#and he's not all bad he's really not but the problem see is that he's seen you cry so he has to be dead or never speak to anyone you know

[gojofile]

stardust

summary: raised in a village on the kingdom’s outskirts, you’ve always dreamed of seeing the annual lantern festival in the capital. when you unwittingly help a thief on the run—gojo satoru—he agrees to take you there as repayment. what starts off as a simple deal soon pulls you into a conspiracy that ties back to the crown—and to satoru’s past.

⇢ pairing: thief/flynn rider!gojo satoru x fem!reader ⇢ contains: romance, angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex, loss of virginity), slowburn, action, tangled au, debatable attempts at comedy, profanity, inaccurate depictions of horse-riding, mentions of poison and murder, violence that comes with daggers/swords/frying pans—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! ⇢ word count: 31k ⇢ playlist: “you broke my smolder” ⇢ art credit: _3aem | read on ao3 here.

It turns out that blackmailing a wanted criminal is much harder than it seems.

For one, he does not take you seriously. Not even a little.

“Oh no,” Satoru says, eyes wide with feigned horror. “You’re going to turn me in? Me? The helpless victim in all of this?” He clutches his chest, staggering back as if he’s been struck. “What a cruel, coldhearted thing to do to the man whose life you just heroically saved.”

“You’re only saying that because you know I have the upper hand,” you deadpan.

“Details, details,” he says, waving a hand. “But let’s be real here, sweetheart. If you were really going to call the guards—after you rescued me from the aforementioned guards—you’d have done it by now.”

You stiffen. He grins, slow and knowing. “Ah,” he says, tapping his temple. “See, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re bluffing.”

“I am not bluffing,” you insist, even as your grip tightens around your satchel.

Satoru’s grin only grows. He takes a step closer, like a cat toying with its prey. “Oh?”

You plant your feet firmly, refusing to back down. “Oh, indeed.”

Then—so fast you almost don’t register it—he lunges. With a startled yelp, you whirl away, narrowly dodging his grasp as he reaches for the satchel. Satoru lets out a low whistle. “Not bad,” he muses. “You’ve got quick reflexes.”

You clutch the satchel to your chest. “You’re just predictable.”

Satoru places a hand over his chest and gasps. “Predictable? Me?” He scoffs. “Sweetheart, I am many things—charming, intelligent, devastatingly handsome—but predictable is not one of them.”

“Fine.” You roll your eyes. “If you want the crown back so badly, then take it,” you say, and before he can react, you pivot on your heel and sprint. 

“Whoa, hey—”

You dart through the trees, leaping over gnarly roots and weaving through the underbrush, legs burning as you push forward. The satchel bounces against your side. The village is close—if you can just make it past the ridge, maybe you can—

A hand catches your wrist. You’re being spun; the world tilts, and your back slams into something solid. Your breath is knocked out of your lungs with a sharp gasp.

Gojo Satoru—the most wanted man in the entire kingdom—looms over you. His palm is pressed flat against the trunk of the tree behind your head, trapping you in place. He’s not even out of breath. His hair is a mess of white strands, a few falling over his forehead, and his eyes—those ridiculous, celestial blue eyes—are twinkling with delight.

“Well,” he drawls, “that was fun.”

You glare up at him. “Let go.”

“Mm.” Satoru taps his chin, considering. “Nah.”

“Gojo.”

“Say please.”

You shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. At all. He’s all lean muscle beneath his clothes, far sturdier than his lanky frame would suggest. You grit your teeth. “You are the worst.”

“And you,” he says, patting the tip of your nose, “are terrible at making threats.”

You open your mouth to retort, only to clamp it shut immediately after. Hoofbeats. Both of you freeze. They’re distant at first, then grow louder, thundering against the dirt path. Your stomach twists. The guards are back.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. One second he’s in front of you; the next, he’s sweeping you into his arms like you weigh nothing and hauling you away from the side of the path, diving into the thick of the trees.

“What—? Put me—”

“Shhh.” He claps a hand over your mouth, pressing you against the trunk of an enormous oak, both of you half-hidden behind the tree. Your heart pounds. You can see the riders now, their armour glinting under the early morning sun. Their voices carry over the rustling of the leaves, and you hold your breath.

Satoru does too, though you doubt it’s out of fear. No, he looks entirely at ease, a smirk tugging on his lips as he watches the guards ride past, none the wiser. Just as quickly as they arrived, they’re gone. The silence stretches.

Finally, Satoru leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re welcome.”

You bite his hand.

“Yowza!” He jerks back, cradling his hand like you’ve just inflicted a mortal wound upon the limb. “Did you just—”

“Yes,” you say primly, straightening out your tunic. “And I’ll do it again if I must.”

Satoru gapes at you, then lets out a laugh, wild and unrestrained. “Oh,” he breathes, shaking his head. “Oh, I like you.”

“Great,” you say. “So you’ll take me to the capital?”

His laughter dies. You smile sweetly at him. 

Satoru groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, mostly to himself. His head tips back against the tree, and for a moment, he just stands there with his eyes closed, as though he’s bargaining with the gods to give him the virtue of patience which he so clearly lacks. “I just saved your life.”

“I saved yours first.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”

“I—” Your cheeks burn despite yourself.

“Not that lucky, though,” he interrupts, dropping his hand and fixing you with an almost pitying look. “Because if you think I’m actually going to drag you with me all the way to the capital just because you swiped a little trinket from me, you’re out of your mind.”

Your momentary victory screeches to a halt. “What?”

“You heard me.” He straightens, stretching his arms above his head. “I’m not taking you anywhere.”

“But you just said—”

“I just humoured you. Big difference.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. You ball your hands into fists at your sides. “You promised.”

“I lied.”

“Gojo!”

He grins, wholly unrepentant, and takes a step back. “C’mon, sweetheart. You didn’t actually think that was going to work, did you?” He tuts, shaking his head. “Cute and naïve. What a dangerous combination.”

Frustration coils in your chest. You take a deep breath. “Alright,” you say, almost calm. “Then I’ll just go to the guards right now, and—”

“No, you won’t,” Satoru says, raising a single finger.

Your nostrils flare. “And why won’t I?”

“Because I just saved your life,” he says, enunciating each word as though you’re a particularly slow barn animal. “Which means, at the very least, I deserve some gratitude.”

