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pearlessance · 4 months ago

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Forgive Me, Father - Idle Threats [viii]

Series Summary — Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for.

Chapter Summary — Joel hears your confession and breaks all ten commandments in the house of the holy.

Pairing — Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings — Explicit sexual content MDNI, brat taming, age gap, mean!Joel, religious imagery and symbolism, catholic guilt, reader has added backstory to progress the plot, mention of sexual assault, murder, canon typical violence, renouncing of god, desecration of a church, blood, brief daddy kink

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cross posted to AO3]

The following days are easier than any other you’ve had since leaving Jackson. It takes two days, but Joel hears your laugh again and feels himself release a heavy weight at the sound. Once, when the two of you are switching watch shifts, you sleepily mutter his name. And he goes to you like he always will—and you whisper an almost incoherent confession of your affection. “I love you, too,” you say, and he tries not to think about the way it makes him feel like a boy your age, hearing those words for the first time.

You move slower, and it’s not because of the extra weight strapped to your horses. Joel doesn’t say it, but he knows it’s because you’re afraid of returning to Jackson. Afraid of things going back to the way they were before this run.

In truth, Joel worries about it too. Worries about finding a new routine, worries about Maria and Tommy and Ellie, worries about what they’ll say. It won’t make him change his mind, he knows. Nothing would ever make him regret this selfish decision to keep you. But sometimes, in a too-long moment of silence, anxiety builds in his chest when he thinks of it.

But you still have several days before you return, and Joel intends to soak up this sweet, delicate time with you while he still can.

A little over halfway back to Jackson, you stop before the sun sets and make camp in an old, abandoned church. The very same one advertised on the billboard Joel had seen on the way to Casper.

Some of the pews are turned over while others have been broken apart and likely set ablaze in the pile of ashes in the center of the floor. There are no infected, but there’s a stone statue of Mary that looms ominously in the corner, covered in dust and cracked along its painted surface.

Joel feels uncomfortable here. Feels watched, judged. His skin crawls and he thinks about pushing on until you find some other place to rest.

The altar table has been left untouched, decorated with a yellowed, satin ribbon draped along its center. The bible lying on top is flipped open to a passage Joel knows well.

Corinthians 10:13

No temptation has seized you except what is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that which you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.

It’s bookmarked not with a scrap of paper but with a silver necklace tucked in its spine. A dainty thing with a cross dangling from the end of it. Joel picks it up, watches it sway between his calloused fingers.

And when he turns to face you, you’re standing in the middle of the center aisle and the setting sunlight casts a shadow across your face, making you look like some angelic being sent to him by God himself. “Did you ever come to one of these before the world ended?”

Joel nods, takes the necklace in his hands and finds his way back to you. “Quite a bit when I was a kid,” he answers. “My mom was pretty religious. We went to every Sunday service and sometimes the ones on Wednesdays, too. Even sent Tommy and I to the church's after-school program for young kids.”

He holds the necklace out to show you, and a shiver runs down his spine when you trace the cross in his palm, your touch electrifying. It’s just the smallest brush of your index finger, but it makes the air get caught in his lungs. “Pretty,” you say wistfully. “Do you believe in God?”

Joel jerks his chin in a silent demand and you obey wordlessly, turning away from him. He unclasps the necklace as you hold your hair out of the way. “I did,” he answers slowly, wrapping the silver chain carefully around your throat. “And then I didn’t.”

“And now?”

He secures it and runs his knuckles down the nape of your neck. No would be the closest thing to the truth, but it’s not quite it. Joel thinks about lying to save himself the shame but rejects the thought as soon as it comes. “I believe in you,” he says quietly.

Somehow this confession feels heavier than his declaration of love. Perhaps it’s because this is the thing he’s struggled with, this strange worship of Judas. You’ve come to him in pieces, a shell of a girl, a betrayer—and yet it’s your altar he crawls to. It’s you who holds the keys to heaven, who controls both his grace and his damnation.

Joel leans forward and presses his lips to your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake. He can feel your breath falter, and so he does it again. This time a kiss to your shoulder, right above the collar of your sweater.

His hands have a mind of their own as they find your waist. Joel knows this is wrong, knows how sinful it is, and yet he knows the only way to endure the taste of the forbidden fruit is to bite into it, to devour it, to consume it for as long as he’s able. He has spent so much of his life fighting, resisting, repenting—but maybe it’s time God asks for his forgiveness.

Your skin is smooth beneath his calloused palms. He slides them beneath your shirt, over your hips, up your torso. He pulls at the soft garment, and you lift your arms for him to make it easier as he pulls it off and discards it in the nearest pew.

And then his hands are on you again—this time tracing the edge of your jeans, pinky finger dipping slowly beneath the band around your waist, teasing. You’re panting now, chest rising and falling in quick succession. You say his name a little like a prayer and it brings a smile to his face.

“Shh,” he says. “Patience is a virtue, little girl.” But he wants you, perhaps even more than you want to be touched, so his left hand finds the button of your jeans and undoes it.

He moves slowly, and you stand completely still as Joel peels the too-tight jeans down your legs. You kick your boots off, and soon you’re standing in the middle of this crumbling church in nothing but a pair of baby pink panties and a white lace bralette, looking every bit the divine goddess he doesn’t deserve.

When you turn to face him, there’s a playful glint in your eye. “Let me try it,” you say. “One question, though. Is it forgive me, father? Or is it forgive me, Daddy?”

Two things happen inside him at once.

First, the crudeness of your words baffles him so completely that he laughs. Full-on laughs for the first time in twenty years. The vulgarity of it in a place of worship is somehow both amusing and horrifying.

Second, all the blood in his head rushes south. Because the word daddy in your mouth is the most erotic thing he’s ever heard, the dirtiest thing he’s ever heard, and Joel knows right away that he will never have the strength to process why such a thing makes him so goddamn hard. Doesn’t even attempt it.

He simply enjoys it instead. Allows it to drown him, consume him wholly. Accepts what is and what isn’t. Accepts that he is the most deplorable man that’s ever existed and it’s why he’ll never deserve you but it’s also why it’ll never matter. Because now…you belong to the most deplorable man.

The devil and his pretty, perfect Judas.

And then you lower yourself to your knees in front of him and Joel struggles to keep his weary heart from bursting from his chest.

His attempts at composure are blown to pieces when you press your hands together and look up at him through your lashes. With all humor bled from the moment, overtaken by a sudden hunger, you say, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” and something evil stirs inside him.

Something more than sinful. Something ungodly. Something blasphemous.

That cross is draped beautifully between your breasts, cleavage elevated by the angle of your arms.

Joel reaches out with both hands and runs them through your hair affectionately. “You look so pretty on your knees,” he says. “You got somethin’ to confess?”

You nod and a smirk graces your face. “I’ve been having wicked thoughts,” you say, voice taking on an innocent and girlish tone. “And…I’ve been giving into temptation, Father.”

“S’that right?” Joel licks his lips. His cock throbs in his jeans, desperate for your touch in a way it’s never been before.

He watches, transfixed, as you take your bottom lip between your teeth, taking your hands from the position of prayer and instead running them up his strong thighs. You slide them beneath his flannel, soft hands cool against his heated skin. “I’ve been letting a man touch me.” You’re whispering, but he feels each syllable down to his bones. “An older man,” you continue, pulling at his belt.

Joel finds you mesmerizing. Thinks you’ve ruined him. Completely, utterly decimated the man he used to be. “Touch you how?”

You don’t take your eyes off his as his belt clinks against the button of his jeans. “I’ve let him inside me, Father,” you say, pulling down his zipper at a torturous pace. “I’ve let him in my mouth, in my heart, in between my thighs.”

He never thought it possible, but his need for you grows teeth, morphs into some vicious, ravenous thing. Joel brushes his fingers through your hair, pulling lightly at the roots. “And what do you think you should do as repentance, sweetheart?”

Joel’s reminded of a siren’s song when you answer, “I think I should show a little extra devotion. Don’t you?” You pull his cock from his jeans, and the simple touch of your hand has him nearly shaking in anticipation. You break character for only long enough to giggle softly, wipe the back of your hand over your glossy lips, and say, “My mouth is watering.”

He smooths your hair back away from your face, admiring the way you look on your knees for him, just as desperate as he is. “Go’head, baby,” he says.

You don’t waste any time. You’re slow in your pursuit; tongue tracing the vein on the underside of his cock. Savoring, worshiping, devoting yourself to him and him only. You swirl your tongue around the head, licking up drops of precum.

When you finally take him into your mouth, you don’t stop until you’ve swallowed him whole, choking on it, nose pressed to the tuft of hair below his navel. It’s the most glorious thing Joel’s ever seen in all his life. And then you moan, and he can feel the vibrations of it down to his toes.

You pull your head back far enough, and your mouth leaves him completely, connected by nothing but strands of saliva. Your lips are already bruised and swollen, but they pull into the prettiest, proudest smile he’s ever seen, and Joel’s weak in the knees.

“Filthy little girl,” he says affectionately, hands still running through the silky strands of your hair. “Y’like that? Hm? You like that mouth filled up, don’t you?”

“Mmhm.” There’s so much love, so much worship in your eyes that he feels his chest pull tight. You take his cock in your mouth again, tongue sliding along the underside of it, cheeks hollowed out to take him in deeper.

Joel feels your devotion with each soft lick, each swallow at the back of your throat, each ragged, choked breath. He knows he won’t last long. Your mouth is too hot, too wet, too sweet. And when you pick up the pace, bobbing your head, fingernails leaving indentations in the exposed skin of his thighs, pressure builds at the base of his spine like a fucking noose. “There you go,” he encourages. “Doin’ so fuckin’ good, baby. Shit —just like that.”

Your cheeks are flushed, and Joel’s once gentle hands pull tight in your hair, guiding your mouth down onto him. It only makes those delicious moans around his cock that much sweeter. Your thighs are clamped tightly together, and he barrels towards euphoria as he thinks about just how wet he knows you are, his dirty little girl.

“Fuck, baby—fuck. Hold on, hold on.” He pulls your head back, cock slick and glossy, covered in your spit. He’s going to finish just like this if he’s not careful. “Gonna be over too soon if you keep that up.”

“Please, Joel,” you say. “I want to taste it. It’s all I want. Let me make you feel good.”

Joel thinks Michaelangelo never would’ve sculpted David, had his existence overlapped with yours. Because in all the time of the universe, a sight has never lived as beautiful as the one of you begging on your knees before him.

What kind of man would he be if he refused? Joel wants to give you everything you could ever ask for. Wants to give you the world at whatever cost to his soul.

So, he doesn’t stop you when you wrap your bruised lips around his cock again. You feel like heaven, or as close to it as he’ll ever be allowed.

He comes at the back of your throat with a groan and trembling hands in your hair. Hands that are all too aware that they hold something holy, something divine. “ Goddamn —fuck. Mm, yeah. There you go, baby. There you go.”

His cock throbs in your mouth, and you don’t stop sucking until he’s completely spent. And when you do finally lean back and stick out your tongue, he’s nearly hard again at the obscene way his come drips down your lips, down your chin.

Then you swallow, and Joel grins and rests his palm gently on your cheek. He uses the rough pad of his thumb to push the last few drops back into your mouth, and you suck it down greedily. “Gotta take it all, little girl. Make me proud, hm?”

And as soon as you’re satisfied, Joel’s pulling you back to your feet and pressing his mouth to yours in a ravenous kiss. He can taste remnants of himself on you, and it’s the most comforting sensation he’s ever experienced. It’s proof of your union, evidence of your devotion. A physical, tangible way to convince him he’s not alone in his sacrilege.

Joel lifts you off your feet, and your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. He carries you to the altar table, lays you down, and pushes your knees apart. Normally, he likes to take his time with you. Likes to savor the way you taste, the way you feel. But he’s so hungry for you and you only that he cannot— cannot wait another fucking second.

But then you say his name and his every intention freezes. “You don’t have to,” you say, and it confuses him. You attempt an explanation. “I don’t want you to feel like you always have to make me finish, too. I just…I didn’t do it expecting anything in return. I want you to know that.”

You sound so sincere, so… benevolent. A far cry from the bratty little girl he first met. He presses a kiss to your temple and says quietly, “I’d never let my little girl go without. Not the kinda man I am, baby.”

He might be too old to go rounds with you, but he knows how to make you feel good. He’s real good at it, in fact.

Joel leans over and presses a chaste kiss to your clit, right over your panties. He delights in the way it makes you shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the sounds you make when he pulls the fabric to the side and slides his tongue through your wet warmth.��

He presses your legs back, opens you further, and laps at your pussy like a man starved for you because he is. You taste like redemption, like home.

Your hands weave into his hair, tugging lightly, and Joel moans when you press his face against your pussy like he just can’t get close enough. He takes your clit in his mouth and sucks hard, tongue rolling over it softly.

“Fuck, that feels so good, Joel— God —”

A groan escapes him, lips vibrating with the sound of it. His cock begins to harden again, hanging heavy between his legs. He’s insatiable for you; returned to the needy, desperate stage of his masculinity he once thought he’d grown out of.

Joel quickens the movement of his tongue and slips a finger inside of you. Your back arches off the altar table and your hips grind against his face, smearing your slick down his chin, over his lips.

He hooks his finger inside of you and strokes the spot that makes you writhe. You look so beautiful he thinks you must be some divine being. It’s the only thing that makes sense in his head.

Your legs begin to tremble around his shoulders and that’s when he decides to pull away. Because he wants you to cum for him, wants to be the reason you shiver and shake—but he wants to feel it.

In one smooth movement, he pulls you to the edge of the altar table and sinks his cock into you deep.

“Oh my God,” you whimper. “Fuck, fuck, Joel, I’m gonna—!”

“Wait,” he says, stilling the instinctual rocking of his hips. You’re so tight, so smooth and wet as your pussy flutters around his cock. He pushes into you to the hilt but doesn’t move, doesn’t give you the satisfaction. He moves his hands to your lower belly, applying just a little bit of pressure. He can feel himself inside you, can feel just how full of him you are. “Want you to cum with me, little girl,” he says. “Can you do that for me? Hm?”

Slowly, experimentally, he shifts his hips the smallest bit, thrusting into you and laughing maliciously at the way you squeeze your eyes shut and whine for more. “I can—can try,” you stammer. “But it feels so —”

“Shh, I know baby,” he says, thrusting into you again, a little harder this time. It feels euphoric, indulging himself in you in a place of worship. He can feel faith in the air like magic, faith in you, in himself, in the love you share.

He moves again, fucking you slow and deep. If it weren’t for the way you make him feel, he thinks he might last a little longer. But the taste of ambrosia lingers on his tongue and he can see the pulsing of your clit and feel the tension in your muscles created from holding yourself back from the edge of pleasure.

Pride swells in his chest. His perfect girl, doing everything he asks, doing anything to please him. It makes him feel holy, like maybe the only godly presence in the room is him.

This is what you’ve done to him. You’ve taken this shell of a man and turned him seraphic, turned him sacred through your worship. Emotion builds in his throat when he thinks of it, when he realizes just how lucky he is to exist in this same universe as you, in the same lifetime.

He kisses you deep and fucks you even deeper.

“Joel,” you pant, fingernails digging into the side of the altar table. The aged satin cloth has been wrinkled beneath your weight, hanging slightly askew off the edge. “Please, please, I can’t—!”

Warmth pools low in his belly. You sound so pretty when you beg. He presses one hand harder against your abdomen and uses the other to circle your clit. He can feel his cock move beneath his palm with each thrust and the sensation is the filthiest thing he’s ever experienced.

The pressure builds and builds and builds, and then finally —

“Go ‘head, baby. Cum for me,” he says, thrusting a little faster, rhythm faltering as rapture fills him like sunlight. Your legs tremble around his hips and your moans echo in the church as you find faith, too.

“I love you,” you say, and it feels like redemption. Like the opening of heaven’s gates.

Like forgiveness.

You come down slowly, and Joel’s completely spent with almost no energy left. Yet still he helps you dress, pulls your sweater back on, and buttons up those too-tight jeans.

You eat together, rationing what little food you have left to try and stretch these precious days out a little longer. You admit around a bite of hard bread that you’re exhausted from the day’s ride and he is, too. And so you work together to stack the pews in front of the church’s double doors, sealing yourself inside but more importantly keeping anything outside from getting in.

There’s a window at the back of the church in a room Joel knows was once used for confessional. He leaves it cracked just enough to hear the horses outside if a commotion is caused. And then he holds you in his arms and sleeps.

It’s the best sleep Joel’s gotten in twenty-five years, the sound of your voice echoing even in his dreams.

But halfway through the night, the sound of whinnying and rambunctious laughter can be heard, jarring you both awake.

You’re out of his arms and at the back of the church before Joel’s finished blinking his eyes open.

He stands to his feet, heart racing behind his ribcage.

Men’s voices, but far away. Several of them.

He watches you move quickly through the church to the window at the front, watches you carefully peak through the dirty glass pane.

Joel saddles up behind you and has never been more thankful that you skipped the warmth of a fire. Because fifteen yards away, there’s a group of men passing through. Some on horses, others walking casually beside them. They’re not subtle about their presence.

Maybe they don’t think anyone’s around. And on any normal day, they would be right. Except this day, Joel’s here. You’re here.

He picks up his rifle from the makeshift bed the two of you created hours ago.

You don’t move. You stay focused, transfixed as if you’re trying to see the minute details of their faces from this far away. You wipe the glass with the ivory sleeve of your sweater and it comes away grimy, covered in dust.

Joel knows there’s something you’re not telling him. Can feel the tension, electric and tight in the air, skin crawling with it. Your eyes are narrowed, focused on the sound of rambunctious laughter coming from the small group of men.

And then your spine straightens and all concern bleeds from your face, replaced in an instant with rage. Red, murderous rage. Joel thinks he’s only seen that sort of frenzy in his own reflection. Now it stares back at him, mirrored and bloodthirsty. “What is it?”

You don’t answer. The scrape of your knife against its sheath at your thigh strikes a terror in him he hasn’t felt in years. His stomach turns uncomfortably because Joel knows, he knows something isn’t right. Something is going to go wrong. He can feel it in his marrow.

“Stop,” he says. “Talk to me.”

It’s like his words don’t even register. You say nothing as you pull at the pews stacked in front of the doors. They scrape noisily against the hardwood floor, and Joel tries to find something to stop you, to get through to you—but that knife is still clutched in your blanched fist and he knows in your rage you’ll swing at him all the same.

“There are eight of them and two of us,” he tries to reason. “We have no ammunition, no bullets, no arrows. We have to let them—”

“Go?” You turn your frenzied eyes on him. “What’s now eight used to be twenty,” you say. “I won’t let them get away this time.”

“Then we plan for it,” he says, holding out a hand and taking a tentative step toward you. It doesn’t matter to him what your reasoning may be. Joel knows that sort of wrath, knows he’ll never change your mind. And he knows following you down this path of slaughter is bound to bloody his hands further, to taint his soul this time beyond repair.

But he made a promise to you. Nothing in this world will you ever face alone.

The problem is that Joel knows neither of you will make it out alive. Not in this. You got lucky back in Casper, and he’s got the knowledge and experience with age to know you won’t get lucky twice.

He can’t let you do this.

“They won’t get far, okay? Not in an area like this. We go home— tomorrow. We ride to Jackson and we’ll get there in a day if we don't stop. And then we’ll come back for them, alright? We’ll stock up and track them down. I swear to you—”

“You don’t know,” you say, voice shaking. “You don’t know what they did—!”

“So tell me. Tell me everything. Give me the knife.” He reaches for it slowly, carefully. You eye him like he might grow claws and an extra head if you look away for an instant.

You don’t trust him, Joel realizes. Not at this moment, not with this. “Joel,” you say in warning. “Don’t.”

He wonders what’s led you here. Wonders about who’s distrusting hands you once placed your justice in.

The answer comes to him the moment the question crosses his mind.

“I’m not like her,” he says. “Look at me, baby girl. Look at me .”

You do. And though that frenzied look lingers in your eyes, something in you softens and he’s grateful for it.

“I’m not Maria. You understand me? When I make you a promise, I mean it. I will kill them. All of them. But we have to be smart about this. We have to do it right. Yeah?” He reaches out again. “Give me the knife.”

You angle it higher, just out of his reach. For a second Joel thinks all progress has been lost because he moved too quickly, too carelessly. But then you say, “Swear it to me. Swear on her life that you won't make me let them go.”

On her life.

Not her death, but her life. A promise of certainty. An unbreakable oath. Because if he fails, if he shatters this trust, Sarah’s life means nothing.

Joel’s lungs ache. Everything hurts and his skin feels like it’s on fire because no one has ever seen him like this. No one has known exactly what to say, exactly which bruises to press.

He nods slowly. “Okay,” he relents. “I swear on her life that we will find them.”

Carefully, you hand him the blade, and as if giving it away had flipped a switch, you deflate.

Joel slides your knife into the side of his boot when you turn away from him and go back to the window.

He stands beside you, a looming presence at your back. Even though he wants answers, he doesn’t want to pry them out of you. And your silence allows him the space for his mind to wander into unspeakable places. Joel has seen firsthand the depraved, vile things that mankind spirals into beneath the weight of survival.

For a time, even he had sunk so incredibly low.

And because he’s seen so much, his brain is filled with gut-wrenching images, theoretical scenes of torture, corruption, and perversion. Each one is more brutal than the last. And in them all, you’re the center of it.

You watch the group of men through the window until the blue illumination of their flashlights disappears from view. And the moment they do, you’re slipping through the window in the back of the church.

Joel follows you, a million questions on the tip of his tongue. But he stays silent and does nothing but help you gather debris fallen from the trees in the wooded area behind the church.

Once, he picks up a curved stick, and as if you’d seen it from the back of your head, you say, “No. Not that one. If they’re too curved, the arrows won’t shoot straight.”

The two of you gather timber for over an hour. And when his hands are just as full as yours, you return to the church. Joel returns your knife and you attempt to teach him how to shave the stick correctly and to whittle the point of it into a weapon.

He’s not even half as fast as you are. For every arrow he creates, you produce three. It’s a slow, tedious process, but eventually, you begin to speak.

“It happened on the last run I did for Maria,” you say, eyes focused on the knife and wood in your hands. “I fell asleep one night. It’d been days since I’d given myself a chance to rest and it had finally caught up to me. I’d barricaded myself in a house and might as well have been dead to the world. Two of them found me. Didn’t wake me, didn’t try to kill me or anything. They just took my bow and my pack. My pack that was mostly empty, had nothing in it but a twelve gauge with two bullets, some cans of food, water, and those stale fucking barbecue chips.”

You shake your head dismally.

“Should’ve fuckin left it. But I…I was afraid. If I came back to Jackson without the one thing she asked for, what use was I? What kept me there?”

It pains him to hear you say it. He wants to tell you you’re wrong, that despite what Maria has made you believe, your worth is not tied to what you can do for her. But he doesn’t. Joel just lets you talk.

“I tracked them to a warehouse a few miles outside of Boise. Watched them for a while, memorized all the entrances, the windows. Even memorized their faces. They had two people on watch in rotating shifts. I didn’t want to kill them, considering they didn’t try to kill me. But I wanted my pack, and so I waited until four of them were talking during a shift change and slipped inside through the back.”

Your eyes darken, and Joel fears what you may say next.

“Didn’t go as planned. One of them saw me. Outed me immediately, of course. And I thought they’d kill me. Shoot me or something. But that didn’t go as planned, either. The leader was called Gabriel.”

Your hands around the arrow still and your eyes grow misty. You’re reliving it, as clearly as if it were happening now.

“He, uhm…held me down. Suggested the rest of them take turns with me.”

Joel feels something inside him shift. Feels a decision being made, feels murder begin to drip down his fingertips like water.

“They’d already had my shotgun and took the pistol I had tucked in the back of my jeans the second they ripped them off. I thought…I thought it was the end for me. Because even if I survived it, even if I made it through all twenty of them…I might as well have been dead anyway.”

He understands now, Joel realizes. Understands why you were so infuriated about a run for a pregnancy craving when the price was this. His mouth runs dry.

Your words echo in the dark church. “Had my knife tucked up the sleeve of my jacket, though.” A small smile graces your face as you turn the blade over in your fingers admiringly. “Was able to stop Gabriel before he got any further. They were…stupid. Arrogant. Came at me one by one because why would you need more than that to fight a little girl with nothing but a knife ?”

Now there are only eight of them. The main perpetrator perished, his blood stained so deeply into your jacket that when you’d returned to Jackson they’d had to burn it. No salvaging anything from your destruction.

Nothing but this vengeance, this promise to yourself to right those who wronged you. He forced you to break it for your own safety. And though a surge of regret and sorrow trickles into his psyche, he knows there’s still an unbroken vow remaining.

The promise Joel made to you.

“Some of them ran. I tried to track them but after a few days, I just…I needed sleep. I wanted to go home.” You go black to fletching your arrow, whittling the end into a sharp point. “I’ll find them one day. Then it’ll be me taking turns with them .”

You don’t say much else for the next two hours. And he doesn’t, either. He helps you sharpen the timber into arrows and when you yawn three times in less than five minutes, he gives you his flannel and lets you lay your head in his lap.

Joel smooths the tangles in your hair as you sleep. And when you begin to softly snore, he carefully shifts your head onto your sleeping bag and tucks the strap of his rifle beneath your arm.

When he slips out of the window in the back of the church, he latches it shut. He decides against taking a horse, worried it’d create too much commotion.

But he does take your serrated sawback knife, telling himself it’s poetic justice.

They’re only two miles away, stashed in a rundown grocery store that’s been picked over one too many times. Two men sit outside the door. Old habits die hard, Joel thinks.

One has his head tilted back against the stone wall, sleeping with an ease he doesn’t deserve.

Joel takes out the other one first. And he does it quicker than he’d like. He creeps up behind him silently, wraps one hand around his throat, and uses the other to cover his mouth. The snap of his spine reverberates through Joel’s hands, tingling from his palms down to his elbows.

