wood swelling with damp, the scent of rust, dirt, and rot thickening as the day crept in.

His steps were slow, deliberate, the way they always were before breakfast. That was tradition. Quiet time, first light, the calm before they started carving the day open. He never liked things out of order in the mornings.

He moved slowly through the hallway, the old floor groaning beneath his weight. His fingers grazed the wall out of habit, following the muffled noise trailing from the kitchen.

So when he heard the sound-that wet slurp... followed by a muffled sob, he paused.

A hand resting on a wall as he listened.

Then came Naoya’s voice.

“Come on, sweetheart. Just a little taste. It’s good for you.”

Another slurp. Another whimper.

Naobito turned the corner.
Stopping at the kitchen doorway.

And there he was.

His middle child. His wild-card.

Naoya crouched like a child at play, grinning ear to ear, a fresh slice cut across the center of his palm. Blood dripped lazily from it, down his fingers, onto the kitchen floor. He held the hand out to the girl like communion.

A wet, slick sound.

And a girl's voice-soft, shaky.

Nobora. Dragged her in like a trophy. Of course, he hadn’t broken her yet. He never knew how. Always too eager. Too sloppy.

Naoya didn’t even notice.

“It’s Zenin blood,” he purred, his tone almost reverent. “Cleanses the flesh. You’ve got a lot of sin in you, don’t you?”
He chuckled, nudging the edge of his palm against her mouth. “Drink up. Might save you during the next sermon.”

She flinched, lips trembling.

She wasn’t tied. She wasn’t restrained.
Not anymore.

But she might as well have been. The fear in her face said everything.

Naoya wasn’t a Zenin.

Not truly.

Sure, he carried the name. He had Naobito’s blood.

But he wasn’t of it. Not like Toji.

Not like Megumi might be, someday-if the boy ever got his head straight.

Naobito stepped forward, voice calm.

“Stop scaring the girl. It’s morning.”

Naoya didn’t turn.

Naoya didn’t even look at him. “She’s not scared. She’s just being shy.” He muttered, trailing his bleeding fingers down Nobara’s cheek.

Naobito's stomach growled.
Breakfast should’ve been made by now.

He sighed. Loud enough for Naoya to hear.

“I said-” Naobito’s voice cut through the kitchen like a blade. “Make breakfast. The sun’s up.”

Naoya finally turned, rolling his eyes. “She could help.”

“She can barely stand.”

Naoya huffed, muttering something under his breath as he wiped his hand on his shirt. Nobara just sat there-on the counter, shoulders curled in, trying not to move or speak.

Naobito watched her for a second.

“Where’s your brother?” He asked, already losing interest in the scene.. “Toji.”

Naoya shrugged. “Outside. Said he wanted to show Y/N the flowers.”

That made him pause.

The flowers.

Naobito smiled. A real one.

Of course he did.

The flower beds out back were Toji’s masterpiece.

He’d insisted on them years ago... rows of lilies, marigolds, even white roses stretching toward the tree line. Each bloom carefully planted to hide the mounds underneath.

Bodies.

Dozens.

From hitchhikers, runaways, the occasional cop too nosy for his own good.

Flowers fed by decay. The Zenins had always believed in cycles-death feeding life, pain birthing beauty.

Toji had planted them himself, years ago. Said it made the place look peaceful. Said it helped cover the smell.

They hid graves underneath. Shallow ones.

Naobito stepped outside without another word, boots hitting the porch with a dull thud. The early light was soft over the garden. Dew still clung to the petals.

There, by the far corner of the garden, he spotted them.

Toji and the girl.

Y/N.

Toji stood relaxed, one hand tucked into the waistband of his pants, the other gripping Y/N’s wrist loosely but firmly. She was stiff beside him, bare feet pressing into the dirt, eyes flicking between Toji and the wild blossoms at her feet.

Naobito walked off the porch, slowly approaching them across the field.

She was beautiful.

Even when terrified.

Y/N didn’t notice him at first.

But the moment she did-

Her body went rigid.

She flinched like a deer in the crosshairs and instantly ducked behind Toji’s side, her fingers clinging to his bicep like she knew he was the safer monster.

Naobito liked that.

It meant she wouldn’t try to run.

He tilted his head, voice dropping low-soft, like rot beneath the floorboards.

“Tell me somethin’, sweetheart… you ever been to church? The kind where they don’t let you leave ‘til you’re clean?”

 

authors note: This was such an interesting chapter for me to write! Also, just a quick heads-up... I’ll be heading to college in about two weeks, so once that starts, I’ll need to set up a schedule for posting new chapters since I’ll be juggling school. But trust me, I have no plans to abandon this story. I love this story and you guys way too much to let it go! 🫶

Chapter 27: 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞.

Authors Note: Have you ever had a story idea living in your head that you wished someone would write for you? 👀 Because I lowkey want to hear them. Like seriously, if there's a storyline or one-shot you’ve daydreamed about and thought, “ugh I wish someone would make this real,” drop it below. I might just turn it into a full story for you guys.

I like to write with Jujutsu Kaisen characters (obviously lol🙄), but if your idea hits hard enough, I’ll totally blend them into it and make it work. I’ve got so many storylines in my notebook I haven’t even told you guys about, but I’d love to build something inspired by you too.

I know I tend to make Toji the main love interest in all of my stories-but if you have another character in mind, I can totally write it with them instead. I just find Toji’s character super flexible to work with, which is why he ends up in all my plots.

Also, the next chapter of BloodLust should be out by Friday (or earlier if I’m in the zone or not busy), and thank you so much for all the good luck wishes for college. You guys are seriously the best. 🫶

So yeah... drop your story ideas! I’m listening.

Side note: I actually have like two other stories in mind I might be adding soon. I know it probably seems like I’d be overwhelming myself juggling all these, but honestly... this is a hobby that relaxes me way more than it stresses me out. Writing a bunch of stories in my spare time is like a spa day for me. Pure peace. 🧘‍♀️

Chapter 28: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟐𝟑 - 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

“Tell me somethin’, sweetheart… you ever been to church? The kind where they don’t let you leave ‘til you’re clean?”

Y/N swallowed hard, eyes locked on the ground beneath her. She didn’t dare look at the man who had just asked her that question.

Naobito Zenin.

The man who had chainsawed Yuji like he was nothing but meat.

In that moment, she knew exactly who she should fear the most. The one she’d have to kill first.

But for now-

She barely managed to speak.

“N-No…”

Her voice was barely audible. Fragile. Like it might break if she said anything more.

Naobito smiled-thin and hollow.

Like he already knew her answer.

Toji shifted beside her.

“Pops,” he muttered, “maybe now’s not the time-”

But Naobito didn’t even glance at him.

“She needs to know.”
His tone was final. Authoritative. “Better now than later.”

Without warning, his hand snapped out.

Y/N yelped as his fingers clamped around her upper arm, yanking her out from behind Toji’s body like she was a ragdoll. Her bare feet stumbled in the grass, knees buckling slightly from the jolt.

Toji’s entire body tensed.

“Pa.”
His voice sharpened. “you’re scaring her.”

Naobito turned slowly, eyes narrow.

“You don’t tell me what to do,” he muttered, voice low and dangerous. “You think you speak for this house? For this soil? I built this family. You walk in my footsteps-you don’t challenge them.”

Toji stayed silent.

Then his gaze dropped back to Y/N.

She tried to twist out of his grip, tried to claw at the hand wrapped around her arm, but it was useless. His strength wasn’t something she could fight.

“L-Let go,” she whimpered, the words barely a whisper. “Please-”

But Naobito just shook his head, ignoring her completely.

Instead, his other hand rose-touching her hair, brushing it aside from her neck with slow, deliberate fingers. He cupped her jaw like he was inspecting something precious.

Then he leaned in.

Close enough that Y/N had to flinch back-close enough that she could feel the breath from his nostrils flaring near the curve of her jaw, slow and deliberate.

His nose dragged across her skin like he was searching for rot.

She could feel the rasp of his breath on her skin.

A grunt rumbled low in his throat.

“You reek of sin,” he murmured. “It’s soaked into your skin. Your pores. Your breath.”

He pulled back, eyes gleaming with something ancient. Something wrong.

“You let boys spoil you,” he sneered. “Soft-handed, slack-jawed nothings. No legacy. No blood. You gave your body to filth, and now you wear that filth like a second skin.”

He looked her over-up and down, slowly.

“You need cleansing,” he said low, almost reverent. “Not a bath. Not a prayer. A purging. Flesh stripped of every trace they left in you. Torn from the root. That’s how we sanctify blood in this family.”

She stared at him, face twisted in utter horror.
His grip tightened again, making her whimper.

“I-I don’t understand,” she stammered, eyes wide. “What does that even mean? Cleanse me? Sanctify blood? What does that even mean?”

Her breath caught in her throat-less a question, more a desperate sound.

Toji stepped forward again.

“We can tell her later,” he snapped. “Fuck. Let her eat something first, Pops.”

But Naobito just laughed quietly under his breath.

“She’ll eat better knowing what’s ahead.”

His grip tightened-she whimpered, knees shaking.

“It means,” he said, voice soft like a sermon, “your sins will be exorcised. Every inch of you made new.”

He tilted her chin up with two fingers.

“And when you’re clean…” a pause, deliberate, cruel.

“...then my son here will lay his claim. Flesh to flesh. Raw. Righteous. Permanent.”

His lips curled.
“That’s what makes a woman sacred.”

Y/N stared up at him, breath trapped in her chest. Eyes wide, her mouth parting as if to speak-

But no words came. Only the sound of her breathing. Shaky. Wet. Unraveling.

Her knees buckled, the strength drained from her bones, and she finally broke.

“Please,” she gasped, a whisper cracked in half. “Please.. I dont want tha-”

The last of her words shattered into a sob.

Y/N’s legs trembled. Her body jerked again in his grasp, trying to break free, but Naobito only gripped harder. His nails dug into her skin. She let out a sharp, pained sob.

“You’re hurting me,” she cried. “Let go-please-”

Toji’s jaw clenched. His fingers twitched like he was a second from swinging.

Naobito didn’t even blink.

“You’ll be cleansed at the chapel,” he said evenly. “That means no more worldly stains. No more soul ties to that one who’s rotting in the basement-what was his name?”

His eyes flicked to Toji mockingly. “The crybaby.”

“Choso,” Toji flatly spoke.

Naobito’s gaze dropped back to her. “Him. And that Gojo boy. And the other one-the tall one. What’s his name?”

“…Sukuna,” she whispered, eyes full of fresh horror.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Sukuna.”

Then his face twisted into something far less human.
Something eager.

“Three boys, one girl. That’s a lot of soul ties.”
He leaned in just slightly, breath cold against her cheek.
“You’ve opened your legs for too many. Let the demons climb right inside, didn’t you?”

Y/N sobbed-shaking, breathless. Her body stuttered with panic.

Naobito let her go.

She crumpled instantly into the grass, dragging air into her lungs like it was the only thing left that was hers. Without thinking, she scrambled toward Toji, clawing at his shirt, burying herself into his chest like he was a shield.

Toji caught her.

Held her tight.

Too tight.

His eyes burned into his father’s face.

“You couldn’t wait?” His voice was low, deadly. “Until the fucking chapel?”

Naobito didn’t respond. He adjusted his collar, calm as ever.

“In tradition,” he said, “the patriarch bears witness to the soul tie. Makes sure it’s done right.”

Toji didn’t even hesitate.

He drew the gun from the waistband of his pants in a single, fluid movement and aimed it dead at his father’s chest.

“You’re not watching shit. That tradition’s been dead for years... you just want to see her. You sick old fuck-you’re just looking for an excuse.”

Silence fell over the field like a snapped wire.

Naobito blinked.

Then something cruel curved at the edge of his mouth. Not fear. Not anger.

Something worse.

Pride.

“You think you’re a man now?” he muttered. “Think pointing a gun makes you anything more than that scared little boy on the night of your first kill?”

He paused, letting it sit.

Toji didn’t answer.
The gun stayed up.

“You remember that, don’t you? How your hands shook? How you puked after? And how I told you that was normal?”

A low chuckle dragged from his throat. “You cried, Toji. And you did it anyway. That’s when I knew you’d be something.”

Naobito's gaze shifted back to Y/N.

Toji's jaw stayed tight.

Tightening his grip around Y/N.

She hadn’t moved. Just trembled. Clung to his chest like she couldn’t stop.

Naobito sighed.

“Suit yourself. I’ve got a chapel to prepare. You two-”
His eyes flicked toward them both, lingering too long on her.
“-should head inside for breakfast.”

Then turned without another word.

The sound of his boots crunching through the grass was somehow louder than the gun cocking behind him.

Authors Note: Just something small I wanted to put out so I can write what I really wanted to in its own chapter. The good stuff’s coming next chapter, promise. 🤞

Chapter 29: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟐𝟒 - 𝐁𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭.

Mei could only look down-lost in the fractured mirror beneath her knees.

A puddle of tears had collected on the cold concrete, shimmering faintly in the sour light. In its trembling surface, her broken face reflected: mascara trails like rivers carved down her cheeks, lipstick all crooked and smudged, and hair tangled into a wild, desperate halo.

The tears slipped slowly from her jaw, each one a silent beat of grief, soaking into the front of her ruined tank, mingling with dirt, ash, and blood that was not her own.

She was shaking.
Not from the cold-
but from everything else.

Fear.
Exhaustion.
Grief so deep it curled in her stomach, like her own body was trying to eat itself alive.

Her body moved on pure overdrive, like it was trying to jumpstart a nervous system too frozen by terror to work properly.

Her breathing came in ragged little sobs, quiet now. Controlled. Because crying loudly had gotten her nothing. No mercy. No answers. No help.

Not here.

Not in this basement.

Beside her, Choso hadn’t moved in what felt like forever.

The blood seeping from his stomach had long since pooled beneath him-darker and wider than her tears ever could be. The way it glistened around him made her throat tighten. His arms were still stretched above him, wrists tied so tight they’d gone purple at the edges. His head hung low, chin nearly to chest, breath shallow.

If he was breathing at all.

“Choso…” she tried, voice nearly gone.

No answer.

Just silence.

Her heart lurched.

She bit down on a whimper and jerked her body suddenly, like frustration might shake something loose-anything, anything to-

And that’s when she felt it.

A subtle slackness against her wrists.

Her breath caught.

She stilled.

Then pulled. Carefully.

The rope shifted.

Again.

It moved again.

“Oh my god-” she whispered, voice catching in her throat.

She pulled harder, panic spiking like an electric shock-and with one final, desperate tug, her hands slipped free.

The rope fell loose to the floor.

Mei stared at her hands.

Unbound.

She blinked.

Once. Twice.

Then-
a laugh.

Sharp and breathy and wet.

It spilled out of her chest before she could stop it.

The kind of laugh that came from shock, from being so overwhelmed, so destroyed, that the absurdity of freedom felt almost funny.

She clutched her own wrist in disbelief.

“Holy shit,” she whispered. “Oh my god-oh my god-”

Her eyes darted around the room, wild now.

That joy lasted exactly three seconds.

Until her gaze landed on Shoko.

Still slumped in the corner. Still unmoving. Still pale and twisted and wrong.

Still there. A clean bullet wound in her forehead.

Mei flinched hard.

Her stomach clenched.

Her hand flew to her mouth-

Closed her eyes.

But she didn’t scream again.

Not this time.

“Okay,” she mumbled, scrubbing at her face. “Okay. Come on, Mei, pull it together...”

She turned around, and when she saw Choso still slumped there, bloodied and barely moving, a sudden, shaky laugh burst from her lips.

It started as a soft chuckle, trembling at first, then rising into a breathy, almost hysterical laugh, like the weight of everything was too much, and for a fleeting second, she just had to let it out.

Tears mingled with the laughter, and she gasped between breaths, voice cracking. “Holy shit-I totally forgot about you for a second! God, I’m seriously losing it.”

She dropped beside him, stepping into the thick pool of blood beneath him, a soft giggle escaping her lips as she whispered, “Okay. Okay, I got you.”

She didn’t even flinch at the warmth of it soaking into her soles.

“Choso-hey. Hey. I can get you out.”

She moved closer, already reaching for the knots on his wrists. They were soaked through, stiff with dried blood. Her fingers fumbled, slick and shaking.

“Almost... just hold on-”

“Stop.”

His voice was quiet.

Too quiet.

Mei paused, blinking up at him.

“What?”

“Don’t,” he rasped. “Just go.”

Her heart stuttered.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

His head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded and glassy.

“I’m done. You’ll move faster without me. I’ll just slow you down.”

“No,” she said immediately, snapping the word out like a whip. “No, no-don’t say that-”

“I’m going to die anyway.”

She stared at him.

For a second, just a second-
she almost believed him.

Because he looked like death. His skin was drained of color. There were fresh tears in his shirt where the blood had pushed through. His arms hung limply. His voice didn’t even carry weight anymore.

But then-

Then she snorted.

A messy, stupid laugh that made her shoulders jerk.

“God,” she said, wiping her nose. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said. Ever.”

He didn’t answer.

So she went back to the knots.

“I don’t care if you’re dying. I’m not leaving you here like this.”

“Mei-”

“No,” she cut him off, more forcefully this time. “I don’t care what you think. You think I want to do this alone? You think I want to walk back up there and face those things by myself? No thank you.”

The rope gave a sharp snap.

Choso’s arms fell instantly.

He slumped sideways, body too heavy to catch himself.

Mei caught him halfway, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as he sagged into her. His breathing was shallow. Weak. But it was there.

“Jesus Christ-okay, okay-hang on-”

She glanced down at his side and gagged slightly at the sight. His shirt was half-glued to the wound with blood, the skin beneath raw and torn wide open.

Fuck. That looks bad.

For some reason-a fragment of something Shoko had said back at their shared dorm-clicked in her mind. She didn’t remember the details, but she knew one thing for sure: she couldn’t just pull the shirt off. She needed something sharp-scissors-to cut it away carefully.

Her eyes darted around the cluttered basement, taking in the piles of forgotten junk and debris.

Focus. Find scissors.

She spotted them-a dull pair lying on a dusty workbench, and grabbed them without hesitation.

The basement smelled stale, heavy with neglect, but she shoved the thought aside and knelt back down in front of Choso.

She started cutting, careful and quick, slicing through the fabric around his torso.

Choso's breathing came in shallow, ragged gasps, quiet but persistent, a faint but stubborn rhythm of survival.

She managed to remove most of the shirt-except where it clung stubbornly to the wound.

“Shit,” she breathed.
This is really gonna fucking hurt him.

She reached for his face, her hands trembling as they cradled his jaw. She was shaking so hard it was a miracle she hadn’t dropped the scissors.

God, I don’t know what I’m doing.
But she couldn’t stop now.

Please don’t die. Please don’t fucking leave me here alone.

Her touch was soft-careful-despite the blood on her fingers, despite the chaos screaming in her head. He felt warm enough. Still alive. That had to be enough.

“Choso, listen to me-this is really gonna hurt-just for a second.” she said, voice tight. “But I have to get this off.”

His dazed eyes met hers, bloodshot and heavy, but still there.

“I need you to nod. Just once. Let me know you understand.”

For a moment, nothing.

Then, slowly, he gave her the faintest nod.

As soon as she got the answer she let go of his jaw, his head slumped forward again, chin dipping weakly to his chest.

Well, shit...

Here goes nothing.

She gripped the fabric stuck to his skin-and ripped.

He bit down hard on his lip, a harsh “fuck” barely escaping as he stifled a cry.

She stumbled up to her feet.

“Okay, okay-we need something. Come on, come on...” Mei muttered to herself, voice barely above a breath as she scanned the basement with frantic eyes.

Her gaze locked on something in the corner-an old sheet, draped across a shelf. It was filthy, fraying at the edges, but mostly intact. Clean enough.

She rushed over, grabbed it with both hands. The fabric was soft, worn cotton, faded to a creamy white and frayed at the edges. She didn’t hesitate-she ripped it.

The sound tore through the air, louder than she expected, but adrenaline made her stronger than she should’ve been. She didn’t even think to grab the scissors. There was no time. No logic. Just movement.

She stumbled back to Choso, dropping to her knees beside his slumped body.

He hadn’t moved.

Still bleeding. Still breathing.

That had to be enough.

“Okay,” she breathed again, mostly to herself. “Okay-okay-this is gonna hurt.”

She wrapped the fabric around his bare torso-tight-pressing hard against the open, gutted wounds across his abdomen. The cloth darkened immediately, soaking through as she bound it all the way around his body.

Choso hissed through his teeth at the pressure, back arching slightly-but he didn’t pull away.

“I know,” she said, voice shaking. “I know. Just breathe.”

He didn’t complain.

She tied it off, quick and firm, right above his hip. Then sat back on her heels, chest heaving, fingers trembling, but not stopping.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t pretty. But it was something.

Choso didn’t even look at her.

He just sat there, slumped, hands limp.

And that-that pissed her off.

“Look at me,” she said, grabbing his face again. “Look at me, Choso.”

He blinked.

Barely.

“I know what she meant to you,” Mei said, voice low and trembling. “Y/N. I know. But if you think the best thing you can do for her right now is fucking die-you’re wrong.”

His brow furrowed slightly.

“She’s up there. Alone. God knows what they’re doing to her. And you want to sit here and bleed out? That’s your plan?”

Silence.

Mei’s grip tightened.

“I get it. You’re tired. I’m fucking tired. But if there’s even a chance-a sliver of a chance we can get to her… I’m going to take it.”

Choso blinked slowly.

Then-
a breath.

He gritted his teeth and reached for the wall.

It took him three tries.

But on the fourth-
he stood.

Barely.

But it counted.

He leaned on the concrete wall, panting, blood still dripping slowly from the soaked fabric at his waist.

But he stood.

Mei swallowed thickly.

“Good.”

She turned and began opening cabinets-desperately, quickly until she found it.

The motherfucking jackpot.

Knives.

Half-clean. Half-bloody. Some massive, others pocket-sized.

She grabbed the biggest one and tucked it into her waistband. Then handed another to Choso.

He gripped it shakily.

His fingers curled tight around the hilt.

Good enough.

Mei paused, scanned the room for any windows, any trapdoors, any-

Nothing.

Just one way out.

The stairs.

She swallowed.

Her heart beat so hard it made her ribs ache.

Then she looked at him.

“This is it. No mistakes. No do-overs," she whispered. “You ready?”

Choso didn’t speak.

But he nodded.

Slowly.

And together-

they started to climb.

One slow, careful step at a time.

Into the unknown.

The house they knew as hell.

Mei didn’t exactly have a plan.
Just... Operation: Get the fuck out of here.

She had a knife, a half-dead boy, and one shot. That was it.
No maps. No backups. No time.
But somehow, that had to be enough.

The stairs groaned beneath their weight.
Each creak sounded like a gunshot.

Mei held her breath, every muscle coiled, the knife gripped so tight her knuckles ached.
Choso dragged one foot after the other, silent, bleeding, but alive.

The door at the top of the stairs felt like judgment day.

Mei pressed her ear to it, breath held. Nothing.

She reached for the knob and turned it slowly-so slowly she could feel every click in the metal. When the door cracked open, no alarms blared. No monsters leapt.

Just a hallway.

Dimly lit.

Silent. Still. Claustrophobic.

Wood groaned beneath their feet as they crept out. Mei led, knife clenched tight. Choso followed, dragging slightly, but focused.

Halfway down the hall, she stopped short.

A door.

Opened just a crack.

Light pooled out from under it.

Voices poured through the thin walls.

At first, laughter. Male. Unhinged. It was obviously...

Naoya.

“C’mon now. One sip. Sacred Zenin blood. It cleanses the filth off your flesh. You don’t get to refuse.”

A beat of silence.

Then-

Y/N.

Sobbing.

“Please stop. I don’t want to-I said no, I-please...”

Mei froze.

The sound of her made Mei’s eyes snap wide.
She felt Choso move behind her-not much, but enough to see the change.

His spine straightened.

His breathing steadied.

His eyes burned.

He was awake now.
Awake awake.

Mei caught it in her peripheral vision-how alive he suddenly looked.

He stumbled forward-barely a step-but his body jolted like he was about to bolt.

Like instinct had taken the wheel.

Like he was ready to throw himself into hellfire if it meant getting to her.

Mei quickly grabbed his arm.
Tight.

He didn’t look at her.

His eyes were locked on that door like he could tear it off its hinges.

“She’s crying,” he rasped, voice already breaking.

Mei’s voice cut through like a blade.

“You can’t save her right now.”

Choso looked down, biting his lip, mind clouded with frustration and disbelief, as if trying to reject the impossible truth in her words. How could he not save her right now?

She leaned in, whispering so low it barely made a sound.

“If they see us, we die. If they hear us, we die. And if we die... she dies alone.”

His jaw clenched. His breath hitched. His fists curled tight at his sides. The intensity in his gaze deepened, sharper and restless.

But reluctantly, slowly, painfully, he gave her a nod-more a promise than acceptance.

He was still listening.

Inside that room, Naoya's giggle was heard again.

“It’s not even gross, sweetheart. It’s a blessing-fucking necessary. You’ll crave this blood of the rite crawling down your throat, whether you want it or not.”

Another sob from Y/N.
Muffled. Choked. Humiliated.

Choso’s fists were clenched so hard now blood dripped from his fingers.

Mei guided him backward. Careful. Quiet.

They crept away from the light, away from the sound, away from everything in him that screamed go to her.

Mei didn’t look back.

She just whispered, “You want to save her? Then survive.”

Author’s Note: This chapter was honestly so much fun to write! It quickly became one of my favorites among recent chapters. Also, wow… Choso alive? That’s crazyyyy! 🫣

Chapter 30: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟐𝟓 - 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬.

Okay, so I officially scrapped the Naoya chapter—just pretend it never existed. That one’s on me; I didn’t realize at the time that it wasn’t the direction I wanted to take. My apologies for the mix-up, but to make it up to you, I decided to give you guys two chapters! Well… the second chapter will come out soon, I promise. School just hit me like a brick, for real.

I’m so sorry for neglecting you all. I truly shouldn’t have, but college has been way more overwhelming than I ever expected, like just… wow.

Also I finally figured out how to make proper em-dash so thank god 🙏

 

“We’re so fucked—we’re so fucking fucked—oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

The words bled into the air, cracked and frantic, tumbling over each other until they barely made sense.

The barn was anything but quiet.
Not with gojo reduced to a wet, choking thing—his body wrung for sounds that didn’t even belong to a man anymore—head sagging low, lashes clumped with salt and filth, tears dripping down to spatter the dirt already blackened with blood and rot.

The ropes told the story as much as his body did—stripped down past dignity, past personhood, reduced to mere nothing.

His wrists were sawed raw, welts splitting where the fibers bit down like teeth. Every twitch, every lunge for freedom only made them hungrier, dragging deeper across his skin, chewing at him with patient malice. It was as if the restraints themselves fed—no… sucked down hard in his panic, fibers slick with his blood.

They tore thin sheets of raw flesh from his wrists, the rope clung to him, ripping and sloughing skin in bloody strips.

A wasted nothing.

And Gojo was wasted with it, breaking apart in fits, snot dangling in thick strands from his nose, saliva slicking down his chin. His body jerked so violently the chair beneath him groaned, every convulsion threatening to snap the wood under the sheer weight of his utter devastation.

He gagged on spit, breath shredding ragged through a throat scraped raw with apologies, choking on the words even as they spilled and spilled. Gojo’s collapse was loud—too fucking loud, a sound that didn’t belong to the living, pressing into your skull and refusing to let go.

It was the kind of crying that made you want to cover your ears…
Too raw. Too human. Too horrid to sit still and listen.

And still, the sound tore from him, jagged bursts of breath ripping through a chest that rattled like it might collapse on itself. Every apology clawing its way up his throat, shredded and frantic, spilling one after another.

The whispers followed, leaking out of him like blood, low and frantic, repeating, repeating, repeating—a mantra that didn’t soothe but gnawed at the silence until it split open.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

So Gojo.
Still bound in the circle of chairs, he sat like an audience of ghosts.
Not so long ago, it had been his friends sitting there with him.

Choso’s now empty one, warped and stained where he’d bled out, slow.
Across the dirt floor, another space gaped darker still—sticky, gleaming, where Yuji had been ripped apart.

Flesh chewed into splatter, the memory of the chainsaw still shrieked, even if the air had gone quiet.

Every inch reeked of rot, of bodies that had been dragged, of blood soaked so deep into the dirt it turned to tar.

Gojo curled tighter in his chair, shoulders folding forward as if he could vanish entirely, collapse into nothing. His hair clung to his forehead in clumps of dried gore.
Where once people had leaned in to watch him laugh, to watch him move, to watch him be.

But now… He was a squirming, wet, pathetic thing—shriveled, pitiful, a hollow imitation of a man.

So now the curves of his shoulders, once broad and confident, were folded in on themselves; the power, the charm, the untouchable glow—all drained, leaving only tremors and shame, a carcass of a person reduced to skin and breath and desperate, failing survival.

It almost seemed comical—if it weren’t so pitiful.

Gojo Satoru.
The it-boy of campus. Untouchable. Adored. Envied.
Perfect on paper.

Now nothing but a ruin, a hollowed-out thing, a wet, choking, broken mockery of what he had been.

 

A shallow reality.

And he hated himself for it.
Hated himself so fucking much.

He could feel it pressing down on him—the heat of the barn, rank with iron and rot, the sticky ground blackened with blood under his shoes even though he couldn’t stand, the stillness that pressed in like it might suffocate him. Every sound, every creak of wood, every echo of a memory dug bone-deep.

He was everything Y/N never wanted.
Everything she must have seen through all along.

Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore.

But fuck… it was his fault.
All of it. Every single scrap of it.
He was the reason they were here in the first place.
The reason Yuji's body was mulch.
The reason Choso's head lolled, empty.
The reason Shoko was shot.
The reason Y/N… gone. Gone because of him.

He should’ve listened. Should’ve gone with Nobara’s laugh, her teasing about Bora Bora.

They could’ve been sunburnt, tipsy, laughing over a cheap drink on some ridiculous beach somewhere. Alive.

All of them.

All fucking alive.

Instead—this.

The weight of it crushed him further. Every muscle ached now with the memory of every twitch and lunge that had gone nowhere, the cruel lesson of restraint, of helplessness, carving ruthlessly into him.

He just wanted to curl in on himself, but the barn refused.

So it all spilled out, ragged, frantic:
“Fuck—I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’m so fuckin—”

“Look at me, Satoru.”

The words cut through the fog of Gojo’s misery. Sharp. Unyielding. A blade slicing through flesh he didn’t even realize was exposed.

Gojo had frozen mid-sob. Chest heaving, curls plastered to his forehead, masking his wide, panicked eyes. He didn’t look up. Couldn’t. Couldn’t bring himself to face anything beyond the chaos of his own fucked up ruin.

“Satoru.”

Another slow, steady drawl—Sukuna’s voice, low and deliberate, dragging Gojo’s name out of the dirt like it belonged there.

Gojo’s pupils widened beneath the curtain of hair, recognition stabbing him—but he stayed hidden, refusing to meet. His shame was too thick, too suffocating. He barely processed the sound before it spilled out of him:
“Sukuna… fuck—we’re so fucked—I’m sorry—I’m so fucking sorry.”

His words hitched, breaking into ragged sobs that shuddered through him, swallowed almost entirely by the barn’s oppressive silence.

“Sorry… For what?” Sukuna’s tone sharpened, pressing harder.

“For—everything.” The words tumbled, desperate, choking him as much as the ropes. “For Y/N. For taking pictures—fucking jerking off like a creep—for bringing us here, for-fuck-for all of it. I’m sorry.”

Silence pressed back against the stench. For a moment it almost smothered him.

But something unexpected happened, almost unexpected.

Sukuna laughed.
Fucking laughed.

The laugh was raspy, dark and humorless. “You think this is your fault? You didn’t know this was coming. None of us did. Stop carrying shit that isn’t yours.”

Gojo whimpered, a wet sound escaping his throat. His body wouldn’t stop trembling.

Sukuna leaned forward, rope straining, voice sharp as a knife. “You think I care about your pictures? Your obsession?” His lips curled-not mocking, but tired. Dead tired. “Truth? If Y/N hadn’t let me in-hadn’t let me fuck her, fed me-I’d probably be you. Losing my mind over her, doing whatever the fuck it took just to keep a piece of her. Don’t think I’m clean. I cheated on Mei with her. You think that’s noble?”

Gojo blinked through tears, chest convulsing. Trying and failing to catch his ragged breaths.

Sukuna’s gaze swept the barn floor, taking in the dark, sticky stains, the patterns of dried blood that marked every horror they’d endured. “Non of that matters now,” he said, voice softening, barely above the rattling silence—a knife sheathed in cloth. “What matters is we survive. You don’t get to fold up and die on me, Toru.”

Gojo shook his head, sobs thinning into ragged, uneven breaths, his body trembling as if the barn itself pressed him down.

Then he looked up—just for a second. And what Sukuna saw wasn’t Gojo anymore. Just wide, ruined eyes in a stranger’s face.

Sukuna swallowed hard. Fuck. He didn’t know how to fix this. Didn’t know how to fix himself. But he had to drag Gojo back into the present, or they were both already dead.

So he looked—slow, deliberate, like studying a wounded thing you didn’t dare get too close to. Blood and spit crusted along Gojo’s split lip, smeared down his chin. His hair clung in dark, matted clumps, knotted and sticky with sweat and gore. Every ragged breath rattled out of him, every shudder revealing just how deep the Zenins had gutted him without even killing him.

He could see it.
Sukuna could fucking see it.
Gojo was fucking scared. Really fucking scared.

And Sukuna didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He just watched, tracing the tremors in Gojo’s shoulders, the way the chair groaned under his spasms, the quiet collapse of someone who used to be so damn untouchable. Sukuna's jaw tightened.

Fuck. He looked so broken.
Defeated.

And if Sukuna knew anything, it was this—Zenin didn't leave scraps. Not when it came to Y/N. He knew that too fucking well. And the both had fucked around where they shouldn’t have.

Gojo’s breath came in ragged, high and thin, like a man who’d been taught to breathe wrong and never learned to fix it. “We’re—we’re gonna die,” he choked, voice small and ricocheting off the barn walls. “It’s my fault. All of it. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”

Sukuna twisted against the ropes, digging into his wrists, the chair creaking under his weight. He couldn’t reach him, couldn’t drag him out of that spiral physically. All he had were words.

“Hey,” Sukuna’s voice cut across the panic.
“Shut up with that shit.”

Gojo’s shoulders curled tighter, head ducking like a kicked dog. “But it’s true—they’ll come back, they’ll—fuck—we’re finished, we’re so fucked—”

“No.” Sukuna spat the word flat, final. “You’re not fucking dying here.” He jerked against the bindings as if motion might knock sense into the air. “Not tonight. Not like this, fuck that.”

Gojo laughed, a weak, broken sound that dissolved into another sob. “You don’t—you don’t know that—they’ll come back—they’ll going to—going to kill us—I can’t–I—”

“You can,” Sukuna snapped back, low but sharp. He twisted against the ropes, teeth bared. “Listen to me, Toru. We’re not fucking done. We’re not—”

Fuck. It wasn’t landing, Gojo’s eyes were glass, his panic was evident, it was written all over him. Shit. too far gone. Too loud. Sukuna’s pulse slammed against the ropes. He had to pull him back, had to cut through, had to do it now.

“Hey, look at me,” Sukuna said, voice low—but yet so urgent, so desperate.
The command came hard, immediate.

The barn had swallowed a breath.

Fuck.
Please, Gojo.
Please just fucking look at me.
Please—

“Breathe.” Sukuna pressed, not sharp, not mocking, just insistent. “That’s all you gotta do right now. Just breathe. In. Out. You hear me?”

Gojo’s sobs came broken, almost childlike. “Sukuna… I’m sorry. I can’t—”

“—You were the one they watched,” Sukuna cut him off, slamming over Gojo’s desperate words.. “You walked into a room and people leaned. You made them laugh, made them want the same light that sat in your face. No one ever cheered for a coward, Toru. They follow people who move. You—” he spat the name like he was testing the sound, “—you were that. Don't hand it away here.”

His words were not warm. They weren’t meant to be. They were a shove.
“Breathe. Count. One. Two. Three. You can hold on for three breaths. Then one more. You hear me? You hold. Don’t give them that.”

Gojo chest hitched, a shallow, ragged gulp of air dragging through him. His shoulders jerked once, as if some part of him wanted to obey, wanted to climb toward the voice cutting through the dark. But it stuttered out quickly—another sob tearing loose, his face folding in on itself like wet paper.

“So, you can,” Sukuna repeated, quieter this time, his eyes fixed on him. “Don’t fold yet. If you move, I move. That’s how we get out of this. One step at a time.”

It wasn’t exactly comfortable. It was more of a command, an ugly, stubborn rope thrown toward a man who’d already slipped too far. For a single, trembling second Gojo’s shoulders twitched under the rope as if the order landed somewhere under the panic, and he drew in one shallow, ragged breath.

But all of that was for nothing.

Because a crack of the barn door split the air.

It creaked. So fucking loud.

It sliced through the barn like steel. Wood groaned. Hinges screamed.
Both froze. Every muscle went rigid. Every breath locked in their throats.

Conditioned. Trained. Like beaten dogs who knew the sound by heart.

Cause that door only ever meant one thing.
Horror rushed back in, thick and suffocating.

They didn’t need to look to know.

Because whatever fragile moment they’d managed to hold between them shriveled, curling into pure, choking dread.

Because the door never opened for mercy.

It was the sound of boots crossing the threshold.
The sound of the noose tightening.
The sound of the world ending—again.

“Please—please, I’ll do anything, don’t—don’t kill me, I swear—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Gojo was absolutely shattered.

His words spilled, louder, higher, his body jerking against the chair like a man trying to flee out of his own skin. He sobbed into the darkness, every syllable cracking, dissolving into a voice that barely sounded human.

The begging literally ripped out of Gojo.

Across the circle, Sukuna did just the opposite. He did not break.
Didn’t breathe too loud.
He did not blink.

He went stone—still, every muscle locked down tight. The chair creaked once under the strain, then stilled with him, as if he’d frozen himself into the wooden chair. His eyes fixed on the barn door, unblinking, pupils wide, the only betrayal of the dread that flooded through him. He looked like a beast cornered in a snare—not thrashing, not snarling—just waiting, coiled, patient, as the steps closed in.

Gojo’s pleads filled the barn, ricocheting once again off the barn walls, frantic and broken: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t hurt me, please—”

Sukuna said nothing. He didn’t want to. He didn't think to say anything. He had no intention of begging. He didn’t want to plead. His silence was heavier than begging anyways. It was cold and sharp like a blade pressed to the throat.

But that didn’t matter because now—
The footsteps stopped.

A silence hit over the two boys again.
Silence, but not mercy.
The two of them knew that.

And then—a voice. Low, rough, carrying the weight of amusement.

“Thought we’d try somethin’ different.”

A scrape followed, wood grinding against the threshold, the guttural drag of something heavy being shoved across dirt. Metal on concrete, rattling deep and hollow, the sound filling every crack of the barn like a warning.

Neither of them could see it.
Neither of them wanted to.

The voice drawled again, slow and almost playful,
“Boys.. it’s time for a new game.”

 

Authors Note: I'm honestly so excited for the next chapter, it's a lot more action-packed than this one. I just really wanted to get this part out of the way. I know it might not be what everyone was looking forward to, but I didn't want to leave you guys hanign or make it seem like I was abandoning the story.

I love this project so very much and I've poured a lot of passion into it. Even with college, my social life, and everything else competing for my time, I've been sneaking in moments to write. The next chapter is alreadly in the works, and I promise it's going to be worth the wait.

Well, at least I think it is. Let's just say Sukuna character really gets to play out.

Thank you so much for sticking with me, I can't wait to show you guys what I have in store for this story. Love you guys! If you have any questions or want me to know anything please comment about it, I would love to answer!

Chapter 31: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟐𝟔 - 𝐁𝐞𝐠.

“Look at me,” Toji’s voice rumbled, deep and cold.

Gojo’s body reacted before his mind could—curling in on itself, shoulders drawn tight, head ducked down, as if smaller might mean invisible. His chest hitched, breath stuttering, hands tugging uselessly against rope. The mumbles started again, spilling out soft and cracked, words collapsing over each other—sorry, sorry, I’m sorry—

Toji’s fingers—thick, calloused, merciless—fisted into his hair. Gojo’s head yanked back, his neck screaming with the angle. His lip split wider when he gasped, face twisting under the sharp grip.
“I said, look at me.” Toji’s voice was final.

Gojo whimpered, the sound shameful, childlike. His eyes darted everywhere but the man looming above him, tears streaking through blood and dirt. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—I didn’t—please—” His words broke apart, louder now, rising in frantic sobs as if volume could prove his regret. “I’m sorry for everything!”

Toji’s laugh was low, cruel. He tilted Gojo’s head harder until the man winced, his whole body trembling like prey pinned in a predator’s jaws.

Then his gaze slid sideways. “Kuna~.”

The nickname fell smooth and mocking, syrup coated in venom.

Sukuna didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His eyes stared at nothing, fixed straight ahead, glassy with terror so deep it hollowed him out. The stillness was deliberate, almost desperate—like if he kept himself perfectly rigid, maybe Toji’s gaze would pass over him.

Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t give him reason.

But the name shattered that hope.

Slowly, Sukuna’s eyes shifted, dragging toward the sight of Gojo’s hair wrenched tight in Toji’s fist. The corners of his jaw twitched, throat working around a swallow. His fear was naked.
Toji’s smirk widened. He shook Gojo’s head by the hair, displaying him like a trophy. “Can you believe this? The golden boy himself—shaking, begging for forgiveness like a kicked dog.”
Sukuna said nothing. His lips pressed thin. His silence spoke louder than any defense could.

And then—

Fingers tore into his hair from behind. The grip was brutal, yanking his head back so hard his neck popped. Pain lanced sharp down his spine. Sukuna hissed, eyes snapping upward—
Naobito.

“Oh, fuck no,” Sukuna breathed, his voice breaking against the pain.

Naobito leaned down, reeking of sake and cruelty, his hand twisted tight in Sukuna’s hair until the man’s scalp screamed. His words slurred with that drunken authority, heavy and final. “Answer him.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, a word trembling on his tongue—

But Toji cut across, releasing Gojo at last. The man crumpled forward with a whimper, chest heaving, hair falling to hide his face.
Toji’s hand slid into his pocket. His grin curved, lazy and terrifying.

When it came out, the copper caught the low light.

A penny.

That was just minutes ago. Now the penny had landed. And it wasn’t in Gojo’s favor.

"Should’ve picked heads."

The words slid off Toji’s tongue slow and measured, like they’d been spoken long before this moment-as if it had always been decided. It was always going to be heads. Not a tease. Not a warning. Just inevitability. The reality of it all-alive, breathing… mocking.

“Fuck-no…no-please!”

Gojo begged and pleaded.

But that shit didn’t matter.

He knew that but fuck at this point it was a coping mechanism.

Maybe for whatever hell was up it would hurt less.

If he just begged a little.
They liked hearing that, right?

But right now… Gojo—

He was in the middle of the circle. Wooden chairs pressed in close, shadows bending long against the slats of the barn walls. The air was wet with hay and sweat and something sharper. This place-this red barn-wasn't a shelter. It was hell. A hell he couldn’t escape.

And all of it hinged on a coin.

The penny.
This fucking penny.

Gojo stared until his eyes watered, until the copper blur sharpened into Lincoln’s hollow stare. A coin deciding his freedom. His safety. His life. It mocked him.

It fucking mocked him.

The dull gleam of copper caught in the low light, catching like fire against his fear. Lincoln’s face shone back at him—carved, eternal. The Great Emancipator. The man who freed the slaves. But here, in this circle of rot and laughter, freedom was a joke.