Your jaw drops. “Gratitude?”

“That’s right.”

“We’re even!” you sputter. “I saved you first!”

“Semantics. Point is, I was heroic, you were impressed, and now you can return my crown to me and we can go our separate ways.” He winks. “Sounds good?” 

“That—” You stare at him, incredulous. “That is the exact opposite of good.”

“Hm. Sounds like a you problem.”

Your grip on the satchel tightens. “Fine,” you say through gritted teeth. “Then I’ll—”

Before you can finish, he’s already moving. Fast—too fast. You barely register the blur of motion before his hand is dipping into the satchel, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the crown. Panic flares. You react without thinking.

Your hands snap out, grabbing his wrist before he can pull away. He pauses, blinking down at you, startled—because somehow, despite his speed, despite the way he should’ve been able to snatch the crown before you noticed and vanish into the trees—he hadn’t accounted for you actually stopping him. 

Both of you freeze. Then, in an utterly ridiculous, ungraceful tangle of limbs you both go crashing to the ground. The satchel slips from your grasp, tumbling into the dirt. The crown spills out, gleaming in the morning light. It’s a glittering band of gold inlaid with the sort of precious stones and gems you’ve only ever heard about. A string of words, written in a curling handwriting, are etched into the inside of the crown’s band. You blink against the glare. Satoru lands half on top of you, his weight pressing you into the earth.

Satoru is heavy. Not overwhelmingly so, but enough that you’re acutely aware of every point of contact; the solid warmth of his torso against yours, the way his arm is braced beside your head, keeping his weight from crushing you fully.

And, unfortunately, he seems just as aware. A slow, amused smile curls at the edges of his lips as he props himself up on his elbows, peering down at you with those ocean-bright eyes. “My, oh, my,” he muses, low and amused. “How terribly forward of you.”

Your face heats up. “Get. Off.”

He doesn’t. Instead, his gaze flickers to the crown lying in the dirt beside you, just out of reach. His smile widens. You see the moment he decides to go for it. Unfortunately for him, you’ve already decided first.

With a grunt, you knee him in the stomach. Satoru wheezes. You wriggle out from beneath him just as he recoils, scrambling for the crown. Your fingers barely skim against the metal—but before you can grab it, the thief lunges forward and tackles you again. There is no grace to it this time. You wrestle in the dirt like two absolute idiots, rolling, kicking, twisting in a desperate scramble for control. He’s stronger, but you’re determined, and maybe just a little feral at this point. 

“Would you quit it?” Satoru grunts, narrowly dodging an elbow to the ribs. 

“Not until you help me!”

“I told you—”

You shove your palm against his face. Satoru lets out an indignant noise, muffled by your hand. You take advantage of his momentary distraction and reach out—only for Satoru to grab your wrist and twist, sending you both tumbling again, until—

Somehow—somehow—he ends up pinned beneath you, and this time, you have the crown.

Your fingers tighten around it as you scramble off him and glare down at Satoru. He’s sprawled in the dirt, a mess of leaves clinging to his wind-ruffled hair, and a streak of dirt is smeared across his chin. You’re certain you’re in no better shape; you pull a stray twig out of your hair, and rub away the mud on your cheeks with the back of your hand. He props himself up on his elbows, surveying you.

“Tragic,” he sighs. “I almost had it.”

You twirl the crown between your fingers, letting the jewels catch the light, and let your lips turn upwards in a saccharine smile. “It’s called a hustle, sweetheart.”

The marketplace is settling into a quieter rhythm at this time of the day, the golden light of mid-afternoon casting long shadows upon the cobbled streets. Satoru trudges beside you, his usual confidence replaced with something closer to reluctant resignation. 

He looks utterly put upon, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, lips set in a pout. Every few steps, he kicks at loose pebbles on the road, sending them skittering ahead of him. You’d almost feel bad for him—almost. But then, you remember that this is a man who stole a crown, got caught, and is now bitter because someone played him at his own game. 

The smell of freshly baked bread drifts through the air, warm and inviting, mingling with the sharp scent of spices from a nearby stall. You stop in front of a small bakery, the wooden sign above it swaying slightly in the breeze. Through the open windows, trays of steaming loaves sit behind the counter, their crusts golden brown and crisp.

Satoru watches as you peer through the display, an unimpressed look on his face. “Wonderful,” he says. “I get blackmailed into helping you, and now we have to go grocery shopping. Truly, this is my lucky day.”

“We need supplies if we’re going to travel.” You glance at him, and roll your eyes. “Or do you plan on surviving on pure arrogance alone?”

He sighs dramatically, tossing his head back. “I’ve survived on worse. Once, I survived an entire week on nothing but stolen fruit and the will to be a menace to the commander of the Royal Guard.”

“That explains so much.” Ignoring his indignant huff, you step forward and exchange a few coins for a loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. The baker, a kindly old woman, gives you a small smile as she wraps it in cloth. You thank her and tuck the bundle into your bag. 

Satoru watches this process with the dismay of a man being forced to endure unimaginable hardship. Then, as if suddenly remembering something important, he straightens. “Speaking of which,” he says, tilting his head towards you, “where exactly is my crown?”

“Safe.”

“Where?”

“Hidden,” you say, and flash him a too-sweet smile.

Satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re crazy. First, you rob me. Then, you blackmail me. And now, you’ve hidden my prized possession like some kind of—” He gestures vaguely at you, searching for the right words. “Some kind of tiny, feral leprechaun.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Think of it as collateral.”

“Oh, sure,” he mutters dryly. “Because trusting the person who stole from me is such a fantastic idea.”

“You stole it first.”

“So you’ve said. The point is, I need that crown.”

“Why?” you ask, raising a brow.

He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, before flashing you his usual grin—teasing and entirely insincere. “Because it’s mine?”

You snort. “Try again.”

Satoru leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing some grand secret. “What if I told you it holds great sentimental value?”

“I’d tell you to stop lying to my face.”

“Wow,” he says, and then says your name, dragging out the last syllable. “So distrustful.”

You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your satchel. “If you do what you promised, I’ll give it back.”