The other wakes with the commotion but doesn’t even have the chance to scream before your knife is lodged in his neck so deep the sharp point sticks out of the other end.

Inside, the other six all rest as well. Joel wonders how they can do so peacefully, knowing they’ve given an innocent little girl fuel for her nightmares. A girl who’s lost enough, who’s sacrificed enough, more than anyone should—only to lose a piece of herself at their greedy hands.

He makes quick work of them. Even delights in the way life leaves their eyes. One by one, Joel uses your knife to slit each and every one of their throats.

By the time he’s finished, his hands are caked in blood, splatters staining the sleeves of his heavy, canvas coat, and all that’s left of the men who hurt you are eight corpses.

You’re still sleeping when he slips back through the window of the church. It’s a little ironic, he thinks, to return here to this holy place with an angel inside, all while covered in the stink of death.

Joel sits beside you, back pressed against a pew. His hands rest on his knees, blood still drying beneath his fingernails. He watches you sleep and thinks his damnation is worth it if this brings you a sense of safety.

Though he tries not to, Joel thinks an awful lot about Sarah. Thinks about how he failed her, how just a little more brutality could have saved her.

He’s spent years regretting that night, regretting holding on to the shred of humanity he had left when he should have been holding onto her. He makes a promise not to repeat the same bad habits. Makes a promise he’ll never let his naive desire for respite get in the way of his need to protect you, to keep you safe. He’s breaking the habit, the same as he did with Ellie, because Joel doesn’t think he'll ever survive a loss of such magnitude again.

It doesn’t matter what he has to become to keep you safe. Doesn’t matter the cost to his soul.

Your face looks peaceful but your fists are coiled tight beneath your head. As if even in your sleep you’re fighting something, always on the defense. He wonders if it’s a trait you inherited before or after those men, before or after your sister's death, before or after the accusatory way the inhabitants of Jackson look at you.

Joel feels something heavy rise up in him. Something akin to sorrow or grief. This deep, pensive heartache because it’s just not fair. You’re so young, so innocent, dealing with the same demons he still fights and sometimes loses to at age fifty-two.

He doesn’t want this for you. Doesn’t want you to become volatile, murderous, monstrous in the ways he has. Joel spent so much time pushing you away and he thinks maybe it’s because there’s so much of his anger mirrored in you. That staring it in the face felt too harrowing, too raw.

The longer he thinks about it the more pieces slot together in his brain. Your cruel words hurled at anyone who sets you on edge. Your inability to follow any direction that isn’t forced. The self-isolation, the distrust in even those you love most. That animalistic fight in you, flight and freeze be damned. The need to protect others before yourself—Joel, Ellie, Miley, even Maria.

You don’t deserve to live like this. Don't deserve eternal damnation or to experience the wrath of God for the monstrous things you result to when you feel all else is lost. Violence is the only thing that has never turned its back on you.

Joel’s melancholy manifests, a single tear sliding down his cheek. You’re just a little girl and it's not fucking fair.

He doesn’t want this for you. He wants you to live a full, happy, peaceful life. Not one spent out here chasing ghosts, trying to find your worth in providing for others. He wants you to be protected, to know you’re loved even when you lash out, wants you to know that he understands. Joel wants to be that for you. Wants to be the unwavering support you deserve, wants to be the thing that pulls you back from that ledge you’re dancing upon. Joel wants to be for you what he needed in the darkest part of his rage.

But to do that, you’re going to have to relinquish a little more of that control you hold so tightly.

When you wake, it’s gradual. You don’t startle or flinch at the blood on his hands. But your eyes linger there on the red stain for some time before you ask, “All of them?”

Joel nods once. “All of them.”

And then you’re crawling into his lap, straddling him, pressing your mouth to his, thanking him in the only way you know how. Your tongue tastes like sleep and ambrosia and sunlight, but when Joel cradles your face in his hands he leaves blood in the wake of his fingertips. The bright red is a stark contrast against the smoothness of your skin, the violence an antithesis to your innocence.

He slides his bloody hands into your hair when your hips begin to move. His cock hardens quickly as his body catches up with your intent, always needy and eager, always just waiting to join you in more than just soul.

While he unbuttons his jeans and slides his zipper down to pull his erection out, your mouth never leaves his. Even when you shove those too-tight jeans down your thighs just enough to make room for him. When you lift up on your knees and sink down onto his cock in one familiarized movement he can feel the vibration of your moan against his tongue, can feel the breath of air from your gasp as he settles in deep.

The stretch is blissfully painful, stinging in all the right ways. You rock your hips slowly at first, adjusting to the sheer size of him, adjusting to his all-encompassing warmth. Your fingers dig into his thick shoulders, desperate to keep your balance.

And then you lift just enough to come slamming back down, the friction setting his skin ablaze. Again, again, again —it’s hurried and needy and depraved. Your hips move fervently over his, seeking out what you know only he can provide.

Your eyes are squeezed shut when you pull your sweet mouth away from his. Joel watches you lean back and place your hands on his thighs for support, back arching, and somehow he finds himself even deeper inside you. You’re moaning and his breath is coming fast and he thinks you look more than just angelic from this angle. He watches you ride his cock and wonders if you were fucking made to do this.

Cheeks flushed, lips parted, his name on your lips. Is this what Eve saw in the waxy reflection of the forbidden fruit? Is this what she saw when she knowingly abandoned paradise?

Joel thinks it can’t get much better than this. Thinks the only thing that’s ever come close is the feeling of blood on his hands in the name of those he loves, in the name of you.

He wraps his hand around your throat, staining you even further red, and says, “I’d do anything for you. Anything .”

He thinks about the Ten Commandments, about how he can cross off every single one of them with just this act alone.

You shall have no other Gods before me.

No divine being has made him feel like this. No divinity has ever reached up through his ribs and squeezed a fist around his heart. Not like you have.

You shall make no idols.

He thinks about the way you look in his canvas coat. Joel has found his own form of peace through you, has found forgiveness beneath your tongue.

You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.

Your pace quickens. The obscene, wet sounds coming from the place you’re joined echo in the walls of the church. “Oh my God, Joel, I’m—I’m close.”

He knows you are. Can feel it in the way your pussy squeezes him like a vise, in the way your rhythm becomes sloppy and desperate.

Keep the Sabbath day holy.

Joel doesn’t know what day it is. But he knows he wishes he could stay here in this home you’ve made together within the bones of an old religion, wishes he could stay inside you. He doesn’t know if there’s anything more unholy than this insatiable desire.

Honor your father and mother.

He thinks about that day in the dining hall when embarrassment climbed Maria’s cheeks as you screamed in her face. Joel thinks she deserved it more than he realized that day. He thinks about the way you spoke to him in that watchtower, thinks about the way he’d had to drag you there by your hair, all while listening to every disrespectful thing that came out of your mouth and how a few short weeks later you got down on your knees and called him daddy.

You shall not murder.

He takes the hand wrapped around your throat and flattens it against your sternum. The blood is drying but still marks your skin in the shape of his fingerprints.

You shall not commit adultery.

Joel knows he’s supposed to be with a lovely, soft-spoken, age-appropriate woman but knows, too, that death would be kinder than the loss of you.

You shall not steal.

He was angry at first, about the strawberry scone. Mike’s wife is a kind woman who spends her time baking for the community. But Ellie likely never would’ve had the opportunity to try it had you not nicked the pastry. If it was always going to lead the two of you here, together, Joel would have stolen every last scone on God’s green earth.

You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.

Lying seems a small price to pay for you, for your safety. He remembers telling Greg and Bonnie that you were running late the night you left him in the watchtower alone. He wanted to keep you safe then even without noticing that’s what he was doing. Safe from ridicule, from judgment.

You shall not covet.

He recalls seeing Abel’s hands on you, seeing his lips against your hair in a chaste kiss. Joel had wanted to kill him then, for touching what was his. He knows by taking you for his own, he’s taking you away from someone like Abel. Someone with a little more moral in their heart, a little less blood on their hands. But he doesn’t care because you’re his now and always.

Joel lifts his hips in tandem with yours, meeting each stroke, thrusting his cock even deeper inside you. Your legs begin to shake around his and Joel thinks damnation isn’t so bad. “Anything,” he repeats. “Lie, cheat, steal.” His hand on your chest slides up again, wrapping tight around your throat. “I’d kill for you, little girl.”

Your pussy flutters around him and your spine bends in the most beautiful arch he’s ever seen. It solidifies his belief in one very important thing, the last nail in the coffin that cements the two of you together eternally.

This filthy, sinful devotion is cosmic. Celestial. Unearthly. So much more than a bible and cross.

It’s worth it. It’s worth everything.

“You like that? Hm?” Your rhythm falters but his remains steady. “Like that I’d spill blood for you, s’that it? That’s what got you all wet, sweetheart?” Your moans turn saccharine— sacrilegious. “Pretty pussy’s so fuckin’ tight, baby. Such a messy thing. I’d kill anyone for my little girl. Anyone .”

“Joel, I—!”

He knows, he knows. Because he is, too. “Yeah, thaaaat’s it,” he says, drawing out each syllable. Your hands squeeze hard around his thighs and your muscles draw tight. “There you go, baby. Cum for me. That’s it. Sweet fuckin’ girl. Gonna fill you up. That what you want?”

You rasp out his name and the words yes, please, please, and it sounds like a fucking prayer. It’s a hypnotic litany. It makes him feel cherished, adored. And the sound of it spoken in worship in the house of God sends him over the edge.

Even though your legs tremble around his, you ride his cock relentlessly. Joel’s vision goes white and his hand on your hip squeezes tight enough to bruise. You feel so good, so warm and wet. You lift your hips and slam them back down until the oversensitivity becomes more than he can bear. His hand abandons the home it’s made around your throat and finds the small of your back instead, stilling you completely.

You lean forward, collapsing with your hands pressed against his chest. Joel wraps his arms around your middle and cradles you in his lap, all too aware of the divinity he holds in his hands. He presses a kiss to your temple and listens to your heavy breaths.

Some time passes. He’s not sure how long the two of you sit there with Joel still wedged deep inside you, basking in the afterglow. The sun rises outside and the songbirds of the morning begin to sing.

Eventually, you lift your head and whisper, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Joel doesn’t understand. He’s stolen something he was undeserving of, only to be loved back. If anyone should be thankful, it should be him.

It feels like a punch to the gut when you say, “For seeing me.”

Because he now knows no one else ever has. No one has ever seen your defiance as anything but a nuisance, has never seen you as more than a troublemaker, as a bad omen.

But Joel does see you. He sees right through all that savage fight to the little girl beneath, that soft, childish innocence you keep under heavy guard. He thinks he’s been able to see through it since the first moment he laid eyes on you.

It’s her he wants to protect.

Joel takes your chin in his hand and makes you a commandment of his own. “I will always see you.”

[part seven] [part nine]

taglist; @heartbrokenlilbitch-nef @elliesr1fle @pascaltesfaye

let me know if you want to be added! thank you to everyone for all the insane support on this <3

[masterist]

#joel miller #ao3 fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #joel the last of us #joel tlou #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #x reader #smut #joel miller self insert #idle threats #pearlessance #tlou

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mybutcheredtongue · 4 months ago

Text

I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around my Gravestone is Deceased

post azkaban sirius black x fem!reader

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (see full series list here)

1994

A few weeks after the school term ends, you stand on a deserted street at night, looking up at the line of buildings and homes in front of you.

That's where Dumbledore told you to go to number 12...but it's not here? You're in Grimmauld Place, and in front of you is Number 11 and Number 13, with no 12 in the middle?

You squint up at the buildings ahead, sighing in frustration. If this is some sort of trick, like you have to solve a riddle every time you want to enter the Order of the Phoenix headquarters you're going to be livid.

Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

A battered door emerges out of nowhere between 11 and 13, followed swiftly by dark walls and grimy windows. You gape up at the building that's just magically appeared before you, breathing out in surprise, and then you walk up to the door and, as Dumbledore instructed you to do, tap it with your wand.

There's a click, and you warily push the door open, stepping into a dimly lit hallway and shutting the door behind you. It smells old and damp, like a derelict building. Beside you, the wallpaper peels off the walls and beneath your feet is a threadbare carpet. Painted portraits, blackened with age, line the walls.

You glance down at Dubh's crate, the handle held tightly in your fingers, and then walk down the hallway towards a door at the end. On the wall, there's shabby curtains stretching across a large space — there must be a door behind it.

"Hello?" You call, your voice echoing. "Is anybody — "

"Filth! Half-blood! I can smell it on you!"

You whip your head around to the source of this vile, ear-splitting screeching, finding the curtains you had spotted now open, except instead of there being a door behind it, you're met with a life-sized portrait of an old woman, her face red with fury as she continues to scream at you.

"Scum! How dare you set foot in this noble house, tarnish it with your foul blood — "

Dubh hisses from her crate and your ears ring with the incessant shrieking of the portrait, looking around for a solution when the door to your left suddenly bursts open, and Sirius emerges.

"Shut it, you hag, that's my wife!" he barks, seizing the end of the curtains and pulling it with all his might.

"YOOUU!" the woman howls, eyes wide at the sight of him. "Blood traitor, shame of my flesh, abomination, besmirching my blood line with such filth — "

You grab onto the ends of the curtains and with immense effort, the two of you manage to close the curtains over the screaming woman and a silence falls.

Panting slightly, Sirius sweeps his long hair out of his eyes and looks at you. "Well, I suppose you had to meet your mother-in-law eventually."

Your mouth drops and you stare back at him, a surprised laugh leaving your mouth. "You can't be serious."

He raises his eyebrows, smirking. "Actually, that's exactly who I am — "

You give his arm a soft thump, rolling your eyes. "So funny. Remind me why you didn't go into comedy?"

"Oh, because a woman forced me into marriage and I could not pursue my true comedic dreams."

He pushes open the door he came out of and, gathering your bags and Dubh's crate, you follow him down a flight of stairs and into a large basement kitchen, complete with a blazing fire in the corner and a dusty long table in the middle.

You whistle, placing your things on the table and dusting your hands off on your trousers. When Sirius turns to face you, you grab the collar of his shirt and bring his lips crashing onto yours, kissing him deeply.

After a few moments you pull away, smirking. "Still think I forced you into marriage?"

Sirius blinks, looking back at you, dumbfounded, before laughing. "Definitely not."

You glance around the room, taking in your surroundings. "So...are we going to talk about the portrait of your crazy mother or..."

He sighs, shrugging. "Welcome to my parents' house — the house I grew up in. It's just horrible, isn't it?"

He's not entirely wrong. The house is cold and dark, foreboding and lacking the warmth a home should have.

"Well, it's not very homely, anyway..." you say. "It's screaming pure-blood."

Sirius winces, tracing his fingers over the detailings on an ornate cabinet pushed against the wall. "Yes, but...I'm the last Black left, so it's mine now. I offered it to Dumbledore for headquarters — it's about the only useful thing I've been able to do."

"At least we can be together again," you say softly, offering him a smile. He looks back at you, and then returns it.

"Yes." He places his hands on your hips, drawing you closer, smiling wickedly at you. "I am definitely not complaining about that."

He kisses you fiercely, clashing together in a frenzy of passion and he slowly backs you up until you hit the table, scooping you up and placing you sitting on its surface with ease, lips still locked together. It's everything — it says everything —

"It's been too fucking long," he breathes lowly, trailing a line of kisses along your jaw, then onto your neck. He's right, it has been too long. It's not long before his mouth hits a particularly sensitive spot of your neck and your breath hitches in your throat. You feel his smug smile against your skin.

"Some things never change."

You can't resist the urge to roll your eyes, moaning softly as his strong hands slide under your shirt and run along your sides, gently caressing your skin.

"Oh, shut up."

His hands continue their wandering and his lips find yours again, tangling together as he begins to unbutton your shirt, nimble fingers loosening the top button, then the next, then the next —

Crack!

You jump at the loud noise, and Sirius breaks apart from you to look to the source of the sound — a very old house-elf that's just apparated inside the room with a feather duster in his wrinkly hands.

Your eyes widen and you instantly pull your shirt closed, buttoning back up what Sirius had undone as he straightens up to fix the creature with an angry glare.

"Kreacher! What do you think you're doing?"

So this is Kreacher. Sirius had told you about this particular elf, whose unwavering loyalty to Walburga Black had made Sirius' home life even more unbearable.

Kreacher looks up, fixing his bloodshot eyes on you, and his large nose wrinkles. "I was not aware Master had a guest." Then, head bowed, he mutters very clearly, "What would my Mistres say, allowing such filth into her home..."

Sirius clicks his tongue agitatedly. "You were not aware, really? Did my mother's incessant shrieking not alert you?"

"I had assumed Master was distressing her again," Kreacher croaks, making no effort to hide his disdain for Sirius.

"Hello, Kreacher," you say, and then you tell him your name, making sure to emphasise the Black sitting on the end of it.

Kreacher's eyes go wide and he looks at you in shock, before his face twists in disgust. "Black, she says, yet she is no Black I know..."

"This is my wife, Kreacher, and you will treat her as you would any member of my family," Sirius says sternly.

Kreacher scowls at him, his hatred for him evident, before he reluctantly bows to you. "Mistress."

A little taken aback and slightly dazed, you give him a confused nod. "Kreacher."

He shuffles out of the room, exiting through the stairway door and shutting it behind him. Sirius drops his head onto your shoulder, groaning.

"He ruins everything," he says, voice muffled against your clothes. "He did that out of spite, I know it..."

You chuckle, patting his back. "I'm sure he did, hon. Now, aren't you going to show me around?"

Sirius pulls away from your shoulder to raise his eyebrows at you. "Well, I had other plans — "

"Those plans can wait," you say with a knowing smile, kissing his cheek. "I'm not too keen on Kreacher walking in on us again."

Sirius pokes his cheek with his tongue. "It could send him a much-needed message..." he sighs, taking your hands in his and helping you jump off the table, smoothing down your shirt. "Alright, I'll give you a quick tour. Word of warning, though — it's not pretty."

"Wasn't expecting it to be."

You leave the kitchen together and, as quietly as possible, sneak past Mrs Black's portrait in the hall and start to make your way up the stairs. It's dark and gloomy, but Sirius' warm hand in yours pulls you forward through the damp and dust, stopping at a door in the hallway.

"Dining room," he whispers. Then he points to another door opposite. "Study."

Opening the door to the dining room, you're met with the distinct smell of dust and mould permeating the air around you. A long dining table sits in the middle of the room, a fancy glass chandelier hanging over it and an embellished candelabra set upon the middle of the table. Pushed against the opposite wall is a tall wooden cabinet, housing items of fine china. Walking over to it curiously and peering closer, you see the plates, cups, and saucers all bear an identical crest.

"Black family crest," Sirius explains, an edge of bitterness to his voice. "It's on everything."

You drag your finger across the dining table, a long line of dust coating it when you remove it. You study it for a moment. "Has Kreacher really been here since your parents died?"

Sirius nods.

"Doesn't look like it," you say. "The place is practically untouched."

The study is equally as dusty and silent, untouched books lining the bookshelves, the only light in the room coming from your wand, held high to illuminate the room.

Retaking your hand, he pulls you upstairs, passing by a string of detached house-elf heads, stopping at the landing where three doors stand opposite.

He points to each one in turn. "Drawing room, guest bedroom, bathroom."

You follow him to the drawing room as he pushes the flaking wood door open, taking in the destitute room before you. A grand piano sits unplayed in the corner, while two antique settees stand opposite each other in front of a fireplace. A grandfather clock ticks quietly.

You run your finger along the piano keys, the ivories squeaking after so long without use. Covering the entirety of the wall behind it is a large tapestry that catches your eye. Golden thread depicts a sprawling family tree with the names of family members scrawled beneath each head, and written at the top of the tapestry in large gold letters, are the words:

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Toujours Pur

"Ah, the family tree," Sirius says, joining you beside the tapestry. He scans the bottom of it, pointing. "There's my mother and father, and there's Regulus..."

A sad look passes Sirius' face momentarily, but he shakes it away to point at what looks like a burn mark in the fabric, blotting out a member. "My mother must have blasted me off after I ran away, no doubt." He bends closer to the tapestry, raising his eyebrows. "I haven't looked at this in years...look, there's Phineas Nigellus, my great-great-grandfather. Least popular headmaster Hogwarts ever had...and Araminta Meliflua...cousin of my mother's...tried to force through a Ministry Bill to make Muggle-hunting legal...and dear Aunt Elladora...she started the family tradition of beheading house-elves when they got too old to carry tea trays...of course, anytime the family produced someone halfway decent they were disowned."

"Sounds lovely," you remark sourly, running your hand along the fabric. "Oh, Bellatrix and Narcissa..."

Sirius follows your hand to where Bellatrix and Narcissa Black sit on either side of another burn patch. Sirius nods thoughtfully. "That's where Andromeda would have been, Tonks's mother, but she married a Muggle-born."

He straightens back up, looking around the room grimly. "When I ran away, I didn't think I'd ever have to step foot inside this blasted place ever again. Said I'd rather see the house burn to ash before I'd return to it. Well, now look at me..."

You gently take his hand. "I know. Ideally, headquarters would be anywhere else, but...just think of this as an opportunity, Sirius. We can turn this place into a real home, make it feel real and warm. I mean, this drawing room could be beautiful!"

You gesture to the room around you, smiling at him. "We can clean it, change the wallpaper, tune the piano, take down the tapestry...I think it could be really nice."

Sirius looks at you for a moment, smiling affectionately. "It surprises me how optimistic you can be."

You shrug, leaving the drawing room and stepping into the hall once more. "I think we've seen enough hardship to let a dusty old house get the better of us, don't you think?"

He kisses his teeth. "I should let you know that my mother put a permanent sticking charm on that tapestry, by the way — she also put one on her own portrait," he tells you and you groan. "Until I find a way to remove them, I don't think they're going anywhere."

You sigh. "Of course she did."

Sirius directs you through the rest of the house, showing you the many bedrooms and even the master bedroom, where Buckbeak is sleeping soundly.

"Hello, Buckbeak," you say sweetly, stroking his soft feathers once he wakes. "Good to see you again."

Finally, you reach the final floor. Looking to your right, you see a bedroom door with a sign on it reading: Do not enter without the express permission of Regulus Arcturus Black.

You can't help but chuckle, pointing at it and reading it aloud.

"Yes, Regulus was always very picky about who went into his room..." Sirius says, shaking his head. He tugs your arm and you look away from the door, instead facing another one. There's a nameplate on the door saying Sirius.

He pushes open the door, revealing a spacious bedroom. Stepping inside, you take in the incredible amount of Gryffindor banners, posters and such. In the middle of the room is a large bed, and you let out a small laugh at the pictures of motorcycles and Muggle women in bikinis on the wall.

You point to one such picture, smiling teasingly at him. "Should I feel threatened?"

Sirius chuckles, shaking his head. "They don't hold a candle to you, love...but they'll also have to stay because fifteen-year-old Sirius put a permanent sticking charm on them."

"Anything to piss off your parents, huh?" You say, glancing around at the decor — everything that his purist parents would hate. You spot two polaroid photos stuck to the wall and feel your heart warm.

The first is of the four marauders themselves: Sirius stands in the middle with James, their arms around each other and draped over Remus and Peter. They can't be much older than fourteen, young and rosy-cheeked.

"Aw..." you coo, smiling. "You were such babies."

Sirius joins you at the photo, peering closer before he gasps in disgust. "Did my hair really look that bad? I remember it looking far cooler..."

You giggle, eyes passing over the boys' youthful faces. They look so happy.

The second photo is of you and him, lying in the snow together, laughing. Your eyes light up in recognition. "I remember this photo...Bitsy took it! I can't believe you put this up..."

"Well, I did quite fancy you, believe it or not." Sirius smiles lovingly, tapping the photo. "I remember Bitsy taking that. Right after I annihilated you in a snowball fight."

You scoff, turning to him. "Don't lie, I destroyed you in that fight. You were no match for me."

"I seem to remember differently..." he hums, grinning at you.

"Then you remember wrong."

Sirius laughs, pulling you into him and kissing you. "Enough arguing." He leads you towards his bed, gently pushing you down onto the mattress before him. "I recall us having some pressing plans to get on with..."

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

You awake the next morning feeling blissfully content. You think you've just gotten the best sleep of your life. Cracks of sunlight stream in through the slivers of window that aren't covered by curtains. You can hear the gentle rhythm of Sirius' heartbeat thrumming beneath your head as you lie on his chest, his own rising and falling steadily in his sleep. You move your head ever so slightly to look at him.

His face is blissfully peaceful, all tension gone from his features. His dark curls fall across his forehead, tickling his cheeks and jaw. You smile lovingly, feeling your heart warm with affection and happiness. You gently trace the outline of one of the tattoos on his arm — a small lion, for Gryffindor. It's the first tattoo he ever got, when he was around sixteen. Just to anger his parents. It had made you like him even more growing up.

He stirs, eyelids slowly fluttering open and gazing at you through his eyelashes, smiling softly.

"Morning," you whisper.

"Good morning." His voice is low and raspy with sleep. He shifts slightly, lazily drawing shapes across your arm with his hand. "I think that might be the first time I've properly slept since my capture."

You smile. "Me too. I can't explain how good it feels to wake up next to you again."

He hums, rumbling low in his throat as he leans his head down to press his lips against yours languidly.

You feel the weight of the duvet dip slightly, and something light pads along your body. Pulling away from your husband and looking up, you find yourself face-to-face with Dubh, her eyes peering down at you curiously.

You chuckle, scratching her behind the ears. "And good morning to you too, Dubh."

She purrs lightly, sniffing Sirius curiously.

"So this is the cat," Sirius remarks, reaching out to pet her. "My replacement."

Dubh leans into his touch, eagerly looking for more attention off him. She settles between the two of you, curling up against your head, purring contentedly.

You yawn, stretching your legs out under the covers. "Time to get up, Sirius."