Toji tilted the coin between his fingers, slow, deliberate, the flicker of light bending across his knuckles. The sound of it snapping against calloused skin made Gojo flinch.

“..You should’ve picked heads.” Toji’s voice cut low and easy, like he was explaining a simple truth to a child. He crouched, rolling the coin back toward Gojo with the flat of his finger before straightening again. His grin never reached his eyes. “Guess you don’t get freedom tonight.”

Gojo’s breath hitched, his lungs dragging at the air like he was already underwater. “Wait—wait, please—” His words spilled over themselves, breaking, desperate, shamefully high.

“P-please—please, don’t, I can’t—I’ll do anything, anything, just don’t—” His voice cracked and broke, spilling out in frantic pieces. His whole body quivered like it already knew what was coming.

Toji didn’t listen. He seized a fistful of Gojo’s hair and yanked him up, dragging him toward the waiting barrel in the corner. Rust ate at the edges of it, rainwater sloshing black and murky inside, reeking of rot. Gojo clawed at the floor, shoes scraping, wrists jerking against the binds biting his skin.

“Fuck! No—no, no, please! Please! I’ll do anything, just—don’t—” His body writhed, every instinct screaming against the inevitability, his mind splitting with panic. His chest already heaved like he was drowning before he’d even touched the water.

On the other side, Sukuna twisted against Naobito’s grip, teeth bared. The older man’s fingers dug cruelly into his shoulder, holding him steady like a dog straining against a chain.

“Quit squirming,” Naobito sneered, leaning close to Sukuna’s ear. “Better to watch. Look at your friend—see how he kicks? See the way his voice cracks when he begs?” He tightened his grip when Sukuna lunged forward. “Pathetic. And you can’t do a damn thing.”

“Let him go, you sick fuck—”

“Let him go?” Naobito chuckled, low and mean. His free hand tapped Sukuna’s jaw like he was mocking a child. “Maybe instead of yelling, you should get on your knees. Beg for him. Beg real nice. Maybe he’ll be spared if I like the way you plead.”

Sukuna’s chest rose and fell, fury barely contained, his jaw straining so hard it creaked. His eyes flicked to Gojo, who was being shoved closer to the barrel, the water inside shivering at the disturbance.

Toji forced Gojo’s head over it, his palm flat against the back of his skull. He leaned in, whispering low against his ear, words that cut like razors. “It’s only water, pretty boy. Breathe deep.”

The first plunge came suddenly. Murky water closed over Gojo’s face, filling his nose, his throat. His scream cut off in a bubbling gurgle, arms thrashing wild. Toji held him down with an ease that was almost casual, a hunter keeping his kill underfoot.

Bubbles. Thrashing. A muffled scream trapped in liquid. His whole body jerked, convulsed, choking soundless.

Then—release. His head yanked up, water streaming down his face, his chest heaving like it might crack. Coughs tore out, wet and desperate. He gasped like every breath might be his last, sobs mixing with spit. “I can’t—please, please—don’t—”

Toji didn’t give him time to steady. He shoved him down again, merciless, as if the begging itself had earned punishment. The water took him, muffling his terror all over again.

Up. A gasp, wild, raw, torn from his throat. Hair plastered to his face, his eyes bloodshot and wide.

Down.

Up. Choking, screaming, pleading, his voice breaking into hoarse, high pitches.

Down.

This time, Toji didn’t pull him back. His grip stayed iron, grinding Gojo’s face deeper into the water. The splashing grew frantic, then weaker, bubbles popping to the surface in frantic bursts.

Sukuna’s voice cut sharp, strained. “Fuck! Enough!” He jerked against Naobito’s grip, shoulders straining. “He can’t—he’s—fuck, let him up!”

Naobito only chuckled, pressing Sukuna down hard by the shoulder until his knees threatened to buckle. “Watch him.” His tone dripped cruel amusement. “See how your friend dies. All you can do is stare. Or…” His mouth brushed close to Sukuna’s ear, mockery sharp. “So get on your fucking knees like I told you and beg, beg like fucking a dog.”

Gojo’s body convulsed, thrashing going slack, bubbles slowing.

“Shit—!” Sukuna’s throat tore with it, his voice cracking loud and raw. “Stop! Please—don’t—don’t kill him! He’s yours, fine, do whatever the fuck you want, just—don’t—”

Naobito’s hand shoved harder, forcing Sukuna down until he was nearly kneeling, spitting fury and fear. “Louder. Mean it. Or he drowns.”

Toji’s palm stayed firm, grinding Gojo’s skull into the murk, calm as stone.

Sukuna broke. His pride split open, his voice hoarse and desperate. “Please! Fuck—please! Don’t kill him! Don’t—don’t take him from me, I’ll do anything—” His words dissolved into a rasping choke. “Please just let him live. Please.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. His fists curled tight enough that the nails cut his palms. Every instinct screamed at him to lunge, to tear someone apart, to put his teeth in flesh and fight until his last breath. His eyes kept darting—Naobito’s boot, the cold gleam of steel tucked there, the glint of another weapon hidden in the back of Toji’s waistband.

And then his gaze snapped back to Gojo.

Bubbles, thrashing, a muffled, broken sound under the surface. His body bucked and jerked like a dying animal, and still Toji’s arm pinned him down. Seconds stretched long, unforgiving, and Sukuna realized—Gojo wasn’t going to last another one.

His breath hitched. The fight drained into something heavier, something he hated even more: choice. Pride or survival.

He moved. Not fast, not furious, but on his knees, gravel digging into his skin. His voice came low at first, forced through grit teeth.
“Stop. I’ll do whatever the fuck you want. Just—just pull him up.”

No one moved. Toji’s smirk lingered.

The water churned again, weaker this time. Sukuna’s chest burned like he was the one drowning. His forehead pressed to the dirt before he even realized he was bending forward. His voice broke, louder now, cracking raw.
“Please! Enough—he can’t fucking breathe! I’ll crawl, I’ll—”

Naobito’s spit hit his cheek, hot and demeaning. The older man’s laugh was sharp, ugly. “Look at him. All that bark. Now on his knees like a mutt.”

Sukuna swallowed the fire in his throat and forced the words out anyway, choking them out like blood.
“I’m sorry. Whatever you want me to say. I’m sorry. Just let him up—please, I’ll beg you till my fucking lungs give out.”

Toji’s grip never faltered. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he was savoring the sight, and only when Sukuna’s palms pressed flat to the ground—head bowed, his entire frame bent like he’d shattered—did he finally speak.

“You can finish your begging,” Toji drawled, voice cutting through Sukuna’s gasps, “at the chapel.”

The words fell heavy, final.

Rough hands seized both men—Gojo dragged half-conscious, Sukuna hauled by the shoulders though he barely resisted. The barn door groaned open, spilling the night in, and the pull toward the chapel began.

The barn door split open, and daylight tore through like a punishment. The sun was too bright, too sharp, burning against his swollen eyes. Sukuna stumbled forward, shoved into the dirt path, his bad leg screaming with every forced step.

Beside him, Gojo wheezed, hacking up water in ragged bursts, his body barely staying upright as they hauled him along.

The gun at Sukuna’s back dug in hard, a cold reminder that rage meant nothing here. He wanted to tear them apart, rip throats open with his teeth if he had to—but the weight of steel and the memory of Gojo’s face disappearing under black water kept him frozen.

Not worth it. Not now.

He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. And in that hollow space where fight should’ve lived, Y/N’s face broke through—so sudden it made him falter.

Her laugh, that soft curve of her smile, the way she tilted her head when she caught him staring too long.

Stupid little details he thought he’d always have time for.
He could’ve had more. He could’ve stolen more moments, more touches, more memories to carry into whatever hell this was.

But he hadn’t. And now, all he had was the burn of her name on his tongue.

He wanted her here. God, he wanted her. Not to save him, not even to touch him—but just to exist close enough that he could remember there was something worth surviving for.

A shove to his back made him stagger, almost fall. He caught himself on his palms, dirt grinding into the raw cuts across his skin. He stayed there for a beat too long, his body low, eyes squeezed shut, and all he could think was—

If I get out, I’ll never waste another second. Not with her.

The chapel loomed ahead, its white paint rotted and peeling, cross crooked against the cloudless blue. It didn’t look holy. It looked like a mouth waiting to swallow them whole.

Behind him, Gojo gagged again, a wet, broken sound. The sun glinted cruelly off the water that streamed down his chin.

Sukuna forced himself up, his chest hollow, his pulse hammering, and walked because there was nothing else to do.

The chapel doors groaned open, and all Sukuna could think was how badly he wished the last thing he’d seen in this world was her face.

Would he even get to see her again—or would the chapel be the last thing carved into his eyes?

No.
Please... just her face, one more time.

Authors Note: Okay, real talk, who are we liking better so far? Sukuna, Gojo, Toji??? Who’s your favvv right now?

Chapter 32: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟐𝟕 - 𝐍𝐨 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞.

“Y’know…” Naoya’s voice was a low murmur, casual in tone but edged with something unhinged.

He was looking at Nobara. She sat across from Y/N, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the table like she could disappear into the grain of the wood.

“She’s already had a taste,” he said, gaze gleaming—wild, fever-bright.

Before Y/N could process, he leaned in, his bloody hand catching Nobara’s jaw and forcing her head up. A smear of red still marked her mouth from earlier. His eyes lingered on it, slow enough to make Y/N’s stomach twist—he swiped his tongue along the corner of her lips, tasting it.

“Mmm,” he breathed, smirking at her flinch. “Still warm.”

Y/N’s pulse thundered in her ears. She was stuck in the cramped breakfast nook, the kitchen light too bright, making every glint of red sharper. Blood dotted the table from the slow drip of Naoya’s palm, the metallic scent thick enough to taste.

Where the hell was Toji?

He’d told her to stay put here. Told her he’d be right back.

And he’d told Naoya to watch her.

Naoya was watching, alright—just not in the way anyone would call safe.

So...

Would he be okay with this? Was this… was this what Toji wanted Naoya to do? To scare her? To prove some twisted point?

Her thoughts fractured when Naoya’s voice slid back in.

“Show her,” he said to Nobara, almost kindly. “Show her how good it is. How it’s not so bad.”

Nobara’s head jerked toward Y/N. Her eyes were rimmed red, glassy, panic brimming so bright it almost spilled over—but she didn’t get a choice.

Naoya’s other hand came up, clamping down on the back of Nobara’s neck. His bleeding palm hovered, jittering against her lips, smearing red across her skin. “C’mon, sweetheart… don’t be shy. Just—hah—open up for me.”

She did. Hesitant at first, until he pressed harder, and then her mouth closed around the wound. The room was too quiet—Y/N could hear the faint, wet sound of swallowing, Naoya’s breath hitching faintly like he was enjoying this more than he should.

Y/N couldn’t look away. It was the kind of thing you had to watch, because if you didn’t, you might be next—and worse for it.

Her fingers clenched in her lap, eyes wide, heart slamming against her ribs.

“That’s it…” Naoya murmured, stroking Nobara’s cheek with his thumb. “Good girl.”

When he finally pulled his hand away, he gripped Nobara’s chin and forced her mouth open, tilting her face toward the light.

“Tongue.”

She stuck it out. He checked, smiled when he found nothing left.

“Atta girl,” he said, voice sickly sweet—and then he bent, pressing a slow kiss against her cheek like a reward.

Nobara flinched, her jaw locking tight as she wrenched her face away. Her eyes burned, wet and glassy, but she refused to let them fall—refused to give him that. She stared at the floor instead, every muscle in her face trembling with the effort not to crack.

When he straightened, the bloody hand hung loose at his side, still dripping faintly. His gaze shifted—lazily at first toward Y/N.

That grin again.

Not playful. Not nice.

Predator.

He didn’t simply walk toward her—he prowled. Each step dragged out, deliberate, the kind of rhythm that made the silence ache. The floor creaked under his weight like it knew better than to hold him.

He came to stand behind Y/N’s chair. Towering over her, the heat of his chest brushing her back, his shadow swallowing the sliver of light she had left.

One hand braced on the chair’s backrest beside her head, the other—the bloody one, hung close enough that she could smell it, feel the faint drip on her arm.

He bent low, lips almost brushing her ear, voice twitching on the edge of a laugh.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t go quiet on me now. Your turn.”

Y/N’s breath stuttered out sharp, nails carving crescents into her thighs as her body betrayed her—shaking, small.
“No—”

“Shhh.” The low rumble was half warning, half mockery. His chest pressed into her shoulder blades now, like he was testing how much she could stand before breaking. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Y/N’s shoulders locked tight, every muscle begging to recoil, but Naoya was right there chest a solid wall at her back, the faint sway of his breath brushing the curve of her neck.

“Scared?” he murmured, tone slick with amusement. “Good. Makes it easier. You’ll open up for me either way.”

The table in front of her felt suddenly too small, the whole breakfast nook too narrow, like the walls had leaned in with him.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, almost with amusement. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.”

His words coiled through her like smoke, but they were barbed—designed to catch, to dig in. He wasn’t just close. He was measuring her fear, savoring it.

The bloody palm hovered at her periphery, dripping another bead onto the table. He let it stay there—close enough that if she turned her head, her lips might brush against it.

“You saw how easy she made it look,” he said, voice pitched lower, intimate. “Didn’t even gag.”

Her throat tightened. “I’m not—”

“Not what?” He leaned just enough that his mouth was beside her ear, his tone a silky taunt. “Not brave enough? Not strong enough? Or…”
His pause stretched, cruel. “…too scared to even open that pretty mouth?”

Y/N’s breath came faster now. She could feel his smile without seeing it.

“You’re thinking about it.”

“No.”

“Mm.” His hum was low, satisfied—like she’d already given something away. His free hand shifted from the backrest to the table’s surface, palm flat beside her own clenched fist, his knuckles brushing hers deliberately.

“Could have you like this,” he said softly, almost musing to himself. “Pinned right here… make you take it ‘til you swallow every drop.”

Her stomach lurched, nails biting deeper into her thighs, but his proximity didn’t falter. If anything, he leaned in closer, the heat of his breath now grazing her cheek.

“Wouldn’t even have to try hard,” he went on, slow, like each word was an image he enjoyed. “Just hold you still… open you up…”

Y/N’s pulse pounded in her ears. He wasn’t talking about blood anymore—not really. And that was what made it worse.

A droplet from his hand hit the table between them, sharp against the silence.

“Look at me,” he said suddenly.

She didn’t move.

His bloody fingers caught her chin, tilting her face back just enough to meet his eyes. And there it was—the gleam that told her he was enjoying every second of this.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his thumb ghosting over her jaw in a way that made her skin crawl. “You’d be real pretty like this.”

The smell of copper was thicker now, clinging to the back of Y/N’s tongue with every breath. Naoya’s bloody palm hovered just inches from her lips, the drip-drip-drip of it onto the table an unbearable metronome.

She turned her head sharply, words tangling in her throat.
“I can’t—”

The rest of the sentence died when she did the only thing her fear could think to do—she lunged forward and bit down on his hand.

The taste of metal exploded across her mouth, hot and raw, and Naoya’s hiss was sharp in her ear. She didn’t wait. She shoved back her chair hard enough to make it screech against the tile and bolted for the kitchen’s narrow exit.

She barely made it two steps.

A hard arm snared her waist, yanking her backward so abruptly her feet left the floor for a split second before she was slammed against the wall.

The breath whooshed out of her lungs, and then his chest was right there—a solid, immovable heat at her back, the thud of his heartbeat frighteningly steady. His bloody hand fisted in her hair, jerking her head just enough to expose the line of her throat.

“Feisty,” he breathed, and this time there was no mocking lilt—just hunger. His voice was low and rasped at the edges. “Every bit of fight just makes it harder not to take more.”

Y/N’s nails scraped uselessly at his forearm. “Let me go—Naoya, please... I’m sorry, I’ll do it—just let me go—”

Her plea cracked, too thin, and his laugh was low, almost a growl.

“Don’t apologize,” he murmured, his breath brushing her ear. “Not when you look like this… so scared, so fragile. Makes me wonder how much blood it’ll take to make you scream properly.”

Her hair clung damp to her face, strands streaked with crimson from where his fingers had dragged through it. Blood painted the curve of her jaw and the swell of her lower lip, stark against the tremble in her mouth.

Her chest heaved, each breath sharp and uneven. Her fingers twitched, uselessly scraping against his forearm as if she could claw her way out.

A shiver ran down her spine, part fear, part revulsion, and a sick twist of panic clawed at her stomach. She pressed her cheek into the cold table, trying to hide, trying to vanish, but it was no use—he could feel her trembling.

He could smell her fear.

Tears stung her eyes, and a whimper slipped past her lips before she could stop it.

“Fuck…” he said softly, almost to himself, his hips pressing forward in an unmistakable grind. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, do you?”

Y/N’s pulse was a frantic hammer under his grip. “Stop—”

“Why? You’re perfect like this.” His voice dipped lower, filthier. “Pinned. Shaking. My blood on your mouth… You’d make me ruin you so fast right here against this wall.”

The words burned hot in her ears, and her stomach turned.

From the table, Nobara hadn’t moved—not a twitch, not a reach for the knife lying just within arm's length.

The knife Naoya had set down. The one he’d forgotten to grab.

She sat frozen, knuckles white against the edge of her chair, eyes wide but locked on some distant point, unreachable point. It was safer not to see, safer not to act.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as Naoya’s grip on her hair tightened, jerking her head back just enough for his lips to brush the edge of her jaw. Her pulse hammered in her ears, every nerve screaming.

“Beg me again,” he whispered.

Tears stung her eyes, her voice small, breaking. “Please… please don’t—Naoya, please…”

“Mmh,” he hummed, almost satisfied. “That’s it… Keep saying my name like that. ”

The knife stayed untouched on the table. Nobara didn’t even glance at it.

Naoya’s chest pressed into her back again, the grind deliberate, suffocating. Her stomach turned violently, a mix of nausea and rage coiling tight in her gut. And yet, even as panic surged through her, a tiny, desperate thought clawed at the edges of her mind: Toji has to come. He has to.

The hope was ridiculous, fragile—but it was there, tethering her just enough to breathe.

Her head snapped to the side, lips curling in sharp defiance, and she spat, wet and forceful, across his cheek. The taste of copper on her tongue only made her pulse thunder faster.

He froze.

Y/N didn’t waste it.
“My dad’s a chief of police,” she spat, breath ragged but voice rising, shaking with fury.
“He’s gonna find me—he’s gonna find you—and beat the fuck out of you before he throws your sick ass in prison.”

For the first time, Naoya’s expression changed—just for a beat—and it made his face look older, harder.

 

“Ohhh…” he drawled, drawing the sound out as he leaned in, the sharp line of his nose grazing the curve of her jaw. He inhaled deliberately, dragging his face against her skin until his lips hovered at her ear. “Daddy’s a cop?”

The words weren’t surprised—they vibrated with lazy curiosity, thick with amusement, as though the idea only made him hungrier. His breath seeped hot into her neck, and the nuzzle that followed was too intimate, obscene in its softness against the violence of his grip.

Her cheek scraped the wall as she tried to turn, his grip in her hair angling her just enough that her eyes caught his over her shoulder. Her chest shook with each frantic breath, pressed hard against the plaster, and he smiled like he was savoring the way she trembled beneath him.

“You think that matters?” he whispered, so close she felt the word on her skin. “You think a badge can can keep me off you?”
He let the question hang, and when there was no answer he laughed—soft and satisfied—before pushing her forward again.

“That’s right…” His voice dipped, slow and syrupy, as his grip in her hair wrenched her head back just enough to bare the line of her throat. “So shut the fuck up.”
The hiss came with a drag of his nose along her jaw, like he was breathing her in, savoring the tremble in her pulse. His mouth lingered just shy of her skin, the curl of his lips unmistakably pleased.

“You think I’m scared of some badge...?" he murmured, almost purring the word against her neck. "That your daddy’s gonna ride in here and save you?”

Before she could answer, he yanked her backward, dragging her by her hair toward the breakfast nook. Nobara’s wide, red-rimmed eyes followed them, but she didn’t move—her breaths shallow, too quiet, like even air might draw his attention.

Naoya slammed Y/N forward over the table, the edge biting into her hips, her palms splaying flat against the blood-smeared wood. He loomed behind her, chest crushing her back, the heat of him heavy and suffocating.

“By the time he gets here…” Naoya’s mouth brushed her ear, every word hot, twitching with sick delight. “…you’ll be so full of Zenin blood, you won’t even remember what his face looks like. Won’t even remember your own fucking name.”

“Stop—please, I’m sorry—” she choked, but the words cracked into sobs.

“Sorry?” His was thin, jittery, a sound that skittered along her spine. "Sorry doesn't cut it sweetheart." His palm—slick but not fresh—curled under her chin, forcing her head up until her neck strained. “I’m gonna make you drink until you choke on it. Until your body twitches for more like it's the only thing keeping you alive."

He brought the heel of his hand toward her mouth, but the blood there was already drying in sticky patches. His lips twisted.

“Shit." His voice twitched, erratic, almost gleeful in its frustration. "Need more."

He straightened—rolling his sleeve back, reaching for the knife—except his fingers met empty wood.

Naoya’s gaze snapped to the tabletop, then the floor, irritation flaring sharp. “Where the fuck—” His voice cut off, jaw tightening as his eyes scanned.

Nobara sat like a statue, white-knuckled and mute. Still frozen. Still silent.

The blade was gone.

For a second the room inhaled and held it. Then Naoya's mouth split into that slow, ugly smile.
“Stay. Fucking. Put.”

The words landed like knives—low, hard, without mercy.

“Hands flat.” The lazy drawl snapped into something cold and precise. “On the table. Chest down.”

Y/N didn’t move at first. Her body had gone small; the world had gone loud in the wrong places.

Naoya closed the distance with a predatory slowness.

His palm came down and shoved her chest into the wood; the table was icy under her cheek. Her fingers splayed, nails scrabbling at the grain, the varnish biting through the tremor in her hands.

She could taste metal on the air, smell the faint iron tang from the droplets he’d left there earlier.

“If you move—” His eyes flicked to Nobara, who sat like a held breath, face pale and fixed. “I kill her. Simple.”

The threat was a physical thing, pressed into the hollow behind her ribs. Y/N’s lungs forgot how to draw. She didn’t move because she couldn’t—the room had become a trap, every breath welded to the table, every sound a countdown.

He stepped away from her slowly, not even watching as she stayed frozen. The sound of his boots against the kitchen tile carried to the counter. A drawer scraped open. Metal clinked.

When he came back, a knife was in his hand, glinting under the light. He didn’t look at her—he looked at his own palm as the blade bit into it, blood welling bright and slick.

Naoya inhaled like it was the sweetest perfume. His pupils were blown wide, mouth twitching into something dangerously close to bliss. A man fucked in the head—fucked enough that the sight of blood made him hard.

He came up behind her again, fisting her hair and yanking her upright. She gasped at the sudden pull, spine bowing. He let go only to twist her, forcing her to face him.

Then, as if this was all perfectly normal, he dropped into the breakfast nook chair, right behind him. The knife dangled lazy in one hand, while the other—the bloodied one—slapped against his thigh in a slow, deliberate pat. Each tap left a dark smear across the fabric, casual as a stain he didn’t care to clean.

“On your knees.”

Fear cemented her in place, legs refusing to bend. For a beat too long, she stayed standing, chest heaving against the table.

The smile on Naoya’s lips never wavered, but the knife tilted in his hand, the edge catching the kitchen light. He tapped the flat of the blade against his thigh—one, two, three—like a clock running out.

“Don’t make me count for you,” he said softly. “Knees. Now.”

Her throat bobbed, air snagging sharp as wire, but when the point of steel lifted toward her ribs, her body betrayed her. She slid down, knees hitting the tile with a dull thud.

Only then did his hand reach for her—fingers sliding into her hair, combing it back from her face with unsettling gentleness, as if he were fixing something precious instead of cornering prey.

Naoya’s grip tightened in her hair, tilting her face up toward him. His eyes dragged over her, slow and invasive, like he was cataloging every twitch, every flicker of fear.

“Look at you,” he murmured, the words almost affectionate. “On the floor where you belong.”

The knife gleamed in his other hand, resting casually against his thigh, but the angle of the blade promised how fast that could change if she so much as flinched. He leaned forward just enough that his breath slid across her cheek.

“Go on,” he whispered, cruel satisfaction curling the edges of his mouth. “Beg me not to use it.”

He offered his palm, the cut still wet, the knife glinting casually in his other hand like punctuation. Y/N’s gaze darted to the blade, then back to him. There wasn’t a choice.

Her tongue flicked against the blood, tentative, and bile rose sharp in her throat. She gagged, jerking back, lips stained but mouth clamped shut.

For half a beat, silence—then Naoya’s grip snapped tight in her hair. He yanked hard enough that her neck screamed, forcing her face back up.

“The fuck was that?” His voice twitched, erratic, amusement curdling into something sharper. “You think you get to spit me out?”

Her breath broke into a sob. “I—I can’t—”

His bloody hand shoved to her mouth again, pressing past her weak resistance, smearing red against her lips. The edge of the blade gleamed at her periphery as he leaned close, the smile on his face stretched and twitchy, wrong.

Naoya’s palm slammed over her mouth, hard enough that the taste of copper flooded her tongue. “You gag again and I’ll carve my name into you,” he whispered, each word a razor. It wasn’t idle cruelty—it was promise.

“Make sure everyone remembers tonight,” he hissed, lose enough that his breath fogged the air between them. “Make them know what you swallowed.”

A softer voice, cruel and amused, threaded the silence. “There’ll be proof—scars, a story they can’t unhear.”

Y/N’s jaw shook under his grip. The metallic tang pooled at the back of her throat, thick and rising, and the room tilted as if gravity had turned traitor.

Tears ran hot along her face; the sound of her breathing was small and wet. Naoya laughed low, savoring the jagged little chokes in her throat. “That sound—fuck, that sound. Don’t stop making it. Every time you choke, I know it’s sinking in. I know I’ve got you.”

Y/N's vision blurred, eyes swimming, and the sting of salt mixed with copper until it burned.

Her body convulsed against him, desperate for air that wouldn’t come. Each inhale snagged wet against the flood of copper, her chest jerking, ribs straining.

Panic roared in her skull, but his palm sealed her mouth like a brand, pressing her down until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision. Her sobs were strangled things, trapped and breaking inside her throat.

“Good,” he breathed at first, almost tender, his lips brushing the edge of her ear. “That’s it… drink it down.”

Then his forehead slammed into hers, voice exploding into a snarl. “Choke on it. Swallow every fucking drop. Burn it into your skull—because every time you look in a mirror, it’s me you’ll see.”

He didn’t let her look away.

She was drowning in it, in the taste, by the force of him, by the way his hand wouldn’t let her spit, wouldn’t let her turn away. The copper pooled at the back of her throat, every swallow like a wave driving her under.

The kitchen narrowed until all that existed was the smear of red, the scrape of tile, and the man above her, patient and animal.

Naoya’s voice dipped darker, filthier. “You’d take it so well, wouldn’t you? Right here, on this floor. Make you forget all about—”

“Back the fuck away.”

Toji’s gaze cut the room in half, sweeping over Nobara, the knife trembling in her grip. Then, just for a heartbeat, it flicked past her—landing on Y/N. The copper-streaked smear across her cheek, the slick of blood clinging to her jaw, the wild flush in her pale face.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a sound. Didn’t even blink. But his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth tightening—just enough to mark that he’d noticed. Nothing more. The rest of the room, the chaos, the threat to Nobara, still held his attention.

The command had sliced the room. Naoya’s head snapped up. In the doorway, Toji stood like a silhouette cut from stone, one arm leveled, barrel steady—not at Naoya, but aimed hard and clean at Nobara. The knife in her hand trembled in the thin sliver of light.

“Move again,” Toji said evenly, “and I’ll put a hole in your skull.”

The single, brutal sentence redirected everything. Toji’s gaze was locked on the knife, on the threat Nobara represented. He didn’t look at the blood-smeared girl kneeling in front of a chair, nor at Naoya’s hand or the streak of red down Y/N's jaw.

Naoya noticed. He noticed with the slow, cold calculation of someone who knew how to turn attention into advantage. In one smooth motion he shoved Y/N back with his hip, standing as if pulled up by surprise.

“What? What’s going on here?” he barked, tone light, casual—an actor flipping the scene.

Toji didn’t look at him. “Your girl was about to gut you,” he said, deadpan, still leveled at Nobara. No questions. No hesitation. Just the sort of sentence that cut a choice in two.

Naoya’s eyes flicked down, caught the knife, and let out a low, sharp laugh. “Shit. A woman was gonna kill me?” The laugh snapped off, his face curdling into raw rage.

Two steps and he had Nobara by the hair, ripping her off balance. The knife clattered across the tile, useless. She gasped, stammering apologies that broke apart as he yanked harder, dragging her down like she was nothing.

Naoya’s boot slammed onto her cheek, grinding it into the floor. He twisted, slow and merciless, savoring the crack of strain in her neck. “The fuck do you think you’re doing? Huh?” His grin split wide, manic. “You think you can kill me?” His voice dropped lower, crueler. “Fuck, I didn’t even get to fuck you yet. Guess I’ll find someone else.”

He looked up at Toji, flicking his chin in a wordless signal. Toji moved, gun steady, stepping closer until the barrel hovered over Nobara’s temple.

She froze under Naoya’s boot, breath caught, wide-eyed.

And then Y/N broke. She lunged, fingers clawing at Toji’s arm, voice tearing from her throat. “Stop! Please! She doesn’t deserve it—she was just trying to protect me!”

Toji’s gaze slid to her. “What do you mean?”

“She—Naoya—he—” Y/N’s voice cracked, eyes glassy. “He was trying to—” She couldn’t even say it.

Toji’s eyes flicked to Naoya, then back to her, unreadable and sharp, like he was weighing her every tremble. No shock. No horror. Just the quiet, precise calculation of someone used to danger and cruelty.

Naoya just shrugged, a smirk tugging his mouth. “What? She’s still breathing, isn’t she?”

Y/N’s tears spilled over. “Please. Don’t kill her.”

Toji’s stare was cold, unreadable. Then, almost casually: “You wanna kill her instead? I can show you how to use the gun.”

“No! No—” she shook her head violently, pounding her fists lightly against his chest. “I’ll do anything—just don’t kill her.”

That was the mistake.

Toji’s mouth twitched into something dark. His eyes dropped to her lips, and he leaned in, voice low enough for only her to hear.
“If I let your little friend live…” His breath brushed her ear. "Then you do exactly what I say. No heroics, no silence. You speak. You obey. You make me believe you mean it… and maybe she walks out of here breathing.”

Y/N’s chest heaved violently. Her hands clawed at Toji’s arm, desperation raw in every motion. “O-okay… okay, I’ll do it! I’ll do it, just… please…” Her voice broke again, swallowed by the trembling and the sobs.

The corner of his mouth curved. He lowered the gun away. “Good girl.”

Naoya watched, amusement flickering in his eyes, as if the moment belonged entirely to him. The room felt impossibly tight, the air thick with copper and fear.

He turned to Naoya. “Discipline your little girlfriend. Bring her to the chapel.”

Naoya rolled his eyes but bit his lip, dragging Nobara up by the arm. She stumbled, voice shaking and tight with panic. “I-I’m sorry… please, I didn’t mean to—p-please don’t be mad—”

He cut her off with a sharp flick of his wrist. Her words choked off as silence swallowed them. She fell into step behind him, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, disappearing into the shadowed hall.

God knew where.

 

Authors Note: Chapel is soon! But where is Choso and Mei?

Chapter 33: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟐𝟖 - 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.

The silence hit first.
Not peaceful—something else. It pressed against her ears, thick and alive, the kind that made every sound feel like it didn’t belong.

It was the kind of silence that follows something.
After Naoya’s voice had cut out. After Nobara’s soft “sorrys” had bled into the air. After the footsteps faded down the hall, leaving only the hum of the house settling around her and the pulse in her ears.

It didn’t feel empty—it felt expectant.
Like the quiet itself was holding its breath, waiting to see which would give first—her or the silence.

And then the quiet changed.
It bent. Twisted. Became something that noticed her back.

There was no warning—just the sudden firms hands at her waist, not rough, but not asking either. Just that quiet, unshakable strength that made resistance feel pointless.

She didn’t have time to breathe before the world tilted—air rushed, her stomach dropped, then the kitchen counter caught her hard, wood biting cold against her thighs.

Her legs hung limp over the edge; her palms found the surface instinctively, grounding herself against the tremor crawling up her arms.

Every tiny sound after that—the creak, the shift of his breath, the drag of his thumb against her skin—felt louder than it should’ve been.

Too close.
Too aware of how small she was in his grasp.

She didn’t even realize she was shaking until Toji's hand caught her chin.
“Look at me,” he murmured, quiet enough to sound gentle, firm enough to feel like an order.

He stayed there for a moment—close enough that she could hear the slow pull of his breath, feel the heat radiating from him.

Then, without a word, he shifted.

He didn’t move far. Just shifted his weight, his fingers slipping from her chin to brace against her left upper thigh as the other reached for the towel by the sink.

The faucet squeaked, a sharp hiss in the silence. Water ran over his fingers as he wrung the towel—one-handed, deliberate, practiced. Every motion was measured, confident, precise, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

And almost certainly not for anything innocent.

Toji looked at her again, eyes cutting through the thin stream of steam that rose between them.
“Hold still.”

The words weren’t a request.

But he didn’t look angry—he looked like someone cleaning up a mess that wasn’t supposed to happen.

The towel was rough against her skin, dragging slow over her mouth, along her chin, down the faint streaks trailing her neck. His hand was steady. Her breath wasn’t.

Every wipe erased the red but not the memory.
She tried to look away. She didn’t want to see him. Not now. Not now. Not after what just happened with Nobara. Not after everything that had already bled through this house.

But her eyes betrayed her.

The light hit his face just right—sharp along the jaw, soft along the cheekbones. Too human for what he was—it cut to her senses.

His hair fell just so, untamed yet perfect. And those eyes—green, piercing, unbearably intense—impossible to read—held her like he was waiting for something.

It made her sick. It made her want to look away.
But something in her—something small and shaking—didn’t.

His tongue dragged across his bottom lip—slow, absent—and her eyes followed before she could stop it.

A faint, jagged scar split through the corner of his mouth, pale against his skin.

He noticed. Of course he did. The smirk slipped replaced by something quieter, heavier.

His eyes dropped, no longer meeting hers, but his hand kept moving, slow and deliberate, dabbing gently at her skin as if nothing had changed.

But that scar on his lip.
Bold. Open. Unapologetic.
It cut across the perfection of him, daring her to notice, to ask.

How had she missed it?
Her throat ached—tightened before the words even form.

The air pressed heavy in her chest, too thick to breathe, too alive with him standing there.

She almost didn’t say it.
Almost swallowed it down the way she had everything else tonight.

But the question slipped out anyway—fragile, trembling, born out of some stubborn, reckless need to humanize him.
“Wh-What… happened to your lip?”

The movement of his hand stopped mid-swipe.

Steam curled up between them, ghosting through the air as he looked at her—really looked.
His gaze locked with hers for a heartbeat, sharp, assessing—like he could read every thought she refused to speak.

He didn’t answer right away.
Just stared, long enough for her to regret asking.

And still, she hated herself for noticing the quiet care in his touch, the steadiness in his breath.
For thinking that if she didn’t know better—if the blood wasn’t still drying on her skin—this could almost look like tenderness.

Then he looked away, just for a second—enough to make her wonder what he was hiding—and back again, calm, precise, terrifyingly controlled.

His hands moved—now braced on either side of her hips, caging her in without ever touching more than necessary. The warmth of him radiated through the space between them, heavy, suffocating.

Toji looked down at her, not speaking.
Not yet.

His eyes tracked her face like he was memorizing it—her mouth, the fear in her jaw, the defiance trying to survive behind it. Steam ghosted between them, turning the air into something thick and private.

For a moment, it felt like he was deciding what version of himself to show her.
The man who cleaned the blood from her skin, or the one who spilled it in the first place.

Then his gaze dropped—slowly, deliberately—back to her lips.
For a moment, it looked like he wasn’t going to answer. Like the silence itself was punishment. Then, with a faint exhale, his eyes flicked back up to hers.

“Naobito.”

The name left his mouth like something bitter. Y/N blinked, unsure she’d heard him right.

Y/N blinked, her mouth parting—then closing again before any sound could escape.
The question never made it past her lips, only flickered in her eyes instead.

Quiet and patient—waiting for him to keep going.

He leaned back a little, the corner of his lip curving—not quite a smile, more a memory that cut too deep to stay buried. “Didn’t like when I said no,” he muttered. “Didn’t like much of anything, really.”

He let out a short, dry breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Thought he’d teach me respect.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to ask more—what he meant, what happened—but the question caught somewhere between fear and pity.

Toji smirked faintly — a hollow curve that didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess it worked.”

He set the towel down, turned to the sink. The faucet hissed to life. A glass filled with water. When he placed it beside her, he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.
She knew it was for her.

Something about it—clear, cold, normal—felt wrong in a house that wasn’t. The simple act made her chest ache, like a memory she couldn’t place.

Then his voice cut through again, low and careless.
“Naoya was supposed to give you breakfast,” he muttered. “Not that.”

Her stomach twisted. Her eyes flicked down to the towel on the counter, damp, streaked with blood. A quiet reminder—a quiet echo of what Naoya had done.

His hands came back to rest on either side of her hips.
His thumbs brushed slow against her thighs, back and forth, grounding and dangerous all at once.

Toji slid closer—between her thighs, deliberately—letting the space close around them.
His hands came to rest on either side of her hips, fully caging her in—not to trap, but to keep her still.
His thumbs brushed slow against her thighs, back and forth, grounding and dangerous all at once.

The motion was slow, natural, commanding—not forced. It was just him—like this was the world and she was caught inside it.

Y/N’s hands fidgeted uselessly, twisting in her lap, brushing against herself or the edge of the counter, unsure where to put them. She wasn’t on his wavelength, not even close.

He noticed, but didn’t care.

His gaze locked on hers, sharp and unflinching, intense.
Every second felt stretched, thick with heat and tension. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t breathe easily, couldn’t move.

“What’d he do?” His voice was low, teasing, dangerous, like a whisper that pressed against her skin. He didn’t need to push, didn’t need to ask twice—the dominance was in every inch of his posture, in the deliberate weight of his hands, in the way he held her, pinned without trying.

She swallowed, her chest tight, her mind scrambling to answer or even just think. He was everywhere, surrounding her, claiming her attention with nothing but presence, and she felt exposed in a way she wasn’t ready for.

Y/N’s throat worked, her voice barely audible. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Don’t shut down on me.” His voice stayed low, even. “Talk. Tell me exactly what Naoya did.”

The question hit like a punch. Her stomach dropped. She looked down fast—at the glass, at the towel, anywhere but him.

“I—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t—”

“Y/N.” His tone was firm. Not cruel. But it left no room to hide.

“Look at me,” he said, low.

She did—barely. Just enough to see the flicker of something softer in his eyes, something that made it harder to breathe.

“Tell me what he did.”

Her heartbeat slammed against her throat. “He—he made me drink it. His blood..." Her voice trembled, cracked, barely more than a whisper. "S-said... said he wouldn't stop..." Her voice shook so bad the words barely formed. “It felt like it would never end... H-he said I wouldn’t even remember my own name... said I would be so full of it I wouldn't know how to think.”

Her chest started to shake, the tears hitting before she could stop them. “He—he put his hands on me—”

The rest lodged in her throat, too heavy to voice.

Toji’s expression barely changed, but something in his eyes darkened—sharpened. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper near her ear, low and intimate. “You don’t have to say the rest.”

She froze.
Body stiffening.

His thumb brushed under her eye, catching a stray tear. “You’re not... dirty," he murmured, each word deliberate, measured. “He did that to you. Not you.”

There was a pause, heavy, filled with tension. “And you… you’re safe here. Safe with me.”

Her lip trembled. “It doesn’t feel that way.”

He let out a low, heavy breath and leaned closer—calculated, steady until she could feel the warmth of it brush her lips.

His lips hovered a breath away—close enough that she could taste his exhale, the faint trace of smoke and iron on it.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t ask. Just lingered there, the ghost of a kiss—soft, almost searching. “It won’t happen again.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. Panic prickled at the back of her throat. She tried to lean back just slightly, just enough to escape that unbearable closeness, but his hands—strong, immovable—framed her hips, holding her in place.

Her fingers twitched, unsure where to go, trembling between fight and freeze.
Her pulse thudded against her neck, loud, unsteady.

Toji didn’t move back.
He tilted his head slightly, the tip of his nose brushing hers—barely there, a test, a question he never asked out loud.

When she shifted slightly, he didn’t pull back. Instead, he leaned closer, lips grazing hers again, slower this time, intentional, tracing the shape of her mouth without fully taking it. His eyes stayed open, locked on hers, unblinking, like he wanted her to see that he could.

The air between them felt fragile, split between mercy and threat.

And still… he never said how.

The silence lingered, thick and charged, pressing against her like a hand she couldn’t push away.

But the silence didn’t end with her.
It carried — out of the house, through the empty yard, into the tree line where the air smelled of rot and iron.

Nobara’s wrists burned where he gripped her, fingers digging in too tight, dragging her forward through the morning light.
The gravel scraped beneath her heels.

“Please—Naoya, please—I didn’t mean to—I swear I didn’t—,” her voice cracked, breath hitching through the cold air. “I was scared, I didn’t know what else to do—”

He laughed. Not loud. Not kind.
A low, slithering sound that made her knees go weak.

“Didn’t mean it?” he echoed, tilting his head, dragging her closer until she nearly stumbled into him. “You were going to stab me.”

“I was trying to help her!” she cried, struggling, breath hitching, her words tripping over themselves. “You were going to—”

He stopped, sudden enough to make her stumble into him. His voice was low when it came next, calm in a way that made her stomach turn.
“Careful with that sentence. You were going to what, Nobara?”

Her throat locked. The words wouldn't come.

Naoya tilted his head slightly, eyes dragging down her face as if memorizing every tremor. A faint smile ghosting over his face. “That’s what I thought.”

The chapel loomed ahead—half-rotted, its wooden frame bending beneath the weight of years. A faint orange glow flickered through the cracked windows. The air smelled a rancid mix of smoke and decay.

Nobara shook her head. “No,” she whispered, stepping back until her shoulders struck the gate. “No, I’m not going in there.”

Naoya didn’t move for a long, awful moment. Then his hand shot out, grabbing her chin—forcing her to look up. His fingers dug in hard enough to bruise.
“You think you get to decide that?”

She whimpered, tears streaking down her face, trying to pull free, her nails clawing weakly at his wrist. His grip only tightened.
“Please—I’ll do anything, Naoya, I swear I’ll—”

He smiled faintly, almost kind. “Anything?” His tone lingered too long on the word. “You’ve got such a mouth when you’re scared.”

He reached out, fingers catching her chin, forcing her to look up at him.
“Use it to pray,” he murmured. “You’ll need it where we’re going.”

He shoved the chapel doors open with one hand, the wood groaning like something alive. Candlelight flared across the ruined pews, catching on glass, on stains dark and old. It smelled like decay and old confessions.

Naoya’s grip on her arm finally loosened just enough for Nobara to stumble forward.

Her breath hitched the second she looked up.

The chapel wasn’t empty.

Two figures were already there, kneeling before the cracked altar like unwilling saints.

Gojo.

Gojo’s head hung low, chin resting against his chest, face barely visible beneath the curtain of blood-soaked hair—dripping down the side of his neck, staining the collar of his torn shirt. His arms were bound in front of him, wrists tied so tight the rope cut into the skin.

You could hear his breath rasp through the quiet—wet and shallow.

And Sukuna.