He studies you, gaze flickering briefly to your satchel, as if he’s considering whether he could swipe it and make a run for it. (Not that it would be of any use, anyway, since you’ve hidden it underneath your mattress in your tiny little cottage.) Instead, he sighs, slouching forward like the weight of the world rests upon his shoulders, and mutters, “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Not my fault you lost,” you sing-song.

“I almost had it,” he whines, but his lips twitch.

“But you didn’t.”

“What do you want to go to the capital for so badly, anyway?” He squints at you. “You’re dragging me halfway across the kingdom, blackmailing me with my own stolen goods, and for what? What could possibly be so important that you’d go through all this trouble?”

You hesitate. It’s not that you’re unwilling to tell him—it’s more that you know exactly how he’ll react. Still, you suppose there’s no avoiding it now. You clear your throat, keeping your gaze ahead as you walk. “I want to see the lantern festival.”

A beat, and then, Satoru stops dead in his tracks. “I’m sorry. What?”

“You heard me,” you grit out, already regretting having said anything.

The thief blinks at you, disbelieving, then throws his head back and laughs. It’s far too loud and obnoxious for your liking.

You whirl on him, scowling. “Stop that!”

“Oh, this is rich.” He wipes at his eye theatrically. “You mean to tell me that all this—” he gestures between the two of you— “was because you want to see some floating lights.”

“They’re not just floating lights,” you snap, folding your arms. “They’re magical.”

Satoru snickers. “Sure they are.”

“They do it in honour of the late queen. And not just anywhere—only in the capital. People travel from all over to see them.”

“Yes, and most people would travel from all over to avoid me, but here you are. Seriously, sweetheart, I thought you were on some grand, noble quest. Some life-or-death mission. But no. You just want to watch some fancy fireworks.”

“Forget it,” you huff, pushing past him. “I don’t need to justify myself to you.”

Satoru falls easily into step with you, still chortling to himself. “No, no, I think this is fantastic. Here I was, thinking you had some deep, tragic backstory—maybe an old lover waiting for you, a family secret, a kingdom to reclaim—but no. You just want to see a festival.”

“I happen to like beautiful things,” you tell him.

He hums. “So you do.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes your steps falter, but when you glance back at him, his expression is unreadable. You quickly recover, jabbing a finger into his chest. “And don’t act like this is entirely my fault. You’re the one who stole the crown. If you weren’t a criminal, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“That’s a very unfair accusation. I am an entrepreneur.”

“You’re a thief.”

“A businessman.”

“An annoyance.”

He grins. “A charming gentleman.”

You groan, picking up your pace. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with you.”

“Oh, please.” He slings an arm around your shoulders, ignoring the way you stiffen. “We’re partners now, aren’t we? Off to see the lanterns, hand in hand, like something out of a fairy tale—”

You shrug him off and march forward, squaring your shoulders. Gojo Satoru is unbearable, but if he’s your only ticket out of this boring, provincial life, then you have no choice but to grit your teeth and stick it out. The cost will be worth the reward. 

The road stretches long and unbroken before you, a dirt path winding between fields and sparse woodland. You’ve seen this road before—when traders arrived at the village, when hunters returned from the mountains—but you’ve never set foot beyond it. 

Now, after years of watching others leave, you are the one walking away. You should feel relieved. Excited, even. 

Instead, you feel like an imposter. Like you’re wearing someone else’s skin.

Even your clothes don’t feel like your own. You’re used to sturdy village garments—worn tunics and skirts, softened by years of washing, familiar and comfortable. But now, you’re dressed for travel, and it feels unfamiliar. A dark green cloak, belted at the waist, drapes over your shoulders, its hem brushing against your ankles. Beneath it, you’ve chosen a linen shirt and brown trousers instead of a skirt—more practical, but strange. The boots on your feet are a size too big, borrowed from the village blacksmith, and though well-worn, they still rub uncomfortably against your heels.

Beside you, Satoru moves as if he owns the world, his long strides lazy. His clothes, though practical, have the distinct look of someone who wants to be looked at—worn leather boots, dark pants, a white tunic half-buttoned beneath a navy vest cinched at the waist. The coat hanging off his shoulders is long, lined with faded embroidery at the edges, the kind of detail that once belonged to something expensive before time and travel wore it down.

Unlike you, he looks completely at ease. As if he’s done this a thousand times before—which, of course, he has.

“I was expecting a little more enthusiasm,” Satoru comments. “Most people would kill for a trip to the capital with someone like me.”

You adjust the strap of your bag. “Most people would just kill you.”

“Ouch. That one actually hurt.”

“If only,” you mutter.

He chuckles, undeterred, and kicks a stray pebble along the path. You’ve been walking for over an hour, and he hasn’t stopped talking the entire time. It’s mostly been nonsense—complaints about the lack of decent taverns in your village, dramatic sighs about the state of his boots, and a running commentary on the tragedy of being forced to travel with someone so determinedly unfriendly.

“What exactly is your plan once we get there?” he asks. “Because I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but the capital isn’t as great as they make it sound.”

“I don’t need a plan,” you mumble. Truthfully, you have no idea, but you’re certain the answer will come to you. Somehow.

“Right, because winging it always works out well,” he says, looking at you like he’s waiting for you to react. He gets no such satisfaction—your eyes are fixed firmly on the road—and so, he ploughs on, “You know, it’s adorable how much faith you have in your ability to not get robbed, lost, or, I don’t know, arrested for trespassing.”

You let out a slow breath. “If I do get arrested, I’ll make sure to tell them where to find you.”

“Ah, but that would require you to know where I am. And I am a famously difficult person to pin down.”

You make a noise of irritation in the back of your throat, adjusting the strap of your bag. At this rate, you’re starting to think that letting him get caught might have been the better option.

By the time the sun has dipped below the horizon, the two of you reach the edge of the woods. The thick canopy overhead swallows the last of the daylight, leaving only streaks of violet and deepening blue through the gaps in the leaves. The path ahead is narrow and winding, the scent of damp earth and pine filling the air. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls.

“This is it,” Satoru announces, dropping his bag on the ground. “Our humble abode for the night.”

“We could walk a little further,” you say, frowning.

“And risk running into something with fangs?” He plops onto the ground, resting back on his elbows. “No thanks.”