He groans, tugging you back as you start to sit up. "Not yet. Let's just stay here for a little longer."

You chuckle, wriggling free of his grip and sitting up. "Dumbledore said there'll be a meeting this evening...we need to get up and make sure the place is clean and tidy."

Sirius doesn't seem to register this, however. "Is that...?"

You look back at him in confusion. "What?"

He points at your back, running his hand down the soft skin. "It's a constellation. And here..." He touches the skin just below your right shoulder-blade, tapping it gently. "A paw print."

You smile. "My favourite constellation, and my favourite star."

He's quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on the tattoo as you slip from the bed, your legs shaking slightly.

"You alright? Are you hurt?" Sirius asks at once, worry clear in his voice. You chuckle light-heartedly, waving your hand dismissively.

"I'm fine, darling. It's just been a long time since I've done that."

You look around the room, eventually locating your bra and underwear that had been thrown carelessly on the floor the previous night.

The pair of you spend the day painstakingly cleaning the basement kitchen, ridding it of wayward doxies and dust bunnies. Dubh is delighted, instantly locating a mouse hole and catching the mouse for herself, dumping her prize at your feet in offering, before promptly eating it when you show no interest in it.

You discover that every portrait in the hall is impossible to remove, courtesy of your darling mother-in-law. The curtains have been closed over her portrait, but a number of times you've walked into the entrance hall to find the curtains pulled back and been hit with a cacophony of screams and screeches, all because Kreacher wanted to talk to his mistress. You've gotten better at forcing the curtains shut.

That evening, despite the aching pain in your back from working all day, you sit down at the table beside Sirius for the meeting, watching as different members of the Order of the Phoenix file into the room after you've just had to go shut Walburga Black up again after someone woke her up upon entering. You spy several familiar faces from the original Order: Mundungus Fletcher, Hestia Jones, Sturgis Podmore, Elphias Doge, Dedalus Diggle...and a few new members, too: Nymphadora Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mr and Mrs Weasley, along with their two eldest sons, Bill and Charlie.

Remus takes a seat opposite you beside Tonks, whose hair is a bright blue today, and Moody takes a seat on your right, his wooden leg clunking on the floorboards.

You beam at him. "Glad to see you back, sir."

"Aye, it's been a while," he answers gruffly, shifting in his seat. His magical eye swivels in its socket, before fixing on the ceiling above and Moody grumbles angrily, bringing a hand up to the eye. "Damn it — it keeps sticking, ever since that scum wore it — "

With a nasty squelching, sucking sound, he pops out the eye and you grimace.

"Mad-Eye, you do know that's disgusting, don't you?" Tonks says conversationally.

"Get me a glass of water, would you?" Moody asks you, and you stand up from your chair, fetching a glass and filling it with water.

"Cheers," he says when you hand him the glass. He drops the magical eye into the water and prods it up and down with his finger. It spins erratically, looking at each person at the table in turn before Moody seems satisfied, scooping the eyeball out of the water and popping it back into his head.

Dumbledore then arrives, taking a seat at the head of the table, his presence immediately commanding the attention of the room. Chats and murmurs die down and all eyes turn to him.

"Good evening," Dumbledore says, his voice warm but serious. "Thank you all for coming on such short notice. We have much to discuss."

You glance around the table, spotting Snape sitting at the far end, eyeing Sirius scathingly. You look back at Sirius, only to see he's giving him an equally loathing glare back at him.

You sigh and nudge him, bringing your mouth to his ear. "Focus."

"First things first: Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London, will now be our new headquarters. I have placed all the necessary enchantments on the building to avoid detection," Dumbledore says, looking to Sirius. "Thank you for allowing us to use it, Sirius."

"Wasn't going to get much use otherwise," he replies, shrugging.

Dumbledore continues on. "The Ministry remains in denial, though it is not surprising. We must continue to gather intelligence and be prepared for any move he makes."

"What about Harry, Dumbledore? Is he safe?" Molly Weasley asks, her face lined with worry.

"Harry is well-guarded at the Dursleys, but we must remain vigilant. His safety is paramount, and we cannot afford to let our guard down," Dumbledore answers.

You drum your fingers on the table. "Surely it would make the most sense to bring him here with us, right? It would be the easiest way to keep an eye on him."

Dumbledore glances at you, shaking his head. "Harry is to remain with his aunt and uncle until further notice. It's where he is safest."

"But — "

"I understand your concern, but you must trust me on this," Dumbledore says firmly, giving you strong look.

You sigh, relenting. Sirius's hand finds your knee under the table and starts to draw soothing circles on it.

The meeting continues, strategies discussed and plans laid out for the future. Molly and Arthur Weasley plan to move to headquarters for the remainder of the summer with their kids by the end of the week, and you welcome the prospect of more life in this soulless house.

Once the meeting has finally drawn to a close, you sit and chat with Remus and Tonks.

"How's he been?" Remus asks quietly, glancing at Sirius out of the corner of his eye. Sirius is busy in the far corner of the room, talking in hushed voices with Dumbledore. A look of frustration passes over his face, and you can see him struggling to maintain his composure.

"Better," you say softly. "It's nice to finally be living under the same roof again but...this place isn't good for him." You sigh. "And his mother is driving us nuts — constantly screaming and shrieking."

"There's nothing you can do about her portrait?" Tonks says.

You shake your head. "She put a permanent sticking charm on it...haven't been able to find a way to remedy it yet."

"How pleasant," Remus remarks dryly and you chuckle bleakly, nodding.

"Will you ever go back to being an Auror?" Tonks says curiously. "I'm sure Mad-Eye would take you on in an instant."

You look over at Sirius, watching his brows furrow as Dumbledore says something to him.

"I never could," you admit. "Not after running away. Not after acting like such a coward."

Remus says your name sternly. "You are not a coward."

You sink your teeth into the soft flesh of your inner cheek, shaking your head. "I am a coward in every right, Remus, it's just the truth of the matter. But...if I had to do it all over again, I'd make the same choices. Teaching at Hogwarts has given me so much."

You stand up from the table, pushing your chair in with a yawn. Your eyes meet Sirius's across the room as Dumbledore dismisses him with a wave of his hand, walking away from him.

He says your name and you look up. "Thank you for your hospitality, professor."

You smile warmly back at him. "Of course."

Later, as you sit on the edge of your bed (well, Sirius's bed, technically) and pull off your socks, Sirius paces the room angrily.

"He really expects me to just sit here and do nothing? All fucking summer, stay in this stupid house and twiddle my thumbs," he murmurs. "While you and everyone else are out doing something helpful, I'm — I'm what? Sweeping the floor after Snivellus leaves half his greasy head hair here — "

"I know, love, I know," you say, pulling your shirt over your head.

"And after all this, we're not going to get to see Harry until further notice? After all he's been through, all we can do is send letters to him? And we can't even write anything specific?" He runs a hand through his hair, hissing in frustration. "After all Harry's been through, really, making him stay with those horrible Dursleys..."

"What can we do about it?" You say in exasperation. "What Dumbledore says goes, and you know he has a reason for everything — "

"Then why doesn't he tell us the reason? He loves keeping secrets, doesn't he, old Dumbledore?"

You sigh. "He certainly likes to be a man of mystery."

Sirius clicks his tongue crossly, mumbling something inaudible under his breath as he comes to sit on the edge of the bed beside you.

You rub his arm soothingly, leaning your head against his. "It's not all bad. When the Weasleys come to stay, you'll get to meet the twins, Fred and George. Oh, you'll love them, Sirius — always pulling pranks and telling jokes, they're hilarious. They remind me of you and James sometimes."

This, at least, seems to lift his mood slightly, and he gives you a small smile. "Really? So someone's still giving Filch trouble?"

You nod, grinning. "They keep him on his toes, alright."

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

You find you really enjoy having the Weasleys at the house. Mrs Weasley's cooking is divine and you enjoy the chats the two of you have when you help her. You tell her all about James and Lily, telling her the best stories from your school years involving them. Fred and George apparate all over the house, enchanting things that don't need to be enchanted now that they can do magic at home. They've nearly given you about seven heart attacks from popping up randomly right behind you when you're busy. And you were completely right — Sirius loves them. He tells them about pranks that he used to pull with the boys at school, much to Mrs Weasley's disapproval.

"Don't put any ideas in their heads, Sirius!"

Ron and Hermione are here too, and it's odd seeing them without Harry for once. Harry writes you and Sirius letters, each time begging for more information about Voldemort and what's going on and when he can see you again. You sigh as you read the latest one, handing it to Sirius for him to read.

"I wish Dumbledore would just let him come here," you say. "He'll be much happier here with everyone."

Every Order meeting is serious. Snape gives his report on what's happening on Voldemort's side, and often makes snide comments about Sirius being forced to stay in the house and out of trouble. After every meeting, without fail, Sirius comes to you to vent his frustrations about the man.

"Severus," you say as another meeting wraps up and everyone starts to depart from the room. He turns to look at you, his expression cold.

"Yes?"

You motion for him to step away from the others, and he follows you to the corner of the room where you lower your voice.

"Wormtail. You have to tell me what he's up to — "

"I have told you all I know," Snape says flatly.

"There has to be something, anything...Severus, I know I'm asking a lot of you," you say genuinely, eyes flicking to Sirius across the room. "But if Wormtail goes somewhere alone or something, you have to tell me, please. He's the only one that can prove Sirius's innocence."

Snape's eye twitches slightly, his nostrils flaring. You can tell that sticking his back out to prove the innocence of his old enemy does not sound appealing to him.

"The Dark Lord will not ignore the disappearance of his servant. He will know there is a spy."

"Then a find a way to do it without him finding out!" You hiss desperately. "Please, Severus. I know you dislike each other but...Sirius will never have a life again if Peter isn't brought to justice."

Snape's jaw tenses, but after a few moments he gives you the smallest semblance of a nod. "If the opportunity arises...I will see it through."

You can't help the smile that spreads your lips and you nod gratefully. "Thank you. I'll be forever in your debt."

He sweeps wordlessly from the room, leaving a small spark of hope in your heart.

Your duties to the Order consists of tailing known Death Eaters and taking on guard duty over the prophecy just like everyone else. You and Tonks have been tailing a Death Eater by the name of Thorfinn Rowle, watching his movements and engagements closely. After one such night of tailing, the two of you return to Grimmauld Place, exhausted and soaked to the skin by the torrential rain you got caught in.

"Bloody hell..." Tonks murmurs, shaking out her jacket as you make your way past Walburga's portrait. It's late and the basement kitchen is empty, save for Sirius who has patiently waited for your return.

"You stayed up?" You say, kissing his cheek as you pass by to turn the kettle on.

"Of course I did."

Tonks looks between the two of you, an awkward look passing her face. "S'pose I'll get going."

You shake your head, grabbing her hand and sitting her down in one of the nearby chairs. "Nonsense, Tonks, stay. We haven't got the chance to catch up yet!"

You give Sirius a 'get out of here' look and he sighs, standing up from his chair. "So cruel."

You smile sweetly at him as he approaches. "I'll be up later."

He nods, yawning. "I know." He kisses you goodnight before leaving.

Once he's left, you give Tonks a sly look and she looks back at you in confusion as you sit down, sliding a cup of tea across the table to her.

"So, Tonks...are you gonna tell me what's going on between you and Remus?"

She nearly chokes on her drink, shaking her head vehemently. "What? Remus? Me? There's nothing going on."

You raise your eyebrows, unbelieving. "Sure..."

"I — I really don't know what you're implying," she says quickly, smiling awkwardly. "Really, Remus and I are just friends, I respect him as a colleague and a man — "

"I'm not going to snitch on you, y'know." You give her a smile. "That's why I had to get rid of Sirius — he'd tell Remus in an instant. Come on, it's pretty obvious to me. He likes you."

"What? No, come on, be serious," Tonks says. "I mean — we're not kids. He doesn't like me."

"Yeah he does!" You insist, giggling. "You two are cute, honestly. You should see the way he lights up when someone mentions you. He's got it bad."

Tonks' cheeks grow increasingly crimson as she continues to deny. "You're only having a bit of fun with me now."

"I'm not, honest!" You continue. "Seriously, Tonks, it's pretty obvious. I'm surprised you haven't noticed it yet."

She shakes her head, laughing and muttering something under her breath in denial.

"But the real question is...do you feel the same way about him?"

She doesn't answer you for a moment. "Well, like, it's Remus — he's great and he's a good person and I don't know, maybe?" She sighs, wringing her hands. "I...I think he's afraid to flirt with me. We could be laughing and joking one minute and then I'll say something further and he'll just...shut off."

You shake your head in disappointment. "I'm going to be very honest with you — that sounds exactly like him. Once you reciprocate he starts to freak out."

"But how do you know that's not just him being disinterested?"

"Because I know Remus," you answer simply. "He shuts himself away because he thinks being a werewolf renders him undateable. I think you just need to show him that you're not afraid of that side of him, that it doesn't bother you whatsoever, that you're there for him."

She nods thoughtfully. "Yeah, you're right..."

You beam, feeling excited. "Oh, it's been so long since I've played matchmaker! I forgot how good it feels."

Tonks laughs. "You've given this speech to other people before?"

You shrug. "Mostly just James and Lily, honestly. Lily hated the man for half her school years! You don't want to know the amount of work I put into getting them together."

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

->-> read chapter twenty-six here!

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time skip WARRIOR 😋✊

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cattlemons · 3 months ago

Text

When The Tide Returns Lost Memories

| Wriothesley awakens in a foreign land with fragmented memories and a desperate need to return to someone he can't quite remember.

TW: Memory loss, unspecified violence, not proofread, 4k words of hurt and comfort

a.n. saw this post by @cyb-rdva about this fic idea. I just got a buzz and felt like writing it! I don't really know how permissions work on here but I hope I did it justice!

Wriothesley’s eyes find the crippling light as he squints away the last remaining darkness, pushing it to the back of his mind once more. Finally feeling himself take a breath, he hears himself grunt awake; much like a machine starting up after months of disuse. Creaking and clanking to a sitting position, he feels the cracks of his bones and the bruises of his injuries sting him.

Where am I?

Disoriented beyond belief, he let his eyes collect a view of his surroundings. The gears of his brain churned and turned but, to no avail, he’s completely lost on where he is. Panic seized him as his parched throat let out a hoarse yell– he doesn’t know who exactly he was trying to reach out to but, dear archons, let them be nice.

The door opened just as he finally found enough strength to stand. Training his eyes onto the green-headed figure by the door, his focus was sharp despite the delirium he had experienced not long ago; the tendons of his feet ready to leap like a coiled spring waiting for the undoing.

The green-haired man placed his two palms out, ducking ever so slightly to make himself look as small and harmless as possible. Wriothesley assessed the situation with the sense of a trained warrior, looking the man up and down before releasing his tightly clenched fists, letting the white fade to a warm red.

Wait a second!

Wriothesley pounced at the tall man and knocked him over to the ground, the thud of their fall resounding throughout the room. His knuckles which are covered with hidden bruises and healed cuts saw the light of day after a long time being hidden. Choking the man, Wriothesley sneered and gruffed, “Where’s my gauntlet, NOW! WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO?”

The man flailed helplessly beneath him as he clawed at his bound neck, searching for escape. Before anything else could unfold, both men were pulled apart; the lanky man by a man in Liyuean garment and Wriothesley by a purple child.

What the fuck is going on?? SHIT, WHERE IS SHE? I NEED TO FIND HER! I NEED TO TELL HER...!

Huh? Who? Tell her what?

The child made some sort of listless remark but Wriothesley was not aware of what she said. His ears rang deafeningly as his vision wavered. His consciousness was escaping him and his panic and fight whittled down and numbed itself, leaving a sense of nothing in its wake. He can’t help but mourn if this is to be his last moment of living. What kind of defeat was this? Surely, he deserved a better battle to die on.

His mind winds down slowly, unfinished strings of thoughts urging him along from what topic to the next before gently placing him right on the edge of consciousness. Dreary and barely awake, he wonders if anyone can hear his last words and wishes. If he could, he would’ve chuckled dryly, even now on his deathbed (or rather death-floor) he is still nothing but an orphaned boy with no one to mourn for him. Dust returns to dust, he supposes.

As he feels his eyes wane to a close, the only thing on his mind is a name with a face left unplaced and undecided, oh how he loved her.

WAIT! WHO? HOLD ON!

He was out cold, now.

—

The second time he awoke, Wriothesley was ready for a fight. Whatever foul play, or trickery used on him that first time, won’t get him twice. Raring to go, Wriothesley opened his eyes wide and ready to jump into a fighting stance, only to be stopped by a pair of cuffs chaining him to the bed.

Something! He needs to find SOMETHING?!

Controlling his uneven breaths, he forced and willed the adrenaline pumping in his veins to subside; there’s no use for it if he’s bound and alone, anyway. For now, he chose to focus on locating where he was and (more importantly) where his gauntlets were. Sure, the normal man can’t hope to survive a fight against him but something within him is anxious to be away from it. He almost feels physically ill without it.

Damned wrist decorator causing me separation anxiety. Just like a damned dog.

At the sound of a creak, he snapped his neck towards the open door. Behind the heavy timber, stood the green-haired man he has yet to learn the name of (but rest assured if he’s come for a round two, Wriothesley is ready to choke him; this time to sleep). Fortunately for everyone in the vicinity, the man had no ill will. With the patience of a saint, the man stepped into the room, carrying with him a bruised neck and a handful of medication supplies.

Setting his things down on a table, he watched Wriothesley with calm eyes. The same cannot be said for Wriothesley whose sharp steel irises were pointed at him. Muscles rippling in tandem, Wriothesley pulled at the cuffs that kept him in place. Truth be told, the steel keeping him bound to the bed may just snap in a few more strong pulls had the child from “yesterday” not stepped in, this time clearly brandishing a syringe swirling with translucent liquid.

That shut him up quickly.

Relatively calm now (and sedated), the thin man slowly inched closer to Wriothesley, pushing back his glasses from his nose while at it. With a slightly quicker heart pace, he explained in a rushed tone, “I am Baizhu, a local physician of Liyue and owner of The Bubu Pharmacy. We’re located in Liyue Harbor. We found you unconscious outside our pharmacy so we decided to take you in.”

This “Baizhu” figure looked to his side at the small purple child as if to see whether or not he’d forgotten something. The two seem to be close because without missing a beat, the child showed him a page of her book. This seemed to jog the man’s memory as he continued, “Ah, yes. Your weapons and, ahem, gauntlets are in our safekeeping. They were badly damaged so we were worried the bones hidden underneath weren’t fairing all too well, either, please don’t misunderstand.”

Taking his words in, Wriothesley felt a slight bit of guilt for almost beating the guy up. The man, however, doesn’t seem to be waiting for an apology, rather, his eyes gleamed in a sort of curiosity. Wriothesley supposes he would be the same way if the situation had been flipped and this Baizhu man showed up half-dead at the doors of Meropide.

Wait, Meropide! Shit, MEROPIDE!

“Sir, how long have I been here?! Please, answer me!”

Baizhu’s eyebrows scrunched in slight perplexity and hesitation, he wasn’t too keen on agitating the man again.

“Well, we found you on the sixth and today’s the nineteenth, so, about two weeks. Yes,” he answered, stepping away, in case the mild sedation was, indeed, too mild a dose.

Shit! That’s way too long for me to be away! I won’t be surprised if the place is in shambles by now. Fuck, I need to get back! I NEED TO GET BACK! IS SHE OKAY? I NEED TO APOLOGIZE!

To whom?

Fighting against the effects of the syringe, Wriothesley tensed his forearms and willed them to move. Against his better judgment, Baizhu saw this and went to undo the locks of his cuffs. He supposes, that if he’s going to break through the chains, might as well take it off him to prevent any further injury.

“Though I am uncuffing you, sir, I suggest you take it easy in the meantime. You have a long list of blunt traumas all over you and from the looks of it, your memory isn’t too intact. I don’t know what happened to you or where you want to rush off to with your weapons but I would be an unfit physician if I allowed you to go anywhere outside my supervision for the time being. At least, let me help you remember so I can send you off with a clear mind on your shoulders.”

“Please, just calm down, when I release you, alright… there...”

Arms now freed, Wriothesley calmed down significantly; somewhere in his mind, he felt safer knowing he could beat someone to a pulp if need be. Finally feeling safe enough to be civil, he decided he’d stay long enough to get some answers and his weapon and memory back. Wriothesley knew it’d be best to stay. He can’t be so sure he’ll find a physician who knows enough of their field of study to claim they can help bring back his foggy memories. That said, he won’t be wasting any time.

“Mr. Baizhu, please tell me what you know about my… umm… predicament. I don’t quite enjoy being puzzled this way. Also, the gauntlets, I want them back,” he said, before quickly pasting a ‘please’ behind his sentence.

Yes, she always liked it better when I’m civil; like a proper duke. She?

Wriothesley wasn’t sure what was going on with him at the moment. Everything’s in disarray and he can’t help but want to rip the tufts of gray out of his head. Nothing is making sense to him. The memories and facts that should be concretely sealed within the wrinkles of his brain are now fluttering in front of him. Try as he may, they flit just out of his reach. He only hopes his memories come back to him quickly so he can somehow get back to wherever he needs to be to get to whoever she is to do whatever it is he needs to do.

This is truly shit.

—

Meanwhile, you were running up and down the underground prison and makeshift factory to make sure it, ironically, stayed afloat. In all honesty, all you wanted to do was cry and wail at your husband’s disappearance. Yes, disappearance. Though you’ve heard many relegate their condolences to you, you accepted none of it. You were sure he was alive somewhere out there; he just needed to come back home.

Some may say it’s denial but acceptance simply wasn’t the answer right now. Not when the livelihood of thousands of people rely on your emotional stability to ensure proper functions of this prison they call home. Meropide is counting on you to keep yourself together so acceptance truly isn’t needed right now; not when acceptance would mean falling to your knees as you plan funeral arrangements. No, as long as hope is free, the man you call your husband is alive.

Today’s to-do list is a mile and a half long but it all needs doing so that’s exactly what you’re going to spend your time and elbow grease on. You started your day at the break of dawn when the waters were still moving in compliance with the moon’s pull. The dull thud of the waves against the steel prison walls keeps you grounded as you check off your lover’s duties one by one. Noon soon takes hold as the water calms down relatively, now giving way to the clanks of machinery. The resounding clicks and clacks of tools and shoes signify that all was still in order. Night finally came and the mile-long list has been taken care of, well mostly. Last but not least, you’ll have to surface and meet with someone very important.

After throwing on whatever clean and acceptable outfit you find within your closet in the duke’s Meropide residence, you are off to Poisson to meet with Navia. You sure hope she’s found something useful.

At moments like this, you’re grateful for your long-standing friendship with the ever-kind and well-connected President of The Spina di Rosula. Navia has been spearheading the search for your husband for the past few weeks. She turned the whole of Fontaine upside down last week but it yielded no results. Though Spina di Rosula is an organization built to help with Fontanian problems, you’re glad she spared no effort to search beyond the borders of Fontaine for you.

“I just don’t know where he could have gone, Navia. One minute we fought and before you know it the clock strikes midnight and it’s the second day he’s gone,” you let out as your chest starts heaving, a poor effort to hold back the sorrow and fear you felt.

“Navia, I can’t let that be the last interaction we have, I just… I can’t live not knowing if he’s done with me or, worse, if something bad happened to him. I just want to know he’s alright and then, if he so wishes, we can part ways.”

Navia pats your back gently as your breathing grows heavier, “I don’t know the duke all that much but I know enough to say that he’s mad for you. He’d kill for you just as quickly as he’d die for you, my dear. Give him credit that he’ll return, if only to see and make amends with you, hmm?”

Your throat is raw from keeping the dam of your rising emotions from spilling. You turned to your sole companion in all this, “Are you sure, we’ll find him, Navia?”

“All the signs we’ve found so far indicate him being alive. As long as that duke of yours is on Teyvat, we’ll find him, my dear partner, I am sure of it,” she cheered softly, conviction intertwined with a strong dose of compassion.

With that, tears soak your face as you cry softly. Your shoulders shook as rivulets of sorrow trickle past your lashes onto your cheeks. You couldn’t possibly let them out in Meropide so you let them out here. Within the confines of the four walls of Poisson, you let your walls crumble if only for a bit.

You hope he comes back to you soon. You don’t know what you’d do without him.

—

“Do you recall anything at all before your waking,” Baizhu asked Wriothesley for the umpteenth time since his wake from the sedation-induced stupor.

The two figures, Wriothesley and Baizhu, were sitting outside the pharmacy doing a routine inspection. For the past week, Wriothesley has been fairly cooperative in working with Baizhu to further his recuperation; if only to get his gauntlet back and return quicker to Meropide and to the missing woman his heart claims to love so much.

Wriothesley still has no clue as to what his sense of urgency is based on. Of course, the meropide needs him but in the event of his absence, he’s set aside some protocols and second-in-commands that can take up the mantle for a bit before his return. This is something he recalled a few days ago and it’s helped him ease up and stay put for the time being. The exercises Baizhu has given him are certainly giving promising results on jogging his memory back but, much to his dismay, none about the mystery woman. It’s eating his heart up like a worm on an apple, plaguing his heart and making him feel rotten for forgetting her.

Who are you, damn it.

Damn, even cursing at her feels wrong.

Alright, let him fix that-

FIX… FIX!

Just like that, the memories of the weeks prior come crashing onto him like the waves of the midnight tides. All that he’s been through, getting knocked out, the fight, everything filters through his mind like an hourglass finally filling up. Despite all of those moments being mostly shit, he’s overjoyed of remembering what he thought he lost, of remembering you.

By Archons, it’s you!

“Baizhu! That’s it! I need to see her, I need to see my girl! Oh, for the life of me, Baizhu, I need to apologize to MY GIRL,” Wriothesley yelled, joyous.

He does not recall ever being so excited to apologize but he’d be damned if anything wipes the smile off of his face. How can he not? Imagine falling in love all over again with the woman that’s captured your very being. Imagine seeing her in the fresh light of a stranger only wishing to be within her gravity then realizing you were the moon pulling her tides of love all along. Imagine, oh archons, that can fucking wait.