He knelt just beside him, jaw locked, chest streaked in red—a single line of blood running from the corner of his mouth to his throat.
Cuts laced his skin—deliberate, precise, fresh.

His eyes flicked up once. She almost wished they hadn’t.
There was nothing human in them now—just the kind of rage that begged to be put down.

And in front of them—standing at the altar like something carved from judgment itself—

Naobito Zenin.

He wasn't holding a cross.
He was holding a knife.

Not a butcher’s blade. Not a weapon of chaos.
Something cleaner. Ritualistic.
The kind used to make an offering.

His hands were steady as he traced the blade along Sukuna’s shoulder, just deep enough for the blood to run.

Calm. Collected.
Naobito’s voice broke the stillness—low, ritualistic.
“On your knees before god,” he said as he traced a finger over the now-bloodied knife,
“And ask for forgiveness.”

Author’s Note: I have a new book out called Perdition! If you’re a fan of Silent Hill, I think you’ll really enjoy it. I’m going to do my best to post more for BloodLust, I really am! I’m just trying to juggle everything in my life right now, but I hate leaving you all hanging. Thank you for your patience!

Chapter 34: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟐𝟗 - 𝐓𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐥 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧.

“—We can’t just sit here,” Mei hissed. Her voice was low but sharp, cutting through the stillness of the hallway. “We need to move. Find something. Anything.”

The hallway wasn’t narrow—it stretched wide enough to move, maybe five feet across—but somehow, that made it worse. Too much space meant too much exposure. Every inch felt like a stage, and she didn’t want to be seen.

The wallpaper peeled in long, curling strips, the color once cream, now stained the shade of nicotine and rot.
Beneath it, the wood was swollen and dark, the boards warped with water damage. The air carried that stale sweetness of something long dead.

Light hummed weakly above them—bulbs caged in rusted metal, their glow sick and yellow, casting every dust speck in slow motion.

Mei’s fingers tightened around the handle of her knife—a heavy kitchen blade. It wasn’t much, but it felt right in her hand.

Behind her, Choso adjusted his grip on his smaller knife, thumb brushing over the edge like he was reminding himself it was real.

“If this place is that old,” Choso’s voice came low, calm but tight, “there’s gotta be a landline somewhere. Maybe even more weapons. These bastards own guns… there’s gotta be one lying around.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, stepping ahead. “If we’re lucky, maybe a phone too. Anything.”

Her gaze snagged on a cabinet halfway down the corridor. At first, it looked like a china display, the kind you’d see in someone’s grandma’s house. But as she crept closer, the air around it felt colder, heavier.

Inside, under cracked glass, were bones—skulls, ribs, antlers wired together like trophies. Dust thickened the shelves, and smeared fingerprints dragged along the glass like someone had pressed their face too close.

Choso crouched nearby, rifling quietly through drawers, careful to make as little noise as possible. Mei could see his fingers brushing over old silverware, nothing useful, just more clutter. His breaths were shallow, calculated, trying to stay quiet.

From somewhere thinly walled, the muffled sound of Y/N’s sobs and pleading echoed faintly.

Neither of them reacted—Mei’s jaw clenched, Choso’s hands froze briefly, but they didn’t answer. They just searched, muttering the words in their heads over and over, scanning for anything that could get them out, anything that could keep them alive.

Her chest tightened, heavier this time, and she realized why Choso was moving like this, why he was so focused, so careful.

The thought struck her like a hammer: he’d fight to the end for her.

All the betrayal, the pain, the chaos of their lives—the cheating, the lies, the half-truths—none of it mattered here, not now.

Not when he was so damn alive, so determined, so consumed by the need to reach her.

She whispered under her breath, almost to herself, letting the thought hang between the stale air and the dust.
“Damn… he really loves her, doesn’t he?”

Choso glanced up.
“What?” he whispered, brows furrowed. He’d caught the sound of her voice, but not the words.

Mei shook her head quickly, fumbling for something else to say—anything to cover the slip. She didn’t get another word out before the sound hit—

A click.
A door creaking open at the far end of the hall.
And then a voice that could only belong to one man.

“To the chapel,” Toji’s voice growled from somewhere unseen. “Bring the boys to the chapel. I’ll check on the girl myself.”

Mei’s blood ran cold.
Choso’s arm shot out, shoving her behind the old china cabinet she’d just been staring at—the one lined with dust and the hollow skulls of animals long dead.

Every muscle in Mei’s body locked—knife trembling slightly in her grip.

They crouched there, pressed between bone and wood, hiding among the remains of things that once breathed and bled.
It felt like a warning—like the house had already chosen their place in it.

She looked at him—wide-eyed, terrified—but he only pressed a finger to his lips, his eyes told her everything: don’t move. don’t breathe.

Then came the footsteps.
Heavy. Unhurried.
Like whoever was walking didn’t have a reason to be afraid of anything.

Then—metal. The lazy click of a gun being spun around a finger.

Mei pressed both hands over her mouth, trying not to make a sound. Her heartbeat pounded against her palms, against Choso’s shoulder.

His boots hit the wood in slow, rhythmic thuds.
Closer.
Closer.
Until she could hear the faint rasp of his breath.

The footsteps stopped.
He was just in view.

Toji.

He was Tall—too tall. Built in a way that made you realize how fragile you really were. Not bulky. Not swollen with muscle. Just solid. A man carved down to his strongest form—as if he could wrap his hands around a boar’s neck and rip it apart without making a sound.

His white tank clung to his chest, damp and smeared with sweat and something darker. Jeans hung low on his hips, veins ran like live wires beneath his skin.

His hands were enormous—calloused, scarred, capable of things she didn’t want to imagine. The gun hung loosely in one hand, casual, like it was a toy he’d grown bored of.

And yet—his face was calm.
Too calm.

He didn’t look like a man searching for prey.
He looked like one thinking about someone he wanted to impress.

Toji stopped across from where they hid, the broken mirror catching his reflection in fractured pieces—one for every sin carved into him.

Mei could see the faint rise and fall of his chest, the slow grind of his jaw as he studied himself through the cracks.

Each shard of glass split his face into something different.

Killer.

Man.

Monster.

And for a breathless second, she couldn’t tell which one he wanted to be.

 

Then, unbelievably, he ran a hand through his hair.

Fingers dragging through the mess like he was smoothing away the blood, the sweat, the sin.

He slicked it back, checking his reflection like he was about to walk into a date, not another killing.
He turned his head, studied the side of his face, then smirked faintly, adjusting the waistband of his jeans.

Mei just stared. No fucking way.
This man—this monster—was fixing himself up for someone.

Her mind flashed with what he said moments before.
The girl.

He was going to see Y/N.

Mei leaned forward slightly, trying to see more—trying to find something human in him. A crack. A tell. Something she could use.
But there was nothing.
Just confidence.
Just calm, unbreakable arrogance.

And then—her hand slipped.

A tiny sound. Barely a breath of metal.

Clink.

Her palm landed on something jagged—a nail jutting out from the back of the cabinet. Rust split skin, a thin sting that burned straight up her wrist.

Pain screamed up her arm, but she didn’t make a sound. Didn’t move.
Breath locked in her throat.

Choso’s hand clamped over her mouth in an instant, the other gripping his knife tight enough to shake.

The man’s head turned slightly—neck muscles shifting beneath skin.
Slow.
Mechanical.
The movement of a predator that had just heard the grass shift.

Silence.
The kind that hums. The kind that makes the air feel too thick to swallow.

Toji’s gun lifted, just an inch. He scanned the air like he could smell them.
Every heartbeat felt loud enough to give them away.
She risked a glance at Choso.

His eyes weren’t brave—they were desperate. Wide, unsteady, flickering with that raw, animal adrenaline that kicks in when fear has nowhere else to go.

He wasn’t ready to fight—he had to.
If Toji found them, there’d be no other choice—he’d move. He wouldn’t think, wouldn’t plan—just move.

He wasn’t calm. He wasn’t fearless. He was running on something raw—survival, instinct, the kind that makes a man ready to die just to make it one more minute.

The air was too quiet. The kind of quiet that begged to be broken.

But as if graced by the gods-

A sound.

Not from them. From deeper in the house.

“Please—please, I’ll do anything, just don’t—”

Y/N’s voice.
A desperate, broken plea that sliced through the stillness.

Toji's head snapped toward the sound like a whip.

Every line in his body shifted, tension sliding into purpose. That calm mask cracked open just enough to reveal what was underneath—obsession. Possession.

His posture sharpened. His eyes sparked with focus.

Without another word, he lowered the gun and started walking—fast, purposeful, straight toward the sound.

Mei and Choso stayed pressed against the china cabinet, listening to the echoes of Toji’s boots fade down the hall.

Their bodies were rigid, adrenaline thrumming in every vein.

Mei and Choso didn’t breathe, didn’t move,
Not until the sound of his boots faded into the distance.

Finally, Mei exhaled, a whisper —so soft it might have been part of the dust in the hallway.
“He didn’t even check… He heard her voice and just... kept moving?”

Choso’s jaw flexed. He let out a slow, measured nod, eyes scanning the hallway like they were still tracking movement.
“Tunnel vision,” he said, low, almost to himself. “Nothing else exists for him right now.”

The words hung between them, heavier than the silence.

Then, slowly, he reached for her. His hand—warm, trembling just slightly—closed around her arm, helping her up from behind the old china cabinet.

She rose on unsteady legs, knees brushing against broken glass and porcelain dust.

This time, Choso took the lead.
He didn’t ask, didn’t check—just started forward.
And Mei followed, fucking grateful to.

But as they crept down the hall, her mind wouldn’t let go of it—what Toji said. The chapel.
Her pulse ticked faster.

Bring the boys to the chapel.
Boys. Plural.

Her breath hitched.
Were there new captives? No—no, that didn’t fit. The last two men Mei had seen alive in that goddamn red barn were Sukuna and Gojo.

Her chest tightened. It had to be them.

The thought burned through her like static—hope and dread twisting together until she couldn’t tell which one hurt more.

She hated herself for it, but she prayed Sukuna was still alive.
Even after everything—the betrayal, the lies, the way he’d made her feel small—she wanted him breathing. Wanted him fighting.

In this nightmare, anger didn’t mean shit. Love didn’t, either.
All that mattered was who was still left to survive it.

They turned the corner, careful to avoid the creak of the floorboards. The house seemed to breathe around them—walls sighing, pipes groaning, wood shifting under its own weight.

And then—
a voice.

Rough, sharp, and close enough to make her heart seize.

“Back the fuck away.”

Mei froze.
It came from somewhere ahead—muffled, but not distant.

Toji.

She could hear movement now. The scrape of something heavy. The sound of struggle.

Then, clearer—another line, spoken like the calm before a bullet:
“I’ll put a hole in your skull.”

Choso’s breathing quickened, shallow and silent. His hand brushed against hers, signaling for stillness.

The hallway ahead was no longer quiet. Somewhere, someone was begging. Crying.
And that voice—his voice—was moving toward it.

Choso’s voice came low—tight, breathless, like he was holding himself together with will alone.
“Come on,” he whispered, the words spilling out faster than he meant them to. “We keep moving. Gotta get out before he comes back.”

There was a rush to it—like if he slowed down, if he let himself think for even a second, he’d hear her again.
Y/N.
Still in there.
Mei caught it immediately—the way his throat flexed, the tremor in his jaw. He wasn’t just running from Toji.
He was running toward something too.

Mei just nodded. Her throat was too dry to speak, her body too tense to trust. Every nerve screamed to move, but her legs hesitated—like her mind hadn’t caught up with the idea of freedom yet.

Out.
The word pulsed in her skull, sharp and bright, like a promise she wasn’t sure she believed in.

They slipped forward, careful and silent, each step a prayer the floorboards wouldn’t betray them. The air thickened—smelled of rust, wood rot, and blood that had long dried into the seams.

“Door at the end,” Choso murmured, his eyes fixed ahead. “If it leads outside, we run. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.”

The door waited at the end of the hallway, light leaking faintly through its cracks—a thin orange glow that shimmered across the warped wood. Sunset.
The sun was still out.
For a second, it almost didn’t feel real.

“How long do you think we’ve been here?” Mei whispered. Her voice cracked halfway through it.
Choso didn’t answer right away. His focus stayed on the door, on the freedom bleeding through it.

“Too long,” he said finally. “Long enough.”

They didn’t talk about phones anymore. About guns. About plans. None of that mattered when the house itself felt like it was alive, watching, waiting for them to breathe too loud.
They just wanted out.

Outside meant air. Sky. Maybe people.
Maybe help.

The closer they got, the louder the silence became.

Mei could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears, could feel the sweat crawling down her back. She wanted to cry and laugh at the same time—because even the idea of sunlight felt like a miracle.

Choso reached the door first. His fingers trembled when they brushed the handle, grime streaking against the brass. He glanced back at her once, eyes raw and burning with something between hope and exhaustion.
“You ready?” he whispered.

Mei nodded. “Just open it.”

He twisted the handle.
It groaned like something ancient giving way.

For a split second, light flooded in—warm, blinding, so bright it almost hurt.
Air hit their faces, cool and real, and Mei let out a broken breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“We made it,” she whispered.
“Not yet,” Choso said. His voice was rough, wild. “Not until we’re off this fucking property.”

He stepped through first, scanning the overgrown yard that stretched before them. The world outside looked wrong—too quiet, too still, painted gold by a dying sun.

But it was freedom.
Or close enough to make them believe it for now.

Chapter 35: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟑𝟎 - 𝐏𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐬.

The night was soft.
Warm lamplight bled against the dorm walls, golden and slow, like honey dripping down glass.
Outside, the orange glow of the streetlights painted the trees in gold, the night humming with the last breath of summer.

Mei sat on Sukuna’s unmade bed, a blanket draped around her shoulders, the smell of pizza still hanging heavy in the air. The TV hummed low, light flickering across the walls.

Happy Gilmore.
His favorite.
No—their favorite.

She was wearing his hoodie, the red one that always smelled like his cologne.

“Romantic, huh?” she teased, reaching for another slice.

Sukuna sat behind her, legs spread wide, back against the headboard. She was in his lap, half-sitting, half-leaning into him—one of his hands tracing lazy circles up her thigh, the other holding his pizza like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey, I’m giving you quality cinema. That’s love,” he said, grin curling at the corner of his mouth.

Mei laughed, the sound light and easy. “Yeah, nothing says Valentine’s Day like Adam Sandler screaming about golf.”

“Exactly,” he murmured, kissing her shoulder. “You get it.”

It felt easy.
So damn easy.
Like a night that could last forever.

He’d walked in earlier—pizza box in one hand, grocery bag in the other—smirking like he’d pulled off some grand romantic gesture.

“Got you somethin’,” he said, tossing a bouquet into her lap.

The plastic crinkled. She looked down—at first, she thought it was just the takeout bag—until a hint of pink caught her eye.

Peonies.

Soft and full, their petals still damp from the store’s cooler.

She blinked, surprised. “Wait... you actually bought flowers?”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” he teased, leaning down to steal a kiss. “They’re your favorite, right?”

Her smile faltered for a second—small, fleeting. Because it was sweet. Because she wanted to believe he remembered.

But as she reached for them, her chest tightened. They were pretty. Perfect.
Just not her kind of perfect.

Still, she smiled anyway, pressing her face into the petals.
“Pretty,” she murmured. “You remembered.”

He hummed, satisfied, kissing the top of her head. “’Course I did.”

She smiled against his shoulder, letting herself sink into the warmth for a moment longer. Pretending it was enough.

Because roses were her favorite. Always had been.
And deep down, she knew—he hadn’t remembered her.
He’d remembered someone else.

And she knew that now.

That was it.
No apology. No correction. No realization.

He didn’t even notice.

But what did it matter?
Roses, peonies—flowers were flowers when his hand slid over her thigh, when his breath grazed her neck and she could pretend, just for a second, that this was love.

For a moment, she could pretend she mattered.
That it was her he thought about when he whispered her name.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he’d said, eyes fixed more on her than the movie.

“I’m happy,” she’d whispered. “That’s all.”

He smiled like he believed it.
Maybe she did too.

Even now, Mei could still hear his laugh from that night—low, rough, the kind that hit the air before his smile did.

She remembered when the credits rolled, how his hand had found her jaw, his breath warm with beer and sugar. The kiss came clumsy at first, then deep—his tongue, his teeth, his hand gripping her like he couldn’t get close enough.

She’d held onto that night for months. The laughter. The warmth. The small, stupid miracle of being wanted.
But now—looking back—it all felt off.
Too bright. Too still. Like remembering a movie she’d loved once and realizing it ended differently than she thought.

It had been weeks since he’d touched her like that.

And she’d melted for it—for the weight of him, the warmth, the desperate proof that maybe she still meant something.

She remembered the soft thud of the blanket hitting the floor, the TV light flashing across his back, painting him in brief, broken color.

She remembered whispering his name like a secret.
She remembered the quiet after—the rhythm of his breathing, her cheek pressed against his chest, the steady beat under her palm.

Everything had felt so full. So right.

She’d looked up at him once, and he’d looked back—really looked—and smiled. That slow, sideways grin that always made her heart skip.
And for that one stupid, beautiful second, she’d believed it all meant something.

She’d believed that love could still exist in the spaces between all the things they didn’t say.

── .✦

“Mei.”

The voice came distant at first, like through water.
Mei blinked hard, the world snapping back into focus. Still caught in the slow, syrupy haze of the memory.

The golden light spilling through the trees outside painted the walls in the same soft warmth that used to remind her of Sukuna. But that was gone now—that night, that illusion

The golden hue, the peonies, the warmth—it all bled together until the edges started to dissolve.

“Hey.”
A hand waved in front of her face, then steadied on her shoulder. “Mei, look at me.”

Her head snapped up.
It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t Sukuna.

It was Choso—breath heavy, eyes sharp with worry, sunlight slipping through the half-open door behind him.

The smell of dust and earth hit her, not cologne. His voice grounded her.

“Gotta move,” he said quietly, glancing back toward the hall. “You hear me? We have to go.”

For a second, she just stared at him, disoriented—her heart still beating somewhere between then and now. And then she saw it: his hand, already reaching for hers. Steady. Waiting.

She slipped her hand into Choso’s, fingers tightening around his. A small, trembling smile pulled at her lips.

“Okay,” she breathed.

“Good.” He gave her hand a squeeze, eyes darting toward the fading sun. “We get off this fucking property first. Then we find help—anyway we can. Got it?”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “Got it.”

Mei glanced at him—his jaw set, eyes darting across the yard like he expected something to crawl out from behind the trees.

He looked… sharper. Focused. Too calm for someone covered in blood.

She noticed the wound on his side—the one that should’ve been bleeding like hell.
well it wasn’t anymore.
The shirt was stiff with dried blood, but no new red seeping through.

Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe whatever Shoko did before—God, before she was killed—had helped. Or maybe the body just knew it couldn’t afford to fall apart yet.

Mei didn’t ask. She just held tighter to his hand.

The dirt crunched beneath them as they stepped off the porch, and for a moment, Mei thought of the trees—the way their leaves looked gold under the sun. It reminded her of Sukuna and that night—how everything burned warm—but that memory vanished the second she inhaled. Her first real breath in what felt like forever.

Her first breath of freedom.

Her lungs—clean, sharp, real. The night air bit at her skin, and for a second, she could almost believe they’d made it out.

Almost.

She glanced at Choso ahead of her—his hand still gripping hers, knuckles white, eyes scanning everything.

“Choso,” she started, voice quiet but cutting through the hum of cicadas, “did you… did you know? About Sukuna and Y/N?”
Her breath hitched. “Did you ever suspect anything?”

He stopped walking. Just for a second. His shoulders stiffened.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice flat, tired. “I have no fucking idea.”

Mei blinked, guilt catching in her throat. She hadn’t meant to push—but the way he said it, it wasn’t anger. It was disbelief. Like the words still didn’t make sense, even now.

He looked away, eyes scanning the treeline, jaw tightening. “I bought a ring, you know.” The words came out low, almost like he hated saying them aloud. “Of course I didn’t fucking know.”

Her chest tightened. The way he said it—so plain, so cold—it felt like a wall slamming down between them. She knew that wall wasn’t for her, though. It was for Y/N. For everything that broke him in there.

Her chest ached. The way he said it—so hollow, so resigned—it felt like the world took one more piece from him. She wanted to say something, anything, but nothing felt right.

“…Right,” she whispered instead, forcing a brittle laugh that cracked halfway out. “Guess talking about relationships is off the table, huh?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

And Mei didn’t blame him.

Chapter 36: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟑𝟏 - 𝐄𝐚𝐬𝐲.

“You eatin’?”

The words broke the quiet gently—like something a husband might say on a slow Sunday morning. Warm. Ordinary. Almost kind.

Almost.

But it was Toji, and nothing about him was ever just that.

The morning light bled through the curtains, thin and gold, catching the steam that rose from the plates. The smell of eggs and burnt toast clung to the air—thick, heavy, almost sweet in a way that made her stomach turn.

The table was clean now.
Or looked that way.

Toji sat across from her, the thin white fabric of his shirt clinging to the cut of his shoulders, forearms bare and tense where they rested against the surface he’d scrubbed not ten minutes ago.
Scrubbed free of blood.
Scrubbed of Naoya.

He’d even pulled out her chair for her. Gestured for her to sit.
And she had—because what else could she do?

It wasn’t until she noticed the placement—her back to the wall, facing the open doorway—that she realized. He’d done that on purpose.

A choice.

A test.

A silent reminder that even when she was sitting, she was cornered.

Toji cut into his eggs like nothing about any of this was strange. The scrape of the fork against the plate sounded too sharp, too human.

Y/N didn’t respond. She just traced the edge of her fork through the eggs, breaking them apart without ever taking a bite.

The metal clicked softly against porcelain, her shoulders tensing under the thin straps of her tank top.

He looked up then, eyes flicking toward her.
“You’re quiet,” he said, voice low, almost teasing. “You don’t like it?”

Y/N blinked, throat tight, eyes fixed on the food she couldn’t bring herself to touch. The smell of it made her sick. Everything about the scene did—the neatness, the calm, the illusion of something domestic after all that he has done.

Her fork stilled halfway through another aimless drag across the plate.

The air felt thick, pressing in on her chest. She forced a breath, eyes still on the eggs she couldn’t touch.
“Yeah,” she said finally, the word barely holding steady. “Just… not that hungry.”

He hummed, low in his throat, the sound rough and amused. “Not hungry, huh?”

The chair creaked as he leaned back, stretching an arm across the backrest, eyes dragging over her face. “You should eat somethin’. I didn’t make it for nothin’.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.
It never was with him.

His gaze lingered, lazy but sharp underneath. “You’ll pass out if you don’t put somethin’ in your mouth.” he said, softer now—softer in the way that made her stomach twist, like kindness was something dangerous in his mouth.

The way he said it almost sounded like concern—like a husband looking out for his wife.
Almost.

But the warmth in his voice was only there to make the command sound soft.

Her stomach twisted. The longer he stared, the smaller she felt.

So she did what he wanted. She picked up her fork and took a bite.

The eggs were warm, buttery—surprisingly good. Almost too good.
Her body didn’t know how to handle something so ordinary anymore.

For a second, she almost forgot where she was, until she felt his eyes still on her.

He watched her chew. Watched her throat move when she swallowed. The little tremor in her hand when she set the fork down again.

“See? Not so bad,” he said. “Guess I can cook when I try.”

She nodded faintly. “It’s… good.”

“Good,” he echoed, voice a shade too smooth. “Glad you like it.”

The scrape of his fork filled the quiet that followed. He chewed once, twice, swallowed. Then his eyes lifted, catching hers.

The air changed.

It was subtle—how his voice dropped, how that lazy calm folded into something heavier. “So tell me somethin’.”

Her stomach went tight. “What?”

He leaned back in his chair, elbows spreading along the armrests, posture loose in the way only men who owned a room ever managed. “That Choso boy,” he said, casual, like he was asking about the weather. “He ever cook for you too?”

Her breath caught.
"What?"

“Just askin’.” His mouth twitched, something between a smile and a threat. “Could see him bein’ that type. Soft hands, quiet voice. Probably thought that’s what love looked like.”

He paused to cut another bite of egg, the scrape of his fork slow. “Guess it almost was, huh? The ring and all.”

Y/N froze, the words slicing through her before she could stop them.

He looked up slowly, catching her stillness, the way her eyes flickered, the way she stopped breathing—and the corner of his mouth lifted like he’d found what he was looking for.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice dropping low. He set his fork down, metal clinking against the plate. “That ring he had—remember? The one he never got to give you before Sukuna fucked you stupid?”

The silence after that was suffocating. Only the faint tick of the clock filled the space between them.

“So...” Toji’s tone softened, mock-gentle, a wolf’s whisper dressed up like affection. “If it was another life—another timeline—and you two made it to that farmhouse… would you’ve said yes?”

Her lips parted, her voice thin and breaking. “I… I don’t know.”

“Sure you do,” His voice dipped lower, smooth and cruel. “Think real hard. Picture it. Him on one knee, holdin’ that ring like it meant somethin’. You’d say yes, right?”

Her lips parted. The answer lodged in her throat.

She wanted to lie.
Wanted to say yes.

Wanted to keep that small, clean version of her life safe, even if it only lived in her head.
But the truth ached worse than anything else.

“No,” she whispered.

That made him pause—then smile, slow and cruel.
“Right. ‘Cause you got Sukuna.”

Her hands trembled. “Don’t—”

“What?” he said, lazy, almost playful. “I’m just sayin’—must’ve been worth it. Givin’ all that up for him.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to something guttural.
“So tell me—was he better? Bigger? Say dirtier things to you? You like that rough shit, don’t you?”

Her fork slipped from her fingers, clattering against the plate.
She looked at him with a mix of disgust and fear, the kind that made him smile wider.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Toji murmured, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’m just tryin’ to understand what makes a woman choose one man to love and another to sin for.”

She shook her head, trembling. “You don’t know anything.”

“Don’t I?” His grin sharpened. “I was there, remember? Whole damn room heard it. Every filthy word we had golden boy Kuna~ read out loud for the class.”

Her breath caught at the name—Kuna.
The way he said it.
Drawled it.
Turned it into something dirty.
It hit somewhere low in her chest, and before she could stop herself, the fight went out of her.

“No. It wasn’t because of that.” Her voice came quiet, stripped bare.

Toji tilted his head, mocking, waiting.

“It wasn’t ‘cause he talks dirtier, r made me feel something I shouldn’t have.” she said, the words trembling out of her like confession. “He… he made me laugh, that’s all. He knew my favorite color. He’d get me these stupid stickers from a bookstore he passed after class. Just—small things.”

Toji tilted his head, mocking, waiting.

She exhaled, eyes lowering. "It was just… easy.”

For a moment, Toji didn’t move. His eyes lingered on her, unreadable.
Then, a low laugh. Rough, humorless.

“‘Easy,’ huh?” he said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You feel easy right now? ’Cause last I checked, that boy didn’t protect you from shit.”

Her head snapped up, fury rising sharp in her chest. “You drugged us!” she hissed. “Tied us down—killed my friends! How the fuck were we supposed to know that? Huh?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just looked at her with that same unshakable calm that made her skin crawl.
“Did I hurt you though?” he said quietly.

The words landed like a stone.

She froze.

“I didn’t touch a hair on your head,” he went on, voice low, steady. “Didn’t carve you up. Didn’t even raise a hand at you.” His tone softened, almost tender. “And you know why... why I kept you. Why you’re still here—alive?””

Y/N’s stomach twisted, and she realized she didn’t want to answer.

Couldn’t.

But the silence stretched, heavy, almost unbearable. Toji tilted his head, waiting, patient and predator all at once.

“I… I can’t,” she whispered finally, voice cracking. “I just… I don’t…”

He let out a low, humorless laugh. “Not what?”

“I… I can’t do this anymore,” she admitted, shoulders sagging. “I’m tired. I just… want to lie down. Take a nap. Just… rest a little.” Her words stumbled over themselves, almost comical in their desperation, but there was no shame—she knew he wouldn’t kill her.

Not yet at least.
That much was clear.

Toji’s grin didn’t falter. “Sleep, huh?” His voice dropped, heavy. “Fine. Chapel first, then you can sleep all you want. Understand?”

Her body slumped further in the chair.

Her vision blurring, the weight of every terror-filled moment finally catching up with her.

The warmth of the breakfast, the strange normalcy of the table, made her muscles loosen
and her chest ease for the first time in hours.

She tried to speak, tried to protest softly, but her eyelids betrayed her.

“I… I just—”

Her words cut off as her head tipped forward, landing softly on the table.
Fork clattered against her plate. A slow, shuddering exhale escaped her lips as sleep claimed her entirely.

The trauma, the adrenaline, the constant tension—all of it peeled away, leaving her body to finally rest.

Even Toji paused, observing the collapse with that same cold, measured awareness.

His grin lingered, sharp and unreadable, but there was a moment—a rare acknowledgment—that she had reached her breaking point. And yet, even in this vulnerability, she remained entirely under his command.

The room was quiet around her, save for the faint scrape of his fork against the plate as he continued his own meal, letting her rest where she fell, if only for a while.

Chapter 37: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟑𝟐 - 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧.

A dull ache throbbed in the back of Y/N's skull.

She was warm, perhaps too warm, and the movement beneath her felt like a steady, heavy pendulum. Slowly, sluggishly, she blinked her eyes open.

the harsh afternoon sun trying to penetrate the side of her face pressed into fabric.

The world was reduced to blurs of scrub brush, pale yellow-brown earth, and an unending horizon she couldn't properly focus on.

Her first conscious thought was confusion:

I’m moving.

Her second thought was about her position: she was draped entirely over one shoulder, her stomach pressed against the hard bone and muscle of his trap, her head dangling down toward his back.

She reached out a hand, fingers clumsy, and fumbled for the fabric near her cheek.

It was thin, ribbed cotton. Not cheap, but high-quality fabric stretched taut over an expanse of muscle.

Her fingers bunched the material, and that's when she recognized the texture and the specific scent of it—the white ribbed tank top he had been wearing.

She could see the disturbing confirmation inches from her face: smudged across the white fabric were several dried, dark stains from the earlier terrible events.

A cold jolt of panic hit her.
Her breath hitching.

She pushed her torso up using her elbows, straining her back to lift her head a few inches, trying to look past his back.

The most she could see was the thick, jet-black hair and the massive, immovable hunk of his shoulders.

or a terrifying split second, because the hair color was familiar, she thought: Sukuna?

But the immense, unyielding breadth of the shoulders beneath her, combined with the isolating vibe of the sun-drenched, desolate land, slammed the truth home. It wasn't him.

It was Toji.

"Toji?" she whispered, the name a raw, panicked question.

He didn't slow his stride. "Quit your movin'," his voice was low, a rumbling vibration against her stomach, a sound of pure, lethal annoyance.

"Where are we going? Put me down!" Her voice hitched, and she started thrashing her legs, small, panicked kicks against the air.

He immediately tightened the arm looped under her knees, securing her so tightly her legs were forced up high on his back.

His hand rested right below the curve of her hips, the sudden, firm pressure sending a hot, unsettling jolt through her.

It was a move of control, but the placement of his hand—large, warm, and possessive—was a deliberate, fleeting brush with the intimate.

"You're making this harder than it needs to be," he muttered, the words clipped.

"Harder? You kidnapped me! Put me down right now!" she screamed, hitting the center of his back with the flat of her hand.

He stopped dead, releasing her just as abruptly.

Y/N dropped, stumbling to the dry, packed earth, completely off-balance.

Before she could regain her footing or even push off the ground, his hand shot out, not to catch her, but to clamp down on her upper arm.

The grip was a steel vise, cutting off her chance to escape or even yell again.

He gave her arm a hard jerk, yanking her upright and forcing her to face him, the momentum pulling her straight against his chest for a terrifying moment before he pushed her slightly away.

The air in the confined space between them was thick with tension.

He didn't look at her mouth or eyes, but let his gaze rake over her for a split second, taking in her disheveled state, before fixing his eyes ahead across the vast, empty land.

"I put you down," Toji's voice was a low growl, utterly calm.

He spun around, his tight, non-negotiable grip on her arm never wavering, and started walking again. His stride was long and quick.

"Let go of me! Are you deaf?! I am not going anywhere with you!" she tried to dig her heels in, but the strength in his fingers was overwhelming, pulling her along like a disobedient child.

He finally glanced down at her, a look of profound boredom masking the subtle darkness in his eyes. "You don't get a vote."

"This is kidnapping! I'll report you! I'll scream until someone hears me!"

Toji's grip tightened, making her wince. He gestured with his chin to the empty expanse around them. "Go ahead. You already sounded like a dying cat the last five minutes. Do you really think anyone on this property cares?" His eyes dropped to her struggling feet. "You will walk, you will keep up, and you will be quiet."

He pulled her arm again, forcing her forward, making her quick-step just to stay on her feet. "Understood?"

Y/N bit back a retort. The sheer, effortless dominance of his pull was physically painful and entirely humiliating. With a frustrated, breathless sound, she muttered, "Y-yes."

"Good." He resumed his rapid pace, dragging her along. The struggle was over, and she was entirely at his mercy.

. . .

The Zenins.

This Chapel.

It was all a gilded cage—a space built for solemn contemplation—was now full of stained-glass saints now witnessing only torture.

The air was heavy, damp with the coppery scent of blood and the sickening humidity of suppressed screams.

Nobara wasn't just shaking; she was a live wire, her teeth rattling against each other.

Her face was pressed deep into the cool, fitted black cotton of Naoya's shirt, the thin, tight fabric offering a pathetic, futile sound dampener.

Naoya's arm was a vice around her, his fingers drumming a rapid, irregular rhythm on her shoulder. His breath against her ear was quick and shallow, a sound of disturbed pleasure.

"Look at the altar, Nobara," Naoya whispered, his voice too high, too eager. "See that? The cut on Gojo's bicep? Naobito's technique is immaculate. It barely went a millimeter deep, but it looks like a goddamn fountain."

Nobara didn't need to look. The wet, rhythmic schlick of the ceremonial dagger and the choked gasps from the altar were enough. She had swallowed her cries long ago, but the tears flowed silently, soaking Naoya’s shoulder.

On the altar, Gojo and Sukuna knelt side-by-side, their bare chests heaving and bound by heavy rope.

Their bodies were a grotesque canvas of red.
New, slick wounds weeping blood that mixed instantly with old, dried gore—turning sticky and dark, painting stripes and swirls across their backs, shoulders, necks, and abdomens.

Making their once-magnificent physiques look like butchered meat wearing warpaint.
Their black and white hair, once pristine, was matted and stiff with gore.

Naobito Zenin stood over them.
A small, cruel smile pasted on his lips.

He held a silver dagger—meant, ironically, for communion—now inverted and dripping. He called this the "Game of Confession." A question was asked, and if the answer was deemed slow, insufficient, or a lie, the dagger bit flesh.

"Last chance, Gojo," Naobito drawled, his voice bored.

He turned to him, his eyes flat and bored. He walked around Gojo, his steps slow and deliberate, a predator circling wounded prey.

Gojo’s bloodied head remained bowed, his shoulders visibly slumping under the humiliation, refusing to meet the gaze of the hunter.

"Let's return to Y/N, Gojo." Naobito stopped directly in front of him, planting one foot against Gojo's abdomen, pressing into a raw wound.

Gojo flinched, a silent spasm of pain and submission as he curled in on himself, desperately trying to ease the pain away.

"You are a man of boundless desire, a modern idolater whose devotion runs to the profane of a woman you cannot possess. The photo is not just your idol; it is the physical representation of your weakness."

Naobito paused, leaning down, and moved the dagger so it was lightly tapping on Gojo's raw, bleeding collarbone.

"The scripture is quite clear on your sin, Satoru. If your eye causes you to sin, cast it out. You used yours eyes to commit the sin of idolatry and lechery every night, even while your loyal girlfriend, Shoko, sleeps in the next room."

Naobito did not just speak; he moved.

He crouched down, bringing his face mere inches from Gojo's, and pressed the tip of the bloodied dagger right between Gojo's—bloodshot eyes, that held a wide, raw terror, that were forced to stare at the man who held his life.

Naobito's voice dropped to a private, chilling murmur, utterly devoid of warmth. "The photo is your idol, Satoru. It is not Y/N; it is the sickness that has devoured your discipline."

Gojo's shoulders began to shake, a small, rapid tremor that ran down his bound arms.

A thin, desperate sound—a half-sob, half-whimper—scraped from his throat. "Please," he choked out, his voice a ragged whisper aimed at the floor. "I already told you everything..."

Naobito's hand shot out and gripped a handful of Gojo's blood-matted hair, yanking his head up and back instantly.

The skin between Gojo's eyes, already pricked by the dagger, stretched taut. He was forced to look directly at Naobito's souless eyes.

"You told me nothing of value," Naobito hissed, the dagger not moving from its perch. "Now, confess the true extent of your pathetic devotion. Tell me the one thing you would sacrifice—your name, your money, your dignity—to have her look at you the way you look at that photograph."

Gojo’s bloodshot eyes swam, the pure, agonizing fear overwhelming his pain.

His mouth opened, forming the shape of the humiliating confession, but no sound came out.

His body was tightening, ready to snap.

Naobito's eyes narrowed. The dagger point pressed slightly harder into the skin between Gojo's eyes.

"Don't waste my time," Naobito hissed. "Spit it out, or I will peel your eyelids back right now and take a gouge from your left eye. You can confess as I work."

Naobito's hand was steady.

He removed the dagger tip from Gojo's brow, but instead of releasing him, he turned the blade and pressed the rounded heel of the knife hard against Gojo's left eye socket.

He wasn't fucking around.
And Gojo knew that.

He applied slow, deliberate pressure, giving Gojo a horrifying, tactile preview of the blinding.

A low, desperate whine escaped Gojo's throat as he tried, uselessly, to pull his head away.

It was too much for the spectator. A loud, desperate scream tore through the silence of the chapel.

"Stop it! S-stop it, Please!" Nobara was struggling violently against Naoya's grip, her body convulsing with horrified, racking sobs. "I hate this! It's too much! Just let us go home!"

Naoya, leaning comfortably against the pew, simply rolled his eyes.
This is barely a game, he thought, bored by her lack of stomach.

Just a little discipline.
She’ll get over it.

Naobito’s eyes flickered from Gojo to the crying girl, a flash of cold annoyance crossing his face.

He removed the dagger from Gojo's eye and slid the blade down, bringing the edge to rest horizontally against the prominent curve of Gojo's throat.

"You heard the girl, Gojo," Naobito hissed, pressing the blade just enough to draw a thread of fresh blood. "Answer, or I will not only gut both eyes out right here, I will kill you and silence her forever. You will die blind and dead."

The sound of gutting both eyes out.
The fucking idea of it.

It was too much for Gojo. Too real.
The absolute certainty of the blade against his throat. The humiliation was total.

Gojo's body gave a final, desperate jerk against his restraints, and then, without a word, his eyes rolled back.

His head flopped against the wooded floor, and his entire frame went instantly, sickeningly slack.

Gojo had passed out from sheer, overriding fear.

Naobito straightened up, his eyes flat, looking down at the unconscious man. He wiped the dagger on Gojo’s exposed shoulder blade.

His lips curled in a brief flash of utter contempt. "Too much noise for such little substance," he murmured, his gaze sweeping dismissively past Gojo. He then turned, his focus hardening like stone, to where Sukuna remained bound and unnervingly silent. "We won't waste any more time on the filth that breaks so easily."

Sukuna did not hear Naobito's disgust. He was elsewhere.

The world had become a soft, faraway echo, filtered by the rhythmic pattern of his pain.

He was looking at the dust motes dancing in the faint light and watching the crimson beads of his own blood—blood drawn by Naobito's dagger—drip from his chin somewhere on his face.

Drip. One. Drip. Two. Drip. Three.

It was a better counting game than sleep.
Each drop was a moment of perfect, detached stillness.

He could almost feel the cool dampness spreading beneath him on the wooden floorboards beneath him.

He was smiling faintly, a private, self-amused twist of his lips. The chaos of his confinement, the throbbing pain, the sheer absurdity of the Zenin’s judgment—it was all just white noise.

He was waiting. He was always waiting.

Sukuna registered the shift in light as a shadow—Naobito—bent over him. He did not look up.

Naobito's hand, slick with Gojo's blood, suddenly shot out and gripped a handful of Sukuna's hair, yanking his head up and back with a brutal, sharp snap.

The rhythmic counting shattered. Sukuna’s eyes, heavy with disinterest, finally focused, locking onto Naobito's face.

His grin, however, did not fade; it merely broadened into something predatory and cold, acknowledging the interruption.

Naobito did not waste time with ceremony. He pressed the flat of his dagger against the searing scar on Sukuna’s cheek, forcing the his attention to the blade.

"You did not chase the girl out of weakness," Naobito hissed, his voice controlling and laced with deadly venom.
"You chased her out of simple, vulgar lust. A common, filthy animal seeking its mate." Naobito leaned closer, his eyes narrowing with a sick, perverse curiosity that broke through his mask of boredom.

"So tell me, you arrogant piece of filth," Naobito demanded, his voice dropping to a horrifyingly intimate whisper.
"What was her preferred filth? Did she like it rough? Did she cry out your name? Describe for me the exact expression of pleasure on her face when you possessed her completely."

Sukuna’s lips curled, the indifferent amusement finally gone, replaced by a cold, searing hatred that seemed to scorch the air. He showed no fear, only deep contempt.

"Fuck off," Sukuna ground out, his voice raw but level, echoing his previous exhaustion.

He spat a few drops of blood that had pooled in his mouth, aiming them deliberately at Naobito’s feet. "I already told you enough, you sick fuck."

Naobito smiled, but his eyes were pure ice. He pulled the dagger back and then slammed the flat of the blade against Sukuna's cheekbone, snapping his head sharply to the side.

"See, that's what I love about you," Naobito murmured, gripping Sukuna's jaw and forcing his head back forward. "The arrogance never stops. But you're just filth now, waiting to be scraped off my shoe."

Naobito raised the dagger high, the blade flashing in the dim light. He pressed the sharp tip to the skin just below Sukuna’s collarbone, a lethal, practiced movement designed to cause the maximum amount of exquisite pain. "I'll carve the answer out of you piece by piece, then. We'll start with your ribs."

Sukuna’s eyes remained defiant, but the cold realization of the inevitable pain hit him. He tightened his body, bracing for the first strike—

—when the massive, carved oak doors at the back of the chapel groaned loudly as they were thrown open.

They didn't just open; they were violently shoved, nearly ripping off their hinges.

Standing framed in the archway, backlit by the harsh Texas sun, were Toji Zenin and Y/N, locked in a desperate, ugly verbal fight.

"I'm not going in there!" Y/N's voice was a choked, pleading scream, raw with terror. Her nails clawed uselessly at the rough wood of the frame as Toji hauled her inside. "Toji, please! I'm scared!"

Toji didn't slow his stride. His grip tightened on her arm until her fingers went numb, pulling her forward. His voice was a low, calculated for her ears only, a sound that promised ownership.

"You're making too much noise," Toji murmured. "Walk. We're going to just talk—that's all. That fear on your face is amusing, but keep the screaming to a minimum. You belong here now, so act like it."

Y/N yanked on her arm, a furious, frightened sound escaping her throat. "Stop touching me! What do you even want? Who exactly are you people? Let me go, you sick bastard!"

Toji chuckled—low and dry, like something unspoken curled underneath.

He simply walked with that quick stride toward the front, dragging Y/N right past Naoya and Nobara, forcing them into a stunned silence.

"We had a deal, old man," Toji's voice was rough, slicing through the tension.
He released Y/N's arm with a sudden shove, sending her stumbling onto the altar steps.

She caught herself, her eyes snapping up in a flash of panic—and that's when she saw them.

The two figures bound low to the ground. The blood. The vacant, slumped figure of Gojo and Sukuna.