You sigh but don’t argue further, shrugging off your pack and kneeling down to clear a space for the fire. If you wait for Gojo Satoru to be useful, you’ll be waiting until your bones turn to dust. To your surprise, he doesn’t interfere. He simply sprawls out on the grass, watching as you gather dry leaves and kindling. 

“Watching you work feels kind of nice,” Satoru says, tapping a finger against his knee. “It’s like having a personal servant.”

You shoot him a glare. “Do you want to get stabbed?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, and guffaws to himself.

Rolling your eyes, you focus on the fire, striking flint against steel until sparks catch in the dry grass. Slowly, the flames flicker to life, casting an amber glow over the clearing. Shadows stretch long and uneven, the trees shifting in the fire’s light. 

The thief sits up, brushing stray grass from his vest. “Alright. Time to find some food.”

“We have food,” you point out, nodding at your pack.

He makes a face. “We have bread. I, for one, refuse to live like a peasant.”

“You are a peasant,” you say, raising your eyebrows.

“Wrong,” he corrects. “I am a distinguished criminal.”

“Go starve in the woods, then.”

“Fine,” he huffs, standing up and dusting himself off, “but if I don’t come back, you have to live with the guilt.”

“I think I’ll manage.”

He mumbles something under his breath, but disappears into the trees anyway. You take the opportunity to sit back against your pack, stretching your sore legs and letting the warmth of the fire seep into your bones. Five minutes later, Satoru returns—only, he’s not alone. He sprints back into the clearing like a man being personally hunted by death itself, arms flailing as a blur of fur and claws barrels after him.

“What the—” You barely have time to sit up before Satoru dives behind you, using you as a human shield.

“Get it away from me,” he hisses, gripping your shoulders like his life depends on it.

Your eyes whip back to the so-called menace: A small, scruffy-looking cat with patchy grey fur, green eyes, and one torn ear. It stands by the edge of the firelight with its tail puffed up like a bottlebrush.

You blink. “Did… Did you just get chased by a cat?”

Satoru glares at you, panting. “That thing is deranged.”

The cat lets out a shrill mrrow and lunges. Satoru yelps, scrambling further behind you, but the little creature stops just short of pouncing and instead sits daintily by the fire, licking its paw like nothing happened. You stare at it. Then back at Satoru. Then back at the cat.

“Wow,” you say slowly, turning around to face the grown man cowering behind you. “You, the great Gojo Satoru, feared thief and most wanted man in the entire kingdom, are afraid of a stray cat?”

He scoffs, straightening up as though he hadn’t just used you to hide from a cat. “Afraid? As if. I just didn’t expect it to be so… fast.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It ambushed me.”

You glance at the cat, which is now lying on its side and stretching out luxuriously. It is, unarguably, the most harmless thing you’ve ever seen. You smirk. “I think I’ll keep him.”

Satoru gapes at you. “What? No! That thing has a personal vendetta against me.”

The cat looks up, makes direct eye contact with him, and flicks its tail in a deliberate motion. “Yeah,” you say, grinning, “I like him.”

Your companion groans, rubbing his face. “What are you going to name him?”

You tilt your head, considering. The cat gives an unimpressed meow and swipes a paw at your ankle, before it pads over to you, climbs onto your lap and turns around in a circle. It kneads your thigh before settling down. 

“Megumi,” you decide.

“Oh, come on.” Satoru lets out a strangled noise. “That thing is definitely not a blessing.”

Ignoring him, you scratch behind Megumi’s ears absentmindedly, reaching behind with your free hand and grabbing your pack. You undo the drawstring and pull out the loaf of bread; tearing out a chunk, you pop it into your mouth. The cat purrs in satisfaction, settling deeper into your lap.

Satoru watches this betrayal unfold with a deeply wounded expression. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters. “Two minutes ago, it was out for blood. Now it’s purring like it pays rent.”

You snort, tossing him a piece of bread. He catches it with ease but doesn’t eat it right away, instead tearing at the crust in distracted motions. The fire crackles between you, throwing warm golden light over his features, softening the sharp angles of his face.

You hesitate for only a moment before speaking. “Tell me a story.”

Satoru quirks a brow. “What, like a bedtime story?”

“No, idiot.” You roll your eyes. “Tell me about the capital. I’ve never been past my village.”

“...The capital, hm?” He shifts slightly, leaning back on his hands, and tilts his head skywards. For a moment, he’s quiet. The fire pops, and its glow dances over his cheekbones. Somewhere in the trees above you, an owl hoots. Then, he starts speaking.

“The capital is loud,” he says, “but not in a bad way. It’s the kind of noise that reminds you that you’re alive. The streets smell like roasted chestnuts, chocolate, and something sweet that I’ve never been able to place. No matter where you go, you’ll always be able to hear something—someone haggling in the market, children playing hopscotch, lovers whispering sweet nothings under balconies.”

His voice lowers, almost like he’s letting you in on a secret. “There’s this place, just past the main square. A bookshop, tucked between an apothecary and a tailor. You wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t looking. It’s small—cramped, really—but it smells like ink and old paper, and the owner never minds if you stay too long. When I was younger, I used to sit there for hours, reading about places I’d never been. I’d tell myself I’d see them all someday.”

“And then there’s the bridge,” he continues. “It stretches over the whole river, wide enough for carriages to pass, but if you go at the right time, just before dawn, it’s empty. You can stand in the middle and watch the whole city wake up—lamps flickering out, shutters creaking open, the sky turning from grey to pink to gold. It makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, just for a little while.”

Satoru exhales, and there’s something wistful about the sound. When he looks at you again, there’s a lopsided smile playing on his lips. “Not bad for a bedtime story, huh?”

You blink, caught between the warmth of the fire and the warmth in his voice. “...Tell me more.”

He laughs, bright and careless. “You’re greedy.”

“Maybe.” You shrug, suppressing a smile.

“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” he says, leaning back fully and folding his hands behind his head. “If I tell you too much, you might decide you don’t need to see the capital for yourself, and I’d never get my crown back.”

You glance down at Megumi, still nestled comfortably in your lap, tail flicking lazily. Perhaps it’s the way the thief spoke about it, or maybe it’s the way you’ve always yearned for this, but the thought comes quietly, unbidden: I already want to see it more than ever.