He’s leaving now!

Baizhu smiles at the breakthrough, both of his patient’s memory and of a new memory recovery technique. Calling for Qiqi, Baizhu asks her to get the man’s big boy hands because, yes, we’re finally letting him go home. No, without the sedation.

—

On the ferry ride back, the duke sat painfully still as he stared at the gauntlets that he now wore. The gauntlets that symbolizes his power in Meropide, the ones you've basically created with him now that he remembers your significance in his life. No wonder he can't bear to part with it.

Suddenly, the vast blue separating Liyue and Fontaine seems not enough time now that his thoughts finally catch up to him.

Of course, he was beyond ecstatic to see the love of his life again but thinking back to how he left things off… he shudders at the thought. He’s downright shit for leaving this mess for you to shoulder on your own, not to mention, the fight that went down before he disappeared.

If the roles were reversed, he doesn't know if he’ll ever function properly again. He left you after saying some nasty things and did not return. Not even after two weeks, in fact, it took him three. He wonders if you’re mad at him still or if you’ve fully given up on him. He wonders if you think he left you for good on his own accord. He hopes your heart hasn’t been damaged beyond repair. He knows he’ll do a lot worse to himself if it is.

He just hopes you haven’t completely locked him out of your heart forever because if you haven’t fully closed the doors on him, if he even sees a sliver of forgiveness in your eyes, he’ll lay his everything down in hopes of winning you back.

Wait for me, please, my love.

—

The ocean’s gentle rhythm is the only lullaby strong enough to lure your restless heart and mind to sleep. You can’t imagine being able to rest if you were anywhere else. At least not after the stagnation of your search for your husband. It would’ve been one thing if it were slow progress but there’s nothing else to be found now. Last you heard, there were sightings of a seemingly Fontanian man in Liyue but before anyone could get ahold of him, he disappeared again. You suppose it makes full sense that a man with his extensive knowledge of the underground world and wide connections would slip away easily, after all this is well within his expertise. That’s what you chose to believe, anyway.

The murmurs of the sea continue drumming constant beats as your eyes flutter shut. You hope that this time they bring you to a distant land where all is well; where your husband is still beside you and he still looks at you like you hung the stars just for him.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, heavy clunking and ruckus were heard outside by the registrar of the Meropide. Soon, a crowd began to form as doors were opened and gates were unlocked, in came the man of the hour.

The duke is back.

—

Doors were flung open as the duke marched in, passing by the stunned prisoners of the Meropide. There were rumors abuzz that the duke had fled, of course, his sentence was served to fulfillment so, technically, he did not flee. The spicy part of this scandal was that his wife was left stranded and alone to deal with the mess he’s left. Truth be told, this wasn’t so far from the truth in Wriothesley’s heart.

Opening the massive steel doors to his residence, Wriothesley whispered prayers. With every step he climbed, he murmured a small prayer and promise of devotion to whichever Celestia deity would grant him your patience and forgiveness. Perhaps, however, he should’ve been whispering his promises of devotion to you instead.

Like seeing a mirage in a barren desert of swirling guilt and longing, you lay there asleep but so very beautiful. The rise and fall of your chest fills him with ease as the scent of your perfume grows stronger with each step he takes toward you. His eyes begin to water as his feet grow heavy, it seems his heart grew to immense proportions just at seeing you within touching distance.

He reaches your side and kneels to be at level with your sleeping face. He studies you, slowly memorizing all the things he wishes to never forget. He engraves into his mind, the dips of your cupid’s bow and the flick at the end of your nose. He etches into the crevices of his brain the way your eyelashes flutter just so slightly at whatever it is you sense. Finally, he allows himself to fully sink into your hypnotic gaze as your eyelids lift ever so slightly to reveal his favorite colors. He wishes to have those exact shades enshroud him forever.

The moment you open your eyes, you can’t help but smile, though you remain unmoving.

How lovely! They did bring you good dreams.

“My… after so long of not seeing you, I must’ve forgotten how many scars you have,” you giggled lightly as your eyes counted his scars one by one, hoping to update your foggy memory.

You smile as you continue, “two new ones over your left eyebrow and one down your neck. Even in my dreams, you’re still as rugged as ever. I guess it’s my fault for falling in love with a man so magnetized by fights. I love you that way, though. Don’t change.”

Wriothesley could only sit in pious silence as he followed your gaze, he never wanted to part from it.

“My love, why don’t you take me to where you are? I never want to wake up if this is what sleeping is like. I don’t mind remembering new scars that never happened if only to stay with you like this,” you whispered lowly as your hands went out to reach for his cheeks.

It’s impulsive and you knew the moment his form revealed its corporeal quality, he’d fade away from even your dreams and you’d be left alone again but you just… you just had to. He compels you in a way that no one ever has and ever could. Even if only in this second, you wish to believe he’s just within reach.

Just like you remember him to be.

Wriothesley closed his eyes as he awaited your warmth. He can’t possibly move an inch or say a word when the atmosphere is filled and doused with your affection and love. He just can’t. If anything, he leans in almost antsy with anticipation.

But your touch never came.

Wriothesley opens his eyes to see tears falling down your face and your hands just a hair's breadth away from his cheeks. The droplets stained the carpet beneath him along with his heart.

Breaking piece by piece, his heart shatters as more tears fall from the corner of your eyes; even more when you begin to speak.

“Wriothesley, if I don’t touch you, will you stay? Even as a memory, will you continue to be mine? Or will my mind take that away from me too?”

His heart sank as he watched his love break before him. Not standing for this anymore, he pulled your face closer to his and sealed your lips onto his, claiming this moment as real.

You cried into the kiss letting every single feeling and emotion you’ve pent up run free. Wriothesley pulled you into him and held you as close as he physically could. He wants to absorb every piece of you into his heart to make sure he never has to part from you ever again. He’s selfish and he keeps ahold of you even after your lips part from his.

He kisses every inch of your skin to make sure you know he’s here, to make sure he knows you’re here.

Pure, unadulterated love encapsulates his mind as he holds you close, afraid he might lose you again if he lets go.

As the minutes faded into hours, Wriothesley murmured into your ears the undying poetry of his love for you, unyielding and true. Even if you don’t believe him right now, that’s alright. He’ll keep reminding you of it.

Every second of every minute.

Every minute of every hour.

And every hour of every damned day.

All until you remember it.

a.n. This is a long one and I just kinda word vomit onto my laptop for a few hours and then bam it's right there. Please be gentle, I don't think I was all that awake for this banger!

Hope it's a good read!

#cattlemon's writing #Wriothesley x reader #Wriothesley angst #Wriothesley hurt comfort #Wriothesley x you #Genshin angst #Genshin x reader #Genshin x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x you #genshin impact angst #genshin impact fanfic #no but fr wriothesley's name gets so tiring to type i ended up copy pasting it when i need it :(

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lostfracturess · 9 months ago

Text

【 ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ 】 7

x PAIRING gojo satoru x fem!reader (main); megumi fushiguro x fem!reader x WORD COUNT 13.4 k x SUMMARY you never wanted to become part of the world of jujutsu sorcerers, yet fate had other plans when the one and only satoru gojo took you under his wing at jujutsu high. as the lines between student and teacher begin to blur, hidden powers surge to life, and a deadly target is set on your head. x WARNINGS + NOTES this story contains partly abusive and possessive behavior, explicit content, graphic depictions of violence, injury, combat and angst. you can also read it on wattpad or ao3. pls like or repost if you enjoyed ♡

➸ ch 1; ch 2; ch 3; ch 4; ch 5; ch 6

You will never forget the day you met him. It may have been the best day of your life. It may have been the worst day of your life. Maybe neither. Maybe both.

****

You stood alone in a deserted warehouse. Wind whistled through the broken windows. Light flickered. A grotesque creature crouched a few meters away. It had feathers, like slick, oily shadows, constantly moving, and long, twisted, cruelly sharp claws.

It looked terrible. It looked beautiful.

You didn't care. Never cared. Never cared what they looked like. They were evil. That was all you needed to know. All you were ever given.

The creature turned towards you, as if it had just become aware of your presence. It opened its maw and let out a shriek that was far from human.

You steadied your breath, focusing on controlling your cursed energy. Admittedly, manipulating cursed energy wasn't your forte, but in this moment, it wasn't your main concern. The only thing you needed—ever needed—was the dagger strapped to your waist. Your father's gift.

The creature lunged. You drew the dagger with practiced ease, its familiar weight a soothing presence in your hand. You positioned yourself, didn't flinch or hesitate. "Come here," you said, then ran towards it.

In the last second before impact, you crouched down on the ground and slid underneath the curse to its back. The curse collapsed with the wall. The impact sent shockwaves through the warehouse, causing debris to fall from the ceiling. You turned, dagger in hand, ready to end its life.

But it was faster. The curse twisted its form, narrowly dodging your attack. It reached for your arm, seizing you with a terrifyingly strong grip. The dagger fell to the ground. You pushed with your legs against it as it bore you down into the cold ground. It did not budge.

Panic surged through your veins. Red eyes locked onto you. Its iron grip tightened—threatened to shatter your bones.

Frantically, you scanned your surroundings for a weapon. A shard of metal lay on the ground nearby. You snatched it up. This will do.

With all the strength you could muster, you hurled the improvised weapon at the curse, aiming straight for its eyes. The curse recoiled. It momentarily loosened its grip on your arm—just enough for you to escape. Grabbing the dagger, you lunged at the curse.

The curse twisted away. Your strike only grazed.

Oh Shit.

It slammed you backward, propelling you several meters into a rusted warehouse shelf. The shelf groaned under the impact, showering you with a cascade of dust and debris. The world seemed to blur for a second.

The metal of the shelf pierced your back—slicing through your flesh. Blood oozed from the wound. You winced. The sweet taste of iron filled your mouth. But there was no time to assess its depth or severity. You had to press on.

You forced yourself up, gritting your teeth against the pain. Adrenaline coursed through you.

The curse came at you once more. Its movements unnaturally quick. In your years of battling evil creatures, you had seen your share of curses. But this one was different. It twisted. Crimson eyes tracking your every move. Then it lunged. Claws slicing through the air.

In the nick of time, you raised your arms to shield yourself, struggling to hold the dagger against the curse's onslaught. Your knees buckled under the force, trembling as the curse crept closer. Every fiber of your being screamed.

You barely held it back. The dagger against its claws.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You had to use your cursed energy.

You tapped into your cursed energy, summoning it with every ounce of your being. It surged through you like a tidal wave. Uncontrolled and raw. Too much and too little all at once. Always threatening to consume you. You had to be quick, or the cursed energy would knock you out before you could strike a blow against the curse.

For a split second, you gained control over your power. You pushed back with all your might and drove the dagger into the curse's head. The warehouse echoed with a bone-chilling shriek. In mere seconds, it vanished, leaving behind only the haunting memory of its red eyes.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as you struggled to regain your composure. Dust and debris clung to your sweat-soaked skin. Weakness washed over you in waves. Then your legs gave way beneath you. You collapsed to the cold concrete floor.

You remained motionless for what felt like an eternity, unable to move. This was the price you had to pay for wielding the cursed energy. The power that had saved you in countless battles had also brought you to the brink of defeat. You used it only when absolutely necessary.

However, those moments of necessity seemed to be occurring more frequently lately, as if the world around you was growing darker, and more powerful curses were drawn to your presence.

Slowly, you regained control of your muscles. You rolled over, the world spinning around you. Blood clung to the floor as you struggled to sit up. Every movement sent sharp jolts of pain coursing through your body. Your fingers trembled as you reached behind you, trying to assess the severity of your injury.

Your fingers brushed against torn fabric and the warm stickiness of blood. The wound throbbed in response, and you winced at the searing pain that shot through your back. It was deep, and though you couldn't see it, you knew that it would leave a lasting mark.

Suddenly you heard a low, guttural growl.

Another curse.

Out of the darkness emerged a terrifying creature—larger than the curse before. Its grotesque limbs were twisted and deformed. Its eyes, dull and lifeless, stared at you with a malevolent hunger. The curse advanced, its movements sluggish yet unnerving.

Your battered body protested as you forced yourself up. But it was in vain, your body refusing to obey your commands. You fell back to your knees. Your cursed energy drained you too much. You used too much.

Fuck.

Out of nowhere, a figure appeared, silhouetted against the radiant crimson glow—a man with striking white hair. Tall frame. Broad shoulders.

"Careful now," the man said. "Wouldn't want you getting killed after such an impressive show."

The curse recoiled in fear. Its malevolence subdued by the sheer force of the stranger's presence.

Fear?

The curse?

How was that even possible?

The stranger raised his hand, and with a swift and fluid motion, he unleashed a torrent of cursed energy that engulfed the curse. The malevolent creature let out a final, agonized wail before disintegrating into nothingness, leaving only a swirling void where it once stood. As the brilliant light faded, the warehouse returned back to darkness.

The man turned towards you. He came closer, hovering over you, glaring over the top of his sunglasses. Your eyes met and for a moment time seemed to stand still. His eyes were a piercing blue, so intense that they seemed to see right through you. You found yourself momentarily lost in them. Your guard slipped.

Your guard slipped?

Damn it, get it together.

Your fist tightened around the dagger's hilt. A surge of strength flooded back, and you sprang to your feet, sweeping your leg to knock the man off balance. He tumbled to the floor, and you swiftly followed, pinning him down with the dagger pressed against his throat.

He raised an eyebrow, seemingly amused. The dagger's edge mere inches from his throat. "Don't you think we should at least have a proper conversation before you end up on top of me?" he teased, his tone too careless for your liking.

"Who are you?" you demanded.

He smiled, unfazed by the blade. "Name's Satoru Gojo. And you are?"

You didn't answer.

You knew who he was. Gojo's reputation preceded him—a powerful sorcerer, the most powerful sorcerer, in fact. With his birth, it is said, the balance itself shifted. Ruthless and cruel. Selfish and arrogant. That's what they say about him. And yet, handsome and charming. But why was he here?

"You've got quite the grip there," Gojo continued, his gaze fixed on the dagger. "Mind letting that down?"

"Why are you here, Gojo?" you pressed.

"I came to see the sorcerer who's been taking down curses single-handedly. You're certainly making quite a name for yourself."

"I have no business with sorcerers."

"How so? Aren't you a sorcerer yourself?" He sighed. "But your cursed energy control is seriously trash, you should really—"

"Shut up," you pressed the dagger closer to his skin. A tiny bead of blood emerged where the blade met his flesh. Crimson against his pale complexion.

"You're quite stubborn, huh?" he observed with a smirk. In one fluid motion, Gojo rolled over, effortlessly reversing your positions, now pinning you beneath him. The cold concrete pressed against your back. His presence looming over you. "Bad for you, I do enjoy a little challenge," he added with a playful glint in his eye.

His weight bore you down. He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin. "But you really should be more cautious," he murmured. "Curses are a dangerous business."

"Get off me!"

He chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Not so fast, Princess. You've got me all curious now."

Your heart pounded as his face drew even closer, his lips dangerously close to yours. "Curious about what?" you asked, but it came out breathless.

"About you," he said as his gaze lingered on your lips. Your heart raced. Your breath caught in your throat. "I want to know why you're hunting curses all alone."

The truth was, you were taken aback by his proximity. By the way his warm breath mingled with yours, and the way his eyes seemed to search your soul, as if he could read your every thought. Even though he was a stranger, you felt strangely familiar with him—strangely drawn to him.

"That's none of your business," you managed to reply, despite your voice faltering.

His fingers trailed along your neck, igniting a trail of fire wherever they touched. "Everything about you is my business now," he murmured.

What sick game is he playing with you?

You squirmed under his frame, desperately trying to escape his control. The pain coursing through your body as you did so nearly brought tears to your eyes.

He leaned in closer. "You crying?"

Hah??

Now, your pride was more wounded more than your body.

With a sudden burst of strength, you managed to roll, reversing your positions again. His eyes widened briefly as you pinned him down. You hovered over him, the dagger in your hands. Its tip dangerously close to his stupidly handsome blue eyes, hovering just inches away—poised.

Gojo's lips curled into a teasing smile, seemingly unbothered by being at your mercy. "Caught me off guard again, huh? I guess you really make me lose my focus," he teased, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "But you know in this position I might start getting wrong ideas."

You narrowed your eyes. "Answer my question, Gojo. Why are you really here?"

His playful demeanor faded for a moment, replaced by a more serious expression. "I told you, I wanted to meet the sorcerer who's been taking down curses. I came to offer my help."

"Help?" you echoed.

"Yes," he replied, his eyes softening. "You have potential, but you can't fight alone forever."

You couldn't help but be skeptical. This was Satoru Gojo, after all—a charismatic yet unpredictable sorcerer who always seemed to have his own agenda. But there was something in his eyes that made you hesitate, a genuine concern that belied his cocky demeanor.

"Are you saying you want to train me?" you asked, still not lowering the dagger.

Gojo nodded slightly. "I can teach you how to control your cursed energy, how to fight more effectively. I can make you stronger."

You hesitated. Could you trust him? Could you afford not to? What if this is a trap?

"Otherwise, your stubbornness will end up getting you killed," he said suddenly. "—just like it did your family."

You flinched back at his words.

"That dagger," he continued. "—is it from the Fujiwara clan, right?"

You froze. The blood drained from your face. You couldn't hide your reaction. The mention of your family striking a nerve. The Fujiwara family wasn't well known nowadays and you had always preferred it that way. It was a reminder of the pain and loss that had driven you to this life of isolation and fighting against the curses.

"You're the last one, aren't you?"

The dagger in your hand suddenly felt heavier.

"Let me help you."

You finally let the dagger down and moved back, giving him space to sit up. He brushed off the dust from his clothes with a nonchalant grace, then fixed his piercing blue eyes on you. "Come with me to Jujutsu High," he proposed.

"And what? Become your student?"

He chuckled lightly. "Sounds like you think that's a bad thing."

"You do have a certain—reputation."

"Ouch," he feigned hurt. "But I've heard a few things about you too."

You raised an eyebrow.

Gojo began ticking off on his fingers. "Cold, stubborn, heartless, icy bitch—"

"Icy bitch??" you interrupted, incredulous.

"—brutal, emotionless, unforgiving—," he continued, unfazed. His words painting a vivid picture of the reputation that preceded you.

"Okay, I get it," you said, cutting him off before he could further elaborate on your supposed traits.

"—and absolutely stunning," he added.

You were caught off guard. 'Stunning' was not a word you expected to come up in such a list.

Gojo leaned closer. His proximity forced you to shift back slightly. His hands planted firmly on the concrete on either side of you, his fingers brushing lightly against yours. His face mere inches from yours. "Stunning facade, but a cold heart within, they say—," he murmured, his gaze subtly shifting to your lips. "Though, I can't help but wonder if the right man might get even you to heat up, don't you think?"

Your breath hitched. The boldness of his statement, the closeness of his body, and the sudden darkness in his eyes stirred something within you.

"Is that what you fantasize about at night?" you snapped.

He quirked an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You have no idea the kind of unholy thoughts I have about you."

This man.

Gojo's arrogance seemed to know no bounds, and you wondered how someone like him could possibly be a teacher.

"Do you harass all your potential recruits?" you asked.

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Only the ones I find particularly interesting."

You hated him.

Yet, you felt drawn to him.

There was an undeniable charm about him, a magnetic pull that you found both disconcerting and alluring. It was a dangerous combination, especially for someone like you, who had always preferred to keep the world at arm's length. Yet, each breath your took seemed to pull you even closer to him.

"You're bleeding pretty heavily," he observed.

"Yeah, well, maybe you should get me to that fancy Jujutsu school of yours and patch me up, instead of playing games," you retorted.

He smirked, that sly smile of his making another appearance. "It's not a game if I already know I've won."

"You really have a high attitude about yourself."

He seemed to brush off your comment. "So you're joining?"

You hesitated. "I'll consider it."

A triumphant gleam lit up his eyes. "Great!" he said, finally pulling back and giving you room to breathe. He stood up and offered you a hand. "You won't regret it."

****

The dagger suddenly felt heavy in your hand.

Gone its a soothing presence in your hand as you turned it over, watching the light glint off its polished surface. It felt like a burden.

Memories flooded back. More cruel than before.

The dagger was more than just a cursed weapon. It was a reminder of who you were before meeting Satoru Gojo. And now? You didn't even know who you were. What was the point of it all? Somehow you questioned it. Questioned everything.

Was joining Jujutsu High really the right decision?

Everything so far had been more about putting everyone you loved in danger than saving anyone. It shouldn't be like that.

Your fingers clenched around the dagger's handle, feeling the sting of its cold metal. Despite Shoko's healing, your body still ached. She had said recovery would take time, but as you stared at the blade, you wondered if some wounds ran too deep for time to heal.

The door creaked open, cutting through the silence. "I remember that dagger," Satoru said as he leaned against the doorframe, his tone tinged with nostalgia.

In a flash of anger, you hurled the dagger towards him. It sliced through the air with a deadly precision, embedding itself in the doorframe just inches from his face. Satoru remained still. He didn't flinch. His eyes fixed on you, absorbing the full force of your rage.

"You shouldn't be so comfortable around me," you cautioned. "Remember, I can break through your infinity. You were the one who taught me how."

"You wouldn't hurt me."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"You're angry."

"Angry is an understatement."

"You have every right to be." Satoru pushed off from the doorframe. He stepped into the room, his usual nonchalance faltering slightly. "But I did what I thought was necessary to protect you."

"Protect me?" The words escaped you in a bitter, incredulous laugh. "Or control me?"

He walked towards you, closing the gap. "I'm trying to keep you safe."

"That's always your excuse, isn't it?" You countered, your voice rising as you stepped back. "You took away my choice, Satoru."

"Your choice would have killed you."

"And so be it!"

Satoru ran his hands through his hair. "You're so goddamn stubborn," he exclaimed, his voice cracking with frustration. "You're constantly throwing yourself into near-death situations!"

"How can I not, with everything that's happening!"

His expression hardened, eyes narrowing. "You don't understand, do you? You're not just another sorcerer—you're a target. A valuable one. Damn it, even the higher-ups want you dead!"

"What?"

He laughed, bitter and hollow. "You really think they haven't noticed your specific cursed technique? That they're oblivious to who you are?"

He began to pace the room. "They're terrified of you. Terrified of what you might do. Terrified of what you could do."

"So what are you saying? They're the ones behind all this?"

"Not directly," he said, shaking his head. "But they're cunning. They stand back, let others do the hunting. It wouldn't be the first time they've let someone else do their shit work."

"Since when do you know all this?"

Satoru's gaze shifted away. "It was obvious the day you first stepped through the school's gates."

"And you thought I shouldn't know this?"

"What good would it have done?" His voice rose again. "So you could throw yourself into another reckless stunt? End up in even more danger?"

"I can't believe this."

The words died in your throat. Of course, Satoru knew. He must have. Keeping it from you the entire time, coating his lie under the pretence of protecting you from danger. But for fuck's sake, you had a right to know the extent of the danger you were in—the danger you posed to others.

"You knew it all along."

His silence. His decision to withhold such crucial information. It felt like a betrayal.

A part of you understood his intent, but it didn't calm the rage that simmered inside you. How many more secrets was he keeping? How much more did you not know?

"What else are you hiding from me, Satoru?"

"I'm not hiding anything," he closed the gap between you, forcing you back until your spine was pressed against the cold wall. He towered over you. "I'm trying to protect you—from them, from—"

"—from myself?" Your words sliced through the air. "Is that what this is? You think I can't handle the truth?"

"It's not that simple," Satoru replied. "You're in more danger than you realize. And yes, I'm scared. Terrified of losing you, of what could happen if you... if you—"

"If I what, Satoru?" Your interruption was sharp. "If I lose control? Turn into Geto? Is that your fear?"

"Don't talk about things you don't understand," he warned, his expression darkening.

"You're so blinded by your past, you can't see me for who I am!"

Something within Satoru snapped at your words. "Stop it!" he cautioned, slamming his fist against the wall, alarmingly close to your head. But you didn't flinch. You didn't back down.

"Am I just a way for you to rewrite your past?"

His other hand reached out, gripping your jaw with a firmness that bordered on pain. "Enough!" His voice was sharp, his grip unyielding, trapping you. You should have stopped. But it was too late. You were already past the point of no return.

"Do you even love me, Satoru?"

Silence.

His jaw tightened, muscles tensing as he processed your words. For a long, tense moment, he just stared at you. His eyes looked like shattered glass. "You really asking me that?" he said quietly—defeated. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he released his grip and took a step back.

You had gone too far. You knew it.

Satoru turned away from you and walked to the other side of the room. He slumped onto the bed, his face buried in his hands. The distance between you more than physical.

The room seemed to shrink. Your thoughts drowned you. However, neither of you spoke.

You hated his silence. His silence was more dangerous than anything he could shout at you. You liked the angry Satoru. The one who screamed and yelled. The quiet Satoru you hated. Because you didn't know what he was thinking. It made your blood run cold.

You rubbed your jaw where his grip had been, feeling the lingering pressure. You parted your lips to say something—anything—to escape the silence, but he cut you off.

"Remember when you had that dagger against my throat when we first met?" he mused, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I knew then that you were someone special. Someone worth risking everything for."

He ran his hands through his hair. "God, I knew the moment I met you that I'd fall for you, no matter how hard I tried to resist."

Satoru's eyes met yours, and in that gaze, there was something you were terrified of. In his eyes, there was a question, the same one echoing in your mind. It was a crossroads, a silent query about where you both stood, about the future that seemed so uncertain.

The only thing that was cetrain was that nothing was simple anymore. Not your feelings, not your relationship, not the path ahead.

And it hurt. It hurt so fucking awful.

You both had tried, again and again, to connect, to understand one antoher. Yet, each attempt, seemed to leave deeper scars, add another layer to the walls you had unintentionally built between yourselves.

