𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐒𝐬𝐭

𝔄 β„Œπ”’π”―π”¬β€™π”° 𝔖𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔀𝔀𝔩𝔒, π”ž π”™π”¦π”©π”©π”žπ”¦π”«β€™π”° β„œπ”’π”‘π”’π”ͺ𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫.

He’s never had a woman look at him like that.

β—¦

π“π‘πž π‘πžπ π‹πžππ πžπ« ~π’‡π’π’‚π’šπ’†π’… π’‡π’π’π’˜π’†π’“π’” 𝒂𝒏𝒅 π’‡π’π’“π’†π’π’”π’Šπ’„ π’˜π’Šπ’π’†

He’s never had a woman look at him like that.

Not with lust, not fear, not the desperate hunger for validation he was used to from corporate heiresses and greedy investors. No. You look at him the way a butcher evaluates a slab of meatβ€”cold, detached, vaguely annoyed to be wasting time.

You’re not charming. You’re clinical.

You sip water like it’s poison and stare at the filet mignon like it insulted your mother.

Sukuna tears into his steak with lazy elegance, watching you fiddle with your knife like it’s just another surgical instrument. You haven’t touched your food. You haven’t smiled. Not even once.

He speaks first.

β€œYou don’t strike me as the type who goes on dates.”

You respond without glancing up. β€œI don’t.”

β€œYour parents forced you?”

You hum. β€œI’ve survived worse.”

Sukuna grins, teeth flashing.

β€œI’ll bet.”

You’re not nervous. That’s what unsettles him the most. Everyone gets nervous around himβ€”even when he’s playing the role of charismatic heir and not the man who flays people alive in back alleys for sport. Even when he’s in a tailored suit and groomed down to the eyelashes.

You? You look like you’d rather be interrogating a corpse. Maybe you already have.

He leans in, resting his chin against his palm, watching you like you’re a riddle he hasn’t solved yet. He likes riddles. He likes breaking them open.

β€œYou know who I am,” he says.

Your eyes meet his. Flat. Unimpressed.

β€œI know what you pretend to be.”

He chuckles lowly. The room is too quiet for it. Too elegant. His voice is a wound in the fabric of the restaurant’s opulence.

β€œYou got a name, sweetheart?”

You pause for half a second. Then: β€œ…My therapist calls me β€˜a necessary anomaly.’ You can call me whatever makes you feel like a man.”

A beat.

Then he laughs. Full-body, sharp-edged laughter that slices the tension wide open. The waiter outside the door must be shitting himself.

Sukuna’s been bored for months. Killed too easily, too quickly. He forgot what it felt like to hunt.

And here you are.

Moody. Pale. Witty in a way that’s not performative. It’s like you’re speaking to a peer. Not a monster. Not a killer.

He doesn’t know yet that you are studying him.

Measuring his control. His smile-to-silence ratio. Mapping out every tick of narcissism, every moment he adjusts his silverware too perfectly, every way he leads the conversation and expects praise for it.

He’s used to being adored. You are not interested. Which means you’re dangerous.

He’s going to fuck you anyway. Eventually. Not tonight. But soon.

Not the romantic kind of sex.

The kind that’s screaming, sobbing, spread-eagle on a blood-stained mattress with his name carved into your thigh.

He’ll rip the apathy out of your bones and replace it with obsession.

You just don’t know it yet. But you will. God, you will.

Official TAG LIST of β€œThe Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles , @xileonaaaa , @neuvilletteswife4ever , @poopooindamouf

Test-Phase TAG LIST of β€œThe Red Ledger”: @imnotabot28 , @han11dh , @loserworld , @esthelily