Morning creeps up on you slowly, quietly, peacefully. The fire has burned down to embers, the air is crisp, and the forest hums with the comings-and-goings of woodland creatures. You are warm, bundled in your cloak, Megumi purring against your chest, and for once, Gojo Satoru is quiet.

It’s perfect. Until something snorts directly at your face.

Your eyes snap open just in time to see a giant, pinkish nose inches from your own. Then— Snort. A blast of hot air right into your face. You yelp, scrambling back, only to trip over Satoru’s arm and land hard on your side. The movement startles Megumi, who lets out an indignant yowl and bolts straight onto Satoru’s face, claws out.

“What the Hell—” The man jerks upright with a strangled sound, flailing as Megumi uses him as a launchpad and disappears into the trees. His vest is askew, his hair is sticking up at odd angles, and he looks utterly lost. “What—where—why does my face hurt— Who is attacking me?”

“That!” You point wildly at the culprit.

Standing at the edge of your makeshift campsite, staring you both down like a disappointed parent, is a massive white horse. At first, you’re confused—horses don’t live in the woods, you’re pretty sure. Then you see the crest of the royal family hanging off of its neck, and you grimace. His reins are hanging off the sides of his saddle; he seems like a runaway royal horse. He paws at the dirt, ears pinned back, looking every bit a soldier preparing to arrest a pair of criminals. 

Satoru blinks at him. Then at you. Then back at the horse. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

The horse huffs like he can’t believe he has to deal with this nonsense. Then, before either of you can react, he lunges straight for the thief.

“SUKUNA, NO!”

You barely manage to scramble out of the way as Satoru lets out an undignified squawk and rolls out of the way, narrowly avoiding being stomped. He barely has time to get to his feet before Sukuna lunges again, snapping at his cloak.

“What is your problem?!” Satoru screeches, holding his arms up defensively. “I didn’t even do anything—oh, my God—Stop—”

Sukuna does not stop. Instead, he clamps his teeth onto Satoru’s sleeve and drags him sideways.

“He’s arresting me!” Satoru howls, flailing as his feet skid in the dirt. “I’m being detained! Help!”

You double over in laughter. “I—think—he recognises you—”

“Oh, what gave it away? The way he’s dragging me to my demise?”

Sukuna whinnies like he’s insulted by the accusation. As if to prove a point, he yanks even harder—ripping Satoru clean off his feet. He lands on his back with a thud, groaning. Sukuna looms over him, nostrils flaring, clearly debating his next move. 

“Okay, okay. I surrender,” Satoru wheezes. “I hereby admit to all my crimes—past, present, and future. Just let me live.”

Sukuna snorts. Satisfied, he steps on Satoru’s stomach for good measure before backing off. You wipe tears from your eyes, your own stomach hurting from laughing too hard. “I think he hates you.”

Satoru groans, draping an arm over his face. “I think I have internal bleeding.”

Megumi, now safely perched atop a tree branch, lets out an approving meow. Sukuna steps back, looking incredibly pleased with himself. His ears flick forward, and he turns to you, huffing expectantly.

You tilt your head. “Oh. I think he likes me.”

“Oh, great,” Satoru says, lifting his head weakly from the ground. “Betrayed by my own travel companion.”

You ignore him, cautiously stepping forward and holding out a hand. Sukuna eyes you warily but doesn’t move away. “You just don’t like him, do you?” you murmur, glancing down at Satoru, who’s still groaning in the dirt.

Sukuna snorts. Satoru lifts a finger from where he’s lying. “That was unnecessary.”

“I think it was perfectly necessary,” you reply sweetly before turning back to Sukuna. He’s still watching you closely, but he doesn’t seem hostile. If anything, his tail flicks once, like he’s waiting for something. Slowly, carefully, you raise a hand to his nose. “You’re not so bad, are you?”

Sukuna leans in, taking a few experimental sniffs before—much to your delight—nudging your palm with his nose. Satoru lifts his head again, gaping at the scene unfolding in front of him. “What the Hell,” he says flatly. “I used to feed you when I was in the palace, you ungrateful beast.”

The horse flicks an ear, unimpressed. Then, as if to drive the point home, he lifts a hoof and kicks dirt in his direction. 

You barely stifle a laugh. “I don’t think he remembers you very fondly.”

Satoru groans. “This is what I get for trying to be a good person.”

“You’re a thief.”

“Details.”

You scratch gently at Sukuna’s muzzle, feeling the warm puff of his breath against your fingers. He allows the touch, nuzzling further into your palm. The royal crest on his bridle—the golden emblem of a sun against a dark blue background, the visage of light always conquering darkness—glints in the morning sun. It feels like a reminder of where exactly he’s from.

A warhorse. Loyal to the palace. Loyal to—

You glance at Satoru. He’s watching Sukuna with an expression you can’t quite place. Something distant. Something nostalgic.

“You’re from the palace, then?” you ask softly.

His usual bravado doesn’t come immediately. He props himself up on his elbows, staring at Sukuna like the horse is a relic from a past life—one he hadn’t expected to come face to face with again. “Yeah, ‘course,” he says. “Wouldn’t lie about that.”

Sukuna snorts, stepping closer to you. He’s massive, all muscle and barely-contained energy, and yet he stands still beneath your touch. 

“Did you ride him?”

“He wouldn’t let me.” Satoru scowls. “Little bastard always tried to bite me when I got near him.”

The horse huffs, as if to confirm this. You stroke his mane absently, and say, “He seems different now.”

“Yes, well—” Satoru finally gets to his feet, dusting himself off with a wince. “Guess we both are.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes you think he’s not telling you the whole truth. You decide not to push him further, curious though you may be. You let the silence settle between you both, the rustling of leaves filling the space where conversation might have been.

Finally, Satoru sighs. “Since he’s so smitten with you, does this mean we get a free ride to civilisation?”

“Maybe.” You glance at Sukuna.

“Wonderful!” Satoru says, clapping his hands. “Because I refuse to walk another ten miles while my organs are busy rearranging themselves from being trampled.”

“Let’s see if he’ll let us.” You pat Sukuna’s side reassuringly before turning towards the remnants of your campsite. 

The fire has long since dwindled into ash and embers, and your packs are haphazardly strewn about—likely due to your frantic wake-up earlier. Your bag is slumped against the base of a tree, close to where you’d left it. Satoru’s bag is nearby, though considerably messier. One of the straps is half-ripped, and the flap is barely secured. You pick it up, brushing off dirt and leaves.