Your heart ached. You wanted to reach out, to close the distance, to somehow mend the fragile threads that still connected you. But the words wouldn't come; trapped behind the pain.

Satoru finally moved, a slight shift in his posture. "I should go."

You watched him leave.

The door closed softly behind him.

The room felt emptier now. His absence of his presence like a void. Just emptiness. Nothingness.

The last traces of sunlight faded from the room.

****

You didn't eat. You weren't hungry.

You sat at the table with Nobara, Megumi, and Yuji, picking at your breakfast, lost in your own thoughts. The usual lively banter among the group replaced by a heavy silence.

It had only been a few days. In the beginning, you had locked yourself in your room, refusing to see anyone. Nobara's constant attempts to bring you back eventually succeeded, and you reluctantly returned to your regular routine. You tried to get back to business as usual, though you despised that saying now. Nothing was the same. Everything had changed.

"So, I guess the wedding is canceled?" Yuji blurted out suddenly.

The joke landed awkwardly, to say the least.

Nobara shot Yuji a sharp look. "Not the time, Yuji."

Yuji's grin faltered, he scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Sorry, just trying to cheer things up."

"You really have a bad timing," Megumi remarked.

Silence.

You pushed the food around your plate, your appetite nowhere to be found.

Yuji tried to change the subject. "Hey, did anyone finish the mission report from last week?"

Megumi nodded. "Yeah, I handled it."

Silence again.

Nobara's eyes lit up with an idea. "Hey, you know what? Since we've got a whole week off, why don't we go on a vacation? A change of scenery could do us some good."

Yuji's face brightened at the suggestion. "That sounds awesome! We could go to the beach, or maybe the mountains?"

Megumi considered it for a moment. "Doesn't sound like a bad plan."

Nobara nodded. "Exactly! We all deserve a break, especially after all this crap. Let's go somewhere, chill out, and forget about everything for a while."

You felt a sudden knot from in your stomach. How the hell could the others be so damn carefree about this. You couldn't even celebrate Megumi's birthday without almost getting killed. How should you go on a fucking vacation. That would never happen. Satoru wouldn't allow it.

"I vote for somewhere with good food! Maybe a hot spring resort? They usually have great meals," Yuji chimed in.

"Sounds good," Megumi agreed.

Nobara clapped her hands together. "It's settled then! A hot spring resort it is. I'll start looking up some places."

You remained silent, pondering over all the possibilities how this could go wrong. Then you felt a gentle pressure on your thigh under the table. Glancing down, then subtly towards Megumi, you noticed it was his hand. His thumb caressed your leg. Only now did you realize that you were tense.

His gaze met yours and something within his eyes gave you the feeling that it might be okay. Maybe, just maybe, this vacation was what you all needed—a chance to step back, to breathe. The idea didn't seem so terrible anymore. Perhaps it was worth giving it a chance.

But there was still an issue.

"Satoru wouldn't let me go," you said.

Nobara rolled her eyes. "Oh please, since when do you need Gojo's permission for anything? Besides, he's been overprotective lately. A little space might do his ego some good."

Yuji nodded in agreement. "Yeah, and if he complains, we'll just go without telling him!"

"If he's really that concerned, we should ask Yuta to come with us. He's second to Gojo, that should do," Nobara added.

"We should ask Maki too!" Yuji said.

You hesitated, glancing at Megumi for some semblance of rational objection. However, even he seemed on board with the idea. "If you want to go, you should," he said.

Damn it Megumi. That wasn't what you were hoping to hear. At if it was that simple.

Nobara leaned in, her eyes twinkling. "And just so you know, if you don't come with us willingly, we'll force you."

A resigned sigh escaped your lips. "Fine, you win. Let's head to the hot springs."

Nobara's face lit up again. "That's the spirit! I'll find us the best hot spring resort. We'll have so much fun, you'll forget all about the school and—well, everything else."

****

The train to Ginzan Onsen glided through the winter landscape. Outside, a fresh blanket of snow covered the countryside, transforming the rolling hills and distant mountains into a scene straight out of a painting.

With a bit of the train ride still ahead of you, Yuji decided it was time to play a game. "Let's do 'Two Truths and a Lie'. I'll start! First, I once ate fifthy plates at a sushi conveyor belt. Second, I speak three languages. And third, I've never been defeated in arm wrestling."

Nobara rolled her eyes. "The lie is obvious, Yuji. You barely manage Japanese."

Laughter echoed through the carriage, drawing curious glances from nearby passengers. Yuji, playing along, clutched his heart in mock hurt. "Harsh! Okay, Maki, your turn!"

Maki thought for a moment. "Alright. One, I've broken five bones. Two, I secretly love romantic comedies. Three, I've never lost a bet."

"It's definitely the romances," Nobara said. "That's the lie, right?"

Maki chuckled, leaning back in her seat. "Well, let's see." She paused for dramatic effect, then added, "Actually, that's true. I can't resist a good rom-com."

"Wait, what?" Yuji blurted out. "You?"

"Guilty as charged," Maki confessed.

Everyone on the train was stunned. Even the other passengers.

"I thought you were more of a splatter girl," Yuji added.

The game continued, with each revelation more amusing than the last. Finally, it was Megumi's turn. He hesitated for a moment, a slight frown on his face. "I'm not really creative enough for this game," he said, though you suspected he was more concerned about embarrassing himself.

But to his bad, Yuji jumped in. "Don't worry, Megumi, I got you covered! Here are Megumi's truths and lie: First, he secretly dreams of becoming a pop idol. Second, he's in love with a soon-to-be-married woman. And third, he's afraid of kittens."

You shouldn't laugh at this, but you couldn't help it and the entire compartment erupted into laughter. Even Yuta couldn't help but chuckle. Nobara was laughing so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes.

Megumi's expression shifted to mock seriousness. "Alright, that's it. Prepare yourself, Itadori!" Then he lunged at Yuji. Yuji let out a surprised yelp, half-laughing, half-trying to evade Megumi. "Hey, it was just a joke!"

Infectious laughter filled the compartment as they tussled. Yuta's attempts at peacemaking only added to the comedy as he struggled to separate the two.

After the laughter died down, Nobara began. "So now that we've all had a good laugh, there's something I need to tell you about," she started, flipping through her phone. "It's about the rooms at the onsen. Turns out, the place is pretty booked. We had to get creative with the sleeping arrangements."

Maki perked up. "Creative how?"

"Well," Nobara continued, "there weren't enough rooms for each of us, so some of us will have to share."

Maki raised an eyebrow.

Nobara grinned. "Let's just say it'll be cozy. We have three rooms. I suggest we girls will take one room, and that leaves the guys with the other two. Unless anyone has a better idea?"

"So you three get in one room? You sure thats ok for you? Might be a bit small. We can also stay in one room," Yuta chimed in.

"You don't have to," you said. "I can share a room with Megumi."

Megumi turned to you, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.

"If you're okay with it," you quickly added.

Megumi nodded. "Sure."

Nobara and Yuji exchanged a quick glance. Yuji, unable to hold back, elbowed you gently. "Oooh, rooming with Megumi, huh? This trip just got more interesting!"

Megumi lunged at Yuji again.

Your phone buzzed with a new message. Pulling it out, you saw Satoru's name on the screen.

"Safe travels, love."

You stared at the screen. You thought he must be furious with you. But somehow you could hear his gentle, caring voice in your ear as you read the massage over and over again.

You had left without talking to him first, because you knew well enough what his reaction would have been—what his words would have been. Yet he hadn't tried to stop you from going on this trip. He sure knew when you would leave and with whom. He just accepted it.

Your heart felt heavy again. You began to type a reply—you wanted to type so many replies.

"Leave me alone."

"You're such an asshole."

"Why do you keep hurting me like this?"

"What made you fall in love with me, anyway?"

"Thinking about you hurts."

"I wish you were here."

"I miss you."

Yet you erased each one and just stared at the blank screen. Perhaps it was better not to reply at all. Just as your friends had advised, "put some distance between you and him."

Easier said than done when every thought about him pierced so deep.

****

As the train finally pulled into the station, the sky had darkened, and the world outside was bathed in the red glow of the setting sun reflecting off the snow.

You stepped off the train onto the snow-dusted platform, your breath visible in the crisp winter air. Before you could reach for your luggage, Megumi was already by your side. His hand steadying the handle before you could fully grasp it.

"Let me," he said.

For a split second, you wanted to protest, but his green eyes shimmering in the waning sunlight told you there was no room for argument. You nodded as he effortlessly hoisted your luggage.

As you approached the ryokan near the hot springs, traditional wooden buildings lined the streets like sentinels of an ancient time, their edges frosted with snow. Lanterns swayed gently, casting a soft, golden hue on the pristine snow. The faint scent of sulfur lingered in the air.

Stepping into the ryokan, a comforting wave of warm air enveloped you. The receptionist handed over the room keys, along with neatly folded yukatas. You decided to quickly change into your yukatas and meet again downstairs for the hot springs.

****

"What do you think?" you asked Megumi, slightly adjusting your yukata. Megumi glanced up, the moment his eyes met yours, a faint blush tinted his cheeks.

He cleared his throat. "It... suits you. You look... good."

He paused, his eyes lingering on you for a second longer. In the room's subdued light, his green eyes shimmered like emeralds. "You look too good for him, you know," he said. His words, barely more than a whisper.

Your heart pulsed. You knew you had been cruel to him. You could see it in the pain in his eyes. Yet he remained silent, offering his support as he always did, despite the numerous times you had hurt him. You felt guilty.

"You don't look so bad yourself," you said quietly.

Megumi stood tall in his yukata, the soft fabric draping gracefully, accentuating his athletic frame. It added an air of quiet elegance to his usual composed demeanor. You were so used to seeing him in his school uniform. The sight of his exposed, toned arms as he leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, left you momentarily speechless.

Megumi offered a faint smile. Then he pushed himself off the wall and walked over to the door, "We should met up with the others in the lobby."

"Megumi, wait," you began. "I didn't have a chance to properly apologize to you."

He stopped, his hand on the door handle. "You don't have to."

"No," you insisted. "I really do. I've been unfair to you."

Megumi turned to face you, his expression softening. "Things got complicated. It's okay."

"Why are you so understanding? Why not angry with me?" you asked, feeling a knot in your stomach. "I wouldn't blame you if you were."

He searched your eyes for a moment, but didn't answer.

"Go ahead and punch me if you want to or something," you said seriously, trying to get some reaction from him other than 'understanding'.

Megumi sighed, a small smile playing on his lips. "You really do need a punch from time to time," he joked. He walked over to you. You felt your heart pounding against your chest as he leaned in closer. His breath warm against your skin. "Just promise me that if Gojo screws up, you'll give me a chance."

Your breath hitched. "I would give you a thousand chances."

"I know. I see it," his lips softly brushed against your cheek. "I see that you love me, but you love him more, don't you?"

You closed your eyes for a fleeting second, allowing yourself to feel the tenderness of his touch. It was a bittersweet realization. Yes, you loved Megumi—a genuine affection that couldn't be denied. But you also recognized the harsh truth. Your heart was irrevocably drawn to Satoru—in a way that defied simple explanation. If there were an explanation for love at all.

A knock on the door shattered the stillness.

Maki's voice echoed through the door. "You guys ready for the hot springs?"

****

Later that day, you all gathered in the dining hall of the ryokan for dinner. The air was filled with the delicious aroma of a traditional Japanese dinner spread out before you—sashimi, tempura, grilled fish, and an array of vegetables.

Yuji had everyone in stitches. His laughter echoing through the hall. Yuta shared stories from his time abroad, each tale more intriguing than the last. Nobara and Maki, meanwhile, seemed to have made it their mission to sample every variety of sake available. Their laughter growing louder and more carefree with each round.

The evening felt surreal in its normalcy. Friends having dinner. Friends having fun.

It seemed all too fleeting.

Your eyes settled on Megumi. There was an uncommon detail about him that caught your eye. It was a small, barely noticeable scar just beneath his right ear. His hair was still damp, losely comped back to reveal his neck. The scar must normally be concealed by his hair.

He caught your gaze. You quickly looked away.

As the night wore on, the group began to thin. Maki and Nobara excused themselves first, mentioning they would take a nap and return later for the New Year's fireworks. You felt tired too, but you didn't want to miss any of those rare moments of normalcy. Their departure left you, Megumi, Yuta, and Yuji at the table.

Yuji had dozed off at some point. His head resting on his arms on the table. Every so often, he would mumble something incoherent, eliciting a soft chuckle from the rest of you.

Yuta shared stories of his travels. His words painted vivid pictures of distant lands and fierce battles, captivating Megumi and you.

As the night deepened, a comfortable silence settled over the table. You looked at Megumi, who was quietly sipping his tea, his slender hands arranged beautifully around the mug. There was a certain peace about him here—away from the usual chaos.

"Yuta," you said. "I never got the chance to properly thank you for coming along."

He smiled. "You don't need to thank me."

"I really do, It feels like I'm dragging everyone into my problems."

"We're teammates," he simply said, "That's what we do."

You let out a weary sigh. "You're all too kind."

Yuta leaned back, his gaze contemplative as he looked at you. "So, what's next for you? With everything that's been happening?"

You didn't want to think about it. Yet, talk about it. It was actually the least thing you wanted.

"I don't know."

Yuta's expression grew more serious. "No plan? Considering everything that's been happening, especially with the bounty on your head, you need one."

Huh?

What bounty?

What on earth was he talking about?

Megumi, equally surprised, interjected sharply. "There's a bounty?"

Yuta's eyes narrowed briefly. "You didn't know? There's a bounty on her, and they want her dead," he explained. "It's over 80 million yen. I thought Gojo would've told you."

You felt your stomach drop. Another lie. Another betrayal.

Megumi nearly choked on his tea. "That's—a lot."

"It's one of the highest bounties actually," Yuta added. "That's why I'm asking if you have any plans."

Megumi clenched his fists. "That bastard Gojo," he muttered under his breath. "He didn't say a word about this. This changes everything."

You remained silent. What was there to say, anyway?

It felt like watching a house of cards collapse, and you could do nothing but watch. It was awful. But more than anything, you were so, so tired. Every lie, every betrayal, it was like a punch to the gut, but you were too drained to even react.

Yuta leaned forward. "And the mole? Any idea who it could be?"

Megumi's brow furrowed in thought. "The mole... he's been a step ahead of us, leaking crucial information. It's as if he's always watching, always one move ahead. They might also know we're here."

Your heart raced.

"He?" you asked, too calm for the storm that was beginning to build inside you. "Do you know who it is?"

Megumi turned to you. His eyes told you that he had just spilled something he shouldn't have said.

No.

Not him.

Not another betrayal.

"We suspect someone, but—"

"But what?" you pressed, your suspicion growing.

He hesitated, then sighed. "It's Jack."

Your heart skipped a beat. "Jack?"

Satoru said he was no threat. He said he was not worried about him. Was that another lie? Did he know all along?

"Please let me explain—," Megumi began.

You felt a crushing weight on your chest. You thought you were part of a team, a family, but now you weren't even sure what or whom to believe. The trust broken. In that moment, you realized how alone you truly felt. Surrounded by friends, but isolated by lies. Not even Megumi. Could you not even trust him?

Another fucking betrayal.

It was all too overwhelming. You had to get out of here, to push it all away, if only for a moment. Without a word you suddenly stood up, the chair scraping against the floor.

"I need some air."

The crisp night air hit your face as you stepped outside, cold air filling your lungs. Megumi followed you, his footsteps crunching softly in the snow.

"Leave me alone, Megumi," you didn't want to face anyone right now, least of all someone who understood you as well as Megumi did.

"Talk to me."

"I don't want to talk," you shot back.

Yet, he persisted.

"Talk to me."

You spun around, the frustration and hurt evident in your eyes. Tears welled up, threatening to spill over as you gazed at the person who had always been your most trusted friend. "Since when did you know?"

Megumi hesitated. "Gojo told me after the battle on Christmas Eve."

"What? Since when did he know?"

"He suspected since Shinjuku. After the attack on you, he interrogated him."

Shinjuku.

Satoru knew for months.

The night seemed even colder now.

"I wanted to tell you," he said.

"Then why didn't you?"

"It's complicated."

"Everything is always complicated with you and Satoru," you snapped.

Megumi's expression shifted. "When was the right time? When you were locked away in your room, or perhaps at dinner, surrounded by everyone?"

"Now it's my fault?"

"No. No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Before either of you could say more, the sky erupted in colors. Fireworks, distant and cruelly beautiful, painted the night like a canvas. Yet, Megumi's gaze remained fixed on you. The reflections of the fireworks flickered in Megumi's eyes, softening the hard lines of his face. His lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out.

He looked so beautiful that night. So sad. But all you wanted to do was punch him straight in the face. These stupid men. All they did was hurt you, 'protecting' you, as they said. But, God, you'd had enough.

"You should probably find another room to sleep in tonight," you said, more calmly than you felt. You turned to head back inside as the fireworks continued to light up the sky.

Megumi watched you go.

****

"Is everything okay between you and Fushiguro?" Nobara's question cut through the silence.

"Everything's great," you muttered.

"Did he try to kiss you or something?" Maki asked, half-joking yet curious.

"No."

Nobara and Maki walked alongside you, exchanging glances.

The crisp, cool air brushed against your cheeks as you and the others made your way to the local shrine for the first visit of the new year. As you approached, the scent of incense grew stronger, blending with the smell of street food from nearby vendors. However, despite the festivity, a certain uneasiness hung in the air—the tension between you and Megumi hard to miss.

"You guys totally missed out on the fireworks," Yuji interjected.

"Yeah, such a shame," Nobara replied. "We were just too tired."

"You missed them too, Yuji," you pointed out, as if he had forgotten that he had spent the whole night sleeping on the table.

"Yeah, I did," Yuji admitted, scratching his head. "Were they good? Did you guys see them?"

"No."

Yuji looked back at Megumi, who was walking a few steps behind. "What about you, Fushiguro? Did you catch the fireworks?" Megumi met Yuji's question with a silent, icy stare, confirming that something was definitely off.

"What's going on with you two?" Yuji asked, his eyes flicking between you and Megumi.

As you approached the shrine, the crowd thickened. Brightly colored lanterns hung from the trees, and laughter filled the air. Families in colorful kimonos, young couples, and groups of friends gathered to celebrate the first day of the new year.

"Let's draw our fortunes," Nobara suggested, trying to break the uneasiness.

Each of you took turns shaking the box and drawing a stick with a number that corresponded to your fortune at a nearby stall.

Yuji's face lit up as he read his fortune. "Great blessing! This year's gonna be awesome!"

Nobara rolled her eyes. "Small blessing," she read aloud. "Could be worse."

Maki, after reading her fortune, simply shrugged, not giving away whether it was good or bad.

When it was your turn, you shook the box and drew a stick. The crisp paper unfolded in your hands, revealing the characters for "Bad Fortune."

You've got to be kidding me, right?

Nobara peered over your shoulder. "Well, look at it this way, as if things could get any worse for you."

"A little bad luck is nothing for you!" Yuji chimed in.

Your lips twitched into a half-smile. "You guys are really something."

Yuta stepped forward to draw his omikuji next, pulling a slender stick from the box.

"Well, Yuta? What does it say?" Yuji asked eagerly, trying to peek over his shoulder.

Yuta turned the paper so everyone could see. "Good Fortune."

Nobara clapped her hands together. "See! That balances it out. Good and bad fortune in the group. We're set!"

Megumi was last. He shook the box and drew his fortune. His expression remained unreadable as he read the slip of paper. He didn't share what it said. You hoped it was positive.

Nobara then led the group towards the main hall of the shrine, where people gathered to offer prayers for the new year. But Yuta held you back. His hand around your wrist, his grip firm but not forceful. "Can we talk for a moment?"

You paused and turned to find Yuta's gaze locked onto you with an intensity that felt almost invasive. You felt a sudden knot from in your stomach. Talking was the last thing you wanted at that moment, but something in his expression suggested this wasn't a question to say no to.

You nodded and followed him as he led you away from the crowd. You began to walk along the snow-covered paths of the shrine. The stillness of the winter air only broken by the soft crunch of the snow beneath your feet.

After a few moments, Yuta finally broke the silence. "Have you ever heard of the prophecy of your family's clan?"

Wait.

What?

How did he know?

You turned to him, searching his face for clues.

"Gojo told me," he added quickly, his eyes briefly meeting yours before returning to the snow-covered path ahead.

Of course, he had. He told apparently everyone everything. Except you.

He never told you anything.

"The prophecy is just a myth," you replied. "Nothing but stories from a time long gone."

Yuta's expression remained serious. "It's said that the Fujiwara clan could either bring great prosperity or doom."

"The Fujiwara could do nothing. They were arrogant. They were greedy, and in the end, they were crushed by Sukuna. That's the reality," you said.

"Nevertheless, the Fujiwara clan was influential and powerful," Yuta continued, undeterred.

"But I'm not a Fujiwara. I have my father's name, who wasn't part of the clan. I have no connection to them."

"You carry their blood, their cursed technique. That's enough reason for people to be terrified," Yuta explained. "They believe you'll follow a path of destruction like your ancestors."

"You mean the higher-ups?"

"Yeah, they've set the bounty on your head."

You couldn't help but find that ironic. "They've put a bounty on the head of a person who couldn't even use that cursed technique they're so afraid of."

"Paranoia and greed for power blind them. In their eyes, your mere potential is a threat," Yuta continued.

"I know they're after me, Yuta," you said, stopping in your tracks.

"But you don't know the whole story," he also paused and turned to you. His expression grave. You waited for him to continue.

"It's true they put the bounty on your head, but before that, they've sent Gojo to kill you."

Your heart seemed to stop.

"What?" You exclaimed, the words escaping your lips louder than you intended, drawing the curious gazes of nearby onlookers. Yuta swiftly scanned the surroundings before gesturing for you to follow him again.

"Gojo was initially ordered to kill you because of your bloodline," he said again, as if it hadn't been clear the first time. "But he didn't, as you can see. Instead, he brought you to Jujutsu High."

"Why?"

He looked at you briefly, his eyebrow raised. "You know why."

Your mind raced. Yet your heart raced faster.

"From the moment you entered the school, Gojo took it upon himself to train you and put you under his personal protection. The higher-ups were furious, to say the least, and it didn't help that he threatened to burn the school down if anyone laid a hand on you. So in return, they limited his powers, suspended him, and cut off his resources."

"They wanted him gone," you whispered more to yourself than to Yuta.

Yuta nodded.

Wait.

Back then, when he distanced himself from you?

When he was suspended?

When he was worried about your relationship becoming public?

When he nearly went insane trying to help you control your cursed technique?

When he watched over you day and night?

It was all because—

"When you first lost control of your cursed technique, it triggered an uproar. Gojo assured the higher-ups that if you ever turned against them, he'd handle the situation himself. But as you can imagine, they had little trust in a man who had fallen in love. So instead, they set the bounty on your head, effectively making you a target for the entire world. I wouldn't be surprised if they also helped the mole in some way," Yuta continued.

Your stomach turned.

The thought of him fighting on so many fronts at once, while you struggled to get your shit together and learn to control your cursed technique, almost made you vomit. How stupid your problems seemed compared to what he had to deal with all the time.

And all you had done was accuse him of seeing ghosts in you—accuse him of not really loving you. When in fact, everything he did was out of love for you.

You had been angry at him for his secrets, his lies, his overbearing self. But now?

Now you couldn't be angry at him. Not anymore.

You missed him awfully.

Damn it, Satoru.

Why did he never tell you any of this?

"In short, they've turned the world against you, hoping that the problem would resolve itself without their direct intervention—without having to deal with Gojo specifically," Yuta explained as he came to a stop before the shrine.

Your thoughts had consumed you to the point that you hadn't even noticed that you had circled back to the shrine where the others were.

"With such a large bounty on your head, it was only a matter of time before alliances were formed. After all, your name is well known. And the Fujiwara clan had many enemies," Yuta added.

"So, that sorcerer who poisoned me back then—"

"He might have belonged to a rival clan of the Fujiwara," Yuta speculated.

"The clan is long dead. Why come after me now, after all these years?" you pondered aloud.

"Hate runs deep," Yuta simply replied.

As Nobara, Yuji, Maki, and Megumi emerged from the shrine, you caught sight of Nobara waving in your direction. You waved back at her over Yuta's shoulder.

"Why are you telling me all this, Yuta? I'm pretty sure Satoru specifically told you not to."

Yuta couldn't help but chuckle. "You're right, he did. But you know, Gojo has his own way of dealing with problems. He thinks he's protecting you by keeping you in the dark. But I'm pretty sure his way of dealing with things only leads to the two of you trying to kill each other at some point. I kinda like you, so I can't stand by and let that happen."

Your lips curved into a small smile. "Thank you, Yuta," you said as Nobara and the rest of the group caught up to you.

Nobara casually slung her arm around your shoulders. "What were you two talking about?" she asked with a playful tone.

"Nothing really," Yuta replied quickly.

Nobara raised an eyebrow at Yuta's response, clearly not buying it. She exchanged a curious look with Maki.

Yuji eventually spoke up. "I'm getting kinda hungry. Should we grab something to eat?"

Yuta nodded in agreement. "Sounds like a plan."

After leaving the shrine site and making your way towards the city, you walked along a quiet path, surrounded by the tranquility of the countryside. The snow-covered landscape stretched out before you, creating a serene backdrop.

Yuji's stomach growled audibly. "Man, I can't wait to eat."

Nobara rolled her eyes. "Yuji, we had breakfast barely two hours ago."

"Sounds like the perfect time for another—," Yuji begann but he was cut short.

In an instant, the atmosphere shifted. A shiver ran down your spine as you sensed his presence behind you. You turned, your eyes meeting an all too familiar face standing just a few feet behind you.

Before anyone could react, Yuta's hand snapped out, grabbing Jack by the nape of his neck and slamming his face into the ground. Megumi quickly pulled you behind him, standing protective in front of you.