It was everywhere. It painted the wooden floors, soaked the ropes, and seemed to stream eternally from the wounds on their bodies.

Gojo and Sukuna looked less like men and more like human fountains, their new skin a horrifying, slick layer of crimson.

Y/N’s breath hitched in her chest. She stumbled back a step, one hand flying to her mouth to stifle a scream.

"N-n-no. Oh my God, no."

Her eyes locked first on Gojo. Slumped and lifeless, his head bowed, his body utterly slack.

The amount of blood surrounding him was obscene.

In that instant, she saw only one thing: a corpse.

"No.." It came out like a whine.

Her gaze snapped to Sukuna.

He was alive, his eyes burning with a terrifying, agonizing mixture of rage and shock, but the blood was pouring from his face and chest, painting his defiant grin in gore.

"No, no, no!" Y/N began to sob, a panicked, strangled sound as the full, bloody reality of the chapel hit her. Her knees buckled; she was going to collapse.

Toji’s focus was entirely on Sukuna, who was watching Y/N with an agonizingly vulnerable intensity.
This was the moment of maximum exposure.

“Enough.” Toji’s voice cut through her sobs, flat and final. He stepped over the line of blood and grabbed Y/N’s arm, dragging her back from the altar.
“You’re not staying here. Sit down.”

Y/N resisted, shaking her head violently, her eyes glued to Gojo's slumped form. "He's dead! You killed him!"

Toji didn't bother to argue. He didn't hurt her, but he applied undeniable force, half-lifting, half-dragging her from the altar steps toward the front pew.

"Naobito, leave," Toji commanded without looking away from Sukuna. "Go grab Megs. He's digging by the flower fields."

Naobito smiled, a thin, knowing slash of satisfaction, and gave a brief nod. He picked up his dagger, wiped the remaining blood on his trousers, and strode out of the chapel without a word.

Toji completed his task, firmly depositing Y/N next Naoya.

Y/N, forced to sit, began to cry herself, quiet, horrified sobs as she realized Gojo was not moving.

Naoya, seated between the Y/n and Nobara, grinned and shifted, making sure he was touching Y/N's shoulder. He was clearly enjoying the setup.

"Welcome to the party, Y/N," Naoya murmured, his eyes sweeping over the two weeping girls.

His glee was palpable. He had two terrified women on each side, and life was good.

Y/N instantly recoiled from Naoya, flinching from the man who had forced her to drink his blood earlier.

She leaned away quickly, trying to create distance.

Toji, noticing the movement, sent Y/N a dangerous, possessive look, but his voice was smooth.

"It's fine, Y/N. I'm right here. No one's going to touch you while I'm watching."

As Toji turned his full attention back to two bloodied men, Naoya leaned in, his breath hot against Y/N's ear.

"He said watchin’," Naoya whispered, his voice low and slick with malice. "That just means I can do whatever I want as long as he don't look. Don't worry. I won't hurt you bad. Just a little taste."

Toji crouched quickly beside Gojo's inert form, two fingers brushing the bloody, slick neck.

He felt the weak, erratic pulse—passed out from shock.
It barely warranted a thought. He didn't care.

He stood and moved to Sukuna. From the back of his waistband, Toji drew a black, heavy-gauge pistol, the click of the slide echoing in the vast silence. He pressed the cold muzzle instantly, brutally, against the side of Sukuna's skull.

Sukuna flinched, but he didn't dare lift his head. The weight of Y/N's presence was heavier than the gun.

"What now?" Sukuna's voice was flat, hollowed out, strained by exhaustion and shame. "What else do you want, you sick bastard? Fuck."

A terrible, high-pitched shriek sliced through the chapel. "Don't! Don't kill him! Please, Toji, don't!" Y/N was scrambling to her feet near the pew, hysterical, her arms already reaching in a futile gesture of protection.

Toji didn't react to Y/N immediately. He glanced over to Naoya, who was watching with avid, sickening excitement, thoroughly enjoying Y/N's raw terror.

Naoya grinned—a wide, manic flash of teeth. Toji returned the smile, a cold, dark mirror of the same predatory glee.

Toji turned back and slowly crouched, bringing his face level with Sukuna's bowed head, the gun still pressed firmly against his temple. The metal was frigid against the his skin.

"Look at that, Kuna~," he whispered, low enough that Y/N couldn't hear the words, only the menacing tone. "You couldn't protect her once, but she risks her life to save yours."

He tilted his head, the mockery thick and sticky. "Protected by the woman he couldn't even keep safe. A man who can't even protect himself has a girl he couldn't protect trying to save him. How utterly pathetic. How disappointing."

Sukuna couldn't move, couldn't fight. The cold truth of the words, amplified by Y/N's broken cry still echoing in his ears, was the final, devastating blow.

A single, thick, hot tear broke free from his lowered eye.

It slid down the gore on his cheek, cutting a clean, humiliating path through the blood and grime before dripping onto the blood coated floor.

Toji watched the tear fall. He stood abruptly, stepping back. He didn't put the gun away; he simply dropped his hand, letting the muzzle point carelessly at the ground.

"I won't shoot you," he stated, his voice flat, drawing Sukuna's broken focus. "That's too clean. I have something much, much better in store for you."

He turned his back on the altar—on the blood, the unconscious body, and the devastated man—and walked slowly toward the front pew where Y/N sat sobbing, clutching to herself. He stopped right in front of her, casting a massive, suffocating shadow.

Y/N looked up, her face tear-streaked, her eyes pleading.

He tilted his head, his face a mask of casual indifference, as if asking something totally normal.

"So, Y/N," Toji asked, his voice soft, almost conversational, forcing her to look up at him. "Who should we kill? Gojo, or Sukuna?"

Chapter 38: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟑𝟑 - 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

Y/N sat at the front pew, her knees pressed together, the wood biting through her skin.

The air was thick—like syrup and smoke—and it hurt to breathe.

On her right, Nobara’s sobs trembled in the hollow space of the church, wet and uneven, her shoulders jerking with each broken inhale.

Naoya sat between them, his posture loose, cruelly relaxed.

One arm was slung behind Nobara along the top of the pew; the other toyed with a half-rolled cigarette, fingers slow, intentional.

He leaned in toward Nobara, his breath ghosting her ear.

“Breathe,” he murmured, pressing the cigarette to her lips before she could refuse.

She turned her face away, but he caught her chin in a firm grip,
forcing her to meet his eyes.
“Didn’t ask, woman. Inhale.”

The ember flared when she did, trembling hands wrapped around nothing.

Smoke drifted up, curling around her wet lashes as she coughed hard, the sound breaking apart in her throat.

Naoya laughed under his breath—soft and poisonous—and took it back from her, dragging a slow pull before blowing it into her face.

Y/N stared.

Tears blurred her vision, hot tracks cutting down her cheeks.

Her chest hitched; she tried to swallow down the noise but it broke anyway, a pitiful, wet sound that echoed in the silence.

Her hands moved to wipe her face, and snot ran over her lips as she sniffled hard, her breathing shaking like a child’s.

She tried to look anywhere but at Naoya—anywhere but at Nobara’s trembling hands—and her gaze snagged on the far side of the room.

Toji was crouched beside Sukuna.

Even from here, she could see how disoriented Sukuna looked—head lolling slightly, a thin line of blood dried along his jaw.

Toji leaned close, his massive frame shadowing Sukuna entirely, breath brushing his ear.

Whatever he said, Y/N couldn’t hear it.

But she saw Sukuna’s jaw tighten, the slow twitch that pulled the corner of his mouth. Then—to her shock—he turned his head, sluggishly, until his gaze found hers.

It wasn’t anger she saw there. It wasn’t fear, either.

It was something worse—something hollow and breaking.

His gaze held her like he was memorizing her, like he wanted to tell her a thousand things but didn’t have the breath to speak even one. His lips parted, but no sound came.

Tears welled at the corners of his eyes, catching in the dried blood on his cheek.

Up close, the sight of him made her stomach twist.

His face was a map of cuts and bruises—skin split open in thin, angry lines, blood crusted along the edges of his mouth.

One eye was nearly swollen shut, and his breath came shallow, ragged, like every inhale cost him something.

Y/N’s throat closed. The man she was looking at wasn’t the Sukuna she knew.

The fire that usually burned in him was gone, snuffed out and replaced by something hollow. He looked exhausted—stripped bare—a man who’d been pushed past pride, past fury.

For the first time since she’d met him, Sukuna looked utterly defeated.

Before she could even draw a full breath, Toji’s hand shot up and clamped around Sukuna’s face, fingers digging into his jaw as he forced his head back.

The motion wrenched a sound from him—hoarse, guttural—half pain, half breath.

“Uh-uh,” Toji muttered, louder now, his tone like gravel dragged across metal. “Don’t look at her. You think this wasn’t always the plan?”

The words hung heavy in the air, echoing between the pews. Y/N didn’t know what he meant—but the look on Sukuna’s face said enough.

Something inside her cracked.

The silence stretched, warped by the faint hum of the chapel’s old lights.

Toji stood slowly, the floorboards creaking under his weight.

His gaze lingered on Sukuna for a beat too long before he finally turned away, muttering something under his breath as he moved toward the back of the altar.

Naoya tilted his head as he watched Toji go, then turned his head lazily toward Y/N.

“Hey,” he said, voice low enough to almost sound kind. “Who you gonna pick, huh?”

Y/N didn’t look at him. Her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

Naoya smiled like he already knew. “That Gojo kid seems like the right one to me. Pretty boy like that? Doubt he’d last another minute anyway—he’s already out cold. Wouldn’t even feel a thing.”

He paused, flicking ash onto the floor. “Though Sukuna’s a decent option too. Bastard looks like he’s begging for it already.”

Her breathing quickened, uneven.

Naoya leaned closer, his lips barely moving. “Still… I got a feeling you’ll choose Gojo. Since you and Sukuna got your little thing, right?”

The words struck her harder than the smoke. She shook her head, tears spilling again, her voice catching in her throat.

“Stop,” she whispered.

He grinned, eyes glinting with cruel humor. His hand dropped onto her thigh, palm heavy, slow as it began to move. “You know, if Sukuna’s gone, I could keep you satisfied. Might even do it better.”

Y/N’s breath caught. For a moment, she quickly glanced at Nobara—silent, trembling at the end of the pew, her eyes wide but frozen in fear. No help came.

The realization made her chest tighten. She jerked away, voice louder than she meant—raw and panicked. “Stop touching me!”

The sound snapped through the room like a gunshot.

Toji froze mid-step behind the altar.

When he turned back toward the pews, the smile that crept up his face wasn’t confusion—it was amusement.

And that’s when Naoya’s hand left her thigh.

Toji straightened slowly, the amusement never leaving his face. His shadow stretched long against the altar as he came around it, boots thudding with lazy precision.

“What’s goin’ on?” His tone was deceptively calm, but the way Naoya flinched told the truth.

Naoya lifted both hands in mock surrender, his grin never faltering. “Relax, Toji. She’s just a little jumpy.”

Toji’s gaze flicked to Y/N. Her hands were shaking where they clutched her knees. He didn’t need her to speak—he could see the truth written in the way she couldn’t meet his eyes.

He clicked his tongue once. “That right, Y/N? He botherin’ you?”

Y/N opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her throat was tight, her lungs shallow. The weight of Toji’s stare pinned her in place.

Naoya laughed softly, the sound crawling under Y/N’s skin. “Please. I’ve got Nobara here.”

His arm draped lazily across the back of the pew, resting along Nobara’s shoulders like they were close—like she wasn’t shaking beneath it.

The other hand slid lower, creeping up Nobara's thigh until his fingers dug into the soft flesh, just enough to make her gasp.

He tilted his head toward her, brushing his thumb along her jaw with mock affection. “Isn’t that right, Nobara?”

Nobara’s head jerked in a quick nod, lips trembling. The pressure on her leg tightened when she hesitated, forcing a strangled, broken “Y–yes” from her throat.

Naoya smirked, his thumb grazing her jaw as if rewarding obedience. “Don’t need another woman when I’ve already got one, do I?” His tone was playful, but the look in his eyes was all cruelty. “She’s plenty enough.”

For a long, awful moment, the chapel was silent except for Nobara’s shaky breathing and the faint hum of the old lights.

Toji didn’t move. He just stood there, broad and still, the shadows swallowing half his face. His eyes cut toward Naoya—slow, pinning the man like a knife point.

Even Naoya went still, his smirk faltering just enough to show he’d felt it too. The kind of tension that scraped at the edges of instinct.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. The silence stretched until it felt alive, crawling up her spine, pressing down on her chest until she thought she might choke on it.

Then Toji looked away from Naoya. His gaze slid back to her.
“Did you decide?” he asked finally, voice quiet but cutting, as if the air itself had been sliced open.

The question hit her harder than a scream.

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Just a broken sound caught in her throat.

Her mind spun—images flashing behind her eyes—Sukuna bleeding, Gojo unconscious, Nobara shaking beside her.

“I—please,” she stammered. “I don’t—don’t make me—”

Naoya’s laugh cracked the silence, loud and grating. He leaned back against the pew, eyes glinting with mock sympathy.

“Oh, come on. It’s not that deep.” He dragged out the words, slow and lazy.

“Gojo’s already halfway gone. Pretty boy won’t feel a thing. Hell, he’s been out cold for ten minutes. Might even thank you for it.”

“No!” Y/N’s voice tore from her throat, desperate. “Please don’t—don’t kill him! There’s already too much blood—please, no more—no more, I can’t—”

She was crying again, shaking so hard her voice broke apart.

She folded forward in the pew, hands trembling as she pressed them together like prayer. “Please, I’ll do anything. Anything you want—just don’t hurt them anymore—”

Toji’s shadow fell over her. His tone didn’t rise, but something in it carried the weight of command.
“You promised,” he reminded her quietly. “Said you’d listen to every word. Do what I said—if I let her live.”

Y/N froze, the realization sinking like a stone in her chest.
He was right. She had promised.

Her breath came in uneven gasps, throat tight with panic. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think.

And then, from the far side of the floor, Sukuna’s voice—hoarse, raw—cut through the chaos.
“Just—fuckin’ do it.”

Every head turned.

He was slumped forward now, chest heaving, blood pooling beneath his knees. His eyes were open, dull but steady. “Just… kill me. Get it over with. Don’t make her choose.”

Naoya barked out a laugh, sudden and sharp. “What, you can’t handle a little fun? Pussy."

He tilted his head, smirking down at him. “Tell you what—why don’t we skip the mercy and get creative? Instead of tossing him with the corpses, let’s bury him alive. Make him earn it.”

The smile that crept across Toji’s face was slow. Too calm. Too certain.
“Not a bad idea,” he murmured.

The words froze Y/N’s blood.
Sukuna went still—too still—and she saw his chest start to shake, his breath coming faster, shallower.

“No,” she whispered. Then louder—“No, please—please don’t!”

She stumbled from the pew before she could think, falling to her knees in front of Toji.

Her fingers clutched at his thighs, her face wet and red and pleading. “Please, I’ll do anything! I swear, I’ll do anything you want, just don’t kill him—don’t kill anyone—please, no more!”

Her voice broke into a sob, her forehead pressing against the rough fabric of his jeans.
“I’ll listen, I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever you say—just stop, please—”

Toji looked down at her, still as stone. For a moment, he didn’t move at all—then his hand came up, brushing a thumb along her jaw, tracing the tears streaking down her cheek.

The touch was almost tender. Almost.

His eyes lingered on her face—red, trembling, desperate—and something dark flickered behind them.

His thumb pressed against her lower lip, smearing the salt of her tears.

His gaze dipped, hungry, calculated.
“Now that’s more like it,” he murmured, voice low, rough around the edges. “Didn’t take you for the begging type… but fuck, it suits you.”

Her breath hitched—half sob, half gasp—and it made something in his chest twist with dark amusement.

Toji leaned closer, voice dropping until it brushed her ear.
“Get up,” he said quietly.

Toji’s hand fell away, his gaze still locked on her. “If you’re gonna offer yourself...” he said, slow, almost savoring the words, “you better be ready to prove it.”

The chapel stayed silent after that—just the creak of the floorboards as Toji turned away, the heavy echo of his boots heading toward Sukuna.

And Y/N, still on her knees, couldn’t tell which was worse—the sound of him walking away, or the way his words kept replaying in her head like a curse she didn’t want lifted.

Chapter 39: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟑𝟒 - 𝐀 𝐅𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧.

“Take the boy.”

Toji didn’t shout; he didn’t need to—the quiet alone made the ears ache.

The room folded into silence around that single order.
He pointed, slow and precise, at Gojo’s limp form.

“Don’t wake him now,” he said, each syllable a promise. “Let him sleep until he wakes on his own."

A beat passed—just the hum of a light, the wet drag of someone’s breath.

Then Naoya exhaled smoke.

He had his arm draped around Nobara’s shoulders, lazy and possessive, like she was a pet he’d grown bored of.

The other hand held a half-burned cigarette, the ember flaring as he took one last drag. He patted her shoulder twice—mocking, almost affectionate—and stood.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he muttered, letting the smoke curl from his nose.

He dropped the cigarette to the floor and crushed it beneath his boot with a slow twist. “Don’t miss me too much, sweetheart.”

Nobara didn’t move. Didn’t even blink... but her breath hitched ever so slightly, betraying her.

Naoya grinned at that—he liked the fear.

He feed on it.

He stepped over to Gojo’s body and grabbed him by the back of the neck, fingers sinking into slick, blood-warm skin.

The contact made a sound, wet and suctioning, almost obscene—as he hauled him upright with a grunt.

Gojo’s body hung useless in his grasp, muscles slack, arms dragging like dead weight.

Blood smeared down Naoya’s wrist, thick and dark, dripping in slow trails to the floor.
His head lolled to the side—slack, heavy—like a broken doll that refused to stay upright.

“Christ,” Naoya hissed, adjusting his grip. “Boy’s leaking like a gutted pig.”

The smell hit Nobara strong—thick, rotting heat and the sharp bite of blood.

It was so strong it coated her tongue. And the worst part wasn’t the smell itself—
it was knowing it belonged to Gojo—to them...

And they were suffering.
So... so bad.

Her fingers curled tight around the edge of the pew, nails carving into the old wood as if it might anchor her.

Naoya sensed it before she even finished the motion.

His attention snapping toward her the way something feral turns at the sound of prey shifting in the brush—the tight lock of her shoulders, the trembling breath she struggled to contain.

The air around them thickened, turning humid and oppressive, like the chapel itself was sweating under the weight of all the blood soaking its floorboards.

And Nobara’s breath hitched—barely a sound, barely a movement.

But it didn’t matter.

It was enough.
It was everything.

His gaze locked onto her like a jaw snapping shut, and the slow drag of his attention felt carnivorous—inevitable—like a creature that had just scented the exact moment its prey realized it couldn’t run.

He drank her in piece by trembling piece, eyes crawling over her with a hunger that made her skin feel too tight, too exposed.

For Nobara, it felt slow and devouring—like he was consuming the fear right out of her bones.

But then the spark ignited.
Recognition. Amusement.

And then it washed over him—that sick, rising thrill—shuddering through his body so hard it almost looked involuntary, like her fear had struck some deep, feral nerve inside him, wired strsight to his pleasure.

His shoulders loosened in a slow, predatory melt, his fingers clamping harder around Gojo’s neck as though pleasure demanded something to hold onto.

He drew in a long, starving breath, chest lifting like he was inhaling her terror itself—tasting it, savoring it...

The fear.
Her fear.
And God, it lit him up.
It fed him.

Something unfurled in him then...
Slow, greedy—pleasurable.

His smile crept in, lazy and delighted, the kind a man wears when he’s already unwrapping the ending in his head.

He leaned in, savoring the panic blooming behind her eyes like something he owned—something he’d earned.

“…Ah,” he breathed, almost tender. “You know this smell, don’t you?”

He let the silence drag until it hurt.

“The blood. The rot.” His voice dipped into something soft and poisonous. “Just like when your little boyfriend’s skull split open.”

He gave Gojo’s neck a rough shake, the body limp, head lolling side to side like a grotesque puppet.

Blood slicked under his grip, the wet sound of flesh on flesh breaking through the silence.

“Sounded just like this,” he sneered. “Crack… then silence."

Nobara’s breath hitched hard—she pressed her trembling hand to her mouth, tears spilling fast down her cheeks.

“Stop,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Please, stop—”

But Naoya only laughed softly under his breath, walking closer like he was savoring the memory.

Y/N flinched where she sat, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Every word felt like a needle under her skin.
She knew she had to do something.

But she was scared.
So fucking scared.

Her eyes darted toward Nobara, but she couldn’t move—just stared, horrified, watching Naoya drag Gojo's body like a plaything.

Nobara let out another strangled sob, shoulders jerking as her whole body trembled.

“You went real still after that,” Naoya went on, narrating the memory, tone calm, almost tender. “Like you didn’t even know if you should scream or throw up.”

Nobara pressed her palms harder to her mouth, tears slipping hotter and faster down her cheeks. “Stop—please,” she whispered.

But the plea only made him grin slower—crueler.

“Didn’t even scream, did he?” Naoya said softly, shaking Gojo’s body again. “Just… stopped. Eyes open, mouth still trying to breathe through all that blood.”

Nobara broke fully then—her sob turned to a choking cry. She folded over, trembling, trying to muffle the sound against her knees.

Y/N wanted to reach toward her, but her hand was shaking too badly to make contact.

Fuck.

The air fractured around them—shouting, the crackle of flame, the smell of copper so thick it burned her throat.

And then—

A sound.

Not loud.
Not desperate.

A laugh.
A manic laugh.

Low, ragged... and wrong.
The kind of laugh that shouldn't exist in a place like this.

Sukuna lifted his head toward Naoya, blood stringing from his lips, eyes burning red around the edges.

His breath rattled, but the grin he forced through it was vicious.

“You’re all sick fuckers,” Sukuna spat, blood threading from his mouth.

Naoya’s snapped his head toward him grin faltering, but then just as quickly split back into a sharp smile. “What’d you just say, huh?”

He turned taking a step closer.
Dragging Gojo with him—each step scraping dead weight across the floor.

One step—then another.

“Go on,” Naoya taunted, tilting his head. “Say it again.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched so hard the split in his cheek reopened.

His breath tore in and out of cracked ribs, each inhale a razor.

But he still lifted his chin—still forced that mangled, spiteful grin.

A wrecked, bloody sound bubbled out of him—a laugh that shouldn’t exist in a human throat.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “I said you’re—”

And then everything stopped.

Not visually.
Not physically.

Atmospherically.

Almost like the air itself stiffened—watchful, heavy, alive.

Like the room realized something terrible before anyone else did.

The air condensed—heavy, watchful.
A pressure rolled down the walls like a held breath that finally remembered it was lungs, not stone.

No footsteps.

No warning.

Just presence.

Sukuna’s eyes widened a fraction.

He knew that weight.
A pressure—dense, patient, aware.

Movement so quiet it barely existed.
Movement that didn’t need sound to be felt.

A presence Sukuna should’ve remembered.
One he should’ve feared the entire time.

Toji.

Sukuna’s stomach dropped.

He’d forgotten the bastard was even in the room—forgotten how he could disappear in plain sight.

So quiet, so still…like a predator that didn’t have to stalk prey when the prey had nowhere left to run.

Because the prey was already trapped.
The wrong breath.
The wrong sound.
That was all it ever took.

He forgot because Toji had slipped into the back of the chapel like a knife returning to its sheath—hidden, patient, waiting.

He forgot because his own head was swimming with blood loss, pain, adrenaline, the metallic sting of iron sliding down his throat.

He forgot because staying conscious took more effort than staying smart.

But Toji hadn’t forgotten him.

And now the man moved with that awful, unhurried calm—
like Sukuna saying one more word was the moment he’d been waiting for.

Like the silence wasn’t an absence, but a countdown.
Like this was the part Toji wanted to savor.

Toji's boots dragged through a smear of blood, cutting a dark, glistening path across the chapel floor.

Candlelight crawled up his body in slow, sick pulses—catching on the cuts across his knuckles, the dried gore on his forearms, the shadowed look in his eyes.

He didn’t look at Naoya.
He didn’t even acknowledge him.

His attention was locked—hungry, fixed—on Sukuna’s bruised, bloodied, still-defiant being.

He came up behind him, the heat of his body sinking into the space like a second spine pressed against Sukuna’s back.

“You got a mouth on you,” Toji said, voice low enough that the room seemed lean toward it.

Not amused.
Not angry.
Just... curious.

Like he was examining a creature in a cage, wondering what sound it might make if he tightened the bars.

He bent enough that his breath brushed the edge of Sukuna’s jaw—almost intimate, almost a whisper.

“Wonder if it still talks once I’ve got your tongue in my hand.”

Silence swallowed the room.

Heavy.
Wet.
Like a pit opening beneath them.

Then—

A sound.

Soft.
Wrong.
Almost gentle.

Pat.

A fucking pat.

Toji’s hand came down on Sukuna’s blood-slick back, fingers spreading warm and slow across torn skin.

Mapping every tremor like he owned it.

A mockery of comfort.
A brand claiming flesh.

“Keep that mouth quiet,” he murmured.

The tone said don’t speak.
The hand said I'm daring you to.

And Sukuna felt both.
Felt them settle into him like hooks.

Because this wasn’t a man who simply hurt you.
Sukuna knew that.
He knew it better than anyone here.

Damnit.
Why?

His vision swam, then steadied enough for him to turn his head—
just a little, just enough, just once.

Toward her—

Y/N.

Sitting on the pew with her knees pressed together, posture rigid like if she moved even an inch she’d shatter.
Eyes hollow.
Fixed on the floor.
Too scared to look anywhere else.

It hit him harder than the broken ribs.
Harder than the blood choking his breath.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this—
not when they were finally starting to figure out whatever the hell they were becoming.

He loved her.
He fucking loved her.

And he never got to tell her.

Then—

through the suffocating stillness,
through the blood roaring in his ears,
through the certainty that this was the end...

Her voice.

Small.
Shaking.
So full of terror it didn’t sound like her at all.

“P-Please… don’t…”

The sound gutted him.

Because the plea wasn’t clear—
was she begging for him?
for Gojo choking in Naoya’s fist?
for any of this to stop?

He didn’t know.
And it didn’t matter.

It broke him anyway.

Because the truth hit like a knife to the heart:
she was still trying.
Still fighting.
And he was powerless to do a damn thing.

But in another universe—one with no blood, no chapel, no fucking Zenins...

He would’ve walked toward her.
Held her.
Told her everything he never said.

But here?

Here he could only hang limp—half-conscious, half-broken—while Naoya’s fingers cinched tighter around Gojo’s throat, crushing the breath out of him inch by inch.

The world tilted, blurred.

Because Sukuna wanted—needed—to be anywhere but here.

Anywhere but this chapel-turned-slaughterhouse—

a place where the pews felt like butcher blocks
and the stained glass watched them die.

He wanted to slip back into the world he’d been building in his head—
the one he’d been clinging to like a lifeline.

The world where Y/N looked at him without fear.
Where their secret meant something real.

Where he wasn’t dying beneath candlelight that flickered like it was blessing the massacre.

Where he didn’t have to take his last breath in a place that stank of rot, iron, and old prayers that had never saved anyone.

But reality held him in its jaws.

And Toji’s shadow crawled over him.

“You hear that?” Toji murmured. “Graves don’t talk much either.”

Sukuna’s heart slammed so hard it felt like a punch from the inside.

They were really going to do it.
They were really going to bury him alive.

The sick promise Naoya made earlier wasn’t a threat.
It was a schedule.

Toji’s fingers curled lightly around the back of Sukuna’s neck—
not squeezing.
Just holding.

A preview.

A claim.

“You’ll be quiet down there,” Toji whispered. “Real quiet.”

Sukuna tried to breathe against the rising panic—
not panic of death—
but of leaving her.
Leaving her with them.

With him.

He blinked hard.
A tear broke free.
Hot.
Blistering with humiliation.

He tried to swallow it.
Tried to steel his jaw.
Tried to be anything but this broken, gutted version of himself—

But it didn’t matter.

Y/N’s voice had cracked.
Gojo was unconscious.
Nobara was curling into herself, sobs muffled against trembling hands.

Naoya’s smile was stretching wider.

And Toji saw Sukuna break.

Saw the tear.
Saw the fight drain.
Saw everything.

Noted it with the lazy interest of a man watching a candle bend in the heat—
wondering how long until the whole thing collapsed.

A soft hum slipped from him.
Amused.
Almost pleased.

Sukuna dropped his head, trying to hide it, breath ragged, choking on everything he’d never get to say.

Too late.

Always too late.

Because Toji waited for this.
Lived for this.
Fed on this—

the exact moment fear finally sank its teeth in.

The moment you realized something worse than pain:

You weren’t escaping this chapel.

Not alive.
Not whole.
Not above ground.

And Toji wanted him to understand that.
Every agonizing second of it.

He leaned in closer, lips brushing Sukuna’s ear, voice dropping into something slow, private, indecent.

“You’ll feel the dirt close in,” Toji murmured. “Air thinning… lungs clawing for space… heartbeat slowing like it’s begging.”

His fingers tightened just barely on Sukuna’s neck.

“And while you’re down there dying inch by inch…”
a smile curled in his voice,
“Y/N and I will be upstairs. In my bed.”

Sukuna’s breath hitched—sharp, strangled.

Toji savored it.

“We’ll build something you wanted, yeah? A future.”
A pause—intentional.
Cruel.
“…A family.”

The world went white behind Sukuna’s eyes—
rage, grief, disbelief—
all strangled into a single, silent scream trapped behind blood and broken ribs.

Toji’s breath ghosted warm across his jaw.

“You’ll die thinking about it,” he whispered.
“Her under me. Her carrying what should’ve been yours.”

Sukuna’s body threatened to collapse.
His pulse thundered so hard it drowned the room.
For a moment he thought he might actually vomit.

And Toji smiled—slow, satisfied—
because this was the kill he wanted:

Not the body.

The hope.

The future.

The part of Sukuna that loved her.

The part that would die screaming under the dirt.

Movement broke through the haze.

A drag.
A shuffle.
Wet fabric skidding over old stone.

Naoya had straightened, dragging Gojo’s body limp body like dead weight behind him.

Blood smeared in an ugly trail across the chapel floor as he moved.

He shot Toji a sideways glance—Toji looming above Sukuna like a shadow he’d been stupid enough to forget—and cocked his head with a grin that twitched too wide.

“So…” Naoya murmured, breath hitching in amusement, "where should we put this little fucker?

Toji’s eyes flicked briefly toward him, then settled back on Sukuna. “Basement,” he said, voice low, “With the others."

Naoya’s grin split wider, a slow burn of anticipation curling through his chest.

“Ohhh… that’s perfect. They’ll have a nice… reuinion party.” He gave Gojo’s limp form a casual shake, almost playful.

“Tie him up, tight, make sure he can’t get cute ideas when he wakes. No running.” Toji’s voice was calm, almost gentle—but his eyes never left Sukuna.

Like Gojo wasn’t a person… just a chore to deal with while he savored the real show.

Naoya’s laugh came out sharp and thin. “Oh don’t worry—I’ll make him real snug.”

Then Naoya’s gaze slid toward Nobara.

“And you, sweetheart,” he said, not offering a choice, not pretending she had one. His voice curled around the words like a hand around a throat.
“You’re coming with me.”

The words landed, heavy, sharp. Nobara went stiff.

Her chest hammered as if her ribs themselves were trying to flee.

She lunged backward, fingers shooting instinctively for Y/N’s arm, clutching like a lifeline.

“I—I don’t want to go!” she stammered, voice shaking, almost breaking. “I don’t… I don’t want to be alone with him!”

Naoya’s grin flickered in the candlelight, slow and predatory.

He leaned in just a fraction, letting the heat of his presence lean toward her, eyes drinking in every tremble, every hesitant breath.

The faintest hum escaped his throat, amusement curling through it.

“You will go,” he whispered, Each word slid out slow, planned—an intentional scrape meant to make her flinch.

“And you’ll enjoy it…” His gaze dragged over her, not seeing a person, just a thing he’d already decided he now owned. “Because I promise you…” His smile twitched, wrong, hungry. “…I make things memorable.”

His voice dipped, softening in a way that felt dirtier than a shout.

“Especially when they’re scared.”

“I… I can’t…” Nobara’s voice cracked, just a whisper.

Nobara’s grip tightened on Y/N’s arm, knuckles white, nails biting into flesh.

Her fear was thick, raw, a thing she could taste.

She wanted to run.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted anything but this.

And Naoya? He wasn’t moving fast.

He was savoring it.
Letting her panic build.
Letting the idea of him, of what he could do, settle into every nerve.

“You’ll go,” he murmured again—soft, almost reflective, as if he were already picturing the outcome.

His thumb dragged lazily across Gojo’s jaw, thoughtful. “And if you keep fighting me…”

Nobara’s breath stuttered.

Naoya stepped closer—too close—tilting Gojo’s head as though testing how loosely it hung.

“Let. Her. Go.”
No raised voice.
Just a promise sharpened to a knife-edge.
“Or I’ll snap him right here. One crack. One breath. That’s all it takes.”

Nobara didn’t move.
Didn’t loosen her grip.
Didn’t even breathe.

She clung harder to Y/N, shaking her head in tiny, frantic jerks.
“No—no, please—don’t make me—don’t make me go with him—”

Naoya’s fingers flexed around Gojo’s jaw, testing the angle like he was picturing how easily it would give.

Y/N leaned in, voice barely a whisper—
but the sound hit like a breaking bone.

“Nobara… go.”
Her voice trembled, but the words were iron.
“We can’t let Gojo die.”

Nobara’s breath stuttered.

She didn’t want to move.
Didn’t want to step away.
Didn’t want to walk toward the man whose breath sounded like excitement and whose smile looked like a wound.

But Y/N was right.
And Naoya was already tightening his grip.

With a crushed, tiny sob, Nobara’s slowly let her fingers slip from Y/N’s arm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered—not to Naoya, not to Gojo, but to Y/N.
“I’m so sorry…”

Naoya straightened, adjusting Gojo’s limp weight over his shoulder with a grunt.

Blood smeared across his collarbone, glistening on his jaw, dripping from his chin in slow, sticky threads.

“There we go…” he hummed, delighted. “See? She listens when she’s scared enough.”

He dragged his free hand down Gojo’s back, smearing the blood simply to feel it spread—wanting more on his palm.
More to offer.

Then he looked at Nobara.
And held out his hand.

Left hand.
Bloody.
Wet.
Still warm.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice tipping into that shaky, breathy excitement that made her stomach buckle. “We don’t wanna keep the others waiting in the basement, do we?”

Nobara stiffened, petrified.

Her eyes locked on the blood pooling in his palm, and something in her chest caved.
She shook her head once, tiny, desperate.

Naoya tilted his head.

“Take. My. Hand.”
Three words, dripping with warning.
“Don’t make me ask again."

His fingers twitched.

Gojo’s limp body jerked with the motion.

Nobara cracked.

She reached out—shaking so badly her fingers kept missing his palm before they finally landed in the mess of blood.
The warmth hit her skin.

Her breath hitched like a sob she didn’t have air for.

She turned back once.
Just once.

Y/N sat on the pew still, eyes wide, holding herself together by threads.

“Bye…” Nobara whispered, voice breaking.

Y/N’s lips trembled. “Bye.”
And softer—barely sound at all—
“I’m sorry.”

The chapel doors groaned open.

Cold air rushed in.

Naoya leaned down, his lips nearly brushing Nobara’s ear as they stepped over the threshold.

His voice—soft enough that only she heard—curled like smoke down her spine:

“Be a good girl for me downstairs… and maybe I’ll let you keep screaming.”

The doors slammed shut behind them.

Auhtor's Note: The chapter I’ve been dying to write is coming up soon, and I can’t wait for you all to see it! I feel like I haven’t been checking in with you guys as much as I should, but I really am trying to make each chapter the best it can be.

Once the book is finished, I’ll probably go back and update some of the older chapters too, just to make everything flow more smoothly.
But for now, I’m super curious, what are your thoughts on the story so far? How’s everyone been? I feel like it’s been a hot minute since I’ve checked up on you all, and I want to hear from you! :)

Chapter 40: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟑𝟓 - 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐨 𝐀 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥?

“Look at you,” Toji murmured.

Not mocking.
Not angry.
Just… pleased.

He stood over Sukuna and tilted his head, eyes dragging down his restrained body with a slow, obscene sort of appreciation.

It was the kind that threaded with that sick, intimate interest someone should never have while looking at another man’s suffering.

There was something in the way that Toji looked down at Sukuna that wasn’t just enjoying Sukuna’s fear.

Because Toji wasn't just watching the fear.
He was measuring it, mapping it, savoring it.

Trying it on like a coat he already knew fit him perfectly.

He crouched slightly—not enough to meet Sukuna, just enough so Sukuna had to see him. Had to see the smirk curving his mouth.

A smirk with pure hate in it.
A smirk that felt wrong.

And then Toji spoke, voice low and almost leisurely:

“You know…” he drawled, eyes sweeping him slowly, “I’ve been thinking.”

Sukuna’s jaw flexed, breath shaking through his teeth.

A pause.
Long enough for Sukuna’s breath to stutter.

“You’re not much good sitting like that.”

“…wha—”

Just a rasp.
Barely shaped into a word.

Sukuna’s brows knitted, breath shuddering as he tried to shift against the ropes slicing into his wrists.

Toji watched the struggle like it pleased him.

“Some men just look better,” he murmured, “when they’re lying down.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, shoulders tensing, breath hitching hard.

It felt like he was bracing for something he didn’t understand yet.

A short, sharp exhale escaped him.

“—the hell…?”
Barely a whisper.

He didn’t get anything else out.

Toji stood.

Rolled his shoulders.
Cracked his neck.

And the boot came.

Not a kick—a drive, vicious, straight to his jaw.

The impact landed with a sickening crack.

“—gh—!”

White burst behind Sukuna’s eyes.
For a split second, he didn’t even feel pain...
just a flash of static, a buzzing that swallowed the room whole.

Then it hit him.

A sharp, flooding ache that crawled up the side of his skull and bloomed behind his eyes like lightning under his skin.

The floor surged up to meet him, and he hit it hard, ropes tearing deeper as the air ripped out of him in a strangled, broken grunt.

His head swam.
His vision slipped sideways, colors smearing at the edges.

“F—fuck—!”

The word tore out of him raw—but it didn’t even sound like his voice anymore.

His body jerked in little spasms he couldn’t control, breaths coming in ragged, panicked pulls as humiliation burned hotter than pain.

And through the ringing, through the nausea, through the drowning haze—

Toji’s voice cut in.

Low.
Pleased.

“There.”
Soft.
Cruel.
“That’s more like it.”

The words sounded far away.
Like they were coming through water.
Like the chapel itself was sinking.

His lungs fluttered, stuttering against the ropes.

Toji kept talking—close, unbothered, as Sukuna’s sight blurred into unfocused, gray streaks.

“Good practice,” Toji murmured, steps slow as he moved past him, the sound of boots echoing off stone in warped, uneven pulses.
“You’ll be lying like that....”

Sukuna tried to lift his head.
Just a twitch.
But the world reeled violently and dropped out under him.

His stomach churned.
His ears rang.
Darkness surged up like a tide he couldn’t fight.

Toji’s voice faded last, sinking into the black:

“…for a long time…”

And Sukuna was gone.

Y/N’s hands flew to her mouth before she even realized it. Her fingers pressed hard against her lips, as if that could stop the words from spilling out.

“Oh my god…” she whispered, barely audible, before it broke into a panicked, trembling cry.

“You… you… you killed him!” Her voice cracked, high and panicked, trembling across the chapel like glass under pressure.

Her chest heaved, breaths shallow and jagged, each inhale a silent plea she didn’t dare voice.

For a heartbeat, her mind refused to process anything else.

Sukuna… gone?

The thought clawed at her, sharp and suffocating.

Her stomach dropped, nausea twisting into a cold, hard fear, and a chill ran down her spine.

She wanted to leap forward, to scream, to check—but her body froze, bound by instinct, shock… and Toji.

Her eyes flicked up to him, wide and desperate, silently asking if it was true, if he had really… if there was nothing left.

And in that gaze, all her fear, all her panic, all the frantic, spiraling terror of imagining Sukuna dead, was locked, raw and unbroken.

She stayed on the pew. She didn’t move. She couldn’t move.

Her obedience, her survival instinct, her terror of him—Toji—kept her rooted in place, trembling, every muscle taut, as if moving a finger without his permission would end her.

Without a word, Toji crouched slightly beside Sukuna.

His movements were conscious, controlled, predatory, yet strangely calm.

One hand hovered for a moment before gliding to Sukuna’s neck, fingers pressing just enough to catch the faint rise and fall of the pulse.

So when he found it, a slow, subtle smile tugged at his lips—soft, cruel, like a predator who knows his prey is alive to suffer.

Satisfied, Toji straightened, brushing a loose strand of hair from his face, eyes flicking up to Y/N.

His lips pressed into a thin line—no smile, no outward emotion—but the faint tension in his jaw, the sharp focus in his eyes, that gave way of his satisfaction.

He began his slow, knowing steps toward the pew.

Each footfall measured, pulling the tension tighter.

Y/N's chest tightened, hands clenched in her lap, breath catching as the space between them grew heavy, dangerous, intimate.

“Relax,” he murmured, low, smooth, his voice warm, a gentle mockery layered over carrying that soft warmth that contradicted the brutality she’d just witnessed.

He lifted a finger and tapped it lightly to his temple, a soft, intentional gesture. “Lights out.”

Y/N’s breath caught. Her hands shaking, “L-Lights out… w-what?” Her voice was small, faltering, a nervous edge under the fear.

Toji’s lips curved with a slow, amused smile. “He’s fine,” he said, calm, low, almost conspiratorial. “Just… taking a nap. Got knocked out. Nothing more.”

Y/N’s brows drew together, hesitating, eyes wide. Her voice wavered as she finally asked, “…Noth… nothing more? Why… why’d you knock him out then?”

He paused now.

Just a step in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze.

The space between them thickened, heavy and taut, every heartbeat echoing with that familiar, predatory tension.

His gaze lingered on her, “Bored of him,” he said smoothly, stepping slightly closer, almost casual, almost teasing. “Figured it was time for a little… uninterrupted conversation… with you.”

Her chest tightened, heart hammering. Her hands clenched in her lap, breath catching, unsure if she should be horrified—or something else entirely.

And then, almost lazily, he moved toward the pew.

“I gotta ask you somethin’,” he said, soft, warm, yet every word curled with that low, hungry undertone that made the air tighten around them.

Y/N flinched before he even fully touched the pew.

Toji lowered himself onto it beside her, slow, unhurried… 
settling into the space to her left.

Closer than any stranger should ever sit.

Heat from his thigh bled into her bare skin.

One arm draped behind her shoulders, not touching, not yet.
It was close enough she could feel the ghost of where he could touch.

His other hand hovered near her bare knee,
radiating warmth, close enough to graze her if she breathed too deep.

His gaze locked onto hers.

Not looking.
Consuming.
Dragging her into him, threading himself into her panic like a hook sliding under soft skin.

The air thickened.
Charged.
Obscene.

The kind of intimacy that comes from a man who understands exactly
how fear bends into something else
when pressed just right.

Y/N shivered violently, her shoulders curling inward, hands twisting tighter in her lap.

“T…oji…”
Her voice was barely a breath—thin, trembling, the beginning of a sob trapped behind her teeth.

His grin stretched slow.

Knowing.
Pleased.
Cruel in the quietest way.

He leaned in... closer.

Till his breath slipped warm down her throat.

“I said…”
his lips hovering by her neck like a secret about to be bitten into,
“…I gotta ask you something.”

Her lashes fluttered.
Her breath stuttered.
She looked at him like staring was the only thing keeping her from passing out.