“You live like this?” you ask, tossing it to him.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Satoru says. He fumbles but manages to catch it, just barely.

“You were cribbing about bread last night,” you remind him, slinging your own pack over your shoulder.

“I wasn’t begging. I was demanding my basic human right to a proper meal.”

Megumi, who had disappeared into the trees during Sukuna’s rampage, reappears, gracefully leaping down from a low-hanging branch. He lands neatly on the ground, flicks his tail, and gives you both what can only be described as the feline equivalent of the stink eye.

Satoru looks at him warily. “Are you sure he isn’t plotting revenge on us?”

“He likes me,” you say, crouching to scratch behind Megumi’s ears. The cat lets out a quiet purr, rubbing his head against your hand in approval.

“Of course, he does.”

“Don’t be jealous.”

Satoru mutters something under his breath that you couldn’t be bothered to listen to properly. You gently pick up Megumi and settle him into the crook of your arm. He doesn’t resist, curling up as if he’d rather not exert the effort to protest. Sukuna, who has been watching this entire exchange with the unimpressed air of a soldier waiting for incompetent recruits to finish fumbling, lets out a sharp huff and stomps his hoof.

You turn to him. “Okay, okay. I’m ready.”

“You know how to ride a horse, right?” Satoru asks, raising an eyebrow.

You pause. “...How hard can it be?”

“That’s not an answer—”

Satoru’s warning goes unheeded; you’re already marching towards Sukuna with the kind of confidence only possessed by someone who has no idea what they’re doing. You place a careful hand on the saddle and hoist yourself up. Or, well, you try to. Your foot barely catches on the stirrup before you wobble, losing balance. The next thing you know, you’re slipping straight off the other side. 

Satoru catches you before you can hit the ground, his hands firm around your waist. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You scowl, pushing yourself upright, but he doesn’t let go right away. You’re close enough to see the way the morning light catches in his eyes, the sharp blue softened by gold. His hands are warm where they steady you. You swallow thickly, suddenly aware of the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

Megumi, disgruntled from the movement, lets out a miffed meow. The spell breaks.

“Alright,” Satoru says. “Let’s try something else before you end up with a concussion.”

You glare at him, dusting off your sleeves as he turns to grab your packs. He ties them securely to the saddle, double-checking the knots before giving Sukuna an approving pat on the neck. The horse swishes his tail but remains otherwise still. Satisfied, Satoru turns back to you, hands on his hips. “Okay, up you go.”

Begrudgingly, you step closer, adjusting your hold on Megumi before reaching for the saddle. Satoru moves before you can think to protest, hands steady around your waist once more as he lifts you effortlessly onto the seat. You let out a startled breath, barely managing to swing your leg over the saddle before scrambling to adjust yourself. Your fingers grip the front of the saddle so tightly, the hard leather digs into your palms. Megumi, situated against your chest and in between your arms, flicks his tail against your face.

Sukuna shifts beneath you, muscles rippling underneath his sleek coat. You inhale deeply, trying to steady your nerves. You’ve never ridden a horse before.

The thought doesn’t sink in until you’re actually up here, perched atop a beast far larger and stronger than you, with only a few flimsy leather straps keeping you from falling to the ground. For all the bravado you’ve shown so far, you have to admit that you’re terrified.

“See?” Satoru drawls, stepping back. “Much better. Was that so scary?”

“No,” you lie.

The thief studies you for a moment, and then comments, “You’re a terrible liar.”

You give him a withering look, but he’s already moving—grabbing the front of the saddle and swinging himself up behind you in one smooth motion. 

“Satoru—!”

Your protest is cut short when he settles in, his chest pressing flush against your back. He’s warm—too warm (or is that you?)—and suddenly, all your attention is split between the solid, sturdy weight of him behind you, and the hands that reach around you, easily taking the reins. 

“Relax,” he says, voice lower than usual. “I’ll steer.”

Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you don’t think it has anything to do with the horse anymore. “I wasn’t scared,” you mutter, but there is no conviction in your voice, even to your own ears. 

Satoru leans in just slightly, breath ghosting against the side of your face. He chuckles, the sound reverberating against your back, and says, “I’m sure you weren’t.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you stay quiet, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of Sukuna’s steps once he starts moving—and despite your determination to remain oblivious to Gojo Satoru and his presence, you can’t ignore the way his arms remain loosely draped around you, or the way he shifts ever so slightly when the horse moves, keeping you steady without saying a word. It’s natural, the way he adjusts to you, like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like he doesn’t even need to think about it.

The woods stretch ahead, quiet and endless, but all you can focus on is the sound of your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.

“Tell me more about the palace.”

The rhythmic sway of Sukuna beneath you is oddly soothing, each hoofbeat settling into a steady, lulling cadence. You tilt your head back slightly, feeling the warmth of Satoru’s chest where he sits behind you. His arms are still lightly caged around you, as he guides the reins like it’s second nature to him. Megumi, no longer content with being curled up against your chest, perches himself on the base of the horse’s neck, swiping lazily at Sukuna’s mane every now and then. The horse flicks his ears in annoyance but does not stop him.

Satoru hums, considering your request. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, eyes drifting upwards, towards the slivers of blue sky beneath the trees. “What was it like?”

“Well, it’s exactly what you’d expect,” he says. “Tall, grand, and filled with old men who love to hear themselves talk.”

You huff out a silent laugh. “Sounds charming.”

“Oh, it’s a real dream. The walls are lined with marble, the kind that catches the light just right in the mornings, almost as if the whole place is glowing. The halls stretch wider than some villages, with paintings hanging on the walls that tell stories older than anyone can remember. And the ceilings—” He shakes his head, his chin brushing against the back of yours. “So high it feels like you could reach the sky if you just climbed a little higher.”

There’s something distant in his voice, something wistful and melancholic and fond. “You make it sound very beautiful,” you say quietly.

“Because it is. It’s meant to be. A symbol of power—of control. A kingdom that shines so brightly, no one knows about the shadows it casts.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, but his expression is stony. That easy drawl of his is still there, but beneath it, something festers—and it makes you hesitate before you press further.