Yuta drew his katana and let it hover dangerously at Jack's neck—ready to behead him at any second. Jack looked up, blood running freely down his chin. His nose had broken.

"I'm here to warn you, you bastards," Jack strained out, spitting a fragment of tooth onto the ground.

Megumi's eyes narrowed. "Warn us? About what?"

"I can help you," Jack insisted. "There's a group of special grade curses heading this way, led by someone named Mahito."

"Mahito?" Yuji repeated.

"Yeah, and more. If you don't leave now, you'll be overrun."

"Why should we believe a word you say?" Nobara cut in sharply.

"The curses," Jack gasped, struggling for breath under Yuta's force, "—they've allied with sorcerers who want her dead. They're coming for you, Fujiwara."

You couldn't help but flinch at the mention of your family name—all eyes suddenly on you.

"You're from to the Fujiwara clan?" Maki asked.

"I'm not," you quickly corrected. "I mean, not really."

"Why are you telling us this now?" Yuta's voice cut through, still focused on Jack.

"Because I've been betrayed," Jack spat. "Mahito gathered powerful curses and sorcerers under false pretenses. The curses don't want her dead; they want to use her for some fucked up plan."

"What plan?" you asked over Megumi's shoulder.

"They plan to use you to kill Gojo and release Sukuna."

The group fell silent.

"My clan was part of their alliance," Jack continued, "—but when we learned their true intent, we backed out. We wouldn't be mere pawns for these curses. They turned on us, attacked us. I barely managed to escape with my life. You can choose to believe me or not, but if you stay, you're all as good as dead."

Yuta hesitated for a moment, then slowly lifted his katana from Jack's neck.

Jack straightened up, wiping blood from his mouth. "You need to get out of here. I'm not sure if Gojo can make it in time. These curses and their sorcerer allies—they're not here for a fight. They're here for her," he nodded towards you.

"What? Wait—Satoru's coming?" you asked.

"I got word to him. Told him everything. But who knows if he'll make it in time."

"You're talking to Gojo?" Megumi asked. It seems as if he didn't know that himself.

"Yeah," Jack spat. "Turns out your lovely bastard of a teacher forced me to spy on my own people—used me against my own people."

You had to suppress the urge to slam his face down again for insulting Satoru.

"Listen, I don't like you. I want you dead," his voice hardened as he addressed you. "But believe me when I say I don't want to see Sukuna alive again." He pushed himself up, wincing slightly. "There's no time to waste. They'll be here soon."

Your blood suddenly ran cold. You turned and frantically scanned your surroundings, panic gripping your heart. You felt an overwhelming presence heading your way, a distant rumbling that grew louder and louder, each thud echoing through the air.

"What's that?" Nobara asked.

Your breath caught in your throat, a cold sweat breaking out across your skin.

Fuck.

"It's Mahito," Yuji said. His fists clenched at his sides.

"You need to leave. Now," Jack coughed.

"We can't just run," Maki said. "We should fight."

"No, the risk is too high. We have no idea what we're up against," Megumi interjected, his hand searching for yours as he spoke. You took it, his fingers gently intertwining with yours as he pulled you closer to him.

Maki took a challenging step towards Megumi. Her eyes flashed. "So we retreat like cowards?"

Yuta stepped forward between them. "There's a place we can go. One of Gojo's hideouts—it's off the grid, hardly known to anyone."

"What? Gojo has a damn safe house?" Nobara interjected.

"Yeah," Yuta confirmed. "It's secluded, protected by barriers. We can regroup there and plan our next move."

Megumi's brow furrowed. "How do we know Gojo will be there?"

"Gojo ordered me to head there if anything went wrong. I'm sure he'll be there," Yuta said.

Of course, Satoru had a plan. He always does. Satoru was always in control.

But wait.

"They're after me," your voice cut sharply through the chaos. "I'll go there. Alone. The rest of you should head back to Jujutsu High."

Nobara was quick to object. "You can't be serious! We're coming with you!"

"Nobara, I can't drag you all into this again. Please, for once, just—listen to me."

"We can't just leave you here—"

Yuta cut off Nobara's words. "She's right. The less we are the better our chances we won't get caugth. Kugisaki, Zenin, Fushiguro, Itadori—head back to the school. I'll go with her."

You turned to Yuta. "You too, Yuta. You should go with them." But the look he gave you told you that Satoru had most likely ordered him to stay by your side.

Nobara opened her mouth to argue, but you cut her off. "Please, Nobara." She frowned, but nodded reluctantly.

Suddenly, a deep rumbling vibrated through the ground. Your gaze dropped to your feet, where cracks appeared in the snow-covered earth. The air thickened in an instant, each breath becoming more torturous.

Your gaze locked with Megumi's. "You need to go with them."

"I'm not leaving without you," he insisted, almost crushing your hand in his grip.

Yuta's eyes darted towards the direction of the increasing rumble. "We need to move, now," he urged.

Frustration and fear surged within you. "Megumi, please, you must. Keep them safe for me." But his hold remained unyielding.

"Fushiguro, we're out of time!" Maki shouted, already retreating with the others.

"I'll never forgive myself if anything happens to you," Megumi said, his expression torn.

"I know, and I love you for it," you said, your voice trembling. "But you have to go. Now."

Still, Megumi's grasp held firm.

The distant sounds of chaos drew nearer. Time was running out.

Words were useless.

You stepped closer to Megumi, your heart pounding in your chest. Without a word, you leaned in, taking his face in your hands, and kissed him. His body tensed in shock, his eyes widening. His lips felt so soft against yours. You never imagined what kissing him would feel like, but it was definitely better than you could have ever imagined.

Megumi's initial shock gave way to an intense response, his lips moving against yours with a craving you hadn't anticipated. Nor did you expect his lips to fit yours so well. His hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer, fingers digging into your back, as if afraid that this moment might slip away. You almost lost yourself in his embrace.

Just as his tongue threatened to deepen the kiss even further, you focused again. You forced yourself to break away, fully aware that you wouldn't be able to resist him—or that you didn't want to.

Your eyes met his. "I love you, Megumi. But sometimes you're such an idiot," you whispered softly. With a quick, precise motion, you applied a distinct pressure to the carotid artery in his neck. Megumi's eyes fluttered, and his body went limp, succumbing to unconsciousness in your arms.

"Yuji, can you help me out here," you called out. Yuji quickly approached, hoisting an unconscious Megumi onto his shoulders. Turning to Yuji, you added, "Tell him I'm sorry."

Yuji raised an eyebrow. "Since when can you do that?"

"It's not really the time for explanations, Yuji," you replied shortly. "No go."

With a nod, Yuji, with Megumi over his shoulders, joined the others who were about to leave the site.

You turned away, the lingering taste of Megumi's kiss still on your lips. With a heavy heart, you cast one last glance back at him. Your chest tightened. The cold air burned your cheeks, but the pain of leaving him behind was far more agonizing.

You followed Yuta through the winding paths, his movements swift and sure. Somehow, you couldn't shake the feeling that Yuta had known what would happen all along.

That Satoru had known what would happen all along.

****

"A beach house? Really?" you remarked. "This is Gojo's idea of a hideout?"

It was almost midnight when Yuta and you finally approached the so-called 'safe house' of Satoru. But it was not the secluded cabin or fortress you might have expected for a hideout. Instead, it was a modern beach house with a panoramic view of the ocean. Its sleek lines and expansive windows reflecting the moonlight as you approached.

It was nestled on a lonely stretch of beach, an hour south from Osaka, away from prying eyes and the hustle of the city. It was the literal opposite of the chaos you had just escaped.

Yuta chuckled softly. "Did you expect anything less from him? It's Gojo, after all. He never does things by halves."

A fucking beach house.

Exhaustion clung to both of you like a heavy cloak. But all you wanted was to see him. You hoped so desperately that he would be here. Your heart craved him so much—to see him, to feel him, to kiss him. But as you approached the house, it was dark inside. Your heart felt heavy again.

The inside of the house was equally impressive. Modern architecture, an open living space, and expensive furniture. It was more akin to a holiday retreat than a hideout. Certainly not suitable for the reason you were here.

Yuta led you through the house, checking each room methodically for any signs of danger. Once satisfied, he relaxed slightly, though the katana never left his side.

"Gojo probably has more hideouts like this scattered around," Yuta mused as he peered out the window, his gaze scanning the horizon. "But this one—it's special. He's particularly fond of it."

"Why's that?" you asked him, wandering over to the glass wall to take in the view of the beach. The moon cast its silver glow over the waves.

Yuta joined you, his eyes reflecting the moonlit sea. "He just bought it recently. Said it was for someone special." The room was quiet for a moment, the sound of waves gently lapping against the shore the only sound.

For a fleeting moment, you wondered for whom Satoru had bought this house for, but you quickly dismissed the thought. "We need to find a charging cable," you said, abruptly turning to rifle through the cupboard doors.

Both of your phones had died on the way here and you had no idea what had happened to the others. You wondered where they were, if they were safe. If Megumi was safe. If he was angry with you.

"Got one," Yuta announced, pulling a charging cable out of the cabinet. You moved towards him to plug in your phone when suddenly a beam of light pierced the night, illuminating the driveway leading to the beach house.

Satoru.

You could sense him. No doubt.

You didn't hesitate. Rushing towards the door, you flung it open and stepped out into the cool night air. Your heart pounded as you saw a familiar car pull up, the headlights illuminating the sand and the snow around. The engine cut, and the door opened.

Satoru Gojo stepped out, his hair slightly disheveled from the wind, his usual sunglasses in place. His striking blue eyes found you immediately, a faint smile playing on his lips. He closed the door and began walking towards you.

Your heart raced. Without a word, you stepped up to him and slapped him across the face. The sound echoed in the quiet night. "Don't you dare ever lie to me again," you said.

Satoru didn't flinch at the slap. Instead, he looked at you, his blue eyes softening. "I've missed you too," he said, the corners of his lips curling upwards. In an instant, Satoru closed the distance between you. His hand wrapped around your waist, gently but firmly, pulling you close. The world seemed to stop when his lips met yours.

It was soft at first, then more urgent as his lips explored every curve and contour, as if he had never kissed you before. His tongue traced your lips before delving in. You tasted the hint of mint on his breath, mixed with something uniquely Satoru, a taste that made your head spin. You found yourself melting into the kiss, responding with equal fervor.

Need surged through you—needing to be closer—erasing every inch of space that kept you apart. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that left no doubt that he felt the same. He kissed you as if trying to bridge the gap of time and distance that had separated you for far too long. Pouring every unspoken word and emotion into the caresses.

"Fuck—I've missed you—so—much," he murmured against your lips, each word punctuated with another passionate kiss. His hands slid up your back, pulling you even closer, if that was possible. He caught your bottom lip between his—a hungry bite that sent shivers down your spine and forced you to stifle a moan. "Missed you too," you breathed out, barely able to get the words out between the fervent dance of your tongues.

The world around you—the sound of the waves, the rustle of the wind, the distant lights of the beach house—all faded into irrelevance. There was only Satoru, his arms wrapped around you, his body pressed against yours, his heart beating in sync with your own. It felt so fucking good to be with him again. It almost made you cry.

In one smooth motion, he lifted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. "God, you're driving me insane," he muffled against your lips before claiming your mouth as his once more. Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers weaving through the silvery strands, gripping him as if you never wanted to let go.

You felt every contour of his body against yours, the firmness of his muscles, the hurried rise and fall of his chest. "Satoru," his name escaped your lips in a moan, blending seamlessly into the heated kiss.

"Ahem."

The moment was abruptly broken by a subtle but clear throat-clearing from Yuta, reminding you both of the world beyond.

Startled, you and Satoru parted slightly, though he continued to hold you up in his arms. You both turned towards Yuta, who stood a respectful distance away, an awkward yet knowing look on his face. "Maybe we should—talk inside," he suggested.

Gently, Satoru set you back on the ground. He placed a kiss on your forehead before resting his own against yours, his breath mingling with yours. "Yeah, we should go inside," he murmured, his voice barely rising above the sound of the waves. You remained like that for a few heartbeats before his stance subtly changed.

"Why didn't you come to the airport?" he suddenly asked.

You took a small step back to meet his gaze, raising an eyebrow.

"I've sent you a million messages telling you to get to the airport. I even arranged a private jet for you," he explained, as if sending jets was an everyday occurrence.

"You sent a fucking private jet for us?"

"Yes, I was at the airport waiting for you. How on earth did you get here anyway?"

Rolling your eyes, you released a weary sigh. "Don't ask," you quickly said, not wanting to explain what a pain in the ass it was to get here without anyone seeing you, when somewhere at the airport a fucking private jet was waiting for you.

****

"So that's how it went," Satoru mused, more to himself than anyone else. Satoru leaned back against the kitchen counter, his gaze distant as he pondered the situation. You sat next to him on the counter, fighting to keep your eyes open. The day had been long and draining, and it was really starting to show.

"Who would've thought Jack would end up on our side?" Yuta, seated across from you, remarked. "We can't be sure how many sorcerers are truly aligned with Mahito at this point," he crossed his arms. "But I suspect not many will continue to follow him once they realize his true intentions."

"I wouldn't be so sure," you said. "You haven't seen the way they look at me. The sorcerer who poisoned me—I doubt they're unaware of the curses' true motives. They want me dead, regardless of the consequences. I guess they're using the curses to kill me out just as much as the curses are using them to get me. It's just about who gets me first."

Satoru flinched slightly at your words. He turned to face you, his piercing blue eyes intense even in the dim kitchen light.

"Do you intend to kill them?" Yuta's question was direct.

Before Satoru could respond, you interjected, "No, we won't." The room went quiet, all eyes on you. "We inform them of Mahito's true intentions. If they still oppose us, then we will fight them. But we won't kill sorcerers, just because they are blinded by hate."

Satoru pushed off from the counter, beginning to pace slowly. "I've killed sorcerers for far less," he muttered, his voice edged with a familiar coldness.

"We need allies, not enemies. If we can convince even a fraction of them of the real threat, it might tilt the scales in our favor," you insisted.

Satoru's pacing stopped, and faced you. "So, you plan to negotiate with them?"

"What other choice do we have?" you countered.

Yuta leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Let me handle it."

The room fell silent, Satoru and you both turning to Yuta in surprise. "You?"

"Let me negotiate with the clans," Yuta persisted. "I've worked with some of them in the past, maybe I can get them to drop their grudge against you."

"No, Yuta," you said. "I don't want you to put yourself in danger for me."

He chuckled lightly. "What's our alternative? It's either me or you and Satoru. And really, one of you is their main target and the other one is ready to kill them in an instant. I'm much more diplomatic than both of you."

Perhaps you should be offended by his words. But he was right.

"He's not wrong," Satoru admitted.

Your thoughts were abruptly shattered by the shrill ring of your phone. You spun around, heart racing, as you saw Megumi's name flashing on the screen.

Snatching the phone, you answered, "Megumi??"

"Oh thank God, are you safe? Did you reach Gojo's hideout? We've been trying to reach you," Megumi's voice was full of concern.

"I'm fine, I'm safe, Megumi. Sorry, our phones died. But don't worry about me."

You heard him release a heavy exhale over the phone. "You don't know how worried I was."

"And you? Did you make it back to the school all right?"

"Yeah, we're back, everyone's fine here. Don't worry."

You paused for a few seconds before you spoke. "Megumi, about earlier, I'm sorry—"

"I know. Don't apologize. It's okay. Getting knocked out with a kiss from you isn't the worst thing," he cut you off.

You couldn't help but smile. Suddenly he asked, "Are you with Gojo?"

"Yes, I am," you whispered.

The silence that followed was painful, every second torturous.

After a moment, Megumi's voice returned, firmer this time. "Tell Gojo to keep you safe, or I'll kill him."

"I think he knows that already," you replied, your eyes briefly glancing towards Satoru.

"You should go to sleep. It's late. Don't worry about us. We're safe within the school walls," Megumi said, his tone softening. "And you—you're safe with him."

"I know."

"You should be with him," he added, his voice low, almost inaudible.

"I know."

"Sleep well," Megumi said finally. The call ended.

You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself. But it was in vain. The weight and exhaustion of the day became unbearable.

They're safe within the school's walls, you tried to reassure yourself. But the bitter truth was that they were only safe when you weren't there. And this realization pierced your heart like a razor blade. It tore through you, unleashing a deep, searing pain that felt almost unbearable.

You felt your eyes burning. Hastily, you rubbed your eyes, before turning back to face Satoru and Yuta again. Yet, Satoru's eyes immediately caught the tears that threatened to spill from yours.

"I can't go back. I can't see them," you whispered. Speaking the truth aloud made it even more agonizing, each word like a fresh new wound in your flesh.

"No, you can't. We both can't," Satoru said gently.

Yuta broke the silence, his voice serious. "You should stay here until I've spoken to the clans. It'll be easier to plan our next move against Mahito without additional sorcerers complicating things."

Stay here.

Away from everyone else, who are back in Tokyo.

How did everything come to this?

Separated from your friends. From your home. But it wasn't really your home. Not anymore. You weren't safe there. Weren't safe anywhere. Your heart went cold.

You averted your gaze, your hands trembling. Tears threatened to spill over. In a heartbeat, Satoru appeared by your side and wrapped his arms around you. His chin rested gently on your head as you clung to him. You were on the edge, your emotions welling up inside you, unable to contain them any longer.

Yuta, his brow knitted in thought, pondered aloud. "But this plan to use her to resurrect Sukuna—what could it possibly mean?"

Yuta's voice felt distant, your mind consumed by something else entirely. "Satoru," you muffled against his chest. "I can't go back. I can't see them. I can't—," you buried your face even deeper into his chest, fingers desperately clutching the fabric of his shirt. "I can't see them."

Satoru's embrace tightened around you, his voice dropping to a whisper, meant only for you, "I know, love. I'm sorry."

Meanwhile, Yuta delved deeper into his theories. "Is there something about her cursed technique that we've overlooked?"

"We'll figure this out. We always do," Satoru whispered close to your ear. He gently stroked the back of your head, trying to calm your trembling form.

Yuta pressed on with his analysis. "And if we consider the implications of their plan to resurrect Sukuna, it's clear that—"

"Okkotsu," Satoru interjected, his tone sharp.

Yuta, finally catching the cue, paused and looked up. It dawned on him when he saw you silently crying in Satoru's arms.

"We should call it a day," Satoru said to him.

****

The next day, you woke up late, the sunlight already streaming through the curtains. Stretching, you glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was already past noon.

Fuck.

How long had you slept?

And why did no one wake you?

You groaned. Your head hurt. Reluctantly, you slipped out of bed, still feeling the exhaustion of the previous day in your bones. Heading downstairs, your eyes wandered around the house. Yuta and Satoru were nowhere to be found.

You moved to the kitchen and immediately noticed the pleasant scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air, drawing a small smile to your lips. Satoru must have made it for you. You poured yourself a cup from the coffee pot, feeling the warmth in your hands.

Glancing out the window, your eyes found Satoru on the porch. He was engaged in pull-ups, his muscles rippling and flexing with each movement under his tight-fitting shirt. Sipping your coffee, you watched him in silence. Then, he turned, his eyes meeting yours, and he flashed a warm smile.

Your smile widened in response. It was so normal. Him and you here. It felt like your problems and all that sorcery shit didn't exist in this world. In this house. You continued to sip your coffee, watching as he resumed his pull-ups.

Turning back to the kitchen, your gaze fell upon a disheveled pile of papers scattered across the counter. As you picked up the top sheet, you realized they were notes—detailed notes about the current situation, plans, and theories about the Mahito's next moves.

He really planned this from the start, you thought. Satoru knew everything from the start.

Then your gaze fell on a certain piece of paper. More specifically, a certain contract. A house purchase contract. With your name on it.

"Good morning, sleepy princess," Satoru's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. He stepped into the house, his hair slightly damp, probably from sweat.

You turned to face him, holding up the piece of paper. "Satoru, this better be a joke."

"What?" He shut the door behind him.

"Don't play dumb, Satoru." You waved the contract.

He glanced at the paper in your hand, his expression unfazed. "What about it?"

"It's got my name on it."

"I see that."

"Why?"

Satoru crossed the kitchen and leaned against the counter, his eyes meeting yours. "Because it's yours," he said simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your frustration boiled over, evident in the way you crumpled the paper in your hand. "Satoru, you can't just go around buying houses for me!"

Satoru stepped closer, his hands prying the crumpled paper from your tight grip. "Easy, love, that's the original. I don't have another copy."

"But—why?"

"No copy machine."

"No—that's not what I mean, Satoru. Why did you buy this house for me?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Thought you'd like it."

You stared at him. Lost for words.

He moved closer, his eyes suddenly darkening. "Come on, just accept it," he whispered, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from your shoulder. He leaned in, his lips grazing your neck with a series of kisses. His breath, warm and teasing against your skin, sent shivers down your spine. "Think of it as a strategic retreat."

"And that strategic retreat had to be a house on the beach," your protest was half-hearted, quickly losing strength as he pressed you back against the counter. Your spine curved, hands gripping the edge for support. His presence enveloped you. "As if you don't like it," he teased.

His fingers wove into your hair at the nape of your neck, forcing your head back. Your breath hitched in your throat at the way he looked at you—as if he wanted to devour you whole. Heat flooded your cheeks.

"Where's Yuta, by the way?" you managed to choke out, the words barely escaping your throat.

"He left early this morning," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. He leaned closer again, his lips tracing a path along your collarbone, each kiss further weakening your knees. You arched against him, waves of heat coursing through you at his every touch.

"Wait, what?" You tried to push him away, but he didn't budge.

"He wanted to return as soon as possible to begin negotiations with the other clans," he murmured close to your skin. A rush of heat flooded through you, an addictive wave that set every nerve on fire. His mouth continued its teasing along your collarbone, each movement a deliberate, sensual provocation. You bit your lip hard, fighting to hold back a moan.

"Why didn't he stay a longer? He didn't even say goodbye—," you exhaled.

Satoru abruptly pulled back, his eyes blazing. "I don't want to talk about Okkotsu right now," he declared. He then leaned in, his lips teasingly close to yours, hovering in a breathless moment of anticipation.

You wanted to protest, but—but—It was Satoru. There was no protest to him. But you needed to ask him something—something important—didn't you?

Before you could gather your thoughts, his lips crashed against yours. His tongue swept against yours in a fervent, urgent dance. You tilted your head to deepen the kiss, inviting him to explore further. He didn't hesitate, his movements quick and passionate around your mouth, leaving you breathless. His hands found their way to your waist, his fingers splaying against your skin.

"Did I tell you how fucking beautiful you look today?" he whispered between kisses, his breath warm against your lips. His words vibrated through you, sending your heart into a race.

He sank to his knees, his hands eagerly sliding your shirt up to trail kisses along your abdomen, his lips playfully ascending your skin. A sharp breath caught in your throat, and you threw your head back, overwhelmed by the intoxicating sensation of his tongue against your skin. You moaned, calling out his name in a fervent whisper.

"Fuck, I love it when you moan my name," he murmured, his voice laced with desire. In a swift, fluid motion, he positioned himself between your thighs. His lips found the delicate fabric of your shorts, pressing against you in a kiss filled with fervent urgency.

Your fingers clenched the counter so tightly, your knuckles turned white. Waves of pleasure, hot and relentless, spiraled through your stomach. Your hips instinctively sought his mouth, moving in rhythm with his touch. "Satoru, I—" Your words dissolved into the growing intensity of the moment.

Focus.

You needed to focus.

"What love?" he asked, his fingers deftly pushing the fabric aside, his mouth finding the bare skin beneath.

Fuck.

"Satoru, I—I need you to train me," you managed to say.

He stopped abruptly and pulled back, his eyes lifting to meet yours. "What?"

"Satoru, I need you to train me with my cursed technique."

"You already have control over your technique."

"Not like I need to," you insisted.

He furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

"I need to be good enough to kill him—," you said. "I want to kill Mahito."

➸ continue reading part eight

a/n: thanks for reading and have a lovely day or night! ♡

#gojo saturo #saturo gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #gojo x female reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru smut #gojo smut #satoru gojo #satoru gojo smut

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overtail · 8 months ago

Text

'You're not helping." - Sokka x GN!Reader

🪃🌑

Summary - (Y/N) has always struggled with their bending prowess, never having anyone to teach them. After being given some advice by Aang, they still can't seem to focus on controlling the earth nearby. Even though he doesn't know what it's like, Sokka still tries to help.

Contains - Fluff, Flirting, Joking, Sarcasm, and silly fun.

Reader Info - Earthbender, new member of the Gaang, quiet, sarcastic, and VERY ambitious.

TW - None!!

No use of (Y/N)

'Breath.'

𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩.

'You have to focus on what's in front of you. What it is you want to comtrol.'

𝘍𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘴. 𝘐𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

They dragged their back foot through the dirt. The crunching sound of rocks against their shoe helped them connect with the world beneath them. They could feel it, the buzzing in their chest, mind, 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭. They closed their eyes, shakily letting out a breath.

Breath. Focus.

Shifting forward, they stepped with their movement. The dirt below them began to rise, shaking vigorously as it slowly moved upwards. Their eyelashes fluttered as their eyelids twitched. The rocks stopped in place for a moment as their calmness weakened but resumed to it's upwards movement as they took another breath. They let out a low growl before abruptly opening their eyes and throwing their hands forward. They yelled as they did so, trying to hit the target - which happened to be a large rock -- in front of them. Instead of it breaking into a million pieces with the power and force of a true bender, little pebbles bounced off of it, and dirt coated the side.

"God!" They yelled, turning away from the embarrassing sight. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" The peace was gone, and the only thing they felt was rage. True, pure, rage. "Why do I even try anymore?!" They stomped over to a log that sat only a few feet away. Their brows were knitted together, and they were practically fuming with anger. They would fit perfectly in the fire nation.

Sitting down with a 'thump!', they groaned, muttering a few curses under their breath. The one thing in their life that they've been waiting to master is being practically thrown out of the window because they don't know how to properly seize the opportunity.