Toji angled in until his mouth hovered at her ear, not touching, just brushing the air between them.

“Have you…” his voice dropped warm and slow, dragging the question across her skin,
“…ever been to a funeral?”

As he asked, his fingers brushed the thin strap of her left tank top strap.

Her breath cracked.
her hands twisting harder,
her shoulders curling more like she could make herself smaller, safer—
but her skin betrayed her.
Heat rushed over her collarbone.
Goosebumps followed the glide of his fingertips like he’d woken nerves she didn’t know she had.

She didn’t answer.

He watched her.
Studied her.
Devoured her silence.

Then softly, almost curious...
he hooked her spaghetti strap between two fingers.

He pulled it outward just enough that it trembled with her shaking.

And then snapped it against her skin.

Y/N gasped.
Tiny.
Helpless.
A sound she didn’t even mean to make.

Her chest rose too fast.
Her breath came too shallow.

Her thighs pressed together.

She didn’t mean to.
She didn’t even notice she’d done it.

But Toji saw it.
He always saw it.

His eyes dipped down, just for half a second,
and the slow press of his tongue against his cheek said everything.

A predatory amusement.

“…yes…” she whispered, small, brittle and shaking, “…my… grandma.”

Toji moved closer.
Not by inches—by intent.

His hand slid from her shoulder, down her arm...
so slow it was obscene,
so gentle it was indecent.

It felt like a sin.

Her skin tightened under every pass of his fingertips.

She shuddered.
in fear, yes...
but not only fear.

He reached her wrist.
Paused there.

He threaded his fingers under hers,
lifting her hand up slightly,
just enough to make her pulse jump against his thumb.

“…No…”
his breath brushed her cheek, his voice dipping low enough to settle between her ribs,
“I mean one where they’re still alive…
inside the coffin.”

Her breath caught.

Sharp.
Silent.
Panicked.

But something else pulsed beneath it.

A low, traitorous pull deep in her stomach, blooming in ways she couldn’t control.

Her fear didn’t vanish.
It twisted.
Tangled with that heat until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Her body knew his presence before her brain could protest.
It was subtle, involuntary.
Even while the rest of her tried to hold the line.

Toji watched every flicker of it in her eyes.
Every stutter in her breathing.
Every tremble in her fingers inside his.

He leaned in again, so...so.. close.
So close his chest brushed her arm when she breathed.
So close she felt the warmth of his mouth ghost her temple.

His thumb stroked the back of her hand, slow, rhythmic, devastating.

Not a caress.

A claim.

“See…” he murmured, words sliding down her spine like warm fingers,
“…that kinda funeral?
Changes a person.”

He let her hand go—not fully.
His touch dragged away slow enough that it felt like it didn’t want to leave.

His palm dropped to her thigh.

Not high.

Not low.

Just above the knee...
the perfect place to move wherever he wanted next.

His thumb stroked once, barely there, enough to make her breath break.

“…Shows you what people look like…”
his lips almost brushing the shell of her ear now,
“…when they know they can’t get out.”

His thumb slid an inch higher.

Soft.
Warm.
Devastating.

Her inhale hitched,
not fear alone.

Not anymore.

 

Author’s Note:
Omgggg, you guys have no idea what I’ve got planned for this story… like seriously, it’s eating me aliveeee. I honestly don’t even know if you guys are going love or hate me for ittt.

Chapter 41: 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 + 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐋𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐔𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞!

Hii!!!

I’m planning a future story featuring an Angel, Fallen Angel, and the Devil—and I want YOUR help to shape it.

Choose which Jujutsu Kaisen characters you think best fit each role.

────────────── . 𖤍

Jujutsu Kaisen Possible Character(s)

⟢ Gojo Satoru

⟢ Sukuna Ryomen

⟢ Fushiguro Toji

⟢ Zenin Naoya

⟢ Fushiguro Megumi

Story Roles

⟢ Angel「 The Virtue 」

⟢ Fallen Angel「 The Forsaken 」

⟢ Devil「 The Corruptor  」

────────────── . 𖤍

Feel free to explain why you picked those characters! I love hearing your reasoning, and your ideas might inspire something in my writing. 

────────────── . 𖤍 𐃯

And One More Thing !!

I’m also planning a separate future writing project—a Vampire AU. For this story, I want to know which male Jujutsu Kaisen character you think would make the best vampire.

I won’t give any hints about the plot yet, so choose purely based on your instinct and imagination. Who do you think embodies the perfect vampire?

────────────── . 𖤍 𐃯

Got questions? Ask away! Got ideas? I’m all ears and I want to hear them !!

Also...

BloodLust is getting a new, longggggg chapter this weekend !!

Chapter 42: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟑𝟔 - 𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝.

Naoya's hand was holding Nobara's at first.
A strange, almost gentle grip, like he was guiding her down the steps.

But with every stair they descended,
with every echo of their footsteps in that cold, rotting dark,
his fingers began to tighten.

Slowly.
Unconsciously.
Until the sweetness soured.

By the time they reached the basement floor,
his “hand-holding” had turned into a chokehold on her wrist,
tight, bruising, exposing exactly what lived under his skin:

Not fear.
Not panic.

Possession.
Agitation.
The early sparks of a hysteria brewing under his skin.

Things were going wrong.
Very, very wrong.

“Where the hell are they,” he muttered, fingers twitching around her wrist.

Nobara blinked, confusion flickering across her face, a tiny, involuntary
“…H-huh?”
as she tried to follow the direction of his stare.

She tried to look, but his body was in the way.

He was too broad, too solid, his shoulders cutting off her entire view.

So she had to shift—just a little, tilting her head around the line of his arm, her cheek nearly brushing his arm as she craned to see past him.

A small, helpless movement.

Then she saw what he saw.

Two ropes.
Both empty.

A pool of blood.

Fresh.

Still wet.
Still glistening.

Meaning Mei and Choso hadn’t been gone for long.
Meaning they were somewhere nearby... loose.

Naoya stiffened for half a second... staring at the empty ropes like they betrayed him personally.

His jaw twitched once, the muscle jumping.
A spark of something ugly flashed through his eyes.

Not panic.

Entitlement.

They escaped him.

They weren’t allowed to escape him.

 

THUD.

 

He dropped Gojo like garbage.
The body hit the floor, with a sickening crack of bone against concrete.

Gojo hit the concrete with a bone-crunching smack, a broken “khh—” tearing from his unconscious throat.

But he didn’t wake.

Nobara flinched, her free hand shout out, grabbing Naoya's bicep before she even realized what she'd done.

The wrong choice.

The wrong person.
The worst person.

A terrified reflex she regretted instantly.

His eyes flicked down.
Saw her touching him.
Felt it.
Liked it. Too much.

“Ohhh… look at you.”
His voice warm, wrong, rocking on his heels.
“Did the little noise scare you?”

Her throat bobbed. Once.

His gaze followed the movement.
That was her answer.

Her hand slipped away from his bicep, a tiny, broken—whisper, “S-sorry…”

He caught her wrist before the apology even finished—firm, rougher this time, pulling her hand back to him like the contact belonged to him, not her.

“Mmm, no,” he breathed against her cheek, warm jitters of excitement. “Don’t apologize for giving me something I like.”

Then his voice softened into something too smooth to be safe.

“As much as I’d love to keep you touching me like that…”
A low hum left him, pleased, anticipatory.
“We’ve got a little problem to fix first.”

His smile twitched—hungry.

“Two of your friends ran off,” he added lightly, almost sing-song. “And I can’t exactly enjoy you while they’re out there making a fucking mess of my night.”

His eyes dipped to where her hand still clung to him, held there by his grip.

“But don’t worry,” he murmured, breath quickening with that jittery thrill he didn’t bother to hide.
“We’ll get back to this.”

His thumb brushed her knuckles.
Once.
Almost tender.

Almost a promise.

A beat.

Then his breathing changed.
Fast. Erratic. Thrilled.

He barked a laugh, too sharp, too high, too unhinged.

He snapped his head toward the empty ropes again, pupils dilating.

He exhaled a shiver, mind flicking through frantic calculations.

“Where the hell did I put that rifle…”
His eyes darted wildly around the basement, searching the shadows.
“Can’t hunt them without it.”

Then a sudden, jerking—
his attention snapped back to her.

“You,” he breathed.

“You’re gonna tie him up.”

No room for refusal.
No room for thought.

Just command.

It was just what his brain decided, and she was expected to obey.

She stumbled, choking on a breath.

“W–w-wait, I—I don’t want to— I don’t— I can’t—”

Her voice was barely a whisper.
Barely a shape.
Just fear.

Naoya stilled.

Not fully... never fully.
His body never really stopped moving—tiny tremors buzzed through him like static—but something in him focused.
Locked onto her.

His fingers tightened, not cruel, not yet.

It was more like he was thinking. Really thinking.
Calculating what version of himself she needed to be most afraid of.

“You can’t?” he echoed.

Soft.

Too soft.

He leaned in, their faces too close, his breath warm and shaking with excitement.

“Say it again.”

Nobara’s mouth opened, but no words came.
Nothing except a tiny, broken inhale.

Her silence was the answer.

He smiled.

“There it is,” he whispered, almost fond, his cheek brushing hers as her breath buckled. “That little sound you make when you’re helpless. God, you’re perfect when you’re scared.”

Her lunged trembled.

Naoya hummed—a low, curious vibration against her ear, half-mocking, half-aroused.
“Mmm… how much more fear do you think I can pull out of you?”
His breath warmed her skin. “I want to find out.”

A beat passed.

Then the knife appeared.
Fast.
Twitchy.
Shivering with his excitement.

Before she could even gasp, the blade slid up—cold and landed neatly against her throat. The metal nudged her chin higher, forcing her neck to bare itself to him like an obedient offering.

He clicked his tongue softly.

“Didn’t I tell you to listen?” he murmured, the reprimand soft enough to sting.          “But you’re shaking instead of listening.”
His fingers tightened, guiding her tighter to him.
“That’s a problem… isn’t it?”

But as the cold steel kissed the her throat.

It reminded her of a place.

A place where Yuji used to press warm, absentminded kisses along her jaw... soft, laughing, stupidly gentle—

Now that same spot fluttered with death.

She choked on a breath. “P-please—Naoya, please don’t—”

“Ohhh…” His voice dipped, savoring her fear like a taste on his tongue. “There it is.”
He angled the blade just enough to stretch her throat, her pulse fluttering right against the metal.
“Begging looks good on you.”

His breath skimmed her temple.

“And to think…” Naoya breathed, his lips brushing her temple as he dragged his face slowly down toward her ear, “…you almost killed me earlier. Remember that?”

He didn’t kiss her—
but he hovered.
Cruel.
Intentional.
Close enough that his breath stroked the corner of her mouth like a withheld kiss.

“Using my knife on me,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. “God, I was pissed at first—”

A low groan rumbled out of him, his grip on her back tightening until her spine arched.

“—but now that I’m thinking about it?”
His nose grazed her cheek, his mouth ghosting over her jaw.
“We could use that in the bedroom… don’t you think?”

Nobara’s whole body seized.

A strangled, horrified sound ripped from her throat.
“N-no—no no no—please—”

Naoya didn’t wait for her to breathe.

Didn’t give her time to process anything.

His hand snapped up, gripping her jaw—hard enough to bruise—and he dragged her face to his.
No warning.
No softness.

His mouth crashed onto hers, rough, hungry, claiming.

Nobara’s whole body went rigid.
Not just fear—revulsion.

Her palms pushed at his chest, desperate, shoving, trying to get him off her.

Naoya’s lips stilled.

Just for a heartbeat.

He pulled back an inch, just enough to see her face, to really see the way she recoiled from him.
The way she stiffened.
The way her mouth stayed frozen, refusing him.

His breath dragged out in a slow, trembling exhale.

Not anger.

Something darker.
Something wounded and rabid at the same time.

“…oh,” he murmured.

A tiny, dangerous sound.

His fingers flexed on her waist.

“Well, isn’t that cute.”

The words were light, but everything else was not.

Not squeezing yet.
Just claiming.

Nobara’s breath stuttered, and that was the deciding factor.

Naoya shoved her.

Hard.

His hand slid up—over her ribs, her collarbone—until his palm curled around her throat, holding her there.

Not squeezing.
Just holding.
Firm. Possessive.
Like deciding how much pressure he planned to use later.

Nobara’s breath jumped—and that was it.

Naoya shoved her to the floor, sudden and hard.

She hit the ground with a cry, scrambling on her palms. He stood over her, chest rising, knife dangling from his fingers, swinging lightly like a cat toy. His breathing rough—
but his eyes were dark in a way that wasn’t anger alone.

“Get up.”
His voice was low, almost steady—too steady.

He grabbed her wrist and hauled her upright with a jerk, forcing her toward Gojo’s limp body.

“You’re gonna make yourself useful.”

She stumbled, sobbing, “I—I can’t—he’s too heavy—”

Naoya leaned in, his breath sliding along her cheek.

“That’s funny,” he murmured. “You had no problem pushing me.”

Her whole body went cold.

The knife tapped her lower back—almost like a reminder.

“Drag him.”

Her knees shook as she gripped Gojo under the arms and pulled, his dead weight sagging. Every inch took everything she had.

Naoya followed behind her at a slow, unhurried pace, watching her struggle like it soothed him.

“That’s better,” he said softly.
“Now you’re listening.”

When she finally dragged Gojo to the post, Naoya stepped in behind her, the heat of his body pressing the air from her lungs.

“Enough fucking around.”
His tone cut like glass.
“Tie him up.”

Her hands shook as she fumbled the rope.

Naoya leaned down until his lips hovered near her jaw—not touching, just close enough to feel.

“Do it right,” he whispered. “Before I decide you need a lesson in listening.”

Nobara sucked in a shaking breath, hands shaking violently, tying knot after knot.

Not to help him.
Not to free him.

No... in this reality, she was kneeling to bind him deeper into hell.

Her hands barely worked, trembling so hard she fumbled the knots, but she forced the rope around Gojo’s mangled wrists.

Naoya paced behind her, breath uneven, muttering under it.

“Hurry up.”
“Before he wakes—just fucking do it.”

Nobara finished the last knot, her fingers trembling as she pulled the rope tight around Gojo’s shredded wrists.

Nobara's tears dripped soundlessly.

But even through the tears, even through the panic, she saw him... Gojo's mangled skin.... his arms, his neck, his ribs...

God...

All the cuts.
All the slices.
All the places they’d carved into him like he was fabric instead of flesh.

..Please save us.

But Gojo didn’t move.
He didn’t even flinch.

And Naoya didn’t care.

He was pacing now—fast, sharp little steps—buzzing with adrenaline.
His breathing was ragged, uneven.
His grin was too wide.

“They couldn’t have gotten far.”
His voice cracked into a laugh.
“Choso can’t run for shit. Mei either. Little rats. Think they can crawl away from me? I’ll slice their fucking legs off—swear to God—”

He didn’t sound stressed.

Not even close.

He sounded thrilled.
High.
Electric.
Like the idea of the chase was turning him on.

“Make it tight,” he snapped suddenly, leaning over Nobara’s shoulder.
Close enough that she could smell his sweat—hot, metallic, vibrating with excitement.
“I’m serious. Don’t make me check your work.”

She swallowed and nodded quickly, tightening the last loop.

She didn’t even get a chance to breathe.

Naoya’s hand clamped onto the back of her neck.

Not a squeeze.
Not a choke.

Just a hold.

A warning.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice warm in a way that made her stomach twist. “See? You listen when you want to live.”

She froze.

He leaned in, his breath sliding across her cheek, too close, too pleased.

“Stand up.”

She obeyed—because what choice did she have? Her legs wobbled under her.

Naoya looked her over… slow, calculating… like weighing what he wanted to do to her and when.

Then he smiled.

Not soft.
Not pleased.

Predatory.

“You’re shakin’,” he noted, tilting her chin with one finger. “That means you’re ready to behave.”

Her breath hitched.

“But just in case…” His hand ghosted down from her chin to her collarbone, tracing the path his knife had threatened moments ago. “I don’t trust you yet.”

Before she could react, he turned her by the shoulders and shoved her backward toward the second post—right beside Gojo’s limp, bound form.

Nobara stumbled, catching herself on the wood.

“N-no—please—Naoya, please, I did what you said—”

“Mm.” He hummed, almost thoughtful.
“Yeah. You did.”

He grabbed her wrist.

“And now you’re gonna sit here,"

In one quick, efficient motion, he pulled the rope around her arms, yanking them behind the post.

His mouth hovered at her ear—mocking, condescending.
“Think about how to behave for me. Because when I get back? We’re gonna fix that pretty attitude of yours.”

Her blood turned to ice.

“W-why—? I did everything—”

“You did,” he agreed.
A soft hum left him, pleased with how easily her fear filled the air.
“But I need you right here when I get back.”

The rope tightened.

Panic burst in her chest.

“B—back? When—when are you getting—?”

Naoya leaned in close—nose brushing her hairline, lips grazing her temple in a mockery of tenderness.

“To fetch your friends,” he whispered. “They should’ve never ran from me.”

Her breath broke.

“And when I bring them back down here—” His voice dipped, erotic in its cruelty. “You’ll have had time to think real hard about listening.”

He stepped away.

Turned.

His eyes scanned the basement—then brightened when he spotted what he wanted.

The rifle.

He grabbed it, humming under his breath.

Excited.

Then he moved toward the stairs, footsteps light—almost springy.

Nobara’s voice cracked into a sob.
“Naoya—please—don’t—DON’T LEAVE ME DOWN HERE—PLEASE—”

He didn’t even look back.

At the top of the stairs, the door hinges groaned.

He paused, just long enough to say one last thing through the grin in his voice:

“Be good while I’m gone.”

The door slammed.

The sound echoed through the basement like a gunshot.

Nobara squeezed her eyes shut, breath breaking in her chest as tears fell—dripping onto the floor.

Please wake up.
Please… someone… save us.

Author’s Note:                                                                                                            I wanted to make this chapter longer, but had to cut it short due to personal reasons. Future chapters will be better and hopefully worth the wait. Sorry again!

Chapter 43: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟑𝟕 - 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐬.

“Stop shaking. If you’re going to die, at least try not to look so fucking pathetic.”

Sukuna didn’t even look human anymore.

He stood—if you could call it standing—his body jerking uncontrollably, knees knocking together, bare skin carved open in a hundred places, each cut weeping blood as if the wounds themselves were exhausted.

He couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t control it. Every muscle betrayed him, every breath was ragged, and still, he swayed on unsteady legs like a candle flame on the verge of snuffing out.

Naobito held him in place by sheer force, both arms wrenched mercilessly behind his back, elbows locked tight. His other hand gripped the back of Sukuna’s hair, yanking his head upward, forcing his gaze to meet Y/N’s.

Every inch of him screamed failure.

His spine arched painfully, ribs protesting with every shift, muscles screaming against the unnatural angle.

He tried to steady himself, tried to force control, but there was nothing left. Adrenaline had abandoned him. Only pure, raw agony remained.

Y/N could see it all, from her small distance away across the flower field.

Every shudder. Every flicker of suffering in his eyes. Every spasm of muscle, every inch of scarred, bloodied skin writhing like it wanted to crawl away from him.

She could track the tiny movements: his jaw tightening over each ragged inhale, the hopeless arch of his back as it bent painfully under Naobito’s hold, shoulders trembling, barely keeping him upright. 

Every inch of him screamed suffering, and she could feel it all as if it were being pressed into her chest.

Her eyes clung to him—the way his knees threatened to buckle under his own weight, the way his torso twisted with futile resistance, the slackness in his hands, the subtle tilt of his head showing how utterly defeated he was.

And Toji…

Toji held her there.

One hand curling around her waist, pinning her against him.

The other gripping her jaw, just enough to force her to watch, to bear witness to the collapse of the man she had loved.

Her sobs caught in her throat, ragged, desperate. But Toji leaned closer, voice low and cruel against her ear:

“See him?” he murmured. “Pathetic, isn’t he?”

Sukuna’s knees dipped, trembling violently, body folding just enough to show the weakness he couldn’t hide. Naobito tightened the hold, and a choked, guttural sound tore from Sukuna’s throat. Y/N’s tears fell freely.

Toji’s grip dug a little deeper into her jaw. “Look at him,” he whispered. “Look at what’s left of the little affair you thought you could hide.”

Sukuna’s eyes didn’t leave hers. They couldn’t. They burned with a helpless, aching longing, a raw, humiliating yearning that had nothing left to give.

And Y/N…

she saw it.

Saw it all.

Not just his pain, not just his broken, shaking body—

He was heartbroken.

The hollow ache in his eyes that spoke of all the moments he would never get back, all the touches he would never give, all the closeness that would now be forever out of reach.

Sukuna’s chest rose in a trembling, broken stammer of a breath.
The kind that didn’t sound like breathing at all,
but like something inside him collapsing in slow motion.

And then, after a silence thick with suffering,
a sound clawed its way out of his throat.

Fragile.
Torn.
Barely alive.

The kind of sound that only escapes a man who has lost everything
except the person he’s looking at.

“Y/N…”
His voice cracked apart, raw and shredded.
“…please… just… reach for me.”

It wasn’t strength.
It wasn’t defiance.
It was the last piece of him, the last thing he had left.

Naobito chuckled darkly behind him.

“Oh? You want her?” His grip tightened in Sukuna’s hair, forcing his head even higher. “Then earn it, mutt.”

The shove came hard.

Sukuna’s knees buckled, and he collapsed forward—straight onto his abdomen.

The sound he made wasn’t human.

A guttural, strangled cry ripped out of him as open wounds met dirt and crushed petals. His ribs seized; his breath snapped into a harsh, broken gasp.

The flowers stuck to his skin—soft petals clinging to blood, to sweat, to the split-open parts of him.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was.

But in that moment, even the taste in his mouth felt distant.
He couldn’t tell where the blood on his tongue ended and the dirt began.

But he knew the scent.

Peonies.

Y/N’s favorite.

The thought wasn’t clean.
Wasn’t intentional.
It rose through the static of his collapsing mind like instinct—like his body was still reaching for her even as the world blurred out.

Peonies meant something.
Romance.
Good luck.
Happiness.

He didn’t believe in any of it.

And definitely not here.

He would die with none of those things.

None.

This wasn’t theirs.
Not this land, not this night, not this field.

Texas.
A place they never should’ve stepped foot in.
If only the car hadn’t broken down.
If only they hadn’t trusted the wrong men.
If only they’d turned around the second everything felt off.
If only they’d stayed home.
If only.

But they didn’t choose this.
They didn’t choose this field.
A field of flowers beneath them, soft and helpless,
just like he was about to be.

And yet, for some sick, cosmic joke—here he was being forced down among flowers that felt like her, that smelled like her, that dragged every memory of her through him like knives.

So why the hell…
why the hell was he dying in a place that smelled like her?

How was this the last thing he’d see?

Peonies under his knees.
Peonies brushing his wrists.
Peonies blooming around the grave he was being forced to crawl into.

Mocking him.

Mocking the way he tried to reach for her.

Mocking the way he swayed when Naobito shoved him down, knees cracking against the earth.

Mocking the way each plea—

“Kuna—please—don’t—”

Her voice broke.

Fuck.

The nickname shattered something deep inside him.

He lifted his head.
Barely.
Pain roared all the way down his spine, but he forced it.

Her silhouette wavered in his vision—standing in the warm, dimming light, framed by blossoms that shouldn’t have meant anything but now meant everything.

Romance.
Luck.
Happiness.

All of it gone.
All of it slipping through his fingers like the blood dripping into the dirt.

Naobito’s boot pressed into his back. “Come on,” he mocked. “Crawl to her. Show us how badly you want your little toy.”

Humiliation didn’t matter.
Pride didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered.

Except her.

Sukuna dragged one arm forward, elbows shaking violently, muscles screaming.

His breath tore out of him in harsh, stuttering pants.

The ground burned his wounds. The petals clung to him like reminders.

His head swayed.
Like a dying candle flame trying so desperately not to go out.

But he moved anyway.

Inches.
Just inches.

And the whole time, he could see her.

Y/N’s face.

Her lips trembled, her eyes wide, her breath sharp and frantic—not because she feared him.

Because she feared what he was doing to himself.

Because every inch he dragged his bleeding body forward was another piece of him breaking, another bruise blooming, another wound tearing wider.

Because truthfully he was destroying himself.

For her.

And she didn’t know how to stop him.
Didn’t know how to breathe.
Didn’t know how to survive the sight of him sacrificing the last of his strength just to reach her.

It wasn’t madness.
It wasn’t desperation.
It wasn’t even love, not the kind she understood.

It was something rawer.
Something older.
Something that shouldn’t have existed between two people who spent years pretending they didn’t want each other.

It was devotion.
Unspoken, ugly, beautiful devotion.

And watching it kill him was the worst thing Y/N had ever felt.

Her lips trembled, her eyes wide, her breath sharp and frantic, not because he was reaching for her, but because he was hurting himself worse with every movement.

And he knew that.
He knew exactly what that look meant.
He knew she didn’t want him to die for her.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been doing this.
Maybe reaching for her like this was selfish.
Maybe it was cruel, making her watch him destroy himself inch by inch.

But fuck... how could he not?

All he could think about was the moment in the bathroom.
God knows how long ago now.

The dim light.
The locked door.
Their breaths still uneven from the way he’d just taken her.

But when she finally admitted it.
Soft.
Embarrassed.
Barely meeting his eyes.

That she used to like him freshman year.
That she wanted him back then.
That the only reason she never tried was because he was the campus fuck-boy and she refused to be another girl he used up and forgot.

But what wouldn’t leave his head, what had been drilling itself into him ever since.

Was what she said next.

That she wanted to try again.
For real this time.

Not sneaking around.
Not motel rooms.
Not guilt.
Not hiding.

Actually try.

She wanted them to get through this trip, go home, and finally be something real.

No more secrets.
No more shame.
No more pretending he didn’t love her.

But it was too late.

Because he threw that away.
He threw years away.

Years he could’ve spent with her instead of Mei.
Years he could’ve been the one holding her openly—without guilt, without hiding, without this sick ache in his chest.

He could’ve been hers.
She could’ve been his.
And he fucked it all up.

Now he was here, bleeding into the dirt of a Texas field, wanting one fucking day.
One day where they weren’t a secret.
One day where she got to call him hers in a way the world could see.
One day where he wasn’t crawling, wasn’t choking on dirt and blood, wasn’t begging with his whole body just to touch her.

He wanted that so badly it was pathetic.
Beautifully, hopelessly pathetic.

And maybe it was never meant to happen.
Maybe that kind of life was for some other version of them, a version that never came to Texas, that never broke down on that empty road, that never trusted the wrong men.

But even knowing that…

He dragged himself forward anyway.

Inches.
Just inches.

Until Naobito suddenly yanked his head up—boot still grinding into his spine—and angled Sukuna’s face so he’d see.

Metal flashed.

The knife plunged straight through Sukuna’s palm.

The scream that burst from Sukuna’s throat was ugly—raw agony ripping through his voice as the blade pinned his hand to the earth like an insect specimen.

“Fuck—fuck—FUCK—!” He choked, body thrashing once, then seized under the weight of the agony pinning him down.

Naobito smirked viciously.
“What’re you waiting for? Go on.”
He crouched beside him. “Go get the girl.”

A taunt.
A command he couldn’t obey.

Y/N broke.

“No—no, please—stop! Please stop hurting him!”
Her voice cracked, splintering with each word.
“Don’t do that to him—please—please, he can’t—he can’t take anymore—!”

She tried to reach for him, tried to step forward—

But Toji’s arm locked around her waist, hauling her back into him like a prize.
His grip on her jaw tightened, forcing her to watch the knife jutting out of Sukuna’s hand.

“Cry louder,” Toji murmured against her ear. “He likes it.”

Sukuna squeezed his eyes shut—not from the pain.

But from her sobbing.

But he still tried.

He didn’t even attempt to pull the knife free.
Didn’t care that the blade tore deeper when he moved.

With his free hand, shaking violently, coated in blood and crushed petals—he reached toward her.

And Y/N, through tears, through Toji’s bruising grip, broke free just enough.

Just enough to reach back.

Her fingertips trembled toward him.

The tiniest sliver of hope.

The smallest mercy.

Their hands....
so close—so-so... close.

But before they could touch, Toji ripped her backward with a force that knocked the air from her lungs.

Her hand slipped from the space between them.

And Toji filled it.

A gun pressed to Sukuna’s head, replacing her touch.

“NO!” Y/N screamed, the sound tearing out of her like something inside her cracked open.

She reached again, desperate, wild, but Toji yanked her upright so sharply she gasped.

“Stay still,” he murmured, amusement dripping from his voice as she shook in his grasp.

The barrel tapped lazily against his forehead.

“She gets a choice.”

Sukuna’s head lifted... barely.

Only because Naobito fisted a hand in his hair and yanked it up, forcing his chin to the sky.

His boot stayed firm between Sukuna’s shoulder blades, grinding him deeper into the flowers, deeper into the dirt, deeper into humiliation.

The knife buried through Sukuna’s hand kept him nailed to the earth.

Blood pooled beneath his palm, mixing with crushed petals.

He couldn’t move.
Couldn’t brace himself.
Couldn’t hide.

Naobito held him there, nothing gentle, nothing careful—just a fist in his hair and a weight on his back that promised he wasn’t going anywhere.

Sukuna’s eyes dragged upward, unfocused but locked onto Y/N like she was the only thing left he wanted to see before he died.

Not angry.

Not afraid.

Just terrified of her pain.

“Don’t… look like that…” he breathed, the words barely holding together, barely more than a tear slipping loose.
He didn’t flinch from the agony tearing through him—
he flinched from hers, from the way Y/N looked at him like his pain was killing her, too.

Toji hummed behind her, amused at the pathetic sentiment.

“Here’s how this works, sweetheart,” he said, pressing the cool barrel of the pistol lazily against Sukuna’s head.
“You want him to go quick…?”

He nudged the gun harder, tilting Sukuna’s head with it.

“Or slow?”

Y/N froze.

Her breath hitched.
Her hand hovered helplessly.
Her face crumpled with horror.

She couldn’t choose.

She couldn’t kill him.

She couldn’t even speak.

Toji waited.

Letting the silence dig into her ribs.

And when she didn’t answer, when her voice broke before it could form a single word, he let out a low, disappointed breath.

“Too slow.”

He fired.

The bullet slammed into the dirt beside Sukuna’s ribcage, so close the soil exploded across his wounds, peppering raw skin with burning grit.

Y/N screamed like she’d been shot herself.

Sukuna flinched—

Not at the pain.

But at her scream.

Toji chuckled, spinning the gun in his hand like this was all entertainment.

“Put him in,” he ordered, grin spreading with sick pleasure.
“She couldn’t even give him mercy.”

Naobito didn’t pull the knife out. He didn’t bother with gentleness.

He ripped it free.

The blade tore through flesh on the way out, shredding the edges of the wound.

Blood surged from his palm in a violent burst, splattering across Naobito’s sleeve, across the dirt, across the flowers.

Sukuna’s scream split the air—raw, ragged, animalistic.

Sukuna stared down at his hand like it wasn’t even attached to him.

He collapsed further onto his side, clutching the hand that no longer obeyed him.

The gash ran deep—too deep—blood bubbling up in thick, steady pulses.

His breath hitched.
Instinct took over.

He pressed his palm against the wound, fingers trembling as they smeared blood across his body, trying desperately to slow the flow.

His fingers slipped on his own blood, shaking as they smeared crimson down his forearm. He squeezed harder. His whole body trembled.

But it didn’t matter.
Blood poured right through his grip.

He whimpered.
He gasped.
He tried to crawl backward, to curl over the wound, to make the bleeding stop, but the sheer loss of blood made him dizzy, made him weak, made him tremble like a dying flame.

Naobito’s eyes glinted as he crouched, wiping the bloodied knife on Sukuna’s jeans with a slow, conscious motion.
“Pathetic,” he muttered, voice low and cruel.

Sukuna whimpered, chest heaving, his mangled hand still pressed instinctively against the wound. He couldn’t even lift himself properly, let alone stop the bleeding.

Naobito gripped him under the arms and hauled him upright.

Knees buckled immediately under the effort, blood pouring in rivulets from his palm. Every breath was ragged, every movement a fresh lance of agony.

“Ah… the ring,” Toji murmured, eyes cold as they landed on the faint outline in Sukuna’s front pocket. He plucked it free and slipped it into his own pocket, voice lazy and venomous. "Forgot I put it there.”

Sukuna’s fingers twitched toward Y/N, reaching instinctively, but his body betrayed him.

Blood poured freely from his mangled hand, soaking the petals beneath him.

His knees gave way, collapsing him forward, vision tilting sideways, dizziness washing over him.

Y/N’s sobs tore through the field. “Stop it! Please! Someone help him! He—he didn’t do anything wrong!” She reached desperately, fingers brushing his, but it was futile. Sukuna’s hand slipped, the weight of blood loss dragging him down.

Naobito’s grip was unrelenting.

He forced Sukuna upright again, each step toward the grave a torment, each movement sending hot pain radiating through his body.

Toji’s voice slithered through the air, low and cruel, eyes never leaving Sukuna.
“Look at you… all strength gone, all pride gone. You thought you could keep her? Keep anything? You’re nothing. Pathetic. Weak. And now I get to touch her whenever I want, however I want, while you rot beneath my feet like the little insect you are.”

Sukuna gasped, blood dripping between trembling fingers.

Chest heaving in ragged, uneven stutters, he tried to reach for Y/N—but the gap, the blood, the pain, the fatigue, made it impossible.

Naobito grabbed his arms, dragging him toward the open grave, petals and dirt sticking to his bloodied body.

Each step reminded him of his powerlessness, each drop of blood a cruel mark of defeat.

And then, without warning, he shoved him forward—Sukuna hit the bottom of the grave with a harsh thud, air forced from his lungs in a choked gasp.

More dirt and crushed petals stuck to his blood-soaked skin. He rolled onto his side, clutching his ruined hand to his ribs, vision swimming.

And above him…the sky shrank as two silhouettes blocked the light.

Toji and Y/N.

Y/N wasn’t standing.

She had collapsed to her knees at the edge of the grave, reaching for him with trembling fingers that never touched the air long enough.

Her sobs tore from her throat with no rhythm, no breath, just broken pieces of sound.

Y/N’s voice broke, raw and frantic.

 “Please—please, Toji! This is what you want, right? You want to touch me, fuck me—so do it! Just… just don’t put him in there! Don’t let him die! He’s bleeding—he didn’t do anything wrong! Please, I’ll do anything, just don’t do this to him!”

Her fingertips brushed toward Sukuna’s, never touching. He flailed weakly, body failing him, and she screamed in terror.

Toji’s hand slid over her mouth, muffling her cries as he leaned into her neck, hot and mocking. He held her close, savoring the fear and desperation radiating from her.

“You think begging’s going to stop me, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing her ear. “That won’t work. I’m going to have you… anyway. So what gives? You trying to bargain now?”

A trembling whine escaped her throat, a soft, desperate sound that said yes, a mix of fear and submission that only made Toji grin wider.

Sukuna struggled to lift himself, to push enough to reach her, to touch her, to stop this—but blood loss won. His hand slipped, elbow buckled, vision tilting sideways.

She sobbed harder, trying to twist out of his arms.
Sukuna watched helplessly, vision blurring around the edges.

Toji turned his head, voice commanding: “Naobito—close it.”

Naobito pressed the casket lid down.

Slow.
Heavy.
Final.

Sukuna was plunged into total darkness.

He could no longer see—only feel.

The cold, tight space pressed against him.

Blood pooled around him, warm and slick, each tremor of his body, each ragged gasp, every throb of pain undeniable in the suffocating, enclosed space.

Y/N’s muffled sobs reached him faintly from above, but the distance, the darkness, made them almost unreal.

And the last thing he heard before the latch clicked shut…
Toji’s voice, calm, satisfied, echoing in the hollow space.

“Goodnight, lover boy.”

And now... Sukuna was alone. Helpless. Broken.

And the world didn’t care.

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Author's Note: Uh oh.... 

Chapter 44: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟑𝟖 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.

Darkness wasn’t just around him.

It was on him.

Pressed over him.
Pinned to him.
Smothering him from every direction the coffin allowed.

Sukuna’s breath rattled in the tight space—shallow, trembling, scraping harshly against the small pocket of air he still had left. Every inhale tasted like wood and blood. His cheek was mashed against the cold coffin floor, ribs screaming every time he tried to expand his lungs.

And then it started.

A heavy thud overhead.
Then another.

The vibrations crawled down the wood, down into him—until he felt each impact in his teeth.

Dirt.

They were already burying him.

Another thud.
The coffin jumped.
Dust fell in a soft cloud across his face, peppering his lips.

His pulse slammed in his ears, frantic, animal.

He tried to lift his injured hand, but it only twitched—fingers numb, arm pinned between his torso and the coffin wall. But he didn’t have to move it far. Because the next shovelful of dirt found its own way inside.

Through the air holes.

Through the seams.

Tiny cracks in the wood breathed cold grains down onto him, scattering across his cheek… his shoulder…

…and straight into the open wound in his palm.

He felt the first grain enter—sharp, alien.

Then another.
Then more.
A gritty spill of earth pouring into the hole Naobito carved through his hand.

Sukuna winced, jaw tightening so hard he felt something pop in his ear. The dirt packed deeper, filling the raw opening with cold grit, grinding against exposed flesh.

A disgusting pressure built inside the hand.
Ugly.
Wrong.
Violent.

But the bleeding slowed.

The dirt was plugging it.

He let out a ragged, half-delirious exhale.

Good.
Fine.
Whatever.

He wasn’t going to live long enough to worry about the infection ripping through him later. Let it rot. Let it fester. Let the whole hand turn black.

He’d be dead before it mattered.

He managed to drag his hand just enough to let more dirt fall into the wound—letting the earth pack itself tighter, sealing the bleeding in a crude, filthy way. A makeshift burial bandage.

His shoulders shook as he gasped for air. The coffin was shrinking with each breath, air thinning, the dark getting heavier.

Every vibration from above told him another shovelful fell. More weight. More pressure. More silence swallowing him.

But suddenly... the thudding stopped.

Just like that.

Nothing.

Sukuna’s entire body went still.

No more footsteps.
No more muffled voices.
No scrape of shovels.
Just the crushing, suffocating silence of finality.

No one was coming.

No one was getting him out.
No one even cared where he was now.

He let out a buckled, trembling breath… then another that cracked halfway through. His chest tightened with panic—claustrophobia closing around him harder than the coffin itself.

His heart kicked violently, like it wanted to punch its way out of his ribs.

He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t move.
He couldn’t see.

This box was his world now.

And he was alone.

Fucking alone...

Something inside him had snapped.

His fist—his good one—slammed weakly into the coffin lid, wood reverberating with a dull, pathetic thud.
He hit it again.
And again.

Nothing.

No answer.
No shift in the weight above him.
No miracle.

Just dirt.
Just silence.

Just death settling in.

His breath choked.
He slammed his fist again, weaker.
And again—his arm trembling violently.

Then he stopped.

Stopped moving.
Stopped fighting.
Stopped pretending there was anything left to claw toward.

His hand—his ruined one—throbbed beneath the settling dirt, every pulse of pain sharp… then dull… then strangely warm.

The dirt felt… soft.

Too soft.

Smooth, even.

Like—

No.

He blinked slowly, head spinning, vision behind his eyelids turning slow and hazy.

Not now.

Not her.

But his mind was going whether he wanted it to or not.

The smooth, oddly warm pressure of the dirt in his palm blurred into—

Her hand.

Warm.
Small.
Soft.
Dragging his bigger one through the dim light of his apartment hallway.

He remembered it with an ache so sudden it almost made him nauseous.

It was stupid.
Pointless.
Insignificant.

Just after they fucked for maybe the third time, when the sweat hadn’t even dried on his back yet—she slipped out of his bed wearing his T-shirt, drowning her thighs, and his boxers rolled at the waist because they were too big.

Then she had took his hand.

Not shy, not hesitant—she just grabbed it, warm fingers curling around his, and tugged him out of bed like she’d been living there for years.

She padded down his hallway barefoot, still dragging him behind her.

“I’m starving,” she mumbled. “I’m seriously gonna pass out if I don’t eat something.”

He followed only because she dragged him.
But he didn’t fight her grip. He never did.

She opened his fridge, blinking at the sudden light—then gasped.

“Oh my god,” she laughed, turning to him with that stupid, soft smile that always hit him too hard. “Did you seriously buy pink lemonade just for me?”

He grunted. “No.”

She raised a brow, stepping aside so he could see the pathetic contents of his fridge: two protein shakes, leftover takeout, and one too-bright bottle of her favorite pink lemonade.

“Mhm,” she hummed. “Because you definitely drink this.”

He rolled his eyes. “You said you liked it.”

“So you did buy it for me,” she said, sing-song, victorious.

When she reached inside for it, her shirt—his shirt—slid off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone.

She didn’t notice.

She never noticed the way she looked in his space—how she filled it, softened it, made it feel like something close to home.

She twisted the cap open, took a sip, then nudged it against his chest.

“Here,” she said softly, “try it.”

And he had.
Just because she asked.

Their fingers brushed when she handed it over—warm, delicate, lingering for half a second longer than necessary.

He remembered that now.
He felt it now.

Her fingers again—thin, warm, familiar.
How she held onto him like he was something.
How she never realized how fragile her touch made him feel.

She was home.
His only home. Safe. Warm. Familiar.

And now?

This coffin was his only home.

This dirt was his last warmth.
The earth pressing into his skin was the closest he’d ever get to her again.

He almost laughed—cracked, humorless, shredded at the edges.

This was where he belonged.

This box.
This darkness.
This ending.

He felt himself slipping, the edges of the world blurring, consciousness thinning like smoke.

Blood loss.
Shock.
Cold.
Claustrophobia.
Pain.

He couldn’t fight any of it anymore.

His chest lifted once—
shuddered—
fell—

And then everything softened.

The dirt in his hand felt warm again.

Then warmer.

Then—

A voice.

“Sukuna…?”

────────────── . ᛪ༙

“Keep moving.”

Choso hissed, breath ripping in his throat as they crashed through low branches.

The forest swallowed the sound of their feet; every snap of twig felt like a shout.

Night pressed in around them, thick and black between trunks, but the sky still bled that awful, late-gold light—like the world couldn’t decide whether to die or keep pretending.

Mei pulled up short without meaning to.

For one stunned second the chaos fell away and she only saw it: a crooked silhouette against the sickly horizon.

“Choso—look,” she whispered.

He slammed on his momentum, nearly running into her. “What—where?”

Then he saw it too.

The chapel sat twenty yards ahead, hunched on the flat land like something abandoned by God decades ago.

Gray, splintered wood.
A warped bell tower crooked to one side.
Porch steps cracked and half-sunk into the dirt.
Lanterns hanging at odd angles, the glass black with grime.

The grass around it was wild, uncut, knee-high, dotted with trampled patches that suggested bodies had crossed it recently.

Mei’s throat tightened. The memory clicked into place with the cold absurdity of a bad joke.

“To the chapel…” Mei whispered—then her breath caught, the realization hitting like a punch.
“Choso,” she said suddenly, voice trembling, “this is it. This is what Toji was talking about earlier. ‘Bring the boys to the chapel.’ He meant this place.”

Choso followed her stare, eyes narrowing. “You sure that’s it?” His voice was small, brittle. “That little shack?”

“It has to be,” Mei breathed. “If he said chapel, he meant that.” She swallowed.  “We go look... quick.”

“Mei—” He grabbed her arm, fingers like iron. “We don’t know what—”

Her eyes snapped to his. Decisions pulled tight enough to cut. “We have a chance,” she whispered. “He said the chapel. If Gojo or—if Sukuna’s there… we can’t just run and pray someone else finds them.”

“Mei,” Choso said quietly, “we don’t know what’s in there.”