“And you?” you ask. “Where did you belong in all of that?”

Satoru exhales through his nose, a slow, measured sound. “Wherever they needed me.”

It’s not an answer, but it tells you enough. You let the silence stretch, waiting to see if he will offer more. He does.

“The training grounds were always my favourite.” His voice drops slightly, thoughtful. “They were tucked away behind the east wing, away from all the silk and the gold. You could hear the clash of swords from sunrise to sundown.” He pauses, then adds, almost to himself, “You never forget the sound.”

A soldier, you think. Or something close to it. It makes sense—the way he carries himself; the way he moves, like he’s always aware of every possible escape route; the way he knows so much about the kingdom and the capital.

You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you ask, “Did you like it?”

“I liked knowing what was expected of me.” A beat of silence, and then, “But I was never very good at following orders.”

A soft breeze cuts through the trees, rustling the leaves and cooling the warmth of the sun against your skin. “Is that why you left?” you ask carefully.

Satoru chuckles, but there’s no real humour to the sound. “Oh, I didn’t leave.” His fingers tighten around the reins, just a little. “I was sent away.”

The words are heavy. You don’t push. Sukuna continues forward, steady and unbothered, the sound of his hooves filling the silence that follows. You focus on the road ahead, on the sunlight filtering through the trees, on Satoru’s warmth behind you.

When he finally speaks again, voice lighter, teasing, you let him steer the conversation away. Somehow, you get the sense that when he’s ready, he’ll tell you the rest.

The afternoon sun begins to dip, casting long shadows through the trees. The road ahead winds towards the hills, where a small village is nestled between the slopes. You’ll have to pass through it to get to the capital, according to Satoru. Smoke rises lazily from the chimneys, the scent of burning wood and roasting meat carrying faintly on the breeze.

Satoru shifts slightly. “Looks like we’ve made it before sundown.”

Megumi meows, flicking his tail before settling back down; you reach forward and scratch in between his ears, absent-mindedly. The thought of a warm meal and a real bed makes your shoulders sag with relief. The past few nights have been spent beneath open skies, wrapped up in your cloak that barely keeps the chill away.

“You think we’ll find an inn?” you ask, glancing behind.

“Unless it’s run by a hermit who hates money, yeah,” Satoru says. “Though I wouldn’t count on a royal welcome.”

That much is obvious. Travellers are rare in villages like these—strangers even more so. Your presence will not go unnoticed.

As you pass the first row of wooden houses, heads begin to turn. A blacksmith, hammer paused mid-swing, watches you warily from his forge. A woman gathering water casts a cautious glance before whispering something to the child at her side. Even the baker, hands dusted in flour, spares you a lingering look.

Satoru doesn’t seem fazed. “Friendly place.”

“Maybe they’d be friendlier if you weren’t grinning like you had a bounty on your head,” you mutter.

“I think we both know they wouldn’t be wrong about that.”

That sends a sharp prickle down your spine. You don’t respond.

The village square is small, paved with uneven stone and lined with merchant stalls. Most are already closed for the day, wooden shutters drawn and lanterns lit. Near the far edge, tucked between a tailor’s shop and a grain store, stands an inn. The wooden beams are weathered with age, but the sign above the entrance is freshly painted—The Fuzzy Duckling, it reads, complete with a crude drawing of a yellow duck underneath. The scent of stew and ale wafts through the open doorway.

Satoru nudges Sukuna to the stable. “We’ll rest here.”

You dismount first, stretching your legs as Satoru swings down beside you. Megumi jumps off the horse’s back and lands gracefully on the thief’s shoulder. 

The inn is dimly lit, the glow of lanterns casting flickering silhouettes. The scent of firewood, damp earth, and something vaguely sweet lingers in the air. It’s fairly empty, though you suspect that’s just because of the early hour. Wooden tables and stools lay barren, with empty tin jugs placed on each table. Behind the counter, a man leans lazily against the wall, watching you both with sharp, hooded eyes. His dark hair is slicked back, and there’s a faint scar on his jawline. He doesn’t say anything as he steps forward.

“Hey, hey, look who it is!” Satoru grins, though, by now, you’ve spent enough time with him to know it’s fake. “If it isn’t my favourite innkeeper, Shiu. Did’ya finally get rid of all the mould growing in your wine cellar? I don’t know if it was the mould or the age, but it sure tasted weird the last time I was here.”

Shiu smirks. “Been wonderin’ when you’d show up again, Gojo.”

You look between them, sensing familiarity, though not necessarily the friendly kind. “We need a room,” Satoru says, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Think you can manage that, old man?”

“Call me that again,” Shiu says, “and I’ll leave you to sleep outside with the horse. The lady will get a room for free, of course.”

You tense at his words, not enjoying the way the man’s gaze rakes over your body before settling back to Satoru. You get the feeling the thief notices too, because he moves closer to you, shoulder brushing against yours. “Ah, well,” he says. “I’m afraid that’s not negotiable.”

“Relax,” the innkeeper says. “I’m not a skirt-chaser. You can keep your woman with you. Room’s at the end of the hall. Payment upfront.”

Satoru flicks a coin onto the counter. Shiu catches it easily, giving it a quick once-over before pocketing it. As Satoru turns towards the stairs, something catches your eye near the entrance—sheets of parchment tacked to a wooden board. Your eyes snag on one in particular. 

A wanted poster.

The ink is bold despite the crumpled paper. The sketch is rough but unmistakable—wild white hair, sharp features, a grin that barely conceals its arrogance.

WANTED—DEAD OR ALIVEREWARD: 100 GOLD COINS

Your stomach twists. Satoru follows your gaze and sighs. “Damn. They just can’t get my nose right.”

“This isn’t funny,” you whisper.

“It’s a little funny.” Satoru’s grin widens, but you don’t miss the tautness in his shoulders. He nudges you gently towards the stairs. “Come on, let’s get some rest.”

Shiu watches you both go, smiling, but his gaze follows too long for comfort. Your chest constricts. The room at the end of the hall is small but serviceable—one bed, a rickety wooden chair, and a window with a view of the village square outside. The floor creaks under your boots as you step inside. Megumi jumps onto the bed immediately, curling up near the pillows, flicking his tail once before settling.

Satoru stretches with a groan, rolling his shoulders. “Cozy.”