They thought to themself, why even try? They won't ever be as skilled at Aang; hell, even Katara! Sokka could even find a way to be a better bender than them. They moaned, letting their head go limp and fall in between the space between their legs. They had only started their travels with the group a month ago, but they still wanted to fit in. Aang was the only chance they had of learning to be a powerful bender, and they were failing.

There was the sound of footsteps and gravel crunching behind them, but they didn't even bother to look up. It would be Aang, who was secretly watching from the bushes, coming to give them advice, again. The space on the log beside them pressed flat against the ground, lifting them up slightly.

"How's it going?" It wasn't Aang, obviously. The voice was more mature, more quiet, more calming. "I hope it's better than what I can see."

"Hello to you too, Sokka." They could recognize that sarcastic tone from a mile away, not like they minded it. Their was something comforting about how ruthless he was when it came to making jokes and poking fun. "Clearly, it's horrible. Can't even make a dust bunny!" They said with a groan. Sokka laughed, shoving their shoulder lightly.

"As expected, you really do suck." Sokka retorted back, smiling down at them. He couldn't see their face, but a grim look was spread across it. They felt like they would burst with tears any second, begin crying at how much wasted potential they had. They let out a small sniffle, a single tear running down their flushed cheeks. Sokka's eyes widened at this, quickly leaning his head towards them to check up on them. "Woah woah, I was just kidding! You're not that bad!"

Sokka wasn't the best at comforting, a trait inherited by his dad. Sokka never really accepted, but mainly deflected his and other people's feelings.

More hot tears began to fall from. their eyes and onto the dirt below them. They were full-on crying now, letting out small whimpers. They felt like such an emotional wreck.

"Hey - urm," Sokka looked around, maybe to find Aang or Katara to help, but they were nowhere nearby. It was just him and a crying person. "It'll be fine, Katara used to suck, and look where she is now!"

The person blow him looked up, eyes red with tears. "Y-you think I suck?" Their voice was shaky, and their nose sounded like it was filled with snot from crying.

"No, no! You're good for a-- uhm-- a starter?" Sokka didn't really know what to say or how to say it.

"I've been practicing for years!" The other was crying even harder now, and Sokka felt bad. He actually felt bad.

Sokka wrapped an arm around them, bringing them close to his chest. "Well -- I'm gonna shut up."

They leaned into his chest, shakily grabbing onto his coat with their hands. His face flushed red at the physical touch, looking up at the trees and trying not to focus on the feeling. "Yeah, you're r-really bad at this." They let out an airy laugh, which made Sokka even more flustered. Sokka just smiled, fully pulling them into a hug.

...

EXTRA!

"Are you sick, Sokka? You're awfully hot." Katara placed a hand on his forhead, looking at him curiously as he stood outside the earthbenders tent. He grabbed her wrist lightly, taking it off his face.

He stopped back, taking a quick glance at Aang, who was smirking viciously. "I'm fine." He was still red from the previous events.

"You suuuuuuure?" Aang wiggled his brows, and Sokka kicked him in the shin.

#sokka #avatar the last airbender #fandom #fluff #fanfic #sokka x reader #earthbending #aang #katara

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basu-shokikita · 18 days ago

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Kloktober 2024 Day 26

Post-apocalypse or Cyberpunk

Army of the Doomstar is a pretty apocalyptic setting so I had to come up with a different one for this prompt. It's still the end of the world, though more scary, somehow.

At the same time, I wished for Skwisgaar and Toki to have a heart to heart talk before the series ended so this is me doing an attempt at that.

Skwisgaar slowly slid down on the dirty floor, trying to steady his breathing. His arms were wrapped around himself like protective guards against a world that he could no longer recognize. To say he was scared would be an understatement, he wasn’t even sure he’d make it alive. Or, rather, he wasn’t sure how much time he’d be alive.

In the chaos, amidst the explosions and deafening screams, they had gotten separated. His memory was cut in fragments. At some point they were all together, surrounded by their usual Klokateer guard, getting distracted by ads on a big screen. Suddenly, something fell out of the sky and everything turned white. When Skwisgaar opened his eyes again, he couldn’t recognize where he was anymore. People around him were either motionless or screaming and there was smoke all over the place. A rugged hand pulled from his and he let himself be led away from the chaos.

And here he was, in the remains of what had probably been a school, watching the news in a small, old TV, reporting the same phenomenon happening all over the world. Here was, unsure whether he’d ever seen his friends again or die in some abandoned building.

Alone.

On reflex, he looked for the guitar when he remembered it was broken in pieces when he fell on it. At the time, he could barely register it but now he felt a pang in his chest. Chuckling, Skwisgaar hit the back of his head against the wall in frustration. The world was seemingly falling apart and he was thinking of his guitar like a lost lover.

“Skwisgaar?”

Toki reluctantly stood in the doorframe, as if unsure whether he was allowed to be there or not. Covered in dust and blood, Skwisgaar wondered if he looked the same.

“Ams you- how ams you feels?” Toki eventually asked, still awkwardly looming in the entrance of the room.

“Bads.” Skwisgaar snorted.

“Ja…” Toki swayed a little before coming in. Because Skwisgaar’s reaction wasn’t immediately defensive, Toki felt encouraged and sat down next to him. Watching the reports on TV, he asked. “It really ams…overs nows, huh?” He smiled sadly.

Skwisgaar bit his bottom lip, seeing his homeland in shambles on the small screen. “You seems okeys wif dats.”

Toki stared at him though Skwisgaar didn’t return his gaze. “Ams nots, I…” Slowly, he looked down and held onto his knees.

If the situation were any different, Skwisgaar would’ve joked that at least the world didn’t have to hear Toki’s shitty playing anymore. And it would’ve made Toki angry but it would’ve lightened the situation a little. Right now, however, all of that felt distant and impossible to seize. Even though it had only been a few hours, his old life felt light years away from him.

“Ams just glads amsnt alones.” Toki finally confessed. Silently, he let his head rest against Skwisgaar’s who, for once, didn’t reject the contact.

Everything was cold and intimidating except for Toki’s cheek on his shoulder. It formed a knot on Skwisgaar’s throat that, no matter how many times he swallowed, wouldn’t disappear. “Hey, Tokes?”

“Mmh?”

“Ams sorries.”

Toki raised his head. “Whats for?”

“I didnts knows how much you resenteds me…” Skwisgaar said, staring at a hole from which he assumed rats would come from. “I didnts know how much I horts you wif mines…behaviors.” He sighed, his gaze now wandering over the window. The helicopters flew in circles. “I justs…” He hesitated. Amidst the debris and death, did any of that matter?

“Thanks you…” Toki chuckled softly. “And ams sorries too…for wantings to ruins your lives and alls dats…”

“All dats.” Skwisgaar repeated with a snort.

“Ja.” Toki smiled at him. After a few moments, it faded away from his face. “I just wanteds you to sees me.” He looked down, almost ashamed. “Alls this time…I wanteds you to sees me…”

Skwisgaar waited for him to continue, so when he didn’t, he was disappointed. “Dats its?”

Toki raised both eyebrows. “What you means?”

When Skwisgaar turned to face him, it made him wonder when was the last time they spoke to each other genuinely. “You just…wants me to sees you? Just dats?”

The blue in Toki’s eyes, already usually pale, seemed almost entirely decolored under the gray light. His gaze transfixed Skwisgaar in what felt like the longest seconds of his life before something seemed to click. Though when Toki opened his mouth, there was a loud rumble coming from above.

They both looked up and it had gone quiet again. Suddenly, there was something that felt like a crash, shaking the foundations of the building. In a matter of seconds, it all started collapsing as cement, wire and wood came apart. A big piece of concrete fell right between them.

“Skwis…” Toki was wide-eyed from panic. The exit was blocked with rocks and falling debris.

And yet, seeing the fear in Toki’s eyes, prompted Skwisgaar to calm down. “Toki…Toki!”

Wordlessly, Toki stared at him while the world was ending right in front of them.

“Alls sees you dere, okeys?”

Toki smacked his lips together and nodded. “Okays.”

Skwisgaar smiled, Toki being the last thing he saw before everything turned black.

#kloktober2024 #kloktober #metalocalypse #toki wartooth #skwisgaar skwigelf #my writing #skwistok #ig

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literary-motif · 5 months ago

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O ma gawd could you possibly do one about after Love dying Xanthus vents his frustration out on his writing or poems or smth and soon breaks down in front of dontis

Lmao the angst is something alright<33

Life Eternal

Xanthus Claiborne x Reader

He supposed it was inevitable. You were human, after all.

That did not mean he was prepared to lose you. He could not forgive himself for not being at your side and saving you when he had the chance. Even his blood was not powerful enough to resurrect the dead, and as he rushed to you, heart beating on the very verge of breaking, all he caught was your last smile in his direction before you faded away forever.

The scream of anguish Xanthus had let out as he cradled your lifeless body would haunt Dontis until the end of his days.

Feeling the bond break was the most painful experience of his life and despite himself, he was happy that it was him suffering through this anguish and not you. It was as if the very air had turned stifling. He could not breathe anymore, every movement hurt, and with every beat of his heart, he was reminded of the part of it that was missing.

He could deal with the physical pain. He had gone through worse, but what shattered him was the blackness surrounding his heart. It felt like he had died with you and all that was left of him now was an empty shell.

There was no light in the world. Xanthus did not know himself anymore. Everything felt foreign.

He looked at his art gallery and saw nothing but an accumulation of things that would soon turn to dust. He walked through his mansion, one he had tended to and cared for for decades, and saw nothing but walls and emptiness.

The silence was the worst. It made him feel like a void, present but absent at the same time as loneliness, emptiness, and nothingness ate him up from the inside. His sanity was hanging on by a thread and the steady ebb and flow of anguish and sorrow in his mind was wearing him down.

In the quiet, he heard the echo of your sweet voice, making his heart seize until he doubled over in pain, gasping for breath until he scratched at the walls, sobbing for his lost love.

He played the piano until his fingers cramped, desperate to fill the silence and push you out of his mind. He longed for a moment of respite from this hell, but even that was denied him.

How much sorrow could one person take? Had he not suffered enough for his long life?

He gasped when he felt a hand on his shoulder, then a head gently resting on top of his. Xanthus did not dare turn around to face the emptiness where you should be. Instead, he closed his eyes, trying to keep his hands steady enough to continue the piece as tears rolled down his face and his shoulders shook with barely contained sobs.

It was a different kind of death he experienced, and Xanthus felt buried alive.

“I hate what you did to me,” he said, sitting on the windowsill with his feet dangling in the open air. The fall could not kill him. It would not even hurt. “I hate who you left behind,” he continued, talking to the moon.

He wished it were you instead.

The full moon reminded him of the time you went stargazing together. You had curled into his side, leaning your head on his shoulder as you told him about the constellations, marveling at the beauty before you. He had listened with a hum, arms securely wrapped around you as he closed his eyes, focusing on you instead.

Xanthus sighed, leaning against the wall. The soft night breeze ruffled his hair and he huffed as it dried his tears. “I don’t forgive you,” he muttered, cursing the universe, fate, or whatever else was responsible for the grand scheme of things. “I don’t forgive you for taking them away.”

He stopped counting the days he remained sitting there, gazing into the distance as night turned to day and night again. The passage of time was meaningless to an immortal. What would it matter if he lost a decade like this? What was there to lose now that you were gone? He was dead inside.

“Xanthus?” He blinked, slowly becoming aware of the reality around him when he felt hands on his shoulders, gently tugging him inside.

“What do you want?” he rasped, snatching his arm from Dontis’ grip. “Get out. I don’t want company.”

Dontis looked at him sadly, glancing around at the papers littering the floor. He took in his friend’s ragged appearance. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” he asked, placing a hand on Xanthus’ cheek and tilting his head to look at him.

The dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises on his pale skin. His eyes were dull and lifeless, fixed on Dontis but staring through him all the same.

“Leave, Dontis,” Xanthus said quietly, stepping back to shrug off his hand. “I want to be alone.” He turned his back to Dontis, leaning against the windowsill to look at the setting sun.

“I think you’ve been alone enough, Xanthus.” Dontis bent down, picking up one of the papers.

I find you in the moon,

You’re in the gentle breeze at night.

Each time I see the stars,

I see the past I can’t leave behind.

You’re in the whispers of the keys,

Dancing slowly through the air.

You are the brightness of my life,

How can I see when you’re not there?

Look at the wreck you have made me.

I am falling apart now that you’re gone.

I want to hate you I’ll always love you. Come back to me.

I can’t live without you. Please come back to me, love.

“Xanthus—”

“I will forever be alone now,” he said, his voice tight with tears, “so unless you can bring them back to me somehow, I suggest you stop robbing me of my solitude without offering real company unless you want me to snap your neck.”

Dontis sighed, setting the paper down on the remnants of the desk. Xanthus had nearly torn it to pieces.

“It will get better,” he said. “With time, you will find yourself again without them.”

“Dontis, I’m warning you—”

Xanthus stilled as his arms wrapped around him, engulfing him in a warm hug. He sighed, melting in the tight embrace. He was exhausted. He was tired of hurting all the time and having this void in his chest.

“I’ve got you,” Dontis said, tightening his grip and guiding Xanthus’ head to rest against his shoulder.

Slowly, Xanthus returned the embrace. He felt a fresh wave of tears overcoming him, and he held onto Dontis tightly as he sobbed into his shoulder. “I miss them, please,” he cried, allowing himself to break apart in his friend’s arms.

“I know. It will get better, I promise,” Dontis said comfortingly, not believing the words himself.

#sakuverse #zsakuva #xanthus claiborne #xanthus x reader

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deathfavor · 4 months ago

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" Choose. Someone's got to die today. You have got the final say on who ~ " Blood red lips split apart into a menacing smile, a nail tapping against the stone.

#᛭ — [IC] she to whom evil trembles before [SEKHMET]#᛭ — [OPENS] seize the moment before it turns to dust #her muse isnt even being that active #but this line had her up

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princessofanarchy · 10 months ago

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hi! this is honestly my first fanfic ever so i know there's maybe a few things I'm not doing right. i'm fully open to feedback and suggestions to improve. hope y'all like it ;)

You, the reader, and Gojo Satoru were in what everyone would consider a great relationship. That is, until he broke up with you, citing his desire to keep you safe from the threats of the world that he was a part of. He was thorough in his separation from you, so thorough that, had you wanted to reach out to him when you found out you were pregnant, you would not have been able to.

Now, three years later, you've moved out to a quiet village near the sea on Okinawa Island where you've been raising your son as a single mother. You've resigned yourself to only worrying about your son's paternity when he becomes old enough to question it, and you've convinced yourself that you're completely over the blue eyed bastard.

One day, you're out, strolling the beach with your son propped on your hip. You're enjoying the peaceful scene, indulging in your son's fascination of the seaside. His is the kind of fascination that can only come from experiencing something novel. It's the last place you expect to lock eyes on Satoru after the wind sent your wide brimmed hat flying his way and landing at his feet.

Your grip on your son tightens and you unconsciously hold his head to your chest, hiding his face and the azure blue eyes that are exactly like the ones you're looking at now. You can't which of you is more in shock over the encounter. You stare at each other for a few moments too long, but you're the first to speak.

"Can you……pass me that hat?" You ask politely. That seems to snap him out of it, and he picks the hat up and dusts it off before handing it to you.

"Thank you." You place the hat on your head, still holding your squirming son to your chest, and turn away quickly.

"Wait!"

You freeze. Your heart jackhammers in your chest. You hear the sand shift beneath his feet as he approaches you.

"Could you turn around, please?" He asks softly. You hesitate.

"M-mama!" The toddler in your arms whimpers frustratedly as he tries to wiggle from your uncomfortably tight grip. Your stomach drops when you realise that you might have been hurting him and you loosen your grip quickly and place a kisses on his forehead and cheeks.

"I'm sorry, baby. Mommy's sorry." You coo at him softly.

"Y/N?" Satoru calls out to you in a low voice from behind. His tone is unreadable. You consider, briefly, making a mad dash away from him. For some reason the desire to hide your son away from him has seized every fibre of your being. But you know damn well how futile that would be against Gojo Satoru, and it would only make him suspicious.

You turn slowly to face him, carefully hiding your son's face, and look up, into the eyes of the man that you weren't counting on seeing again anytime soon.

"Satoru. It's been a while." His name sounds foreign on your tongue, after not speaking it for almost three years. His eyes soften as he takes in your face. The expression makes your heart stutter.

"Yeah……it sure has been." He rubs the back of his head, a nervous trait of his. "You look, well."

"So do you." You respond evenly, as you wonder how you'll manage to get out of the interaction, hoping those damned eyes of his don't pick up on what you're trying to hide. You should have known better though, because when his eyes move from your face to the child in your arms, you knew that he had known from the moment your first locked eyes. His gaze travels back to your face, and he arches a snowy white brow. You press your lips together, not wanting to verbally confirm the obvious, and you both fall into a silent staring contest that lasts a few brief moments before he sighs deeply.

"Can I hold him?"

The immediate answer than springs to your tongue is a resounding 'No'. And right on its heels are all the things you wanted to scream at him when he left broken and abandoned three years ago. He sees it on your face, the myriad of feelings, the supressed hurt and anger.

"There's a lot of things we have to talk about." He says. "And we will, I promise. But for now, can I just -"

His words taper off as the child in your arms turns and looks at him curiously. You're watching Satoru's face the entire time. You see his breath catch. You see the shock in his eyes. Then you see something that wasn't there when he broke your heart; regret. Anger blooms within your chest.

"My house isn't too far from the beach." You hear yourself say, before you turn and walk away.

Satoru watches your retreating back for a moment before taking one step, then another, before he begins walking after you.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #fanfic #writers on tumblr

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jrob64 · 29 days ago

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Exacting His Revenge - Chapter 1

It's an international holiday, also known as @kmomof4's birthday! This story has been floundering in my WiPs folder for months under the title 'Bad Boy Hook'. I finally decided to try to finish it for Krystal's birthday, even though she actually helped plot it out! I'm not finished writing the story yet. It will have 3 chapters and chapter 2 is nearly finished, so hopefully the rest of it will be posted soon. Happiest of birthdays, K!!!

Special thanks to my beta @hookedmom.

Story Summary: When Hook sees an opportunity to finally get his revenge on Rumplestiltskin, he seizes it, putting him in the company of Emma Swan. A season 2 canon divergent story.

Rating: T

Words: 6980

Also posted on ffn and A03

(Story found under the cut)

*********

Hook stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the dank wall of the dungeon containing the cell where Rumplestiltskin had once been imprisoned. He stared at the four women currently trapped there; or more accurately, he stared at Emma Swan, the woman who bested him twice in the last few days.

He refrained from snorting derisively as he listened to Cora taunt them, directing her venomous comments toward the dark haired woman who was somehow Emma’s mother. The Queen of Hearts was attempting to sound like a loving mother who just wanted to make her daughter Regina happy, but he knew better.

“...and now I’m going to give her the one thing she’s always wanted - your heart. Goodbye, Snow.”

Hook flinched as he watched Cora thrust her hand toward the other woman’s chest. When he saw the Swan girl push her mother out of the way, he dropped his arms and jerked forward, his own heart in his throat and sick despair in his gut. But before he could utter the warning that was on the tip of his tongue, Cora’s hand plunged into Emma’s chest.

Frozen in place - extremely unpleasant and unbidden memories parading themselves across his mind - he waited for the inevitable. He didn’t think he would be able to stand to watch the blonde’s heart get crushed and see her crumple lifelessly to the ground.

“Oh, you foolish girl!” Cora chided. “Don’t you know? Love is weakness.”

Hook’s eyes closed as he heard the unmistakable squelching sound of a heart being seized, but they popped open again when Cora’s gasp of disbelief reached his ears. She was tugging repeatedly, unable to extract the organ.

Suddenly, Emma straightened and stared straight into her adversary’s face. “No,” she stated, forcefully. “It’s strength.” The moment she uttered those words, Cora was thrown backwards by a stunning blast of magic.

Hook stood numbly, his jaw slack with shock. In his entire association with Cora, he had never seen anyone who could repel her magic. Yet here was the Swan girl, seemingly a complete novice in the practice of magic, completely knocking the witch off her feet. It was at that moment, Hook made the final decision of who would receive his allegiance.

Cora pushed herself to her feet with a curse, dramatically brushing the dust from her gown and glaring at Emma. “I should make you pay for that little stunt, but simply knowing you will die a slow death in the dungeon of your parents’ own castle is enough satisfaction for me.” With as much dignity as she could muster, she pivoted and swished past the pirate. “Come, Hook. We have everything we need to get to Storybrooke.” She said the last word pointedly, obviously knowing the pain her statement would inflict.

Hook watched her go, fingering the withered bean he pilfered from the giant. He took a step toward the cage as he considered giving it to the Swan girl, but thought better of it and placed it in his pocket instead. He just witnessed the powerful magic she had within her and had no doubt she would somehow be able to break them out of the cell.

Ignoring the pleas of the four women, he turned to follow Cora out of the dungeon, checking his hook to ensure it was securely locked into the brace. Moving stealthily, he came up behind her, hesitating only a second before plunging the appendage into her neck. His aim was true, puncturing the carotid artery. Cora stumbled and fell to her knees, clutching at the wound which was spraying the walls with her blood.

Kneeling beside his former ally, he plucked the compass and Aurora’s heart from the floor where she dropped them, and quickly located the vial containing the ashes of the magic wardrobe. Then, looking into her rapidly paling face, he stated, “My apologies, Your Majesty, but I find I am no longer in need of your services.”

Choking on her own blood, her answer came out as a gurgle. Her fingers clawed at the leather of his vest, desperately trying to cling to life, but to no avail. He watched the last flicker of light leave her eyes, then her lifeless body collapsed to the ground.

*********

Hook was waiting outside the castle when the four princesses came rushing out some time later. Aurora’s hand was covering her mouth, clearly queasy after seeing the grisly scene on her way out.

Emma stopped short when she spotted the pirate, lounging against the stone wall at the entrance of the dungeon as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “I’m assuming that’s your handiwork in there?”

“What, Cora?” he asked nonchalantly, making a show of polishing his hook with his sleeve. “Aye, it is.”

“Why did you kill her?” Mary Margaret asked. “Not that I’m complaining, but why did you do it?”

Hook slowly straightened up, taking his time before answering. “Cora was not to be trusted. I only worked with her because she appeared to provide the best opportunity for me to meet my objective, but now that is no longer the case.”

“So you found another way to get to Gold?” Emma asked.

“Indeed, I did.”

“Then why are you still here?” Mulan questioned.

“Because you lovelies are that other way.”

“Us?” Mary Margaret squeaked. “But we haven’t figured out a way to get back to Storybrooke yet.”

“I believe I have everything necessary to accomplish that,” Hook said, patting the satchel resting on his hip. “And I also have this,” he added, reaching into the bag to pull out Aurora’s red, glowing heart. He held it out to Emma, who took a step back.

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“Because it takes magic to return someone’s heart, Love.”

“But I…” Her voice trailed away.

“Have magic, Swan,” Hook continued her thought when it became clear she wouldn’t.

She squirmed under his penetrating gaze, her mind struggling to come to grips with the thought. Did she have magic? It was unbelievable! Then again, a week ago, she wouldn’t have believed she could slay a dragon or break a curse with True Love’s Kiss. But freaking Captain Hook was obviously convinced she did.

What even was her life?

“Please,” Aurora pleaded, interrupting Emma’s spiraling thoughts as she stepped in front of her. “Hook’s right. It has to be you.”

Emma stared at her disbelievingly for a few moments, then finally held out her hand for Hook to place the heart into it. Balancing it on her palm, her face tightened into a mask of determination before she thrust her hand forward, burying it in Aurora’s chest. The princess gasped, nearly doubling over, then straightened and beamed at Emma as she withdrew her hand. “You did it! Thank you!” she exclaimed.

Emma stood looking down at her hand with a slightly squeamish look on her face. “That is definitely something I hope I never have to do again.”

Aurora grabbed Emma and gave her a hug, before turning to Mulan. “We need to get back to Philip.”

Mulan glared at Hook with narrowed eyes. “Are you sure that’s wise? Snow and Emma might still need protection.”

“Do you really think I pose a threat to them when they are going to help me get my revenge?” he growled.

“Who’s to say you won’t kill them once you do?” Mulan countered. “You disposed of Cora once you didn’t need her anymore.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Aww, don’t tell me you had become fond of her.”

Mulan straightened her spine to stand at her full height. “Of course not! She was pure evil, but you killed her in cold blood.”

“You have no reason to fear for your friends’ lives.” He almost looked offended by Mulan’s words. “I don’t intend to harm them, but you saw what Cora tried to do to Snow White in there. She was the one who was going to enable her daughter to murder in cold blood. I was simply putting a stop to her reign of terror.”

“Look, I don’t really care who murdered who in cold blood,” Emma interjected. “I just want to get home to my son! Mulan, go with us or don’t, it doesn’t matter. Aurora, go find your prince. Hook, show me what you have in that bag and tell me how we can use it to get to Storybrooke.”

“There’s the tough lass I’ve come to know,” Hook smirked, lifting the flap on the satchel and reaching inside. “Compass and magic wardrobe ashes,” he recited, placing each of the items into Emma’s outstretched hands. “Cora’s theory was that the ashes could create a portal, but just in case she was wrong, I also have this.” Drawing the string containing the giant’s magic bean over his head, he let it swing at eye level between them.

“How is that supposed to help?” Snow asked. “It’s dried up, useless.”

“Ah, but the waters of Lake Nostos have regenerative properties. That’s where Cora and I were going before she met her…unfortunate demise.”

“That lake doesn’t have water in it anymore,” Snow said. “We…we needed it to save David’s mother, but it was completely dry because he had killed the siren who lived in it. Of course, she was trying to kill him first.”

Hook turned his eyes on Emma. “Cora said the lake could be restored with magic. That’s where you come in, Love.”