She swallowed. “Then we find out. Quietly.”

“For who?” Choso snapped under his breath. “Gojo? Sukuna?” The bitterness in the last name was acid. “Why the hell would we risk ourselves for them?”

“Maybe... it’s not just them,” Mei whispered—though even she wasn’t entirely sure what she meant. Just a dread. A pattern. A sentence Toji had spoken too casually.

“What does that mean?” Choso hissed. “Mei—no. We should run. We have to get help.”

“You think we’re making it out of these woods alive if we don’t know what he’s doing?” she shot back.

“I don’t know—but Sukuna sure as hell isn’t worth it,” Choso muttered.

Mei’s hand tightened on her knife. “Well... we have to do something,” she hissed. “We can’t just let them walk away with… with him, with them—whatever’s happening—"

Choso’s jaw worked. “You really care about Sukuna right now? After everything? After what he did?” His voice was low, harsh, shaking with more than just fear.

Mei’s eyes flared. “Yes! I care! Damn it, I do! I can’t just ignore him—”

Choso spun toward her. “Are you insane?! He fucked your best friend—my girlfriend—behind all our backs! And you’re talking about caring?”

“I—” she swallowed, voice tight. “I’m sorry, okay? I was with him for almost two years, I built something. I can’t help it!"

“Something? He ruined everything!” Choso’s voice cracked with frustration. “Everything!”

“I love him!” Mei snapped, voice cutting through the night. “Damnit, Choso! I’m sorry that I do! I really don’t want to, not after what he’s done, but—fuck, Choso! Please, I’m begging you."

Choso grabbed her wrist, tight. “Sukuna would leave us to die! We are not going in there to be heroes. We don’t know if anyone’s alive. We don’t know if it’s even them.”

“That’s why we look,” she whispered.

His jaw locked. He wasn’t doing this for Sukuna. He wasn’t doing this for Gojo.

And he sure as hell wasn’t risking his life for a hunch.

Choso just scoffed.

"Well... what if Y/N is in there? Don’t you want her safe?”

Shit.

Choso stiffened. The raw truth of her words landed like a stone in his chest.

Y/N. Alive, or at least… somewhere inside that chapel. The thought alone made his anger falter, replaced by a heavier, fiercer urgency.

He swallowed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “…Fine,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “We do this for her. Not him.”

Mei’s relief was fleeting. She nodded once, sharply, “Yes! O-okay.. let’s move.”

They crept forward, boots sinking into damp earth.

The chapel grew closer and closer, details sharpening like a film being focused: a smear of something dark at the threshold, the glint of metal in the hands of someone standing in the doorway, a row of candles flickering like small, obscene stars.

The thin halo of the porch light fell over churned, blood-streaked grass.

Mei’s chest went cold. Cultish, absurd, perfect. The place didn’t belong to any god. It belonged to whatever had been feasting in those boards and shadows.

Then movement.

A figure stumbled out the front door first, tripping into the grass. 

Choso froze. “Is that—? Sukuna?”

Mei’s eyes went wide. “Oh my god…”

Sukuna had emerged.

Every inch of him told the story of what they had done.

He barely stood upright. Shoulders sagging. Blood coated his body like a second skin.

Cuts crisscrossed his back, shoulders, chest, and neck, some still bleeding, some raw and angry.

His black hair was matted with gore, clinging to his face and neck.

His jeans were torn and soaked, his steps unsteady, each movement a struggle against sheer exhaustion.

Naobito had a knife pressed to his back, pushing him forward like a ragdoll.

Choso’s breath caught in his chest, a sharp, ragged exhale. His voice was hoarse, almost breaking. “Holy… shit…” His hands curled into fists at his sides. “They… they really did this to him… what the hell… what the fuck did they do?”

Choso's eyes were wide, darting over every cut, every smear of blood, every tortured movement Sukuna made. The weight of it hit him like a physical blow—the helplessness, the cruelty.

Mei’s hand flew to her mouth. For a second, she couldn’t breathe.

Her whole body trembled. “He—oh my god—he looks… he looks destroyed.” Her voice cracked, thin and shaking. “They did this to him? They… they tortured him— Choso, they—” Her throat closed around the rest.

Behind Sukuna, two more shapes appeared.
Y/N. Toji.
She was pulled forward, quiet except for the soft, ragged sobs that shook her whole frame.

Her white ribbed tank-top was smudged with dirt, her jean skirt still intact, and her bare feet sank into the earth.

Her red eyes glistened from crying. Toji’s arm held her firmly, not hurting her, but enough that there was no choice but to move forward. She reached out, pleading.

“Please… don’t hurt him… I’m so sorry… I’m sorry!” Her voice cracked, a desperate plea against the night.

Sukuna hadn't spoke.

But his eyes... his eyes spoke for him—trauma, exhaustion, a silent scream that had no outlet.

Choso and Mei's stomach twisted, and for a moment, they felt that cold, raw panic you only feel when someone is in unbearable pain and there’s nothing you can do.

Mei stared at him like she was watching someone she loved die in front of her.

Her eyes glossed instantly, filling so fast the tears spilled over before she could blink them back. “Sukuna…” she whispered—more a broken breath than a word.

And Sukuna—

Sukuna had stumbled again.

Naobito shoved him roughly to the ground. “Crawl to the grave if you have to,” the man said—

And Sukuna obeyed.

He fucking obeyed.

Dragging himself forward on shaking arms, blood smearing into the dirt beneath him, breath rattling out of him in broken, wet pulls.

His body moved like it had been emptied and puppeted, the knife at his back the only force pushing him through the night.

Mei looked like she might collapse. Her face crumpled, grief and horror shattering straight through her chest as she watched him crawl—crawl—in the dirt, reduced to something less than human.

Mei choked on a sob. “Oh my god… Choso… he’s crawling. They’re… they’re making him crawl.”
Her voice cracked so violently it almost wasn’t a voice.

She looked like she might fold to her knees—hands trembling, lips trembling, tears streaking down her face with no sound at all.

The man she loved.
Reduced to this.
Crawling.

Choso’s breath stuttered out of him, a shaky, horrified whisper.
“Jesus… fuck… he’s not even—I barely recognize him. What the fuck did they do to him?!”

For a moment, Choso couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. His stomach twisted in a deep, human terror—because he could imagine it. The helplessness. The humiliation. The absolute dread.

Eyes glued to the way Sukuna dragged himself forward like he expected a bullet if he stopped.

“Naobito said grave…” Choso whispered, the word barely forming, scraping out of his throat like his body didn’t want to say it. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Mei swallowed hard, her face draining of color as her eyes flicked between the Zenins and Sukuna’s broken body.

“Choso,” she breathed, voice breaking. “That’s not… that’s not just something he said. This is what Toji meant earlier. The chapel. Now the grave. It all adds up now.”

Choso shook his head, like denying it would make the sight disappear.
“A grave? They’re making him crawl to his own fucking grave?”

Mei’s tears spilled again, silent and uncontrollable.
“He’s not crawling to something… he’s being taken to something.”
Her voice fractured.
“We can’t let them bury him alive. Choso… we can’t.”

Ahead of them, Sukuna’s fingers clawed weakly at the soil—each drag leaving streaks of blood across the ground.

His arms shook violently.
His breath rattled, wet and broken, like each inhale scraped against bone.

Every inch he moved was agony.
Every inch was forced obedience.

Choso felt something inside him go cold.
A place beyond anger. Beyond betrayal.

He hated Sukuna.
God, he hated him.
But this…
this was torture.
This was a slow death.

And then Y/N’s voice echoed faint in his mind—her crying, her begging, her apology as Toji dragged her.

Y/N.
Barefoot.
Terrified.
Still pleading softly for them not to hurt Sukuna.

And for one heartbeat, all Choso could feel was cold dread.

If she went where Sukuna was going…

If something happened to her…

He’d never come back from that.

Choso’s voice shook. “We need to move.”
Not for Sukuna.
But for her.

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Ten minutes slipped by, unnoticed.

They had moved slowly—painfully slowly—through the trees.

Mei’s hand clamped over Choso’s mouth more than once, both of them forced to crouch behind rotted logs and tall, dead trees anytime a twig snapped too close.

By the time they reached the clearing about ten yards from the grave, most of the chaos had already happened.

All they saw was Sukuna being shoved into the open pit—his body hitting the dirt with a sickening thud. Voices carried through the clearing, but none of it was clear, just muffled noise twisted by distance and wind.

But then new movement had pulled all their attention back.

Naobito grabbed three shovels. One went to Toji.
Another was shoved into Y/N’s hands.

She shook her head immediately—backing up, trembling, her voice too faint for Mei and Choso to hear.

But it was clear... Toji didn’t tolerate it.

He had grabbed her arm, yanking her close. His chest pressed to her back, one arm sliding around her waist, the other curling around her neck, not to hurt her, but to hold her still.

He leaned close to her ear, whispering something low, almost intimate, but no sound carried to Choso nor Mei.

But whatever he had said scared her still.

Her hands had gone stiff, then moved as if on instinct, reaching for the shovel. Her shoulders shook violently, tears streaking her face, but she obeyed.

Then—slow, inevitable—he turned her to face him, one hand pressing firmly against the side of her face, fingers splaying over her cheeks to hold her in place.

His tongue traced the curve of her cheek, unrelenting. The warmth of his body pressed into hers, his chest and arms tight against her back, making her gasp without realizing it.

For a heartbeat, she stiffened, struggling, but he didn’t relent. And then—just as abruptly—he released her face, patting her head with a grin that was almost playful, as if to say, good girl.

It was like… a cruel reward for obeying, Choso thought, watching how her body trembled yet kept moving. Fear and compliance mixed in every shiver she couldn’t hide. She was scared, shaken—but she obeyed.

Choso’s jaw tightened. “I can’t… God, I can’t watch this.”

Mei squeezed his arm, in understanding.

The sight of Y/N, trembling and crying, yet moving under Toji’s firm grip, made their stomachs twist.

He had turned her toward the grave, one hand still controlling her, the other guiding the shovel into her hands. Every instinct screamed at her, but she obeyed, shivering as she scooped dirt and flung it over Sukuna’s casket.

Fear, rage, and helplessness churned in Choso and Mei’s chests.

And there she was—forced to bury him.

One agonizing scoop at a time.
Then another.
Her breathing ragged, choked, collapsing into sobs.

Toji stood behind her, watching her like he was watching a show made just for him.

His gaze roamed her body, lingering, hungry—his tongue dragging over his lower lip, teeth catching the edge. Every cry she let out seemed to fuel him.

Mei covered her mouth, horrified.
Choso’s nails dug into the tree bark beside him, his whole body shaking with rage he couldn’t unleash.

But just a minute in—chaos erupted.

Naoya exploded out of the house, slamming the door open so hard it cracked against the wall.

His voice ripped through the clearing—sharp enough that even Mei and Choso could hear it from the treeline.

“Those little shits from the basement—gone! Slipped out like fucking cockroaches!” he screamed, waving his gun wildly. “When I find them, I’m peeling them alive. Slowly. I want them crying for their mothers!”

“They escaped—how the hell—?” Naobito barked.

Mei’s breath hitched.
“Choso… he’s talking about us.”

Choso’s stomach dropped. “Fuck—yeah, he is. We should… we should get help. Someone. Anyone. We can’t take this whole family—”

But Naoya kept going, spitting fury as he slammed a new round into the gun.
“Those basement bastards think they can run? I’ll shred them down to bone!”

Mei grabbed Choso’s wrist, eyes fierce despite the fear swimming in them.
“No. We’re not running. Not yet. No when Sukuna is right there. We can get him out while they’re distracted.”

Choso stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Mei—if they catch us—”

“Then they catch us,” she whispered fiercely, shaking. “But I’m not leaving him to die down there. Not like this.”

Choso exhaled through his teeth, trembling. He hated it. It was reckless. It was stupid.
But the thought of abandoning Sukuna—of abandoning Y/N—twisted something ugly inside him.

“…Fine,” he whispered. “We stay low. We move the second they’re gone.”

Toji snapped his attention away from Y/N just enough to bark, “Pops. Go help Naoya. Now.”

Mei and Choso stayed hidden, hearts pounding, waiting for their one impossible chance.

Naobito bolted toward the house, leaving Toji alone with Y/N.

Y/N was shaking so violently the shovel nearly slipped from her hands. Her face was blotched red, streaked with tears, eyes swollen.

Breath stuttering as she tried—and failed—to hold herself together. Dirt clung to her palms, her knees, her bare feet, her trembling fingers.

Toji stepped in front of her.

Unhurried.

He blocked out the grave behind her entirely—blocked out Sukuna’s half-buried, nearly lifeless body as if it didn’t matter.

His hands came up to her face.

Not soft. Not comforting.
His palms pressed into her cheeks, thumbs brushing the tears that hadn’t even finished falling.

Mei and Choso continued to watch from the treeline, both unable to tear their eyes away.

Y/N choked out a breath, trying to pull back—but Toji leaned in, eyes locked on hers, trapping her with nothing but stillness and the weight of his calm.

He began speaking to Y/N—but his voice didn’t reach Choso nor Mei.

They couldn’t hear a word.

Only see the effect.

At first, Y/N stiffened, shoulders trembling, lips parted like she might sob harder or fall apart completely.

But... her breathing changed.
Slowed.
Not calm—just… quieter.
Forced into a rhythm she didn’t choose herself.

Toji’s thumbs pressed lightly into her cheeks again, tilting her face upward.
He murmured something else—still inaudible.

But Y/N nodded.

Once.
Twice.

And it wasn’t the frantic, terrified nod of someone agreeing to survive.
It was… real.
Quiet.
Like she accepted whatever he told her.
Like she believed him.

Choso’s stomach twisted. “What… what the hell did he say to her?” he whispered, horrified.

Mei squeezed his arm, eyes wide and wet. “I don't know? Just—just keep watching.”

Toji brushed another tear from her jaw with his thumb, slow, almost tender.

Then he guided her forward with a hand at her back.

And she went.

Still trembling.
Still crying.
But she let him lead her toward the house—leaning in slightly as he kept talking, low and steady, saying things only she could hear.

They disappeared inside.

Leaving Sukuna half-buried and alone.

Mei sucked in a sharp, shaky breath. “Cho—we need to get him. Now. This is our moment.”

Choso nodded—eyes darting across the clearing—empty now, silent, the chaos of Naoya’s outburst pulling every Zenin away.

“This is it,” he said, voice trembling but determined. “We grab him. Then Y/N.”

Mei didn’t hesitate. 

They broke from the trees and sprinted toward the open grave—

Toward Sukuna, who lay barely conscious, dirt clinging to the blood crusted across his skin, breath rattling softly in the stillness.

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Author's Note: Ya'll I'm on winter break! FINALLY FREEDOM!!!

Chapter 45: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟑𝟗 - 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥.

Sukuna woke to warmth.

Not the suffocating press of wood.
Not the wet, copper taste of blood.

Just… waking.

Warm sheets tangled around his legs. A soft pillow beneath his head. Sunlight spilled through a window to his left, pale and gold, brushing his face like something kind.

He blinked.

Once.
Twice.

No pain.

His chest rose easily. His lungs filled without resistance. His hands—he lifted them slowly, almost afraid—were unmarked. No blood crusted beneath his nails. No split skin. No dirt packed into open wounds.

“What the fuck…?” he murmured.

His voice didn’t shake.

For a second, the thought came—simple, stupid, desperate.

A dream.

A bad one. A long one. One his brain had finally let him wake up from.

He pushed himself upright, heart steady, head light but clear. The room wasn’t his. That registered next.

The walls were soft beige, warmed by the sun. The furniture was old but cared for—wooden dresser, framed photos lining the walls, a quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

He swung his legs over the side, feet meeting a cool hardwood floor.

“Okay…” he muttered. “Okay.”

He reached for the lamp on the nightstand out of instinct.

His fingers brushed glass instead.

Not a lamp.

A picture frame.

He frowned and picked it up.

And the world tilted.

The frame was heavier than it should have been—solid wood, warm from the sun—yet his hands went unsteady the moment his fingers closed around it.

Something in his chest pulled tight, sharp and immediate, like his body recognized the image before his mind could.

It was him.

And her.

Y/N stood beside him, radiant—laughing, her head tilted just slightly toward his shoulder. A white dress spilled around her like something holy. Lace sleeves clung to her arms, bare shoulders kissed by light. Flowers were woven into her hair, careless and soft.

A wedding dress.

His chest constricted.

He was in a black tux, hand at her waist, looking at her like she was the only thing in the frame that mattered.

They were smiling.

Not posed smiles. Real ones. Soft. Familiar. Intimate.

On the bottom corner of the photo, handwritten in looping ink:

Just married.

Sukuna’s fingers tightened around the frame.

“No,” he whispered, breath catching. “No—this doesn’t—”

But the photo was warm in his hands. Solid. Real.

If she was in the picture—

Then she had to be here.

He set the frame down carefully, like it might shatter if he moved too fast, and stood. His legs held him easily. No shaking. No weakness.

Down the hall, he heard laughter.

Small voices.

High. Bright.

He froze.

“…Daddy!”

The word didn’t register at first.
It collided.

It hit low in his chest—deep, brutal—like something slamming into bone. Like a name he’d never earned being pressed into him anyway. His breath caught, sharp and involuntary, and for half a second he thought he might actually stagger.

Daddy.

No one had ever called him that.
No one ever should.

And yet his body reacted before his mind could argue—before the reflex to deny it could even form.

Two small figures barreled into view from the living room—barefoot, pajama-clad, hair messy from sleep. One girl, maybe six, hair bouncing wildly as she ran. One boy, younger—four, maybe—tripping over his own feet in his hurry.

They didn’t slow.
They didn’t hesitate.

They slammed into his legs like they’d done it a thousand times before, small arms wrapping around him with reckless certainty.

“Daddy, you’re awake!” the girl beamed up at him, missing one tooth.

“You slept forever!” the boy added, clinging to his thigh.

Sukuna went completely still.

His heart stuttered—not with fear, but with something heavier. Something aching.

He didn’t know their names.

But he knew them.

The boy had his hair—dark, unruly, falling into his eyes like it always had on Sukuna himself. The girl’s hair was Y/N’s color, soft and wild and catching the light the same way hers did when she laughed.

What stopped him wasn’t that.

It was their eyes.

Both of them had Y/N’s eyes—clear, familiar, painfully gentle. Not copied. Not exaggerated. Just… right. Set into their faces like they belonged there. Like they’d always been meant to exist that way.

A perfect blend.

Exactly how he’d imagined it—on the rare, quiet nights he’d never admitted to anyone. The kind of thoughts he’d always shut down before they could take shape. Too soft. Too dangerous.

His chest tightened.

His chest tightened.

It felt… right.
Too right.

Something warm.
Something safe.
Something that slipped into place too easily, like his body had been waiting for it.

And that was the problem.

Because comfort shouldn’t come this easily.
Not for him.

Not after everything.

The realization flickered—thin, fragile, easy to miss—but it was there, brushing the edge of his thoughts like a warning he didn’t quite want to hear.

He should’ve panicked.
Should’ve pulled away.
Should’ve asked questions.

Instead, his body moved before his mind could catch up.

He crouched, hands settling on their small backs like they belonged there. Like muscle memory.

“Hey…” he said softly.

The girl tilted her head. “You okay, daddy?”

He swallowed. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

They accepted it immediately.
Of course they did. They didn’t question him.
Their little voices trusted him completely—he was their father, after all.

A father—

“Mommy said you’d wake up soon,” the boy chirped. “She’s outside.”

Sukuna’s chest tightened. “Outside?”

“In the garden,” the girl said. “She’s been there all morning.”

He nodded slowly. “Right.”

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the girl’s forehead.

Then the boy’s.

Both of them laughed like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And for a moment—just one—so did he.

He stood and walked toward the back of the house, the children peeling off behind him, already distracted by something else.

The kitchen opened into glass doors.

Beyond them—

Blue sky.
Bright sun.
A garden in full bloom.

Peonies everywhere. Pink and white and soft red, petals heavy and lush, bending under their own beauty.

And there she was.

Beautiful as ever.

But it wasn’t just that—though she was, in the quiet way that never asked to be looked at.

It was the way the light seemed to choose her. The way the world softened around her edges, like it knew better than to be harsh in her presence.

Something in his chest loosened just looking at her.

Not hunger.
Not want.

Peace.

Y/N was kneeling in the dirt, hair loose down her back, sunlight catching in it. She wore a simple dress, bare feet planted in the soil.

She was digging.

Pulling peonies out by the root.

Sukuna’s brow furrowed as he stepped outside. “Hey,” he called, confused but smiling despite himself.

She didn’t look up right away.

She heard him, though.

Her hands stilled in the soil. Then, slowly, she turned her head—like she’d known he was there before he ever spoke—and when her eyes met his, she smiled.

It wasn’t hurried.
It wasn’t surprised.

It was the kind of smile meant just for him.

“There you are,” she said softly. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, she smiled and added, “I was starting to think my husband wasn’t gonna get up.”

The word landed slow.

Husband.

It settled somewhere deep in his chest—heavy, undeniable—like a truth his body accepted before his mind had the chance to question it. His heart shifted, slow and aching, not in protest, but in recognition.

Husband.

The word didn’t feel wrong.

That was the part that hurt.

He blinked, stepping closer without realizing it. “Was I… asleep that long?”

She hummed, wiping her hands on her dress. “You needed it.”

Something about the way she said it—gentle, certain—made his chest ache.

His gaze drifted back to the flowerbed. The peonies lay uprooted beside her, stems snapped, roots exposed to the sun.

“…Why are you pulling them out?” he asked.

She followed his eyes, then shrugged lightly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh,” she said softly, brushing more dirt from her hands. “I’m saving time.”

He blinked. “Saving… time?”

She nodded, standing, hands still smudged with earth. “Because if I don’t do something now, it’ll be too late.”

Something cold slid down his spine.

“Why… why would it be—” he started, but the words felt wrong before they left his mouth.

She nodded, tugging another flower free, roots clinging stubbornly to the soil. “If I hesitate, they won’t last much longer… they need me to act.”

“That’s kind of the point of flowers,” he muttered. “You let them be.”

Y/N laughed quietly. “You always say that.”

He stilled. “…I do?”

“Mhm.” She brushed dirt from her palms, standing. “You say some things aren’t meant to last forever. Just long enough to mean something.”

His throat tightened.

“That’s a depressing thing to say.”

She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the earth on her skin—warm soil and sun.

“You don’t mean it like that,” she murmured. “You mean… when something’s done, it’s okay to let it rest.”

Rest.

The word sank into him slowly.

Her fingers rose without hesitation, her thumb smoothing softly beneath his eye.

“You look tired,” she whispered.

She smiled faintly, already turning back to the flowers. “Go sit down. I’ll finish this.”

“I can help.”

“I know,” she said. “But you don’t need to. Not right now.”

The words settled into him like permission.

Like release.

He was hesistant—

But Sukuna turned back toward the house.

He gripped the handle of the backdoor and pushed it open.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the warmth vanished.

Not all at once—no. That would’ve been kind.

It thinned.

The sun still shone through the windows, but it no longer touched his skin. The air inside felt wrong—too sharp, too clean, like it had been stripped of something living. Cold slid in under his ribs, crept up his spine.

He shivered.

Once.
Then again.

His teeth clicked together before he realized he was shaking.

“Daddy?”

He looked down.

The kids stood a few feet away, suddenly still. Watching him with knitted brows, confusion dimming their brightness.

“Why are you shaking?” the boy asked, small voice careful now.

The girl stepped closer, tugging lightly at his sleeve. “Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” Sukuna said automatically.

But the words didn’t sound right in his ears—like they’d come from far away.

The cold kept seeping in.

His hands began to tremble.

“I’m just—” He paused. Swallowed. “It’s cold in here.”

The girl frowned. “It’s not.”

That’s when the ringing started.

A high, thin sound at first. Easy to ignore.

Then louder.

Pressing in from the sides of his head, like something tightening, squeezing, closing in.

He turned back toward the glass doors.

The garden was still there.

Bright.
Warm.
Alive.

Y/N still knelt among the peonies, her dress catching the light, hair glowing like it always did. The sun wrapped around her like it knew her.

Relief punched through his chest.

“I’ll be right back,” he told the kids, already moving.

He reached for the door handle—

And froze.

The glass was cold.

Ice-cold.

He pulled the door open anyway.

The first step onto the soil should have been comforting. Warm. Alive. Perfect.

But it never came.

The sunlight didn’t touch him.

The warmth didn’t rush back to him.

It just wasn't.

Everything collapsed into pitch black—like staring into a void that swallowed color, shape, and sound.

No sky.
No flowers.
No light.

No sound.

Endless. Soundless. Empty.

His breath hitched.

“Y/N?” he called.

His voice didn’t echo.
It didn’t carry.
It felt swallowed the second it left him.

He took another step forward.

Then another.

The cold followed him now—clinging, invasive—wrapping around his limbs until his joints ached.

“Hey—” His voice cracked. “This isn’t funny.”

Nothing answered.

He turned in a slow circle, panic blooming sharp and sudden in his chest.

“Y/N!”

He broke into a run.

Blind. Desperate.

Hands reaching out into nothing, fingers grasping for warmth that wasn’t there anymore.

His foot caught on something solid.

He went down hard.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, the sound leaving him in a strangled gasp. He hit the ground chest-first, cheek pressed into something soft and damp.

Something familiar.

His hands dug instinctively into what he’d fallen on—

Loose petals.
Broken stems.
Cold, uprooted roots.

Peonies.

Crushed beneath him.

The scent hit all at once—sweet, rotting, wrong. Earth packed into his mouth, his nose, his lungs.

His body curled without his permission.

Knees drawn in.
Arms tight to his sides.
Chin tucked down.

Too tight.
Too close.

The darkness pressed in.

The cold became absolute.

The ringing began swallowing everything... spiking—violent, shrill—like something screaming inside his skull.

Sukuna cried out and clapped his hands over his ears, palms pressed hard, fingers digging into his hair like he could physically hold his head together.

“Stop,” he gasped. “Please—just stop—”

It only got louder.

He shook his head, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming fast and uneven.

“Go away,” he whispered, the words breaking apart. “Please… go away.”

His elbows scraped against wood.
His knees had nowhere to go.

The scent of peonies rotted into copper and damp earth, sweetness curdling in his throat. His body folded in on itself, instinct screaming too small, too tight, wrong.

The ground pressed closer.
Tighter.

The ringing became pressure.

The pressure became silence—

Thud.

Wood above him.

No light.

No air.

Warmth gone for good.

────────────── . ᛪ༙

“Hurry up, Mei. We don’t have all night.”

Choso was crouching low, eyes scanning the perimeter.

“I’m going as fast as I can!” she hissed back, her hands gripping the shovel tightly, dirt already clinging to her fingers. “It's… it’s buried deeper than I thought.”

“Deeper or not, move faster. If someone comes—” His words cut off as he swung his gaze around again, tense. “I swear, Mei, if anyone sees us here—”

“I know! I know!” She cursed under her breath, jabbing the shovel into the earth again. Her arms burned, sweat and dirt mixing on her face, but she didn’t care. “I have to get him out. He… he can’t stay down there!”

“Keep your voice down!” Choso snapped, leaning closer to her. “Do you want someone to hear you?”

“I’m not screaming!” she shot back, teeth gritted, then paused, squinting at the dirt ahead. “Wait… I hit something hard.”

Choso’s heart clenched. “The casket?”

“Yes! I think I found it!” She threw down the shovel, her hands moving frantically now, clawing at the earth, dirt spilling over her wrists and into her hair. Her shirt was streaked with grime, sleeves caked in soil, but she didn’t slow. “Almost there… almost—”

Her hands scraped at the casket’s edges. It was cold beneath her fingers, the wood unyielding at first. She dug around the corners, then pressed down with all her strength. “Choso… it’s… it’s stuck!”

“Don’t stop,” he urged. “Just keep trying—I swear, I’ll flip out if anyone shows up while you’re pawing at him,” he muttered, tense.

Mei’s fingers bled slightly from splinters, dirt packed into the cuts, but she ignored it. She whispered, more to herself than to him, “Just a little more… just a little—”

Finally, a crack. She froze. “I… I think it’s moving.”

“Faster! Don’t waste time, Mei! Push, push—before someone sees us!” Choso’s voice was tight, urgent.

Her hands clawed at the loosened earth, dirt spilling over her arms, staining her face, sticking in her hair. The smell of wet soil and decay filled her nostrils, but she didn’t care. “Almost… I can see the lid now. I can—”

Choso crouched closer, voice low but urgent. “Mei… hurry. Please. Just… hurry, okay?”

“I’m trying!” She shoved at the lid with her hands now, body trembling from exertion. With a final heave, the casket creaked, groaned, and gave way. She yanked it open just enough to see inside.

“Choso… he’s here,” she whispered, voice breaking. Her fingers brushed the lid, then reached inside, trembling. “Sukuna… wake up…”

Inside, he lay still, eyes closed, chest rising shallowly. Her voice broke into a whisper-yell. “Sukuna! Come on! Wake up!”

He didn’t stir at first.

“Please… don’t you dare sleep through this!” she hissed, dirt smeared across her face, hair sticking to her sweat.

Choso’s hand gripped her shoulder. “Sukuna! Wake up! We didn’t dig you out for you to just lie there—get your ass moving!”

Mei leaned down over him, straddling him in the casket, and clamped her hands over his face. “I’m not letting you stay down here! Wake up! Please!” Dirt smeared over her arms and clothes, but she didn’t care; every second stretched like an eternity.

A faint shudder ran through him. An eyelid twitched.

Mei’s hands pressed harder. “Come on, Sukuna!”

His fingers jerked slightly beneath hers. His chest lifted a little more, shallow but steady.

Sukuna’s eyes flickered open—just a crack at first—confused, blurry. His gaze found nothing, registered only the weight pressing over him, the smell of dirt and sweat.

He noticed sound before he noticed anything else.

At first, all he could hear was a soft, insistent voice repeating his name, over and over, like a mantra.

Feminine, urgent, familiar in some impossible way—but he didn’t recognize it.

His head throbbed, pressure building behind his eyes, his body heavy, unresponsive. 

Wood.
Dirt.
Confinement.

No—

The thought came sharp and frantic, slicing through the haze. This was wrong. This wasn’t—

He tried to hold onto it. The warmth. The light. Her.

But it was already slipping, tearing away from him piece by piece, leaving only cold and weight and nothing else.

Death, maybe.

Then light bled in.

White. Blinding. Soft.

A face hovered above him, washed in brightness—pale skin, hair like spilled snow, eyes wide and wet. For a dazed, foolish second, he thought he was dead.

An angel, his mind supplied weakly.

Warm hands gripped his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks. The voice broke through again—panicked, frantic, overlapping. He couldn’t make out the words yet, only that they were loud, desperate, alive.

“Sukuna—hey—look at me—”

Then suddenly he felt it everywhere—kissing—kissing his forehead, his cheek, his jaw, relief spilling out of her in messy bursts. Lips pressed to his skin again and again.

At first, he almost welcomed it—like an angel touching him, soft and impossibly warm—but then, mid-kiss, the sharp reality hit him.

The way the kiss pressed with that stubborn insistence he’d only ever felt from her, hit him like a punch.

It’s Mei... fucking Mei.

His brow furrowed. Pain flared sharp through his ribs and chest, grounding him instantly.

“—Stop,” he rasped, voice raw, barely there. “Don’t… don’t do that.”

She froze immediately, horror flashing across her face. “I—oh my God, I’m sorry—did I hurt you? I didn’t—”

“It hurts,” he muttered, not entirely lying. Everything hurt. His lungs burned. His head spun. The excuse worked anyway.

She scrambled off him at once, hands hovering uselessly. “Okay—okay. Don’t move. I'll help you up. Just—just sit up slowly.”

He didn’t want to.

Truthfully, he didn’t want to do anything ever again.

He'd lay there, staring past her, eyes dull. What’s the point? The thought came easy, heavy, familiar. No Y/N. No future. No reason. If this was the end, he almost welcomed it.

Let me rot here, he thought. Let it finish.

A hand reached toward him. Encouraging. Insistent.

“Come on,” Mei said softly. “You’re alive. You’re really alive.”

He turned his face away, jaw tightening. He didn’t want her touch. Didn’t want her voice. Didn’t want this—this reality without the one person who mattered.

Then another voice cut through.

“Hurry the fuck up! Mei, we don’t have time—move!”

Sharp. Panicked. Male.

His eyes snapped back, focus sharpening. The annoyance of Mei vanished completely now, replaced by urgency. He followed the sound and finally saw him—standing above the grave, dirt-streaked, eyes wild.

Choso... How the fuck is he still alive?

Y/N’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Whatever the hell he was now.

Something ugly twisted in Sukuna’s chest. Pride, maybe. Or spite.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself upright despite the pain that screamed through him. Mei rushed to support him, looping his arm over her shoulder as he stumbled, legs barely cooperating.

“They could show up any second!” Choso yelled again. “We have to go—now!”

Sukuna bit back a groan. He refused to look weak in front of him. Refused to give him that satisfaction. Even if his vision swam, even if every step felt like knives.

With Mei’s help—and more than a few failed attempts—he managed to stand. The loose dirt made it easier, shifting beneath his feet as Mei guided him up and out, clawing his way from the grave that almost kept him.

He didn’t look back.

He was alive.

And somehow, that felt worse.

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Stumbling fully out of the grave. Sukuna’s legs wobbled, muscles screaming, but he was upright. Mei stayed close, her arm brushing his side, guiding him as he leaned slightly on her.

Choso crouched back near the freshly disturbed soil, glancing at the open grave. “Come on,” he muttered, urgency in his voice. “If we leave this open, any of them passing by will know he got out. Help me cover it.”

Smart.

Choso—Always thinking ahead. And here I am, leaning on Mei just to stay upright.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Sukuna stayed where he was, chest heaving, eyes and ears alert.

Dirt dusted his entire body, but he didn’t care. He didn’t move to help—yet—but he watched carefully, taking in the surroundings, ears straining for any sign of intrusion.

Mei looked at him, concern flickering across her dirt-streaked face. “Do you think you can… stand on your own?” she asked softly, still supporting him.

He grunted, a low, almost dismissive sound, and removed her arm from his side. He shifted his weight, muscles trembling, but managed to straighten fully. His gaze swept the perimeter, unblinking, every nerve on edge.

Choso didn’t wait for him. He grabbed a nearby clump of dirt, shoveling it back into the hole with swift, efficient movements. “Come on, hurry,” he muttered over his shoulder, tossing another handful of soil. “We don’t have time to play with this.”

Sukuna remained alert, standing a few steps behind Mei, his body tense.

Dirt and sweat clung to them both, the air thick with the smell of disturbed earth, but he didn’t flinch. Every sound—the wind, the distant rustle of leaves—made him instinctively check their surroundings.

Mei followed his gaze, adjusting her stance to stay close. She didn’t push him; she knew better than to force him. Instead, she murmured, “Just… focus on trying to walk. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. He was moving, and that was enough for now.

The world outside the grave felt just as threatening as the one inside it, maybe more. But he was above ground, breathing, alive, aware.

Pain shot through his ribs and legs with every tentative step, and he swayed slightly, testing his strength.

Choso and Mei were bent over the grave, shovels in hand, hurriedly trying to cover it.

More and more dirt clung to their clothes, hands streaked with grime and blood from the scramble, but they didn’t notice him—too focused, too panicked.

Sukuna took a careful step toward them, leaning slightly, each movement cautious, but his voice betrayed the desperation he couldn’t hide.

“Do… you know where Y/N is?”

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Author's Note: Y’all, this chapter was so much fun to write. I can’t wait for you to see what happens next !! But for now… who do you think will survive? 👀

Chapter 46: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟒𝟎 - 𝐈𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞.

Megumi likes the room best when it’s quiet.

Not peaceful—this house never is—but still. The kind of quiet that feels borrowed, like it could be taken back at any moment if someone noticed it was there.

He stands at his desk longer than he means to.

The drawer is already half open.

He tells himself he’s just looking for paper. That’s all. Nothing else. Just something to pass the time. Something simple.

Behind him, there’s a presence he’s still not used to.

“Whatcha doing?”

Megumi flinches, then exhales slowly. He reaches into the drawer, fingers brushing over loose pages as he pulls out a pencil and a few sheets.

“Making a game,” he says.

The other person drifts closer anyway, peering down into the drawer like curiosity is a reflex.

“That’s a lot of the same face,” they say, amused. “You draw one person a lot, huh?”

Megumi’s shoulders tense.

"Don’t look.”

“Ooo,” they tease. “What, is that your crush or something? You got a little crush, Gumi?”

Megumi turns sharply. “No.”

The word comes out too fast. Too firm.

“And it’s not Gumi,” he adds. “It’s Megumi.”

They blink, then grin. “Yeah, but Gumi’s more fun. Feels right.” A beat. “Think of it as a nickname.”

Megumi doesn’t argue.

He shoves the drawer shut with his hip.

The other person tilts their head, watching him now instead of the desk. “You didn’t answer my question,” they say. “Who is it?”

Megumi avoids their eyes as he turns away.

“No one important to you.”

The words are flat. Final.

“…Lame,” they mutter, but they don’t push it.

They just follow him over and drop down onto the floor, back against the bed, knees pulled in.

Megumi sits across from them, smooths the paper between them, and picks up the pencil.

Then he draws six lines across the page.

The word comes to him too easily.

Like it’s been waiting.

Megumi taps the pencil once against the paper.

“Go.”

Across from him, the other person squints at the lines, then leans back on their hands. “That’s it? No rules?”

“You guess letters,” Megumi says. “Wrong ones get you closer to dying.”

They snort. “Wow. Cheerful.”

Megumi doesn’t smile.

A moment passes. The room stays quiet. Borrowed.

“…Can I get a hint?” they ask finally. “Like—genre? Theme? Something?”

Megumi hesitates.

The pencil rests between his fingers, unmoving.

“It’s not a thing,” he says at last. “It’s a person.”

“That’s not a genre,” they protest.

“It’s all you’re getting.”

The person hums, clearly thinking now. Their gaze drifts to the paper again, then back to Megumi. “Okay, okay. A person.” A grin tugs at their mouth. “Let’s start easy.”

They point at the page. “E.”

Megumi doesn’t react outwardly. He simply lowers the pencil and fills in the second-to-last space.

_ _ _ _ E _

Their eyebrows lift. “Ohhh. Okay. There we go.” They sit forward a little, suddenly more invested. “A.”

Megumi shakes his head once and draws the first line of the gallows.

“Ouch,” they say. “Alright, alright. What about… R?”

This time, Megumi writes again.

_ _ _ _ E R

They smile, satisfied. “Knew it.”

Another pause follows—longer this time. The air feels heavier, like the quiet from earlier has crept back in.

“…M?” they try.

Megumi’s grip tightens on the pencil before he fills in the first space.

M _ _ _ E R

Something shifts in the other person’s expression.

Not fear. Not confusion.

Just… recognition.

They stare at the word now, lips parting slightly. “Oh.”

Megumi doesn’t look up.

Silence stretches between them, thick and strange.

“…That’s kind of a an odd word for a game,” they say lightly, but there’s less humor in it now. “Isn’t it?”

Megumi finally meets their eyes. His voice is quiet. Careful.

“Do you have one,” he asks, then hesitates. “…a mother, I mean.”

The question hangs there.

The other person blinks.

“I—” They falter, scratching the back of their neck. A small, awkward laugh slips out. “I… don’t know.”

Megumi’s chest tightens—eyes drifitng back to the paper.

Right.

They forgot.

A sharp sound breaks the quiet.

The other person suddenly sucks in a breath, hands flying up to their head as they fold forward with a strangled gasp. “—Ah—”

Megumi looks up fast.

Blood is already blooming through the edge of the bandage wrapped around their skull, dark and ugly against the white.

“You’re bleeding again,” Megumi says, already pushing himself up to his feet. His voice stays steady, practiced. “You need a new one.”

They grit their teeth, trying to wave it off. “I’m fine—just—shit—”

Megumi doesn’t argue. He turns toward the his drawer, then pauses.

“Think of a word,” he says over his shoulder. “My turn now.”

Another breath. A nod he barely sees.

Then—

Knock. Knock.

The sound echoes through the room.

Megumi stiffens.

────────────── . ᛪ༙

The kitchen smells faintly of iron and gun oil.

Naobito stands at the counter with his hunting rifle broken open, thick fingers feeding rounds into the chamber one by one. He takes his time with it. Always does.

Across from him, Naoya is already done.

The rifle rests against his leg, fully loaded, safety off. There’s nothing left for him to do but wait—and it shows.

He shifts his weight, fingers tapping against the stock before he forces them still. Pushes off the counter, then stops, jaw tight. A knife flashes in his hand, rolls once across his knuckles, then disappears again.

He looks irritated. Restless. Like a dog that’s already tasted blood, straining at the leash while its handler drags things out.

Naoya clicks his tongue, glances at the clock, then at the door—anywhere but standing here. Silence stretches, thick and unpleasant.

He exhales sharply, scraping for something—anything—to fill it.

“So,” he says at last, eyes flicking toward the hallway, “where’s the runt?”

Naobito doesn’t look up. Another round clicks into place.

“Megumi.”

Naoya rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Him.” He catches the knife and shoves it into his belt. “He’s been quiet.”

That earns a pause.

Naobito’s hands still on the rifle.

Quiet is not something he likes in this house. Quiet means thinking. Thinking leads to hesitation.

“He should be learning,” Naobito says finally, snapping the rifle shut. “Not hiding.”

Naoya smirks, restless fingers already reaching for another blade. “You mean you want him ending up like me.”

Naobito looks at him then.

Really looks.

It’s brief. Measured. The kind of look used to assess a tool—its usefulness, its limits.

“No,” he says.

Just that.

Then, colder, final:
“I want him ending up like Toji.”

The smirk disappears.

For a split second, something ugly crosses Naoya’s face—envy, resentment, the sharp sting of inadequacy.

He scoffs, masking it as he adjusts the strap at his shoulder.

“Good luck with that,” he mutters. “Kid looks like he’d cry if you put a rifle in his hands.”

Naobito shoulders his weapon, weight settling easily against him.

“He’s old enough,” he says. “And he’s mine.”

Naoya snorts. “You always say that.”

Naobito clicks the rifle shut, voice calm, almost bored. “That boy spends all his free time locked away in his room."

He turns toward the stairs, already moving.

"It’s about time he learned what that time is actually for—discipline. Purpose. Fear does wonders for focus.”

Naoya falls into step behind him, grin sharp but eyes dark. “Like… what you did with me?”

Naobito doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking, the weight in his silence saying more than words ever could.

────────────── . ᛪ༙

The knock comes first. Firm. Controlled.

No answer.

Naoya tilts his head. “Huh.”

Naobito knocks again.

A scrape. A dull thud against the wall.

Naoya’s brow furrows. “What the hell was that?”

A pause. Then Megumi’s voice, delayed. “Just a minute.”

Naoya glances down, intending to adjust his rifle—but something catches his eye near the doorframe.

Dried blood.

His grin spreads slow and dark. “…Hey,” he says, nudging Naobito. “You might wanna see this.”

Naobito follows his gaze. What he sees wipes the calm from his expression. His jaw sets, irritation flashing hot and quick—something is happening without his permission.

He moves at once. One hand tightens around the rifle as he strides forward, shoulder slamming into the door like he’s forcing the moment back under his control.

The door yields under his push.

And there—inside the room—

Megumi, stalls mid-motion. Hands on someone’s shoulders, shoving them toward the closet.

Someone.

Breathing. Bandaged. Alive.

A faint, incredulous laugh slips out from the person. “Uh-oh… they found us!” the voice says, light, teasing, almost careless.

Naoya freezes.

“What the fuck—?”

Naobito doesn’t.