Emma stared wide-eyed at each of the four people surrounding her in turn. “I know nothing about how to use…” she paused and waved her hand around, having trouble actually saying the word, “...magic!”

Snow stepped in front of her daughter and grasped her upper arms. “You can do it, Emma! You said it yourself - love is strength. If you just concentrate on the love you have for Henry and how much you want to get back to him, I’m sure you will be able to make your magic work.”

Blowing out a long breath, Emma said, “Well, I guess I won’t know until I try.”

“Too right, lass,” Hook agreed. “Now, shall we be on our way? I have a crocodile to skin.”

After bidding goodbye to Aurora and Mulan, Hook led the way to Lake Nostos, attempting to engage Emma and Snow in conversation along the way. “So, tell me how the two of you are mother and daughter when you look to be nearly the same age. Have you been to Neverland where time stands still, Milady?” he asked Snow.

The two women exchanged glances. “It’s a long story,” Snow said.

“My schedule is pretty open right now,” Hook quipped.

“You were with Cora. Did she not tell you about the curse her daughter cast?” Snow asked.

“Ah, yes, of course. She did explain the significance of the wardrobe ashes. So, you were caught up in it and didn’t age, while your daughter was sent to the Land Without Magic by herself, essentially an orphan.”

Emma’s eyes flitted over to him at the reminder of the words he had spoken to her on the beanstalk. “Do we really have to listen to you talk the whole way? I’m trying to concentrate on how I’m going to make my magic work once we get there.”

“I shall endeavor to give you the silence you request, Princess,” Hook said with a slight bow.

“Don’t call me that,” she muttered under her breath.

“As you wish, Emma.”

She glared at him, eliciting a smirk before he turned his attention back to the path in front of them. They walked on in silence for a while, until Snow quietly said, “The lake wasn’t completely dried up when we reached it, you know.”

“Why couldn’t it save my grandmother, then?” Emma asked.

When Snow didn’t answer for a few moments, Emma looked over, her brow furrowing when she saw that her mother was obviously struggling with her emotions. Her chin trembled and Emma could see the glistening of tears in her eyes. Finally, she whispered, “Because she insisted that I take the swallow of water left to reverse the curse of barrenness King George put on me. If she hadn’t…well…you wouldn’t be here.”

There was silence between the three of them as they pondered that revelation.

“Then you and David were married on the shore of the lake, right?” Emma asked, seeking to lift the somberness of the moment.

“Yes,” Snow smiled slightly. “Lancelot married us, so Ruth could witness it before she passed.”

“That’s quite the romantic tale, Milady,” Hook murmured.

“What would you know about romance?” Emma mumbled.

Hook’s eyes snapped to hers and she saw a flash of hurt in them. Remembering what he said about Milah when they were at the top of the beanstalk, she immediately regretted her words and was opening her mouth to apologize, when he cleared his throat and responded, “I’ve wooed many a woman, Swan. Perhaps you desire to be one of them.”

Although she could tell he was using the innuendo to mask his true feelings, she couldn’t keep herself from retorting, “In your dreams, buddy.”

He turned and took a step closer to her, bending until his face was within inches of hers. “Since it appears that you’re amenable, I will see you in my dreams, Swan.”

“I think we’re almost there,” Snow stated, and Emma breathed a sigh of relief at the interruption.

Hook gave her one more meaningful look before turning and glancing around their surroundings. “Aye, you’re correct. It should be just around that bend in the road.”

They finished the journey in silence. Once they reached the edge of what obviously used to be the lake, Hook came to a stop in the soft sand, halting Snow and Emma in their tracks. Crossing his arms over his chest, he said, “Well, this is it. Time to work your magic, Swan.”

“You say that like it’s the easiest thing in the world,” she grumbled, her eyes flitting over the barren ground in front of them.

Snow stepped up beside her and took her hand. “I believe there is powerful magic inside you, Emma. No one has ever been able to defeat Cora like you did. You don’t need to fill the lake, all you need to do is generate enough water to restore the bean.”

“Yeah, okay,” Emma answered, widening her stance and setting her jaw in determination. She closed her eyes, picturing her son and father in her mind. A tingling sensation worked itself up from her chest, down her arms and to her fingertips. Stretching her arms out in front of her, she felt the sensation build until she was sure it was ready to burst, then thrust her hands forward.

She heard her mother gasp beside her, but Emma kept her eyes closed, afraid to open them for fear it hadn’t worked. Suddenly, she felt Hook’s presence beside her. “Well done, Love,” he murmured into her ear, sending a different type of tingle through her body.

Her eyes popped open, her knees nearly buckling as she beheld the sparking blue water of the lake, filled so completely that the water lapped at the toes of her boots.

“You did it, Emma!” Snow exclaimed. “I knew you could!”

As Emma continued to stare in disbelief, Hook once again pulled the string containing the magic bean over his head. Holding it out to Emma, he asked, “Would you like to do the honors?”

“Uh, sure,” she said, snapping out of her trance to take it. Bending down, she dipped the black, shriveled bean into the water, waiting a few seconds before pulling it out.

Snow gave a little cheer when the crystal clear bean emerged, fully restored. When Hook reached for it, Emma pulled it back. Slipping the string over her head, she said, “I think I’ll hold onto this, if you don’t mind.”

Once again, she caught a quick glimpse of hurt pass over his face before he composed himself and replied, “As you wish.”

“What’s the next part of the plan?” Emma asked.

“Now,” Hook replied, “we sail to Storybrooke on my ship, the Jolly Roger.”

“Of course we do,” mumbled Emma. “Why am I not surprised?”

*********

Hook decided to use the bean to create a portal and, in a surprising show of generosity, gave the vial of ashes from the wardrobe to Mary Margaret ‘for the sake of nostalgia.’

“I had no idea you had such a soft side,” Emma commented.

“I don’t,” he was quick to reply. “Just don’t have any need for sparkly dirt.”

Emma could tell he wasn’t being completely truthful, but decided getting to Henry was more important than questioning him.

He quickly got the ship ready to sail and they were soon out at sea, dropping into a portal that looked like a whirlpool. It was the middle of the night by the time they reached Storybrooke.

“It’s been a pleasure to travel on such a beautiful ship!” Mary Margaret proclaimed.

“Aye, my ship - she’s a marvel,” Hook agreed proudly, guiding the Jolly Roger into the harbor.

“I can’t believe you were able to sail it without a crew,” Emma said.

“I’m a hell of a captain,” he smirked. “Besides, I had the two of you to help and you were fast learners. You’re welcome to join my crew.”

“Don’t count on it,” Emma mumbled.

“Pity, that,” Hook commented. “I could take you on exciting adventures, show you exotic places that are beyond your wildest dreams.”

“I’ve had enough adventure in the last few weeks to last me a lifetime, thank you very much. Right now the only place I want to be is with my son.”

Hook hummed, nodding his understanding as he expertly maneuvered the ship into a berth. As soon as it was docked and he dropped the gangplank, Emma and Mary Margaret hastily thanked him and wasted no time disembarking and hurrying down the street.

Hook stood alone, watching them until they disappeared around a corner. Even without Emma in his line of view, he could still see her in his mind’s eye, blonde locks flying behind her as she ran, her lithe body moving effortlessly.

Mentally shaking himself, he tried to force his thoughts toward how he was going to exact his revenge on the crocodile. He had been waiting for this opportunity for over two hundred years, and now it was within his grasp.

So why was winning the affections of the feisty Emma Swan suddenly more important?

*********

Storybrooke was an enigma to Hook. It was nothing like the Enchanted Forest, but some of the same laws of magic still applied. Even though they were in the ‘Land Without Magic’, magic had somehow found its way there, and the Dark One was still the Dark One, with the same power and immortality.

Hook had trouble reconciling the fact that the distinguished-looking Mr. Gold was the persona adopted by the evil imp, Rumplestiltskin. Yet, as he spied on the man day after day, he could see that he exhibited the same despicable and selfish tendencies when interacting with the residents of the town.

He was stunned to learn the Dark One had a lady love - Belle French, the beautiful, mannerly librarian. When Rumplestiltskin was with her, his behavior was entirely different, and Hook could tell she had won his heart. This knowledge helped him hatch a plan that was sure to destroy the crocodile’s life, just as he had destroyed Hook’s.

By listening carefully to snippets of conversations while he covertly roamed around Storybrooke, he learned no one could cross the town line. Rumplestiltskin, however, had apparently found a way around that little problem.

While gathering that information, Hook also kept an eye on Emma Swan. It turned out she was the town’s law enforcement, so was often out on the streets. He watched her from a distance and felt a pang of jealousy every time he saw her with a handsome, sandy-haired man, until the day he saw the same man with Mary Margaret and realized he must be Emma’s father.

He also saw her with the boy he assumed was her son. It felt odd to have a sense of pride at being able to help reunite the two. The lad didn’t seem to be any worse for the wear, having nearly lost his mother and grandmother. He was always speaking animatedly to Emma as they strolled down the sidewalk together.

Hook had been able to avoid contact with Regina thus far. He was hoping not to have to explain his role in her mother’s death. Her relationship with Cora was contentious, but she was still Regina’s mother and he was sure to be the recipient of her wrath and perhaps a fireball or two.

His stealth as a pirate served him well, and he was able to elude being noticed by the crocodile. However, hiding the Jolly Roger was a completely different matter. He knew his ship was too visible in Storybrooke harbor, but he needed her to be at his disposal. He finally settled on docking her around the bend at a rocky outcropping where she would be concealed, while allowing him access via a secluded section of beach that seemed to be ignored by the citizens of the town.

The day Rumplestiltskin planned to cross the town line finally arrived. Hook hid himself amongst the trees along the road early that morning, unsure of when the attempt would be made. He checked and re-checked the gun he managed to pilfer from the sheriff’s station. It was similar to the pistols he used for centuries, but was smaller and easier to handle. After watching Emma using one to shoot target practice in the middle of the woods one day, he knew it would be much more efficient than his hook in reaching his objective.

When Hook heard one of those odd contraptions called a car approaching, he made sure the gun was ready to fire and got into position behind a large tree. He watched Rumplestiltskin and Belle exit the vehicle and step toward the town line. Belle held a shawl in her hands that Hook recognized as one Milah made, and Rumplestiltskin held a potion bottle. Hook saw him speaking to Belle, but wasn’t close enough to hear what he was saying. The way she stood there gazing at him as if he hung the moon turned Hook’s stomach.

Rumplestiltskin took the stopper out of the bottle and poured the potion on the shawl, then tossed the bottle away. Hook saw the fabric glowing as Belle placed it around Rumplestiltskin’s neck.

“Here we go,” he said, then slowly limped over the town line. Turning, he hesitated for a long moment, then pointed at the auburn-haired beauty and said simply, “Belle.”

She let out a joyful laugh and said, “It worked!” Taking his hand, she added, “Now you can find your son.”

Just as Rumplestiltskin began to respond, Hook stepped out from behind the tree.

“This is for you, Milah,” he whispered, then pulled the trigger.

Belle’s scream ripped through the air as Rumplestiltskin stepped quickly over the line to catch her before she fell. Looking up, his eyes filled with rage at seeing his old nemesis. “What have you done?” he screamed. “Belle has done nothing to you!”

“I can’t kill the Dark One, but I can kill the woman who holds your heart. You killed my love. Now you know the feeling.”

Rumplestiltskin turned his attention back to Belle, searching for her injury. Meanwhile, Hook started walking back through the woods, intending to return to his ship and sail away, his revenge complete.

He was on the outskirts of town when he heard the sounds of what he had learned were sirens. His smile of satisfaction faded, knowing Emma would soon find out about his murderous act. She was sure to disapprove. Apparently in this modern world, scores weren’t settled with a life for a life.

Hook finally reached his ship and went aboard. He was in the process of readying it to sail when he heard a familiar voice.

“Going somewhere, Hook?”

Walking across the deck, he looked over the side. The light from the moon illuminated the blonde hair of Emma Swan, who was standing on the beach below.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Swan?” he asked non-chalantly.

“You do know it’s against the law to shoot someone, don’t you?”

“In the Enchanted Forest, it’s called vengeance.”

“In Storybrooke, it’s called attempted murder.”

Hook’s brows shot up. “Attempted?”

“Oh, are you disappointed you didn’t succeed in killing an innocent woman? You shot her in the shoulder. She’s been taken to the hospital, but she’s expected to be fine.”

“Bloody hell,” Hook mumbled, pounding his fist on the wooden railing.

“Are you going to come down here or do I have to come onboard?”

He decided to try turning on the charm. “Why Swan, are you seducing me?”

“You’re not funny, buddy. Belle isn’t only a citizen of this town, she’s also my friend. Now, I’m not asking, I’m ordering. Get down here right now. You’re under arrest.”

Hook sighed. He knew if he tried to sail away, he would appear to be a coward. Might as well face the music. “Very well,” he said, starting to saunter over to the gangplank.

“And bring the gun you stole from the sheriff’s office. You’ll be charged with theft for that, too.”

Hook briefly wondered how she found out about that, but didn’t ask. Being such a brilliant lass, he was sure she figured it out on her own.

She met him at the bottom of the gangplank, a set of handcuffs in her hand. “Hands behind your back,” she instructed gruffly.

“Is that really necessary? I’ll come along peacefully.”

“It’s standard procedure,” she said, encouraging him to turn around by tugging on his arm.

Once the cuffs were firmly around his wrist and the brace holding his hook, she patted him down until she found the gun in the deep pocket of his long duster. Holding it up in front of him, she snarled, “I can’t believe you stole a gun from the police. When did you manage to do that?”

“I can’t give away all of my secrets, Swan.”

“Fine, but you’ll have plenty of time to reconsider. You’re gonna be locked up for a long time,” she stated, giving him a not so gentle shove to get him moving.

“We’ll see about that,” he said, throwing her a look over his shoulder.

“You should count yourself lucky that you’ll be locked up. Gold is furious and if he gets to you, it’s hard to tell what he’ll do.”

“I’m not afraid of the bloody crocodile,” Hook said, a sardonic grin on his face.

“Keep smiling, buddy. You’re under arrest and handcuffed. He’s on his feet, immortal, has magic and you hurt his girl. If I were to pick dead guy of the year, I’d pick you.”

Hook turned away from her and continued trudging along the beach. Neither of them spoke again until they reached the squad car. After locking him in the back, Emma seated herself behind the wheel and picked up the radio. “I have the suspect in custody,” she reported. “I’ll be at the station in five minutes.”

Once they arrived, David came out of the building and opened the back door. Grabbing Hook by the arm, he roughly pulled him out of the car. Keeping an iron grip on him, he led him into the station, Emma following along behind.

“Any news on Belle?” she asked.

“Whale took her in for surgery a little while ago. He said he would update us when he’s finished.”

“Is Gold at the hospital?”

“Yeah. I asked Leroy to hang around and let us know if he leaves. I’m sure once he finds out Hook is locked up here, he’ll be paying us a visit.”

“Good idea. I’m sure Leroy won’t mind being our informant.” Holding up the gun, she added, “Got this back. I’ll tag it for evidence.”

“Think you’re pretty clever stealing a gun from the police and using it to shoot an innocent woman, don’t you, Hook?” David said, practically spitting the last word at him.

“I’m usually a better shot, but I’m not used to such a small weapon,” Hook quipped. “My weapons are much bigger and have better accuracy.”

“Why didn’t you just use one of them, then?” Emma asked, stepping behind the camera to take his mugshot.

“Alas, I failed to procure more ammunition before embarking on our trip to your fair Storybrooke.”

David positioned him in front of the wall, instructing him to look at the camera. He glowered as Emma took the first picture. “Turn to your right,” she ordered.

“You look good, I must say. All ‘turn to your right’ in a commanding voice. Chills,” Hook commented as he followed her directions.

Emma rolled her eyes before clicking the button on the camera.

After the pictures were finished, David unlocked the handcuffs, telling Hook to take off his heavy coat, which he did without complaint. However, when Emma told him to remove his hook, he balked.

“No arguments,” Emma commanded. “You’ll pick the lock with that thing.”

He glared at her for several moments, but it made no difference. She stood there with her hand out, staring him down until he finally twisted the device out of the brace and begrudgingly placed it in her palm.

Soon he was escorted into one of the jail cells and the door slammed shut behind him. “I’ll take the first watch,” Emma told David. “You go home to Mary Margaret and tell Henry I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” David asked, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he gave Hook a hard stare. “I’d be happy to stay here and let you go home to get some sleep.”

“It’s no problem. I’m too wound up to sleep, anyway.”

“Or you could both go home,” Hook stated. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Yeah, like I would trust you,” Emma spat.

“Okay, I’m taking off. If he gives you any trouble, call me. I’ll be more than willing to punch him in the face,” David said.

“Quite hostile, aren’t you?” Hook drawled, casually leaning against the bars examining his fingernails nonchalantly.

“Just making myself clear,” David responded. Turning back to Emma, he added, “If I hear anything from Whale or Leroy, I’ll let you know, but they will probably call the station first.”

“True. I’ll text you if they do.”

“Text?” Hook questioned.

“It’s a way of communicating through the phone,” she explained, waving the device in the air to show him. “Something a thousand-year-old pirate wouldn’t understand.”

“More like three hundred,” Hook grumbled.

David and Emma said their goodbyes, then she sat down in the desk chair, swiveling it back and forth as she crossed her arms and fixed Hook with a stare. “So let me get this straight - your idea of getting revenge on Rumplestiltskin was to steal a gun and shoot his girlfriend, then sail away?”

“As you’re well aware, the Dark One can’t be killed. I wanted him to know the pain of losing a woman he loved. That pain is worse than death.”

“From what you said at the top of the beanstalk, I surmised he killed the woman you loved. ”

“Aye, my Milah. He pulled her heart out and crushed it right in front of me.”

Emma winced. “No wonder you hate the guy. What did you do to him to make him do something like that?”

Hook wandered over and sat on the cot, leaning back against the wall and crossing his own arms. “Well, you see, Milah was Rumplestiltskin’s wife, but she left him because he was a coward. The laughing stock of the town. She couldn’t take it anymore and ran away with me to live a life of adventure on the high seas.”

“You were either brave or stupid to fall in love with the Dark One’s wife.”

“He wasn’t the Dark One when I fell in love with her.”

Before Emma could answer, the phone sitting on the desk began ringing. “Sheriff’s station,” she answered.

Hook listened to her side of the conversation, watching her furrow her brow and nod. After she hung up, she said, “That was Whale. Belle is out of surgery. The bullet came out clean and she’s going to be fine.”

“Is she in pain at least?”

Emma narrowed her eyes at him. “Belle is sweet and would never hurt anyone.”

“Neither would Milah,” he shot back.

“Still, don’t you feel at all guilty about shooting Belle when she didn’t do anything wrong?”

“She fell in love with the bloody Dark One! She should thank me for trying to put her out of her misery.”

“I should have known you wouldn’t feel any remorse. You are a pirate, after all,” she scoffed with disdain.

A flash of hurt passed across his face before he huffed, “Aye, that I am.”

Emma placed a call to David to tell him the news about Belle. After ending it, she and Hook fell into silence. He lay down on the lumpy, narrow cot, dramatically punching at the pillow with his fist, then closed his eyes to make a pretense of falling asleep. Every time he cracked open his eyes to peek at Emma, she was staring at him.

“See something you like, Swan?” he finally asked.

“No. I just see someone who can’t be trusted.”

“So you plan to remain awake all night to make sure I won’t escape?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Rest assured, Darling, I have no way to escape this cell. You can go to sleep.”

“Actually,” she said, standing up and striding over to a file cabinet, “I have a lot of paperwork to fill out because of your little stunt tonight. Might as well put this time to good use.”

Sitting back down at the desk, she pulled out a pen and started writing. Hook watched her for a few minutes until he got bored, then closed his eyes and drifted to sleep. He dreamed that Milah was lying on the deck of the Jolly Roger in the exact spot where she died, sobbing and telling him that he failed her again.

*********

When Hook woke up the next morning, David was sitting at the desk, playing solitaire with a deck of cards.

“So that’s what you look like when you don’t get your beauty sleep, Swan,” Hook quipped.

David didn’t even look up. “I see sleep doesn’t improve your ability to be funny.”

Hook sat up and swung his legs over the side of the cot, looking around the cell. “I don’t suppose you have a chamber pot available, do you mate?”

“No chamber pots and I’m not your mate,” David said, pushing himself away from the desk. “I can let you use the bathroom, but if you try anything…” he patted the gun in the holster he was wearing.

“I wasn’t asking to take a bath, sheriff,” Hook said, over emphasizing the last word. “I just need a pot to piss in.”

“A bathroom is where you do that in the modern world, pirate,” David retorted. “Haven’t you heard of a toilet?”

“Can’t say that I have since I’ve only been in this world for a few days. How long did it take you to adjust to all of the changes?”

David unlocked the cell door and swung it open, reaching in to firmly grip Hook’s arm. “I don’t know. I was in a coma for twenty-eight years.”

Hook gaped at him as he stumbled out of the cell. “I suppose that was Regina’s doing?”

“Yeah, She also provided me with a wife, and it wasn’t Snow.”

“She really had it in for the two of you, didn’t she?”

“The three of us, actually. We were forced to send Emma to this world just minutes after she was born in order for her to escape the coming curse. We hoped she would be able to find us and break it someday.”

“And she did,” Hook stated knowingly.

“Of course she did. And besides that, the first day she ever handled a sword, she slayed a dragon,” David said, puffing his chest out proudly. “In case you haven’t noticed, my daughter is the strongest, bravest, most intelligent person you will ever meet.”

“I have noticed, believe me,” Hook muttered.

They reached the bathroom and David gave him a small push inside, then closed the door behind him. After a moment, he called out, “The toilet is the thing with the water in it. Don’t pee in the sink!”

*********

Hook was surprised Emma didn’t come into the station that morning. Ruby arrived to deliver breakfast from Granny’s for David and Hook, but otherwise, it was just the two men ignoring each other.

It was almost noon when Leroy burst into the office, spouting something about Gold running off to New York City. None of it concerned Hook, who was happy to hear the crocodile would be leaving town, until he heard the dwarf mention Emma.

“Why would Emma go anywhere with him?” David asked, launching himself out of his chair.

“Gold said she has to help him because he doesn’t know how airports work,” Leroy explained. “He said if she won’t, he’s going to come here and kill Hook.”

“What’s the downside of that?” David asked.

“Hey!” Hook protested.

“I’m going to go home and try to talk some sense into her,” David said, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “Can you stay here and keep an eye on him?”

“Gladly,” Leroy growled, glowering at Hook. “If he tries anything, do I have permission to shoot him?”

“He won’t try anything, will you, Hook?”

“I wouldn’t dare, after being threatened by a dwarf,” Hook responded derisively. He watched David sprint out of the station, hoping he would be able to talk Emma out of the insane idea of traveling with Rumplestiltskin.

Leroy plopped into the chair David had vacated, crossing his arms across his chest with a furious look on his face. Hook wasn’t in the mood to deal with the dwarf, so he lay down on the cot, turning to face the wall.

He had no idea how much time passed before he heard David come back. He continued to pretend to be asleep, hoping to hear information about Emma.

“Did he give you any trouble?” the sheriff asked.

“Nope. I let him know in no uncertain terms that I wouldn’t put up with any nonsense. Must not have wanted to tangle with me, because he hasn’t said a peep.”

Hook rolled his eyes so hard, it was almost painful.

“Were you able to talk your daughter out of the cockamamie idea of going to New York with Gold?” Leroy continued.

Hook’s blood froze at David’s next words. “No. She’s as stubborn as the day is long. They’re on their way to the airport right now. Henry is staying with us until she gets back.”

“Do you think she’s safe with him?” Leroy asked.

“The only consolation I have is that he needs her to drive him there and navigate the process of flying. He won’t gain anything by hurting her.”

In theory, Hook knew that was true. But he also knew the Dark One tricks and the Dark One lies. He didn’t put anything past Rumplestiltskin. His mind began churning with ideas for how to break out of jail and get to Emma before something happened to her. If he had to kill Rumplestiltskin to accomplish that, so much the better.

While David and Leroy continued to talk, Hook formulated a plan.

The first step was accomplished shortly after Leroy left, when Ruby delivered lunch from the diner. While David was occupied chatting with the waitress, Hook used a large hairpin he kept in his pocket to help him pull the small buttons of his shirt through the buttonholes, to pick the lock of the cell. It wasn’t easy doing it with one hand, but he managed in a relatively short amount of time.

“I’m going to wash my hands, then I’ll give you your lunch,” David announced, turning his back to walk toward the bathroom. Hook slipped out of the cell, immediately going for the crowbar he had noticed sitting in a corner of the room. Stealthily, he moved to stand outside the bathroom door with the weapon raised in his hand.

When David emerged a minute later, Hook clocked him, muttering, “Apologies, mate, but if you aren’t going to ensure your daughter’s safety, I guess it’s up to me.”

Stepping over David’s unconscious form, he went to the desk and started opening drawers. Finding his hook in the bottom one, he clicked it into place, grabbed his heavy duster from the coat rack and left the station.

After making it down Main Street by ducking and dodging into alleys and behind dumpsters, he arrived at Gold’s Pawn Shop. He made quick work of picking the lock on the back door, entering quietly and starting his search.

He soon found the case where Gold kept his potions and poisons. The bottle filled with a thick, inky liquid drew his attention. He carefully unstoppered and sniffed it. Finding it to be exactly what he was hoping to procure, he stuck it into the deep pocket of his coat and rushed back out the door.

The trip to the Jolly Roger was without incident or coming into contact with any of the townsfolk. Since it was made ready to sail the night before, he was out on the open water in record time, sailing toward the mysterious land of New York.

*********

Thank you for reading. Please join me in wishing Krystal the happiest of birthdays!

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#exacting his revenge #jrob64 #csff #birthday fic for krystal #ouat season 2 canon divergent #captain swan fanfiction #ouat fanfiction

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