His mind clicks through it instantly.
Skull fractured. Not split. Brain damaged—but not enough.

Unacceptable.

The rifle clicks into his hands before Megumi can speak.

“Is this… part of the game?” the person asks, laughing—but it comes out thinner this time.

“Wait—!” Megumi shouts. “He doesn’t remember! He doesn’t know who he is—!”

The shot cracks through the room.

"Fuck—!" Megumi screams.

The body collapses with a sickening boneless thud that echoes too long.

Naoya exhales. Then laughs softly. “Holy shit.”

Megumi stares. Can’t breathe. Can’t look away.

“He didn’t remember,” he says, voice shaking. “He forgot everything. I was trying to tell you.”

Naoya tilts his head, feigning confusion. “Wait… who is he again? I’m losing track of all these pests.”

Megumi glares, frustration mixing with fear. “Yuji! His name’s Yuji! You—he… he didn’t remember a thing!”

Naoya chuckles, shaking his head. “Ah, right… Yuji. The boyfriend of the bitch I’m going to be fucking."

Megumi swallows hard, cheeks burning with anger and helplessness. “Are you serious? You… you fucking asshole! At least have some decency—"

Naobito lowers the rifle, voice calm, detached. “Doesn’t matter. He would’ve died anyway.”

Megumi snaps his head towards his father, eyes wide, then locks onto him.

And really looks.

Something in his face twists—not fear, not shock.

Revulsion.

Naobito turns away. “Clean it later.”

Naoya grabs his father’s arm, stopping him mid-step. “Wait—hunting. We’re going hunting, remember?"

Naobito turns back slowly, as if he’d nearly forgotten something mundane. His expression doesn’t change.

“Ah. Yes,” he says. “We’re going hunting.”

Megumi blinks. “…Hunting?”

The word feels wrong in his mouth. Confused. Disconnected from the blood still pooling on the floor.

“We still have people here,” Megumi says, voice tight, trembling with anger. “Captives. You said—”

Naoya cuts in, voice light, almost excited. “Yeah, well, two of them ran.” He shrugs. “Basement fuckers. Slipped out while things got messy.”

Megumi’s stomach drops. Rage coils around the fear in his chest. “What?”

“The emo one,” Naoya continues, tapping the stock of his rifle. “Choso. And—” he squints, trying to remember, frustrated, jittery. “What was her name again? The girl.”

“Mei,” Naobito says flatly.

Naoya snaps his fingers. “Right. Mei. Big tits, scary eyes. Hard to forget.”

Megumi shakes his head, backing up a step without realizing it. “No. I’m not— I’m not doing that.”

Naobito’s gaze locks onto him.

“Doing what?” he asks.

“I’m not killing anyone,” Megumi says, voice rising despite himself. “You know I don’t do that. I won’t.”

Naobito exhales through his nose. Slow. Controlled.

“It’s about time you start learning,” he says.

“Fuck off,” Megumi snaps. “I said no.” His voice cracks—but he doesn’t look away.

The next moment happens fast.

Naobito grabs Megumi by the front of his shirt and slams him back into the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. The impact rattles the room.

One hand fisted in his shirt's neckline, lifting him off his feet.

The other closes around his throat.

Tight.

Megumi chokes, hands flying up instinctively, clawing at Naobito’s wrist, panic flooding him as his vision blurs.

“Stop—!” he gasps. “Please—!”

Naoya freezes a few steps back.

For a second, Megumi looks at him.

Really looks.

Naoya’s eyes are wide. Not amused. Not eager.

Afraid.

He takes a small step back, like he doesn’t want to be next. Like he knows exactly what happens if he intervenes.

Naobito leans in close, voice low, calm, terrifying.

“You hunt,” he says, tightening his grip, “or I’ll make you skin your little friend here.”

Megumi’s breath stutters.

Tears spill freely now, burning hot as he shakes.

“O—okay,” he rasps. “Okay—please—”

Naobito releases him.

Megumi drops to his knees, gasping, one hand clutching his throat, the other bracing against the floor. He coughs violently, eyes red, body trembling.

Naobito straightens his coat.

“Five minutes,” he says coolly. “Be downstairs.”

He pauses at the door, glancing back once.

“Or I’ll come back up here,” he adds. “And start the process.”

Naoya doesn’t look at Megumi as he follows his father out.

The door shuts.

Megumi stays on the floor, choking on air, fingers digging into his neck as he cries silently.

“O—okay,” he whispers again.

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Megumi stays on the floor a long moment, the weight of everything pressing down. Then, slowly, he pushes himself up. His hands tremble as he turns to the body.

“I’m sorry…” he whispers, voice cracking, reaching toward the bloodied form. The unfinished game of hangman sprawled on the floor—letters half-writen, the word incomplete:

Mother.

The sight twists something inside him.

He hurries to his drawer, yanking it open, rifling through the sketches he’s kept hidden. Each drawing a fragment of a world he’s never fully lived in, a mother he’s never known.

“Mom…” His voice rises into a wail, raw and ragged, echoing off the walls. “I wish you were here… I wish you’d seen… this. I wish you could have stopped it.”

His hands shake as he spreads the drawings across the surface, tracing the lines of her face, the softness of her eyes, the way her expression could have been gentle… if she’d had the chance.

“I wish I could’ve known you,” he sobs, pressing a drawing to his chest. “I wish you could’ve protected me… from him. From all of this…”

Tears streak his face, mingling with the grime and blood on his hands. His chest heaves as he tries to swallow down the ache, but it refuses to be contained.

He can’t reconcile her kindness with what he knows now.

There is no way a woman like that could willingly marry a man like his father.

His mind recoils.

Maybe she hadn’t chosen at all. Maybe she was… a victim. Forced. Trapped. Used. God knows what she had to endure.

He shakes his head, trying to disbelieve, desperate to push it away, but the image is seared into him, too vivid, too real.

And then, almost like a cruel reflection, he thinks of Y/N. And Toji.

Megumi’s chest tightens.

The Zenins had a way of finding women—women who were breathtaking, impossible to ignore, whose presence lingered in a room like a scent. In his entire life, he had seen this kind of beauty only twice.

Once, in the gentle, impossibly kind eyes of his mother, the face he had never truly known but had spent his life imagining. And now, twice, in Y/N—the light in her eyes, the curve of her smile, she looked as if someone had carved her from the very image of an angel.

Both women beautiful in a way that demanded attention, that could disarm, inspire desire, and yet were doomed to be claimed by forces beyond them.

Megumi swallows, trembling. To see it again, now, in Y/N, reminds him of the cruelty woven into their bloodline.

Y/N—the girl his elder brother has chosen. The one Toji claims he will love, the one he wants to bear his children, the one he says he will marry.

A captive, in the eyes of the Zenins, yes… but Toji’s brand of “love” is already tangled with possession, inevitability, control.

And what does love mean in the Zenin bloodline? In this house, in this blood?

Inevitable. Inescapable.

Megumi swallows hard, trembling, rocking slightly as he hugs his knees to his chest, staring at his own hands, wanting them to do something—anything—to fix this, but knowing they can’t.

In the silent, suffocating weight of the room, he now knows...

Love isn’t a choice here. It’s just what comes next.

A killer waits for its chance, inevitable as the blood staining the floor.

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Author's Note: My poor Yuji… and Megs, he just can’t catch a break. 🥺

Chapter 47: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟒𝟏 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐬.

“Stop fucking asking about her.”

Choso’s voice cuts through the trees sharp and raw, already raised like the argument’s been going on longer than it has.

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t slow down.

Just keeps walking ahead, boots crunching through leaves and snapped twigs as if Sukuna isn’t bleeding out ten feet behind him.

Sukuna’s eyes narrow, irritation cutting through the pain.
“What the fuck is your problem?”

Choso lets out a sharp, disbelieving breath.

Ugly. Bitter.

"My problem?” Choso snaps, turning slowly to face him.

His eyes are wild, furious, rimmed red with exhaustion. “You’re asking her boyfriend where his girlfriend is.”

The word boyfriend lands hard.

Not loud—but sharp. Precise. Like a blade pressed between ribs.

Something ugly flashes across Sukuna's face—defensive, territorial, offended in a way he hates himself for.

Like he’s being accused of something he doesn’t have the right to deny.

His jaw tightens.

His shoulder jerks, muscle memory kicking in, body reacting before his brain can catch up—half a step forward, instinct screaming to shut Choso up, to knock that look off his face—

And then the strength just… drains out of him.

The movement pulls wrong. Pain tears through his side, hot and blinding, and his weight lurches sideways instead.

Mei’s already there. 

She tightens her grip around Sukuna’s waist as he stumbles, arm locking firm around his back to keep him upright.

He’s heavy—dead weight and blood loss—but she doesn’t let go.

Her eyes flick between them once—sharp, wary—before dropping back to Sukuna, like she’s choosing where to spend what little control she has left in this argument.

“Choso,” she says, voice tight, leaning into him.
“He’s just asking. That’s all.

Mei shifts closer, bracing herself to steady Sukuna as he sways. "The last time we saw her… she was being led into the house with Toji."

Sukuna tilts his head, eyes narrowing, voice low and mocking. “See? Not that hard, Cho.” He uses the nickname knowingly—sharp, cutting. One Y/N used to call him, one he knows will get under Choso’s skin.

Choso whirls on her.

“Oh my god—” he laughs once, sharp and incredulous, voice cracking with disbelief. “Would you stop being on that fucker’s side for five seconds?”

Mei stiffens. “I’m not on his side—”

“He cheated on you,” Choso cuts in, voice cracking with disbelief. “He lied to you. For months—!”

Sukuna tilts his head slightly, jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes narrow, sharp, holding back the words he doesn’t want to say. A quiet, tense whatever radiates from him without a single sound.

“…And you’re standing here holding him upright like he didn’t just blow your life up.”

Mei goes to open her mouth.

Then closes it.

Whatever she was about to say doesn’t come.

Her grip on Sukuna tightens instead—not protective, not forgiving. Just reflex.

That hesitation is enough.

Choso scoffs, the sound tearing out of him like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “See?” he snaps. “That. Right there.”

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

Sukuna exhales through his teeth—slow, controlled—like he’s biting back something worse.

Choso doesn’t miss it.

“It’s just—you kept asking,” he continues, voice rising again, tight with restraint. “Over and over. Like saying her name enough times might change where she is.” His laugh comes out harsh, fractured. “Do you have any idea how fucking exhausting that is?”

Sukuna lifts his head slowly, breath shallow, eyes sliding back to Choso.

“You’re acting like I didn't have a reason to ask.”

There’s no confusion in it.

Just challenge.

His mouth twitches, bitter and sharp.
“Besides,” he says, eyes locked on him now, “you really think being boyfriend still means shit?”

For a moment Choso stilled.

Like every muscle in his body locks down at once to keep something worse from happening.

For a beat, he doesn’t speak. Just stares—raw disbelief etched into his face, like the words didn’t just hurt him, but rewrote something fundamental.

Then Choso laughs—sharp, humorless. “Yeah,” he says. “It does. Or it did. Until you decided to—”

“Until what?” Sukuna cuts in. “Until I started fucking your girlfriend?”

The words land wrong.

Not like an insult.
Like a humiliation.

For a split second, Choso just stares at him—mouth parted, breath caught somewhere in his chest.

His hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as if he doesn’t know what else to do with them.

Mei sucks in a breath, grip faltering for half a second before she steadies Sukuna again.
“Okay,” she says, exhaling hard. “That’s— .”

Neither look at her.

“And yeah,” Sukuna cuts in adding quietly, eyes dark, voice low and full of bad intention. “She didn’t look like she hated it.”

Silence stretches between them.

“She loved it.” he spits, every word a strike to Choso.

Choso’s face drains of color—staring at Sukuna like he doesn't recognize him anymore.

“Oh my god,” he says, voice shaking now. “You have no fucking decency.”

Sukuna exhales through his nose, a bitter edge creeping in. “Don’t act surprised.”

“Well... my girlfriend is still inside that house,” Choso snaps, stepping closer, fury cracking through his voice. “And you—your girlfriend is the one holding you up while you're here, bragging about screwing my fucking girlfriend!”

Sukuna shifts again, instinct pulling him forward—

But blood drips from Sukuna’s side, dark and slick, staining the leaves between them— causing his body to stiffen at the sting, his weight faltering just enough to throw him off balance.

“You don’t get to talk about her like that,” Choso continues, voice shaking now, anger bleeding into something rawer. “Not while she’s missing in that house. Not while you’re leaning on Mei like she’s nothing.”

Sukuna lifts his head slowly. “What,” he mutters, “you want me to apologize?”

“No. But she’s still inside that house,” Choso spits, words tumbling out ugly and uncontrolled. “Probably getting her guts rearranged by that psycho. So stop asking me where she is like I can do a damn thing about it!”

The air shifts.

It’s subtle—but immediate.

Sukuna goes stiff.

Not angry.
Not yet.

Mei feels it before she understands it—the sudden tension under her arm, the way his body locks like something just snapped into place.

"Don’t,” Sukuna says.

His voice is low. Even. Dangerous in how controlled it is.

Choso doesn’t stop. “What?” he scoffs. “You really think that man isn’t fucking her right now?”

That’s when Sukuna lunges.

Mei barely manages to keep him upright as he jerks forward, arm straining against her grip. “Sukuna, stop—!"

Sukuna halts for a beat, jaw working, shoulders trembling as he forces himself to slow his breathing, eyes dark and locked on Choso.

“Don’t you fucking say that,” Sukuna snarls, the words ripping out of him now.

“Why?” Choso snaps back. “Because it makes you uncomfortable?”

Sukuna’s eyes flick away for half a second.

That’s the tell.

“Just don't—” he says finally, voice low, rough. “Don't say things like that."

“Oh, that’s rich,” he snaps. “You can stand there and talk about how you’re fucking my girlfriend like it’s nothing—”

He steps forward, voice cracking as it rises.

“—but I’m not allowed to say out loud that some psycho might be doing the same thing right now?”

His hands shake at his sides, fists clenching hard.

“You don’t think I care?” he shouts. “She’s the only reason I’m still wanting to fucking breathe, The only reason I even want to be alive right now."

The words tear out of him, ugly and loud and desperate.

That’s when Mei moves.

She shoves herself between them, shoulder slamming into Choso’s chest hard enough to knock him back a step.

“Enough!” she yells. “Both of you!”

They stop and stand there—bleeding, shaking, the forest around them eerily silent, as if it's listening.

Mei swallows, throat tight, still holding him upright.

She exhales hard through her nose and shifts closer, one arm still braced under his shoulder to steady him, the other pressing firmly against his chest as she forces him back.

“Okay,” she says, voice shaking but steady enough to cut through the moment. “That’s it. We’re stopping.”

Choso scoffs, already bristling. “Stopping? Here?” He gestures wildly at the trees, frustration bleeding into panic. “No. That’s not a plan. We can’t just sit down in the middle of the damn forest. They’ll find us—anyone could be out there. We need to move, find a road, something—”

“I said stop,” Mei snaps.

Choso runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “He’s leaving blood everywhere, Mei. You see that, right? Every step, it’s—fuck, it’s all over the ground, it’s all over you—and out here? Out here, they’ll smell it. They’ll fucking find us!”

“Exactly. That’s why we're stopping." She cuts in, turning on him. "He’s bleeding too much to keep moving. He’s barely upright. If we push him any farther, he’ll collapse—and then they will find us.”

Sukuna barely resists as she shifts, guiding him back a few steps toward a thick oak tree.

“Sit,” Mei orders.

His spine slams into the bark harder than necessary. He hisses, teeth grinding, and slides down until he’s seated against the trunk, legs stretched out in the leaves.

Mei drops to her knees in front of him.

Choso opens his mouth—ready to argue again—

But then she grabs the hem of her own shirt and yanks it up over her head.

And whatever he was about to say dies in his throat.

Sukuna blinks. “Mei—”

“It's fine.” she cuts in, already moving.

She tosses the shirt aside and presses it against his side. Blood immediately blooms through the fabric.

Now that Mei’s close—really close—she sees it properly.

The cuts aren’t wild. They aren’t sloppy.

They’re intentional.

Long, careful slashes carved across his chest and stomach, spaced just enough to keep him bleeding without killing him.

Not deep enough to finish the job. Not shallow enough to heal fast.

Angled. Controlled.

Like whoever did this knew exactly how much skin to open and how deep to go.

Her eyes widen.

“Jesus, Sukuna…” she murmurs. “They really got you everywhere.”

She shifts to check his back—and her hands hesitate.

Just for a second.

The skin there is worse.

Torn. Split. Raw in places.

Still... not enough to end him—but enough to keep him weak.

“Fuck,” she breathes. “This is bad.”

“Yeah,” Sukuna mutters. “No shit.”

Choso had gone quiet throughout the conversation.

He’d turned away when she pulled her shirt off.

Told himself it was respect. Decency. The last scrap of it he had left.

Then—without meaning to—he looks back.

And his eyes catch.

Not on Sukuna.

On Mei.

Bare shoulders slicked with blood that isn’t hers. Her bra stretched tight as she leans forward, all focus and urgency, hands steady as she presses pressure into Sukuna’s wounds.

Choso’s eyes drop.

Not to her face.

To her chest.

The way the fabric pulls. The weight of her breasts straining against it. Bare skin, soft and exposed in a way that feels violently out of place here.

The sight hits him wrong.

Too warm. Too alive. Too normal against the violence still ringing in his skull.

He stares before he can stop himself.

Full. Bare. Real.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

It isn’t desire the way it’s supposed to be. Not romance. Just the blunt shock of flesh instead of gore—curves instead of corpses.

Something familiar and human punching through the nightmare, his brain latching to it like a lifeline.

And for that half of a second, it’s the first thing that doesn’t belong to the hell they’re living in.

But then it clicks.

Reality snapping back into place.

He realizes exactly where he’s looking.

And Sukuna realizes it too.

“The fuck are you staring at?”

Choso snaps his head up. “What?”

Sukuna lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, eyes flicking pointedly downward. “You serious right now?” His gaze drags back to Choso. “You looking at my girlfriend like you wanna fuck her?”

Mei doesn’t flinch.

She’d already felt it—Choso’s stare, heavy and misplaced, lingering longer than it should have. Not accidental. Not subtle. Just there, pressing at the edge of her awareness while her hands stayed busy keeping Sukuna alive.

She noticed. Of course she did.

And she’d chosen to ignore it.

Not because it didn’t bother her.
But because the last thing any of them need is a fight over something ugly and human and entirely predictable.

So she keeps her head down. Keeps pressure on the wound. Pretends it doesn’t matter.

“Stop,” Mei says quietly, without lifting her head. “Sukuna. Don’t.”

No accusation. No emotion. Just a plea to move past it.

But Sukuna doesn’t.

“No,” he snaps, pain and anger sharpening his voice. “I’m not gonna ignore that.”

Choso bristles. “What the hell are you even talking about?”

Sukuna scoffs. “Don’t play stupid. I saw it.”

Choso snaps.

“Oh, fuck you,” he barks. “So you can look at my girlfriend. Fuck my girlfriend. Lie about it for months. But the second I accidentally look at yours while she’s keeping you alive, suddenly I’m the villain?”

Mei stills completely now, hands still pressed to Sukuna’s side.

“You’re unbelievable,” Choso continues, voice cracking. “You’re leaning on her after everything you did, and you wanna act territorial now?”

Sukuna shifts, pain ripping through him hard enough to steal the air from his lungs.

“I don’t give a shit about territorial,” he snaps. “I give a shit about you looking at her like that.”

“Oh, now you care?” Choso laughs, hollow and sharp. “That’s rich.”

“Enough,” Mei says tightly, not looking up. “Both of you. Stop.”

Neither listens.

“You don’t get to talk about decency,” Choso says. “Not after—”

“And you don’t get to pretend you’re righteous,” Sukuna fires back. “Not when—”

“Enough!” Mei shouts.

The sound tears through the trees.

The forest drops into silence.

No birds.
No wind.

Just breath, blood, and the awful space between them.

Then Mei’s hands go still.

She doesn’t move for a second—just kneels there, shoulders rising and falling too fast. When she finally looks up at them, her eyes are bright, glassy.

Choso notices first. “Mei?”

Sukuna exhales slowly. “Shit—”

“You guys…” Her voice cracks despite her effort to hold it together. “We could be the last ones left.”

That lands harder than yelling ever did.

“Besides Y/N,” she adds quickly, swallowing. “Of course. But… I don’t want to lose anyone else. Not you. Not either of you.”

Her voice drops, small and almost pleading.

“So can we just—be nice to each other? Just until we get out of here?” A weak breath. “Then you can fight all you want. Okay?”

Neither of them answers.

Choso looks away first, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere in the trees like if he stares long enough the words will fade, sink into the leaves, disappear.

Sukuna turns his head in the opposite direction, gaze unfocused, mouth set hard.

For a long moment, no one speaks.

Then Sukuna exhales quietly.

“…We might not be the only ones alive.”

Mei and Choso speak at the same time.

“What?”

Sukuna doesn’t look back at them. “I was in this chapel.”

Choso frowns, voice rising. “You mean that fucking little shack?”

Sukuna tilts his head, voice low, almost curious. “What—?”

“We know..." Mei cuts in nodding slowly. "...We saw them drag you out. That’s how we knew you were in the grave.”

“Oh.” Sukuna exhales through his nose, something embarrassed and raw threading through his voice. “So you saw me crawl, huh.”

“Yeah,” Mei says gently, a breath of a laugh breaking through. “We did.”
Her voice softens. “You did what you had to.”

Sukuna’s eyes drop to his chest, tracing the slick stains of blood there. His jaw tightens as he swallows hard, holding back words he doesn’t want to voice.

“They had this whole ritual,” he continues. “Called it a cleansing. Said sins had to be cut out. Blood had to be released.”

He gestures vaguely at himself. “That’s why they carved me up like a fucking animal.”

Mei’s hands curl into the blood-soaked cloth.

“Gojo was there too,” Sukuna adds. “They kept talking to him. About how he ‘committed adultery with his eyes.’”

Choso stiffens. “What does that even—”

“All because of that photo he took,” Sukuna says, jaw flexing, voice tight. “Of Y/N. They said it’d be better to gouge his eyes out than let him see her again.”

Mei’s breath stutters. “They—what?”

“What the fuck—?” Choso mutters, sick.

“They pressed into his eye,” Sukuna continues. “Just enough to make him understand they weren’t bluffing.”

He exhales. “But he passed out before they could go any further. Just… shut down.”

A beat.

“Threat alone did it.”

Choso swears under his breath, sickened.

Mei’s face drains of color. “Oh my god…”

“Oh,” Sukuna adds suddenly, like remembering something dull. “And Nobara.”

Mei stiffens. “She was there too?”

“Yeah. Her and Y/N. They didn’t touch them—at least, not in a way that would hurt. Just made them watch.”

His mouth twists.

"But after?” Sukuna exhales, voice low. “They took Nobara with that jittery little fuck… Two-toned hair. Blond.” A faint, mocking edge threads through his words. “Guy couldn’t stand straight without twitching.”

He pauses, frowning, as if trying to remember the name.

Choso narrows his eyes. “Naoya?”

Sukuna’s lips twitch, a hint of bitter amusement. “Yeah. Naoya.” His eyes darken. “And the way he was holding onto her?” He scoffs, sharp. “Unless he’s into fucking dead people…”

A pause.

“She’s probably still alive.”

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Megumi steps into the kitchen, shoulders stiff, each movement careful. His eyes are raw, the corners pink from unshed tears, and a dark bruise begins to bloom along his neck.

Every step feels heavy, weighed down by the memory of what just happened.

Naoya notices immediately. “Looks like someone’s been crying.”

Megumi flinches, lowering his gaze.

Naobito doesn’t even glance at him. His voice cuts through the kitchen like a blade. “Don’t tell me you were crying up there. Suck it up, boy. There’s work to do.”

Megumi swallows hard. The memory of Naobito’s hands on his throat is fresh, tight around his windpipe. He doesn’t argue.

Naoya steps closer, crouching slightly as if to meet him on a safer level, though the rifle in his hands is still a reminder of everything wrong. “Here,” he says softly, offering it. “I loaded it up for you already. All you gotta do is shoot.”

Megumi hesitates, staring at the weapon as if it might bite. His fingers tremble, teeth clenching.

Naoya leans in, voice lower, just enough to try to break the tension. ““You’ll be fine. Just… focus. Don’t think too much.”

Naobito’s gaze sweeps the two of them, sharp and unrelenting. He doesn’t miss a single second.

 “Trying to coddle him, Naoya?” Naobito’s voice is low, deadly calm.

Naoya’s posture shifts imperceptibly, protective but subtle. “I’m… just making sure he can handle it.”

Naobito steps closer, voice dropping to that same poisonous calm, eyes gleaming. “Handle it, huh… Well. Maybe if you actually get a kill today, you’ll earn a reward. We can get you a woman. Or…” His lips twitch in a cruel approximation of amusement. “…maybe Toji will let you have a bite at Y/N.”

Megumi stiffens, his breath catching in his chest. “What—what? Why—why would you even—”

Naoya’s voice cuts in, quick and clipped, a shield thrown up instinctively. “Where are Toji and Y/N, anyway?” he asks, eyes scanning the room as if the question is just casual curiosity.

Naobito shrugs, voice flat. “Haven’t seen them.”

They might not have seen them. But Megumi had.

His mind flashes to just moments earlier—passing through the hallway.

Megumi had halted at the sight: Toji leaning casually against the bathroom doorway, one shoulder brushing the frame, the other hand tucked into a pocket. His posture was loose, radiating that quiet, lethal ease that always made Megumi’s stomach knot. 

Two steps closer and that man—his own brother... could have been a predator in the wild—and Megumi knew, in a way he didn’t want to admit, that blood ran thicker than fear.

Toji’s sharp gaze caught him immediately. “What’s with the tears?” His voice was low, probing, but laced with that dangerous calm that made Megumi’s skin crawl.

Megumi looked away, forcing a shrug, keeping it casual. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Bullshit,” Toji said, stepping closer, his presence hot, commanding. “I heard that loud-ass gunshot earlier. Now I see tears on your face. And… what the fuck is that?” His eyes flicked to the side of Megumi’s neck. “Massive bruise. Who did that?”

Megumi’s chest tightened, air thick in his lungs. “Fuck off. No one did it,” he spat, too quickly, his voice a thin shield.

Toji’s gaze lingered, slow, knowing, a thin line of his mouth. He didn’t need to speak—the accusation, the certainty, the bloodline in his stare said enough. Megumi’s heart hammered. He didn’t want Toji to know. Not now. Not ever.

Trying to shift the tension, Megumi forced a casual tone, keeping it light. “Uh… what are you doing here, anyway?”

Toji’s eyes softened fractionally—just enough that Megumi’s stomach twisted—but the danger never left him. “Waiting,” Toji said, vague.

“For…?” Megumi prompted, curiosity and caution wrestling in his chest.

Toji tilted his head, voice low, sharp as a knife. “Y/N.”

“Oh… okay,” Megumi said quickly, too eager to move on, keeping his tone neutral, hiding the stir of something he shouldn’t feel. He didn’t push further.

Without another word, he walked past, silent, measured, forcing his pace steady, trying not to let the image of Toji waiting—and the weight of what it meant—sink too deeply into his chest.

Back in the kitchen, Megumi’s hands shake on the rifle. The memory coils in his stomach, tight, suffocating, twisting fear and anticipation together in a storm he can’t escape.

Naobito claps his hands once, voice sharp. “And what about Nobara?”

“She’s downstairs with Gojo,” Naoya says, smooth, casual, but deliberate. “I’ll grab her when we sit for dinner.”

Naobito seems satisfied. No further words.

They step outside. The air is sharp, carrying the tang of iron and dust. Megumi’s stomach twists as Naoya moves slightly behind him, guiding subtly, almost unconsciously protective.

Megumi notices the slight change in Naoya—he’s jittery now, scanning the tree line, fingers brushing the rifle as if testing the air.

Naobito’s voice cuts through, calm and commanding. “Which way do you think they went?”

Naoya tilts his head, eyes tracking faint footprints and snapped twigs. “Could be that way… or maybe doubled back toward the creek.”

Megumi swallows. The world feels like it’s tilting under his feet. Fear, anticipation, and the smell of blood in the air.

He tightens his grip on the rifle. The hunt has begun.

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Author's Note: Hey guys, just a heads up, this is kind of a draft, so if there are any mistakes, please bear with me.

Alsoooo, I find it funny because I kinda always forget that you guys don’t know the entire plot yet, so I’m always like, “Wait, I’m not the only one reading this—!” and then I spend my time rewriting to make sure you’re seeing what I’m seeing as I write... woopsie 🥺

Anyway… shit, guys—is the trio going to make it? 

Chapter 48: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟒𝟐 - 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐝.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind her.

Soft. Final.

Y/N doesn’t move right away. She stands there with her back to it, forehead nearly touching the wood, lungs dragging in air that won’t settle. The house beyond the door feels too close. Too aware.

Her hands come up on their own.

They hover—hesitate—then press against her face.

Her cheeks. Her jaw. The places his hands were.

She rubs at them hard, like friction might erase the memory of his thumbs, the pressure, the way he held her still. Her skin feels wrong beneath her palms. Too warm. Tainted.

A broken sound slips out of her before she can stop it.

She stumbles forward, catching herself on the sink as the faucet turns beneath her fingers. The water roars to life, sudden and sharp in the small space.

She doesn’t look up at the mirror.

She doesn’t want to.

She cups water and drags it over her face once.

Twice.

Cold stings, but it doesn’t wash him away.

Her hands linger there, fingers trembling as they trace her cheeks again—checking, scrubbing, grounding herself in the fact that she’s alone.

That his hands aren’t actually there anymore.

The faucet keeps running.

But it begins to fade.

The sound fills the room, stretches thin, starts to pull—

And somewhere between the water and her breath catching in her throat, the pressure comes back.

. . .

His hands are on her face again.

Big. Rough. Palms pressing into her cheeks until her lips part helplessly, until her breath stutters and her vision swims.

He holds her still like she might float away otherwise, thumbs brushing just under her eyes—almost gentle.

Almost.

“I hate you,” she sobs, words slurring together. “I fucking hate you—let me go. Let me die with him. I want to die with him, you fucking asshole. You took everything from me—!”

Her nails scrape uselessly against his wrists. Her body shakes so badly she can barely stay upright.

“I wanna be buried with him,” she chokes. “You hear me? I don’t want this. I don’t want you. I don’t want anything anymore—!”

Her voice is gone—shredded, raw, ragged with panic and grief—tears streaming so thick she can barely see, lungs burning as each ragged sob tears through her chest.

Toji doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t snap. Doesn’t curse. Doesn’t flinch.

He just holds her face there, steady and unyielding, thumbs pressing into the softness of her cheeks until her mouth stays open, breath forced to slow whether she wants it to or not.

“Easy now… just breathe.” he says quietly.

The word lands wrong. Too calm. Too controlled.

“Slow it down… let me hold you.”

Her sob catches, turns jagged. She tries to spit at him. Misses—saliva sliding uselessly down her chin instead.

His grip doesn’t loosen.

“I don’t care if you hate me,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, like this is familiar territory. Like he’s walked women through this edge before. “But don’t lie to yourself.”

His thumbs press harder into her cheeks, forcing her face up.

“You don’t wanna die,” he continues softly. “You’re too pretty for that.”

The words slice deep.

She sags against his grip, breath coming in uneven, ruined pulls. “Fuck you,” she sobs, the words falling apart as soon as they leave her mouth. “I can die if I want to—just… let me go—put me in the ground with him—”

Her fingers curl around his wrists, not striking, not fighting—just trying to pry them away, trembling, nails scraping uselessly over his skin.

“I want to be with him,” she chokes, forehead tipping forward until it nearly rests against his chest. “I don’t want this—I don’t want you—please—just put me in the casket with him. Please. You fucking monster—”

Her voice is gone now—ruined, desperate—lungs burning as grief tears through her chest. The grave behind him feels endless, like it’s swallowing the world whole.

Toji stills.

Not because she’s stopped crying, she hasn’t.

But because she isn’t fighting him anymore.

Her hands are wrapped around his wrists now. Not striking. Not scratching. Just holding on, knuckles white, fingers shaking like if she lets go she’ll disappear entirely.

Like he’s the only thing keeping her upright.

He hums softly, a dark intent settling behind his eyes.

“See,” he murmurs, thumbs pressing a little firmer into her cheeks, tilting her face back up. Not gentle—directing. “That’s not hate.”

Her breath shudders. A sound slips out of her that isn’t a word.

“You don’t want the ground,” he continues quietly. “You want it to stop hurting.”

His forehead dips closer, close enough that she can smell him the metallic bite of blood and the earthiness of dirt clinging to him.

“And you’re smart enough to know dying won’t fix that.”

Her grip tightens, a broken whimper caught in her throat.

“If you really wanted the box,” Toji adds, low, almost intimate, “you wouldn’t be holding onto me like this.”

His thumbs drag once more along her jaw, slow. Claiming.

“But you are.”

Her breath stutters at that—a broken hitch she can’t hide.

“No,” she whispers, but it’s weak. Thin. Already unraveling. “I just—please—”

He doesn’t let her look away.

His thumbs stay locked at her jaw, fingers spread wide like a brace, like he’s holding her together by force alone.

“You’re still here,” Toji murmurs. “Still breathing. Still begging.”

His forehead brushes hers—not a kiss. A warning. A claim. His voice drops lower, rougher at the edges.

“Dead people don’t beg.”

Her eyes squeeze shut, tears spilling free, sliding hot and unchecked over his thumbs.

Her hands clutch tighter around his wrists, desperate now—not to escape, but to anchor herself to something solid before she breaks apart completely.

“I don’t want to be alone,” she sobs, the confession ripping out of her like a wound. “I can’t—please—”

There it is.

Toji exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s been waiting for that exact admission.

“You won’t be,” he says. Certain. Final.

His grip eases just enough for her to feel it—to notice the difference—but not enough to let her go. Control disguised as mercy.

“I’m not putting you in the ground,” he continues, voice low, each word pressed carefully into her. “And I’m not letting you crawl after him.”

Her chin trembles. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out—just a soundless sob.

“You stay,” Toji tells her, firm now. Commanding. “You breathe. You live.”

His thumbs swipe beneath her eyes, smearing tears across dirt-streaked skin, grounding her whether she wants it or not.

“And you let me handle the rest.”

Her forehead finally drops forward, touching his chest. She doesn’t pull away.

She can’t.

Her grip tightens, fingers curling into his forearms.

Toji looks down at her. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, almost satisfied. “Just like that.”

And for a heartbeat, the world goes still.

Then something crawls up her spine.

Not his grip. Not the way his hands cage her face, steady and unyielding.

Something else.

An unease.

The kind that prickles deep in the gut, old and instinctive—her body reacting before her mind can catch up.

Adrenaline that never fully shut off.

A warning she doesn’t remember learning how to hear.

She almost assumes it’s him.

Toji’s stare—heavy, expectant—waiting for her to look back up. Waiting to keep talking. To feed her whatever comes next.

She almost turns.

Almost lifts her eyes.

And then she realizes.

The feeling isn’t coming from him.

It’s coming from the trees.

She stills—quick to make no reaction.

She doesn’t move her head. Doesn’t breathe too deep. Just lets her eyes drift, barely, catching it through the edge of her vision.

Two shapes.

Standing between the trunks.

Watching.

Her heart stutters.

Choso.

Mei.

Alive.

For one fragile, impossible second, relief crashes into her so hard it nearly knocks the air from her lungs. Her mouth parts, instinct screaming to call out—to say their names, to ask how, to ask if they’re okay—

Choso.

The guilt follows immediately. Brutal. Crushing.

The way he found out. The timing. The blood. The betrayal that didn’t disappear just because the world had turned violent.

She had broken him in the worst way possible.

And now she’s standing here, hoping he’ll save her like she deserves it.

The relief cracks.

What if she isn’t seeing them at all?

What if it’s just her mind—desperate, unraveling—clawing for something to hold onto?

She doesn’t dare look twice.

Doesn’t dare react.

She keeps her face blank. Her body loose. Passive.

Like she’s already accepted whatever comes next.

But... if they’re real… if they’re watching…

Maybe they’d help.

No.

She doubts it.

But... still.. she hopes.

No.

She prays.

God—she prays.

Prays they saw the grave.

Prays they understand.

Prays they’ll act—even if they hate her, even if they never forgive her, even if they don’t care what happens to her at all.

Even if it’s only for him.

If going inside with Toji means they can get to Sukuna—

If it buys him minutes instead of hours. A chance. A window.

If it means he suffers less—

Then she can do this.

Her shoulders sag.

She nods once.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Toji’s hands don’t move.

“That’s good,” he says, already turning her toward the house.

. . .

The sound of running water slams back into her skull.

Too loud. Too close.

Y/N jolts forward over the sink, palms braced against the porcelain like she’s been standing there longer than she remembers.

The faucet is still running—has been running—water spilling endlessly into the basin, splashing against her wrists.

Her breath comes out uneven.

She stares down at her hands and realizes they’re shaking.

The water in the sink has overflowed, spreading thin rivulets over the porcelain.

Her reflection shimmers and wavers in the spill, distorted and fragmented.

She jerks back, finally twisting the faucet off, letting the sudden quiet hit like a punch. Her hands settle against the edge of the sink, gripping the cool porcelain.

When she finally dares to look up, her reflection swims.

Mascara gone—not smeared, not dramatic. Just erased.

Black washed clean down her cheeks, lashes bare and clumped with water.

Her eyes are red and swollen, rims raw like they’ve been rubbed too hard, cried into too long.

Her lips are puffy. Split.

From begging.

A broken sound almost leaves her throat. She clamps down on it immediately, biting the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood.

Not now.

Not here.

Her fingers curl tighter around the edge of the sink as the realization hits.

This bathroom.

The one from before.

It comes back all at once—too vivid to be gentle.

Her leaning against this same counter, arms crossed, watching him pace because everything still felt possible back then.

They had promised.

Finally.

The moment they were going to be official—together, no more waiting.

She had never gotten the chance to say it—not the words that mattered, not the I love you meant only for him, only for the moment when they were finally on the same page, when everything between them could be spoken without doubt or fear.

The words were trapped inside her chest, whispered only to herself, never allowed to escape.

A broken sound slips from her lips—shit… fuck… too quiet to matter to anyone else, but enough to tear through her own chest.

That thought hits her harder than the memory of his absence ever could.

And... California.

Home.

It feels so far away now, a distant life she can’t reach from here.

She can hear herself laughing—quiet, easy—telling him to slow down, to stop overthinking everything.

They probably would have shared his apartment.

She’d practically been living there already.

He always joked about how he’d never let his wife work—at the time, she had thought Mei might be lucky for a man like that, but that wasn’t it.

That wasn’t what made her heart stop.

Not for the promise of ease, but for the way he loved.

That was what finally made her heart stop when they made that truce, that promise to be together after this trip.

Not the idea of never working. Not the words he never said. But the way Sukuna showed her that he loved her, fully and completely.

She remembers her mother telling her once that the man always has to love you more for a relationship to ever work—and fuck, his actions had spoken enough.

Enough that she had finally believed in them.

Sukuna had always helped her with math after they hooked up—sitting beside her on the bed or the floor, patient with every question Never condescending. Never rushed.

God… she’d forgotten how smart he was.

He was majoring in Mechanical engineering. Of course he made it look easy.

He’d explained things like it mattered that she understood, like there was nowhere else he needed to be, like helping her was part of something bigger than just some stupid homework.

She remembered the night he told her he already had a job lined up after college—the way his voice stayed steady, but his chest lifted just a little with pride.

The way he looked at her when he said it, like he wanted her to know. Like she was already folded into that future.

And she’d been so proud of him.

But now that she’s really thinking—now that she knows, really knows—

He had always been thinking ahead.

Always planning past the moment.

He had always thought of her in his future.

And she should have seen it then.

Should have understood what he was trying to give her.

But now..?

All of it—gone.

A future they were going to steal for themselves, burned down to dirt and silence.

Their last real laughs were trapped in this bathroom.
Their last kisses bled into these walls.

They left everything here—the plans, the promises, the moment they were finally going to be something.

This room held the shape of it all.

And now there’s nothing left of it but echoes.

Her throat tightens.

Now she’ll live that life with another man.

A man she met once.

A man who never asked.

“Stop,” she whispers to herself before the sound can break free. Her shoulders tremble anyway, heat clawing up her chest, suffocating.

No.

She forces it back down. Hard. Painfully.

She turned the faucet back on.

The sound stretches, thins—

A knock cuts through it.

"You still breathing in there?"

Toji.

Fear twists in her stomach—not because of what he’s done—

But the certainty of what he can do.

“I’m—” Her voice comes out wrecked. She clears her throat quickly, wiping at her cheeks with the heel of her hand. They’re wet again. Of course they are. “I’m fine. Just—just give me a second.”

Silence.

She waits for the door to open anyway.

It doesn’t.

“Take your time,” he says.

That’s worse.

Shit.

Y/N shuts the faucet off. The sudden quiet feels violent.

She wipes at her face again—mascara smearing, not disappearing. She tries to fix her hair with shaking fingers, smooths it down like it’ll matter.

It doesn’t.

She straightens her white ribbed tank. Tugs her skirt into place. Stands up a little taller.

She doesn’t know why she’s doing this.

She doesn’t want to look better.

She doesn’t look better.

Her mascara is still there. Her eyes are still red. Her hands are still shaking.

Fuck.

She takes a breath anyway.

Looks around the bathroom one last time—the crooked towel, the faint crack in the mirror she’s never noticed before. A room frozen in time, still holding the shape of a life that was supposed to happen.

She looks at herself again.

Commits it to memory.

Then she opens the door.

Toji is exactly where she knew he’d be.

Leaning against the opposite wall, one shoulder pressed into the wood, long legs crossed at the ankle like he hasn’t moved an inch. Like waiting is something he’s very good at.

His eyes lift the second she steps out.

They drag over her slowly.

Not rushed.

Not sloppy.

Assessing.

His mouth curves into a small, sharp grin. He bites his lip once, like he catches himself enjoying it.

“There she is,” he says.

Her stomach drops.

She doesn’t answer.

The bathroom door finally clicks shut behind her.

No escape now. Shit.

Toji moves. Smooth. Swift. Like a predator circling the prey that has already accepted its fate.

His arms wrap around her body, holding her close. She feels the weight of him, the way he leans down to look at her—every movement confident and certain she won’t resist.

His hands slide down her arms, brushing over her skin in slow, motions—up and down, as if memorizing the feel of her.

The contact is intimate, suffocating, sending heat crawling through her body.

Then he drops one of his hands to his side.

The other curls around hers, fingers intertwining effortlessly.

Without a word, he starts moving, guiding her through the quiet house.

“W-where are we going?” Her voice cracks slightly, the words tight with urgency, though she strains to keep calm, to sound collected.

He glances back once, eyes dark, lips tugged into a small, knowing grin. “Our room,” he says, slow and full of intent, letting the weight of the word sink in. Our.

The word twists in her chest. Not just a room. Not just a space.

He doesn’t let her linger on it. His pace is steady, measured, forcing her to follow. Then, a teasing lilt in his voice:

“What—don’t want to see the bed you’ll be sleeping in?”

He watches her flinch, slow smile spreading as he notices the quick intake of her breath.

The question is playful, but heavy—a subtle threat, a promise. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Her heart hammers. She keeps walking, hand trapped in his, stomach tight with anticipation, fear, and something else she isn’t ready to name.

He stops at the door. His hand tightens slightly around hers.

He tilts his head, a small, sharp grin tugging at his lips. “Ladies first,” he says, voice low, almost mocking, like he’s enjoying the tension writhing inside her. “Make yourself at home.”

Y/N hesitates.

The words are polite, almost charming—but the way he says them makes her skin crawl. At home. In his house. In the room they’ll share. The implication isn’t lost on her.

She steps forward first, hand still trapped in his, heart hammering against her ribs.

The narrow space between them feels suffocating, and she hates it—hates how exposed she feels, how easily he controls the pace, the direction, everything.

Her eyes dart around as she lets them adjust to the dim light, taking in the room’s bare, functional lines.

But her eyes are immediately drawn to the bed. Her eyes widen slightly. She doesn’t want to go near it, terrified of what might happen. What he might do.

Instinctively, she lets go of his hand and drifts toward the dresser, scanning the photos, letting her gaze settle on anything but the bed.

Every second stretches, and she can feel his presence just behind her, warm and expectant.

Toji doesn’t step past the threshold.

He doesn’t seem to mind that she pulled away even in the slightest.

But the predatory tilt of his gaze, and the small, sharp grin tugging at his lips all say the same thing: she’s exactly where he wants her.

At the dresser, her eyes are drawn to a single photo that holds her gaze.

One in particular catches her eye: a family portrait. Young Toji, Naoya... and Naobito. But what really catches her eye—a woman..?

“Who’s she?” Y/N asks quietly, nodding toward the woman.

His eyes flick to the frame. “My mother,” he says, flat.

She blinks. “Why haven’t I met her?”

“Dead,” he replies immediately, voice clipped.

Y/N swallows, feeling herself slip into guilt even though he’s the monster here. “I… I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

“She died when Megumi was born,” Toji adds, voice neutral, almost detached. No sadness. No weight. Just a statement.

“Well… she was certainly beautiful,” Y/N says softly, a nervous half-laugh slipping out. “No offense, but how did a man like your father… get someone like her?”

The room falls into sudden, heavy silence.

Toji goes quiet, and she notices his gaze harden.

His hand snatches the frame from her, turning the photo down to face the dresser.

“Leave it.” he finally mutters, and she swallows, heart hammering.

He moves toward the bed and sits down.

Patting the space beside him, he gestures for her to sit.

She hesitates, a flicker of fear in her eyes.

“Come’re,” he murmurs, letting his gaze rake over her, lips tugged between teeth like he’s savoring what he sees.

She shifts slightly back, as if distance could shield her from the weight of him.

He extends one hand toward her, slow—fingers flexing just enough to dare her to take it.

Her eyes flick to it, then back up to his face. Heart hammering, she swallows, unsure if she’s drawn to it or terrified of what taking it might mean.

“I don’t bite.." His voice is low, smooth, teasing.

Her throat goes dry. She licks her lips, the heat crawling up her neck, and her hands curl into loose fists at her sides.

“I… I don’t know about that,” she whispers, half-panic, half-nervous.

A pause stretches.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing, the weight in his stare pinning her where she stands. “…it's only if you ask real nice.”

She swallows hard, a small, shaky whimper slipping out. “…Oh… um, I—”

His lips twitch, amusement dark and slow. “Oh…? Nervous?”

“I—I… what—” Her voice stutters, words tangled in her nerves.

He leans in slightly, eyes glinting, voice dropping low and hot, just for her. “…Then… if you’re too nervous to say it, I’ll just have to bite real good.”

Her stomach twists violently.

She inhales shakily, fingers trembling as her hand hovers just above his. Every instinct screams to pull back, and yet… she can’t.

Seconds stretch. Her pulse hammers in her ears. She swallows again, a dry, shuddering breath.

Finally, almost unwillingly, she lets her fingers brush against his. The contact sends a jolt up her arm.

He doesn’t move, just watches, letting her come closer on her own terms.

Her chest rises and falls unevenly. The distance between them, once small, is now charged with tension that threatens to snap.

She slides onto the bed beside him, slow, careful, the air between them still trembling with the promise in his words.

“I… I’ll sit,” she says softly, hesitation heavy in her voice, “…but no biting, okay?”

He tilts his head, lips twitching in amusement, a short, knowing laugh slipping out. “No promises,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, just enough to make her pulse skip.

As she settles, he finally shifts, turning just enough to face her, the movement slow, smoldering, drawing her attention completely.

She instinctively backs a fraction, but he presses one hand against her thigh, the other bracing himself beside her, a faint, teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Let’s play a game, yeah?”

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Author's Note:

Okay, so I thought it could be fun to throw out some questions for you guys! These are about the story as a whole, so you don’t have to stick to just this chapter—unless you want to, of course. 🫶

You don’t have to answer all of them !! Pick and choose, skip some, or don’t answer at all. Totally up to you!

And if you’ve got questions for me, I’d LOVE to answer them !! Silly ones, serious ones, or anything in between. 

Q1: Which character do you find yourself relating to the most, and why?

Q2: Which character’s actions surprised you the most, and why?

Q3: If you could rewrite one “what if” scenario in the story, what would it be?

Q4: Was there any dialogue that made you laugh or just stuck with you?

Q5: Was there any scenes that stuck with you?

Q6: Which couple—or pairing—in the story do you ship the hardest? (Or secretly ship?)

Q7: Got any new theories??? 👀

Chapter 49: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟒𝟑 - 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭.

The forest swallows the Zenins the deeper they go.

Trees stand tall and packed tight, trunks dark with moisture, their branches interlacing overhead until the sky is little more than a pale suggestion.

The air is heavy—wet earth, old leaves, stagnant water. Every step crunches too loud beneath their boots, dead leaves cracking like brittle bones against the quiet.

No birds.
No insects.
Just the steady sound of movement and the creek ahead.

Mud thickens near the bank, dark and slick.

It pulls at their soles as they walk, clinging, resisting.

The creek murmurs low and slow beside them, water sliding over stones, carrying the sound just far enough to fill the silence without breaking it.

Naobito walks at the front.

Unhurried. Hands folded behind his back. As if this is a stroll rather than a hunt.

Naoya keeps pace beside him, loose and grinning, eyes sharp with interest as he scans the trees.

Megumi trails behind.

Not far enough to be accused of lagging.

Not close enough to be comfortable.

His shoulders stay tense, spine straight, eyes fixed on the path ahead.

He watches his footing more than the forest—mud, roots, stones—anything to avoid drawing attention to himself.

Naoya breaks the quiet first.

“So,” he says, casual, almost bored. “When we find them… what are we doing?”

Naobito doesn’t slow.

“Try not to,” he replies calmly.

Naoya snorts. “Try not to what?”

“Kill them,” Naobito says. “Dead things don’t talk. Injure if you must. Kill only if necessary.”

His gaze shifts—not backward, not fully—but just enough.

“And if a lesson needs to be taught,” he adds, “it should be taught properly.”

Naoya grins. “Ah. So you want him to do it.”

He glances back over his shoulder.

“Don’t you, Megumi?”

Megumi stiffens.

Naobito finally stops near the creek’s edge.

Water laps softly at the mud, dark and slow.

He turns then, fully, eyes settling on Megumi with quiet expectation.

“If it comes to it,” Naobito says, “you should act.”

His voice is level. Instructional. Like this is something that’s been postponed too long.

“You’ve delayed your responsibilities long enough,” he adds. “A Zenin doesn’t hesitate when the moment presents itself. It’s important you learn where you belong.”

Megumi swallows.

Naoya laughs, light and pleased. “See?” he says, glancing back at him. “Old man’s got faith in you.”

Naobito doesn’t deny it. 

He doesn’t even look at them.

His gaze drifts outward instead—scanning between the trees, toward the dip of land where the creek cuts through the woods. Toward open paths.

Escape routes. Somewhere ahead, Mei and Choso could be running, slipping, bleeding.

Naobito listens anyway.

Boots crunch softly over dead leaves as he moves, unhurried, hands clasped behind his back like a man on a morning walk.

“I won’t tolerate indecision,” he says absently. “You act when you’re told. Or you’re acted upon.”

The words hang there.

Naoya rolls his shoulders, a grin tugging at his mouth, like that was permission rather than a warning.

“Yeah,” he says lightly. “That’s fair.”

He bounces once on his heels, restless energy sparking again, eyes already tracking the woods ahead.

“Though honestly,” he adds, turning back just enough to look at Megumi, “I say let him handle the boy.”

He gestures vaguely, like he’s talking about dividing chores.

“Keep the girl.”

Naobito hums low in his throat.

Not agreement.
Not disagreement.

Consideration.

Naoya’s grin stretches wider anyway. He never needed words.

He tilts his head, eyes bright, almost curious.
“You’ve got a preference, don’t you?” he asks. “Come on. Everyone’s got one.”

Megumi blinks, thrown. “What… preference?”

Naoya laughs like that’s adorable. “Don’t play dumb.”

His gaze flicks pointedly downward, then back up. “You more of an ass guy, or—”

Naobito’s eyes cut through the trees, hunting for any trace of Mei and Choso.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t correct him.
Doesn’t tell him to stop.

The silence itself is an answer. Naoya takes it.

“Mei’s stacked,” he says easily. “Whole lot to work with.” He studies Megumi now, head tipped, genuinely weighing it. “I’m thinking you’re a tits guy. Yeah? Feels right.”

Megumi looks away.

“I—” he starts, then stops. His swallows. “I don’t know.”

Naoya pauses.

Then laughs. “You don’t know?”

He nudges Megumi’s shoulder—playful, teasing, the kind of shove an older brother gives a younger sibling, enough to jostle him without really hurting.

“Relax,” he says. “You’re too stiff all the time. That’s your problem.”

Megumi jerks back instinctively. “What are you talking about?”

Naoya snorts. “I’m talking about you needing to get laid.”

His eyes rake over Megumi, slow and critical, like he’s diagnosing something broken.
“Seriously. It’s getting embarrassing. You walk around like touching someone might kill you.”

Naobito glances back then.

Just once.

Watching.
Waiting.

Megumi’s face burns hot. His ears ring. “That’s not—”

“You don’t want to fuck her?” Naoya cuts in, genuinely baffled. “Come on. Look at her. She’s got a body people pay for. You telling me that doesn’t do anything for you?”

Megumi swallows hard. His chest feels too tight. “I don’t know,” he mutters, then forces it out, firmer. “No... no I don’t want to.”

Naoya stares at him for a beat.

Then he laughs again. Disbelieving.

“God,” he says. “You’re wound tight.”

He reaches out and claps a hand on Megumi’s shoulder, like he’s handing down advice. “You need to loosen up. Get some pussy in your life. Might fix whatever’s wrong with you.”

The hand stays.

Too long.

Megumi knocks it away before he can stop himself, breath coming too fast.
“Fuck off.”

Naoya blinks.

Then he laughs it off, easy, careless, like nothing about it mattered.

“Alright, alright,” he says, holding up his hands. “Whatever, man. Didn’t mean to strike a nerve.”

He rolls his shoulders, energy bleeding back in, restless as ever.

His gaze snaps past Megumi, toward the trees ahead.

Then he jerks his chin at Naobito. “I’m gonna get ahead,” he says. “Cut ’em off if they’re running.”

Naobito considers it for half a second.

Then he nods.

“Go.”

That’s all.

Naoya grins—wide, thrilled—and turns.

He doesn’t jog.

He launches.

Megumi blinks. Just once. Reflexive.

And Naoya is already gone.

Not disappearing so much as… eaten by distance.

A pale blur between the trunks, branches snapping, leaves bursting underfoot.

No hesitation. No drag.
Like the forest is something he knows how to move through.

Holy shit.

Megumi’s stomach drops.

He’s seen Naoya fight. Seen him kill.

But this..?

This is different.

Naoya doesn’t slow. Doesn’t falter. The sound of him fades too fast, not because he stops—but because he’s already too far away to hear.

Where the fuck did he even go?

Megumi swallows, pulse slamming in his throat.

Naobito steps closer behind him.

“We’ll head the other way,” he says calmly. “Toward the main road. Closest route into town.”

Megumi nods automatically.

“They’ll try for help,” Naobito continues, like he’s explaining a lesson. “People always do.” A pause. “If Naoya flushes them out, good. If not—”

His hand settles between Megumi’s shoulder blades.

Guiding.
Firm.

“Then you will.”

────────────── . ᛪ༙

The forest pressed in around them, endless.

Just trees packed tight together, shadows layered over shadows, and underbrush snapping beneath their feet like the woods were actively resisting them.

It didn’t feel like they were moving through the forest.

It felt like the forest was closing around them.

Sukuna moved mostly on his own now, though Mei stayed close, steadying him when his steps faltered.

The knife Mei had originally carried was now in his hand—a small, practical decision. “Better you have it than me,” she had said, voice low, almost hesitant. “You’d be able to do more with it if… if it came to that.”

He hadn’t argued. Hadn’t thanked her. Just closed his fingers around the handle and kept going.

Choso moved beside him, long strides, eyes scanning the trees like they might shift and reveal something hidden.

He kept his own knife ready, twirling it in his hand absentmindedly.

Mei followed behind, bare arms trembling, her bra and skirt clinging to her like armor that wasn’t armor at all.

The pink t-shirt she’d discarded lay hidden under some loose dirt—they couldn’t have it showing.

Too much blood. Too obvious. Too… traceable. The dirt helped, but it didn’t make her feel any less exposed.

“Holy shit,” Choso muttered, voice low but sharp. “It’s like a fucking maze. Are we even going the right way?”

“We’re fine,” Sukuna said, voice clipped, flat. 

Mei’s hand shot up. “Guys—wait! This is… I’m serious… what if we… what if we starve out here? What if we circle back? What if—”

Sukuna shook his head, tone calm but firm. “We’ll be fine. Just find a point of reference. These woods can’t be that big—Texas isn’t the Amazon, Mei. Just… keep moving.”

Choso let out a short laugh, more bitter than amused. “You say that like the forest gives a damn about geography… feels endless.”

Mei turned to him sharply, eyes blown wide. “Feels endless,” she echoed, barely audible.

Sukuna made a small sound, almost dismissive. “Better endless than dead, don’t you think?”

He tested his side, pain flaring sharp enough to make his jaw tighten. Still tender. Still wrong. He forced himself upright anyway.

Asking wasn’t natural. It sat wrong in his mouth.
But she had dragged him, given up her knife, pressed herself between him and death more than once.

He owed her something.

His eyes flicked to Mei—not lingering, not gentle. Just a check. An accounting.

“You okay there?” he asked.

The words came out flat. Obligatory.

Mei swallowed, voice tight. “No. I’m… fine. I’m—just… exposed. Vulnerable. You know… not having a shirt, nothing under… and walking through a forest like we’re… some kind of target practice.”

She pulled her arms tighter across her chest, shoulders hunched, trying to make herself smaller.

Sukuna looked away first.

Not because he didn’t hear her—but because there wasn’t anything he could give her that wouldn’t feel like a lie.

Silence filled the space where reassurance should’ve been.

The forest didn’t offer any either.

No sign they were getting closer to something familiar.

No break in the trees. No thinning of shadows. Every direction looked the same, every step carrying them deeper into the same oppressive quiet—

no sign they were escaping anything at all.

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Naoya doesn’t slow.

It's not frantic—efficient.

His feet barely seem to touch the ground as he cuts through the forest, weaving between trees with sharp, practiced turns.

Branches whip past his shoulders, leaves scatter beneath him, the world blurring at the edges from sheer speed.

Muscles burn and reset and burn again, endless, like his body was built for this kind of pursuit.

He could keep this pace for hours.

Probably longer.

And God knows how many miles an hour.

God knows how far he’s gone.

It doesn’t matter.

The woods give way first.

He tilts his head slightly, nostrils flaring.

Nothing obvious yet.

Just trees. Rot. Old leaves. Mud.

The forest smells like decay no matter where you go, and for a moment it’s almost annoying—everything layered over everything else, like someone tried to hide a body with perfume.

A sudden tingle runs up Naoya’s spine, sharp and precise—like a warning, a sixth sense he didn’t need to name.

Naoya skids to a stop so abruptly the forest seems to lurch around him.

His eyes snap wide.

Blood.

Not human—not yet—but fresh enough to spike sharp in his senses, metallic and wet, threading through the rot and soil like a flare.

He goes completely still.

The grin vanishes.

So does the noise.

No footsteps. No breathing. No careless movement.

He tilts his head slowly, nostrils flaring as he pulls the scent apart piece by piece. Tracks it. Maps it. The forest fades to background noise as his focus narrows.

“...Huh,” he murmurs, barely above a breath.

He moves again—but differently now.

Slow. Precise. Quiet.

Each step placed carefully as he follows the trail, eyes scanning the ground, the brush, the spaces between trees.

The scent grows stronger, leading him slightly off course, tugging him toward something that doesn’t belong.

Then he sees it.

A flash of color near the base of a tree.

Pink.

Naoya stops again.

He crouches, brushing aside leaves and dirt until his fingers close around fabric.

A shirt.

Bright. Soft. Laughably out of place against the mud and bark.

He lifts it—and the smell hits properly this time.

Blood. Soaked deep into the fibers.

His breath hitches once.

Then his mouth curls upward, slow and sharp.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispers.

He doesn’t recognize it. Never paid attention to what any of them wore. But it’s small. Light. Not the guy’s.

“Trying to hide it?” he murmurs to no one. “Cute.”

He straightens—

And his foot lands in something wet.

Naoya looks down.

Blood.

A lot of it.

Dark and smeared into the dirt, trampled leaves stained slick beneath his boot. He follows it with his eyes, gaze lifting to the tree beside him—

Red streaks dragged down the bark.

Handprints. A shoulder print. Someone leaning. Slipping.

His eyes light up.

“Oh,” he breathes, something bright and eager threading through his voice. “Oh… this is easy.”

That much blood should’ve meant someone was dead by now.

Unless…

Naoya lifts the shirt again, inhaling deeply.

Multiple scents.

Human. Fresh. Moving.

His smile spreads slowly, excitement crackling under his skin like a live wire.

“So you’re still running,” he murmurs, pleased.

He lets the shirt slip from his fingers, watching it disappear back into the leaves like a discarded promise.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he whispers, voice low and trembling with pure anticipation.

He lets the shirt fall and slips silently behind a tree, gaze cutting ahead through the forest—

Then he turns—already angling his body toward the pull in his chest, toward the direction the scent is drifting away from him now.

He doesn’t rush.

He savors it.

This… this is what Naoya does best.

Hunting. Tracking. Toying with what’s already in his hands.

And he…

He knows exactly where to go.

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Naobito moved beside Megumi, eyes scanning the forest like nothing could escape him.

He spoke as if Megumi were already listening—already obeying.

“When you hunt,” he said calmly, “you empty yourself out. Thought, fear, hesitation. All of it. Gone.”

Megumi’s spine locked.

His hands trembled around the rifle before he could stop them.

He kept his eyes forward, pulse roaring in his ears—afraid that looking at his father would be read as defiance.

Afraid that not looking would be worse.

Naobito continued, voice even.

Too even.

“You watch. You wait. You don’t rush. You let them forget they’re being followed.”

Megumi swallowed. The motion felt loud. Exposed.

A second passed.

Then another.

Naobito stopped walking.

The forest seemed to shrink inward.

“Well?” he asked.

One word.

It hit Megumi like fingers closing around his throat.

“Yes—” Megumi forced it out, breath stuttering. “Yes. I—I understand.”

Too fast. Too desperate.

His chest burned like it had the last time—like if he inhaled wrong, hands would be there again. If he paused, if his voice cracked—

Naobito turned his head slowly.

“Good,” he said. “Because if you freeze out there—” a pause, “—you die. And I won’t save you.”

Megumi nodded, hard. His heart slammed against his ribs, loud enough he was sure his father could hear it.

Naobito stepped closer.

Too close.

He reached out and took Megumi’s hands without asking, correcting his grip on the rifle.

His touch was firm, unyielding—pinning Megumi in place as much as guiding him.

“Stop shaking,” Naobito murmured near his ear. “You’re acting like you’re the one being hunted.”

Megumi’s fingers twitched under his father’s grip.

I feel like I am, his mind screamed.
I feel like I’m killing something that’s still alive inside me.

Naobito adjusted his stance, pressed the stock tighter into his shoulder. “Steady,” he said. “This isn’t about feeling. This is about control.”

Megumi’s vision blurred.

He nodded anyway, throat burning, breath shallow—doing everything right because doing it wrong meant consequences.

Naobito finally stepped back.

Satisfied.

“Right,” he said, already turning away. “That’s all you need to know.”

As if Megumi’s fear had never existed at all.

. . .

Naobito’s boots crunched softly on the forest floor.

Megumi followed, rifle tight in his hands, heart hammering against his ribs.

"Ah—should’ve mentioned this earlier," Naobito murmured, eyes alert. "Stay quiet. Every sound can give us away. One mistake—and they disappear before you even blink."

Megumi nodded, throat tight, trying not to breathe too loudly.

The forest pressed in around them, endless trees and tangled underbrush, shadows like walls.

Twack!

A branch snapped somewhere nearby, followed by a low murmur of voices.

Naobito froze instantly, crouching low. He gestured sharply for Megumi to do the same.

“Shh,” he hissed. “Stay behind me. Watch.”

Megumi pressed himself against the trunk of a tree, eyes wide, trying to see through the layers of shadow.

And then he saw them.

Megumi saw them in pieces first.

A hunched shape moving wrong through the trees.

Choso.

Fuck—he looked like hell.

Blood-darkened clothes, posture stiff, one leg dragging just enough to notice if you knew how to look.

Alive, but barely. Like something that should’ve dropped already and hadn’t gotten the message.

Mei.

Fuck.

Naoya wasn’t lying. She really did have a—

The thought cut off mid-breath.

Naobito’s voice dropped like a blade between Megumi’s ears.

“What the actual fuck,” he muttered.

Megumi flinched.

Naobito leaned forward slightly, eyes locked ahead, lips curling. “I left that mutt to rot in the fucking casket. I fucking closed it.” His jaw tightened. “Did those idiots dig him back up? Or did he crawl out all on his own?”

He followed his father’s gaze—and saw him.

Sukuna.

Alive.

Walking.

Talking.

Megumi’s chest seized. His fingers trembled around the rifle.

Ahead of them, voices drifted through the trees—broken, uneven.

“It’s like a maze...” 

“...Are we even going the right way..?”

“...We’re fine...” 

“...What if we—what if we circle back..?"

Naobito let out a quiet, breathless laugh. Not amused. Delighted.

“They’re talking,” he whispered to Megumi. “Good. Means they’re not listening.”

He stepped closer, so close Megumi could feel him at his back.

“Don’t look at all three,” Naobito murmured. “You’ll panic. Pick one.”

Megumi swallowed hard.

His vision tunneled, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Sukuna felt too big. Too wrong. Mei was shaking. Exposed. Human.

Choso kept moving, knife loose in his hand, blood leaving a faint, broken trail beneath his steps.

Naobito’s hand came up, pressing lightly against Megumi’s shoulder. Guiding. Anchoring.

“There,” he said quietly. “The bleeding one. He’s already halfway dead.”

Megumi’s breath hitched.

“I—”

Naobito’s fingers tightened. “Now.”

Ahead, Sukuna said something Megumi didn’t fully hear—something about keeping moving. Mei pulled her arms tighter around herself.

They didn’t see the tree line shift.

Didn’t hear the rifle settle.

“Easy,” Naobito whispered, lips close to Megumi’s ear. “Just like I showed you. Slow breath in. Let it out. Don’t think about what he is.”

Megumi’s eyes burned.

Don’t think.

Don’t think.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, so quietly even he barely heard it.

He closed his eyes.

And pulled the trigger.

. . .

The rifle kicked.

The sound cracked through the forest—too loud, too sharp—splintering the quiet like bone.

Choso dropped.

Not staggered. Not stumbled.

Dropped.

A strangled sound tore out of him as he hit the ground hard, hands flying to his leg as blood burst hot and dark through his fingers.

His body folded in on itself instinctively, knees drawing up, shoulders caving inward as pain ripped through him fast and merciless.

“Fuck—!” he gasped, breath breaking. “Fuck—fuck—!”

Mei screamed.

She was moving before the echo finished dying, stumbling toward him, hands shaking as she fell to her knees beside his body. “Choso—oh my god—oh my god—”

Her hands pressed uselessly at the wound, slipping slick with blood. Too much blood. Way too much.

Megumi opened his eyes.

He saw it.

He heard it.

The sound Choso made wasn’t human anymore—raw, animal, pulled straight from the back of his throat.

The smell hit next, iron-heavy and thick, flooding the air.

Megumi gagged.

His stomach lurched violently, bile burning up his throat.

He doubled over, retching, vision swimming, the rifle slipping for just a second—

A hand caught it.

Steady. Firm.

Naobito.

“Good,” his father said.

Just that.

One word.

It hit harder than the gunshot.

Megumi stiffened.

A flicker of nausea—old instinct, guilt—ran through him, but it was small, fleeting, almost laughable against the roar of adrenaline.

Naobito’s hand rested on his shoulder now—not heavy, not cruel. Grounding. Claiming. “You didn’t hesitate. You followed through.”

Choso screamed again.

Megumi’s chest heaved—but something else bloomed beneath the nausea.

Warm.

Electric.

Pride.

“You see?” Naobito continued calmly, almost gently. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Megumi swallowed hard. His tongue felt thick in his mouth.

Yes.

No.

Yes.

The voices in his head—the guilt, the nausea, the old morals—flickered, weak, ignored.

Every shot, every scream had opened something inside him.

His hands, still trembling moments before, now felt steadier, almost… familiar.

The dull ache on his neck—the bruise blooming there from earlier—suddenly didn’t hurt.

Not really. Not enough to matter. His body had other priorities now.

He straightened slowly, spine rigid, shoulders easing despite the chaos around him.

The rifle in his hands no longer felt foreign—it felt necessary. Essential.

That was when he understood it.

Why Naoya chased approval like air.

Why he thrived on the fear, the hunt. Why the thrill of control was intoxicating.

A heat bloomed inside him, low and slow at first, then crawling higher.

That feeling—right there—was addictive. 

Megumi’s eyes flicked to his father.

Naobito didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The silence itself was permission.

The unspoken acknowledgment that this was the right, the necessary, the desired.

He lifted the rifle again. His movements precise, though a dark spark of something deeper ran beneath them.

Naobito didn’t stop him. He didn’t need to.

Mei was sobbing now, half-draped over Choso’s body, her shoulder bare, exposed as she tried to shield him with herself. “Please—please—stop—!”

Megumi didn’t close his eyes. Didn’t flinch.

They were wide open. Clear. Focused.

He exhaled, steady, almost savoring the moment.

The second shot rang out—sharp, violent, beautiful in its own wrong way.

Mei cried out as the bullet tore into her bare shoulder, spinning her sideways as she hit the ground hard, pain ripping through her in a sharp, breath-stealing scream.

She collapsed beside Choso, clutching her arm, blood already soaking her skin.

Both of them down. Both of them bleeding.

Megumi lowered the rifle, but the tremor in his chest was different now.

Alive.

Electric.

Eager.

Behind him, his father’s eyes glinted. Satisfied.

“That’s my boy,” Naobito murmured, reaching out to lightly rub the back of Megumi’s head.

The touch lingered just enough to feel guiding, claiming—something intimate and twisted all at once.

Megumi stiffened for a heartbeat, but the warmth of approval—and the rush of everything he’d just done—overrode it.

And for the first time, Megumi understood the craving, the hunger—the BloodLust.

He ran his tongue over the dry corner of his mouth, tasting the adrenaline.

His chest still pounded, but now it was a rhythm he could follow, one he welcomed.

That bruise on his neck? Almost nothing. A reminder of where he had been, not where he was going.

Megumi’s hands tightened on the rifle, heart hammering—not with fear, but with the thrill of anticipation.

Aiming.

Ready to take the next shot—ready for Sukuna.

His eyes darted forward. Locked on the trees, the shadows…

Nothing.

Sukuna. Gone.

Vanished.

Shit—

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Author's Note: Um… so yeah. That happened. I feel like I should apologize, but also… I don’t. Enjoy?

Chapter 50: 𝐂𝐡. 𝟒𝟒 - 𝐅𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐕𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞.

Naoya walks.

Not fast. Not slow.

Just slow enough to enjoy it.

The rifle hangs loose in his hand, barrel angled toward the dirt.

Dried blood streaks his fingers—dark, tacky where it’s caked beneath his nails, smeared across his knuckles from when he crushed that stupid pink shirt into his palm earlier.

He hasn’t bothered to wipe it off.

He hums instead.

Soft. Off-key.

A thin sound that slips between breaths, breaks apart, starts again.

There’s no rhythm to it—just noise, something to keep the silence company while he waits for the fun.

His senses are wide open.

Too open.

He smells everything at once—rot, sap, damp earth, iron.

Fresh blood cuts through it clean and sharp, threading the air like a hook under his ribs.

His eyes catch movement where there is none, catalog every bent blade of grass, every leaf crushed wrong.

His ears pick up the smallest sounds: fabric brushing skin somewhere ahead, a dragged foot, breath pulled too fast through clenched teeth.

They’re close.

Naoya grins, teeth flashing.

Wounded prey never move quietly.

He keeps walking, boots pressing down easy, unhurried, savoring the stretch of it.

This part always feels good—the space between chase and capture, when the prey is still stupid enough to hope.

The hum slips higher in his throat, almost playful.

BOOM.

The sound doesn’t crack.

It rolls.

A deep, heavy report that punches through the trees and vibrates straight through his bones.

The kind of shot that carries weight. Authority. A hunting rifle.

Naoya stops dead.

His head snaps toward it instantly, grin sharpening as his brain fires through the details without effort.

He knows the sound the way some people know voices.

Single shot.
Bolt-action.
Clean.

Someone fired with intent.

“Oh?” he murmurs, breath hitching with something close to delight.

Wrong direction.

He pivots hard, boots digging into the dirt as he turns, blood-smeared fingers tightening around the rifle.

His pulse spikes—not with fear, never fear—but with excitement that crawls hot and eager under his skin.

They found them.

Naoya breaks into a run, speed tearing through him as the forest blurs past, branches whipping, leaves exploding underfoot.

The scent of blood grows stronger with every step, thick enough to taste now, copper and heat flooding his mouth.

A sound reaches him next.

A cry.

Raw. Broken. Human.

Naoya laughs under his breath, breathless and thrilled.

“Fuck yes,” he whispers.

He cuts through the last line of trees—

and the clearing opens.

Bodies on the ground.

Blood everywhere.

Choso is down on one knee, hands slick and shaking as he tries—stupidly—to push himself upright.

His breathing is ragged, broken, every inhale dragged through clenched teeth like it hurts just to exist.

Blood pours through his fingers, dark and wet, soaking the dirt beneath him.

Mei is beside him.

Too close. Too exposed.

One arm wrapped around Choso’s shoulders like she thinks she can hold him together, the other pressed uselessly to his leg, her hands slipping, red up to her wrists.

Her face is wrecked—eyes wide, mouth open in a silent sob she doesn’t even realize she’s making.

Naoya stops walking.

Not because he has to.

Because he wants to look.

From the edge of the trees, from shadow and cover, he lets the moment stretch—soaks it in.

The pain. The confusion.

The way their bodies react before their minds can catch up. His gaze moves lazily between them, pupils blown wide with interest rather than concern.

Then the second shot rings out.

Mei jerks hard as the bullet tears clean through her shoulder.

The impact spins her sideways before she collapses, hitting the floor with a wet, breathless sound.

She doesn’t scream right away—just gasps, hands clawing at the ground as if she might pull herself back together.

They look like wounded animals.

Dying deer.

Naoya’s mouth parts slightly.

He bites down on his lower lip, slow and indulgent, a quiet fuck forming behind his teeth as he watches her try—and fail—to rise.

Her legs slip beneath her. Her breath stutters. Panic finally fractures whatever composure she had left.

He lets himself enjoy it for a moment longer than necessary.

The tremor in her hands.
The way her body folds inward.
The sound she makes when she realizes she isn’t getting back up.

Then Choso moves.

It’s clumsy. Desperate.

One knee drags under him as he tries to push himself upright, teeth clenched hard enough to crack. His focus is on Mei—only Mei—even as blood slicks his palms.

That’s when Naoya steps forward.

Boots crunch against leaves. Slow. Unhurried. Close now—too close.

He looms over Choso, blocking his line of sight, casting a shadow that feels heavier than the pain already crushing him down.

Naoya tilts his head, smiling—sharp, cruel, fascinated.

“Still trying?” he murmurs, voice light, almost curious. Not angry. Not urgent. Amused.

One blood-slicked hand grips Choso’s hair, forcing his head up. Naoya’s gaze pins him in place, and the weight of it makes Choso’s eyes widen in utter fear.

“I… I—I can’t… please… stop… please…” Choso gasps, words tumbling over each other, his throat raw, barely audible.

Naoya crouches slightly, close enough that Choso can smell the iron on his hands, hear the calm amusement in his tone. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” he whispers. “It’s almost… admirable.”

Choso whimpers, shaking violently. “I—I’ll do anything! Please! Don’t—don’t hurt her—”

Naoya’s eyes flick past him, landing on Mei, trembling on the ground, clutching herself. He lets the sight linger, savoring her helplessness before returning his gaze to Choso.

“Relax,” he adds, voice soft, almost kind. “No one said you’re done yet.”

A pause. Measured. Intent.

“We’ve got time.”

Choso’s breath hitches, chest rising and falling unevenly. “Oh… god… please… I… I can’t… I—I’ll die… please…”

Naoya shifts, sliding one boot forward, the other tracing a careful arc through the mud as he circles just enough to block any thought of escape.

He crouches slightly more, tilting his body so Choso can’t look away. Every movement is predatory.

Then, with slow precision, he plants his boot squarely on Choso’s wounded leg.

Not hard enough to break it.

Just enough to remind him he could.

“So go ahead,” he finishes quietly, loosening his grip and letting go.
“Try again.”

He watches.

Waits.

“I want to see how far you get this time.”

Choso struggles, trying anyway. His hands claw at the dirt, fingers slick with his own blood, but his legs refuse to obey.

He hisses through clenched teeth, face contorted with pain and desperation.

“Please—please, fuck—stop! I—I can’t—” His voice cracks, high and ragged. “I’m sorry! I’ll—fuck! I’ll do anything, just don’t—please!”

Naoya watches.

Every word, every gasp, every flinch, every twitch of muscle.

He doesn’t move at first, just lets it all play out, letting Choso’s helplessness seep into the air.

“Oh?” Naoya murmurs, tilting his head.

A small, sharp smile curls on his lips. “You think begging changes anything?”

Choso groans, curling in on himself, hands covering his face. “Please! I—fuck! I’ll stay down, I swear! Don’t—don’t—”

“Wrong,” Naoya says, flat. Calm. Cold.

The rifle rises in a single, smooth motion.

No hesitation.

No sound other than the slight shifting of his boots in the mud.

“Wrong,” he repeats, louder this time, voice low and satisfied. “That’s not how this works.”

A shot rings out.

Choso’s other leg collapses under him, a spray of red blossoming into the dirt.

He screams, long, raw, tearing through the forest, clawing at the ground like an animal caught in a trap.

His body jerks violently, every breath a ragged, painful hiss.

Mei screams as she scrambles backward, blood dripping from her shoulder, arms wrapped around herself. “Stop! Please—oh god, stop! Don’t!” Her voice cracks in pure terror.

Naoya crouches slightly over Choso, eyes alight with a manic gleam.

He leans close enough to whisper, lips barely brushing his ear, fingers digging into Choso’s hair again.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Pathetic. Wounded. You think you’re a man? You’re just an animal—trapped."

He presses a boot into Choso’s thigh, grinding him into the mud. The smell of iron and fear hangs thick around them, and Naoya inhales it like air.

“See her?” he adds, voice low, playful. “See Mei bleeding there? You get to watch. Every second. And you? You’re lucky I’m letting you live long enough to enjoy it.”

Choso chokes on a sob, barely able to speak. “Please… please… I’ll—fuck! I’ll do whatever you want! Don’t—don’t—”

“Wrong again.” Naoya whispers, almost tenderly, like he’s correcting a student.

He tilts his head, blood-slicked fingers brushing Choso’s temple lightly, almost a caress.

Then, without warning, he steps back, letting him feel the weight of the forest, the blood, and the sheer helplessness.

“Try again,” he says softly, voice like honey laced with venom. “Let’s see how long you last this time.”

Choso gasps, wheezing, shivering. Blood soaks the mud around him. Pain screams in his bones. Fear sears in his chest.

Mei crawls closer to him instinctively, tears streaking her dirt-streaked face. “No—please! Stay down! Please!” Her voice is raw, broken, pleading.

Naoya watches, eyes narrowing, a slow smile spreading. He’s savoring it. Every sound. Every twitch. Every whimper.

And he’s not done.

Naoya steps forward again.

One foot comes down in Choso’s hair, grinding his face into the mud until his cheek presses against wet leaves and blood.

The other plants squarely on his stomach, all his weight settling there, slow and intentional.

Choso wheezes, a broken sound ripping out of him as the air is forced from his lungs.

“Ah—there we go,” Naoya hums. “That’s better.”

He leans forward, rifle hanging loose at his side, eyes bright with interest as he watches Choso’s hands twitch uselessly in the dirt.

“Can’t even look up anymore,” Naoya says lightly. “Guess that’s what happens when you stop being useful.”

He shifts his boot, grinding down harder just to hear the sound Choso makes—raw, panicked, involuntary.

Naoya smiles.

“You know what I love?” he continues, conversational. “You’re still thinking about her.”

Choso chokes, shaking his head weakly, breath stuttering. “P—please—don’t—”

Naoya laughs under his breath.

“Oh, come on,” he says. “Don’t pretend.” His gaze flicks toward the house in the distance, just visible through the trees. “Toji’s inside with her right now.”

He presses his heel down again, harder.

“Bet you can picture it, can’t you?” Naoya murmurs. “Her crying. Him enjoying it. Him taking his time.”

Choso sobs, a broken, animal sound tearing out of his throat. “Please—stop—please—”

Naoya spits.

It lands hot and wet against Choso’s cheek, sliding down into the dirt.

“Pathetic,” he says flatly.

He lifts the rifle then—not rushed, not dramatic—and nudges the barrel against Choso’s mouth.

“Open,” Naoya orders softly.

Choso shakes his head, sobbing, eyes squeezed shut, hands clawing weakly at Naoya’s boot.

Naoya sighs, annoyed.

The barrel presses harder, teeth scraping cold metal as Choso’s jaw is forced open by sheer pressure.

“There you go,” Naoya murmurs, satisfied.

 

“That’s what listening looks like.”

 

Mei screams, dragging herself forward despite the pain. “Please! Please don’t kill him! Please—I’ll do anything—stop!”

Naoya doesn’t look at her.

His attention is entirely on Choso.

“This is the part where you beg right,” he says calmly. “You already fucked it up twice.”

 

“Naoya.”

 

A shadow moves behind Naoya.

 

Not loud. Not angry. Controlled.

Naoya halts.

His head turns slowly.

Naobito steps out from the trees.

Watching.

Unimpressed.

“Enough,” Naobito says.

Naoya scoffs, rolling his eyes, boot still planted firmly on Choso. “You always show up right when it gets—”

He stops.

Because something behind his father feels wrong.

Naobito steps aside.

Megumi stands there.

Still. Silent. Different.

His eyes aren’t wide. Aren’t frantic. They’re sharper. More focused. Darker in a way Naoya doesn’t like.

Naoya notices the way Megumi keeps his gaze on Naobito, subtle but unwavering, a silent thread of obedience—and something else.

Naobito gestures subtly. “Go on.”

Megumi doesn’t flinch. He speaks.

“They're coming over for dinner.”

Naoya blinks. Once. Twice.

“…What?”

Megumi holds his gaze on Naobito a fraction longer, then slowly, shifts his attention to Naoya.

The intensity of it makes him falter—just slightly.

Megumi holds his gaze. Unflinching. “Everyone.”

Something clicks.

Slowly, reluctantly.

Naoya exhales through his nose, annoyed, then lifts his boot off Choso’s stomach.

The rifle pulls away from his mouth. He steps back, irritated more than anything else.

“Tch,” he mutters. “You should’ve said that sooner.”

Choso collapses fully into the dirt, gasping, shaking, barely conscious.

Naobito looks down at them. “Bring these two back.”

Naoya glances between Choso and Mei, then at Megumi. “Fine.”

Naobito’s gaze sharpens. “We’re missing one.”

Naoya frowns. “What, did another one of them get away? Gojo? Nobara?”

“No,” Naobito says. A pause.

“Sukuna,” he continues. “He got out of the grave.”

Naoya’s expression shifts—confusion first, then something sharp and excited flickering underneath.

“…He did?” A grin threatens. “Then I’ll—”

“No,” Naobito cuts in. “You go with Megumi. Bring them back.”

Naoya clicks his tongue, irritated—but obedient.

“Whatever.”

He turns his head slowly, eyes sliding to Megumi.

Up close, the difference is clearer. The stillness. The focus. Not fear. Not hesitation.

And Naoya feels it.

“Hey,” he says lightly. “Megs.”

Megumi doesn’t respond. His gaze shifts briefly to Naobito, then back to Naoya.

The look… it unnerves him. Sharp, precise. No hint of hesitation.

Naoya leans slightly forward, gesturing lazily toward Choso’s broken body in the dirt.

“Let me show you something,” he says, trying to reclaim control, “how to put someone down without killing them.”

Megumi’s eyes narrow. No acknowledgment. Just… a quiet tension that fills the space, pressing down on Naoya like he’s the one being studied now.

Naoya feels the shift. A shiver of uncertainty.

He crouches, grabs Choso by the jaw, forcing his face up. Choso barely reacts—too weak, too far gone—but his eyes flutter open at the movement.

Naoya tilts his head, studying him. “Pay attention,” he tells Megumi.

Choso tries to speak. A broken sound slips out. “P—please—”

Megumi doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. He just watches. 

Naoya hesitates—just a fraction—before striking. Not wild. Not angry. Precise.

The butt of the rifle connects with Choso’s temple in a sharp, controlled motion.

His body goes slack instantly, collapsing back into the mud without another sound.

Naoya straightens, satisfied, but the feeling of being watched—analyzing—lingers.

He glances at Megumi. That look… it isn’t respect. Not exactly. It’s something else. Something more.

“See?” he says. “Clean.”

Then he turns.

Mei freezes when his gaze lands on her.

She scrambles back weakly, shaking her head, tears streaking down her face. “Please—please—don’t—please—”

Naoya walks toward her, unhurried.

“Relax,” he says, almost bored. “You’re just going to sleep.”

She sobs, hands coming up uselessly. “Please—I don’t—please—”

He doesn’t wait for the sentence to finish.

The rifle comes down once.

Mei crumples, the plea still half-formed on her lips as her body hits the ground, unconscious.

Silence rushes back in.

Naoya exhales, rolls his shoulder, then looks at Megumi again.

“There,” he says casually. “Now help me carry them.”

Except Megumi is already moving. Smooth, efficient.

Not one body—both—hoisted across his shoulders with practiced ease.

He doesn’t glance at Naoya once. Only at Naobito—silent—his posture almost reverent.

Naoya blinks, a flicker of surprise—and something darker—crossing his expression.

“Uh… let me carry one,” he offers, half in habit, half in challenge.

Megumi shakes his head. Not a word. Not a glance. “All good,” he says finally, voice low, calm.

But his focus never leaves Naobito.

Naoya watches. A thin line tugs at his lips, unease and a thrill mingling in his chest.

Megumi… he’s high on it.

The praise, the acknowledgment from their father.

The way he follows in Toji’s footsteps.

Naobito’s gaze settles on Megumi—approving.

“That,” Naobito says slowly, voice carrying over the forest and the blood-soaked earth,

“is a true Zenin.”

────────────── . ᛪ༙

Author's Note: Y’all… y’know that scene I’ve been dying to write?! Well… it’s coming up soon. Like, really soon. Maybe in the next few chapters or so, but it’s super close and I’m literally so excited to write it !! omggg aaahhh !! 🫶