You sigh, pressing your forehead against the cool windowpane. The village outside is quiet, bathed in early moonlight, but the unease gnawing at your stomach refuses to fade. “I don’t like this,” you murmur. “The way Shiu looked at you—”

“He always looks at me like that,” the thief says, sounding far too chipper than he probably should.

“Satoru.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “We won’t stay long. You can take the bed. I’ll use the chair.”

The exhaustion from days on the road pulls at your limbs. You don’t bother arguing; sleep finds you much faster than expected.

You wake to the sound of boots in the hallway. Your breath catches. This isn’t the usual creak of old wood settling—this is deliberate. Heavy. Purposeful.

Your eyes dart to Satoru. He’s already awake, sitting rigid on the chair, blue eyes alert even in the darkness. His hand moves instinctively to his belt, where he’d shown you his dagger rests a day back, hidden.

A knock echoes against the door.

“Room service,” Shiu’s oily voice drawls from the other side.

Your blood runs cold. Satoru doesn’t answer. He tilts his head, listening. You strain your ears too, heart hammering—there’s a faint shift of fabric. The sound of leather gloves flexing. Someone adjusting their grip on a sheathed blade.

Satoru curses under his breath. “Son of a—”

The crash comes a second later.

The door splinters inward, sending shards of wood flying. You barely manage to roll off the bed before a knife thuds into the headboard where you had just been lying. A figure stands in the ruined doorway: Tall, broad, dressed in black. A jagged scar cuts across the side of his mouth.

You don’t recognise him, but Satoru does. His entire posture shifts—his usual cocky, easygoing stance sharpens, muscles tensing. A slow, tight exhale leaves him as he pushes himself to his feet.

The man in the doorway tilts his head, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. You can just make out a jagged scar cutting across his mouth. “Been a while, Gojo,” he says.

Satoru’s lips press together in a thin line. “Not long enough.”

You glance between them, a creeping unease settling in your bones. Whoever this man is, Satoru knows him—and he doesn’t like him. The stranger takes a lazy step forward, boots crunching over the splintered wood. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flick to you for a moment before settling back on Satoru. “Didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to walk back in here, with a beautiful lady by your side and a bounty on your head, too. Guess you really wanted to see me again.”

“Trust me, Fushiguro—” Satoru’s jaw ticks— “I’d rather be anywhere but here.”

Fushiguro. The name means nothing to you, but the way Satoru spits it out like a curse sends a prickle of warning down your spine. The man clicks his tongue, his smirk widening. He twirls another dagger in his fingers, casual, lazy. “Did I wake you? Sorry to have disturbed your evening, but—”

Satoru moves faster than breath, grabbing your wrist and yanking you back towards the window just as another blade whizzes past his ear, missing him by an inch. Megumi hisses, darting into your arms and scrabbling onto your shoulder. You don’t even feel the pain where his claws dig into your skin.

Fushiguro lets out a low, amused chuckle. “Running already? C’mon now, Gojo. You’re making this too easy.”

Satoru kicks the window open. “Hold onto me.”

“What—”

And then he jumps.

The wind rushes past as the two of you and the cat drop down, the world blurring around you. You barely register the impact—Satoru lands with a practiced roll, keeping you close, his arms tight around you as he shifts the force of the landing onto himself. Your pulse is roaring in your ears.

Above, Fushiguro leans lazily out of the open window, tilting his head condescendingly. “You’re just making this more fun.”

Satoru doesn’t wait. He grabs your wrist and runs. The streets are quiet, the village mostly asleep, but your footfalls pound against the dirt. Behind you, you hear the faint creak of wood—Fushiguro dropping down from the second story without a sound, graceful as a damn cat.

The thief yanks you towards the stables. “Get Sukuna. Now.”

You don’t argue. The stable doors slam open as you shove inside. Sukuna snorts, stomping his hooves in agitation. You fumble for the reins. “What about—”

Satoru turns just as Fushiguro appears in the doorway. Everything slows.

The light from the lanterns flickers against his dark silhouette. He’s alone, not a single other mercenary in sight. But somehow, that makes it worse. In the darkness, it feels like he’s pressing down on the space, filling every corner, every shadow.

“You didn’t bring backup?” Satoru taunts. “I’m insulted.”

“Didn’t need any,” the bounty hunter grunts.

He moves—a flash of steel—and Satoru shoves you back. The blade slices through the air where his throat had been a second before. He ducks low, twisting away, and kicks. His foot slams against Fushiguro’s side, sending him skidding back a step—but Fushiguro barely reacts, barely blinks, like he had been expecting it.

He strikes again. You barely see the knife coming before Satoru dodges, his movements sharp and fluid. The stable door splinters as the blade embeds itself in the wood.

Satoru grits his teeth. “Go!”

But you—curse your damn cowardice—hesitate. Fushiguro notices. His foot pivots—he lunges for you. A flash of fear tightens in your chest—

But Satoru is there. He grabs Fushiguro’s wrist mid-strike, twisting it brutally. Fushiguro growls as Satoru hurls him backwards, sending him crashing into a pile of hay bales.

“Get on the damn horse,” Satoru orders, breathless. He swings himself onto Sukuna’s back, pulling you up after him, Megumi leaping onto the horse in time with you. 

You barely have time to wrap your arms around his waist before he kicks off. Sukuna surges forward, hooves pounding against the dirt road as you tear through the village, leaving the inn—and the very pissed-off bounty hunter—behind.

Behind you, there’s a sound—something sharp, fast—whistling through the air. Satoru jerks the reins, pulling sharply to the side. A blade embeds itself into the wooden post just ahead of you, still quivering from the force of impact.

“Shit,” the thief breathes. “He’s not giving up.”

You don’t look back. You don’t dare to. The village gate is just ahead. If you can get past it, you might have a chance of losing him. Megumi wails, digging his claws into your cloak, ears flat against his head.

Satoru leans forward. “Come on, come on—”

Sukuna bursts out of the gates. Fushiguro curses loudly behind you, but it sounds far away, swallowed down by the horse’s thunderous galloping. You tighten your grasp around Satoru and squeeze your eyes shut. (You might be imagining it, but you swear you feel one of his hands cover your own, a gentle brush of his palm against the back of yours.)

The fire crackles weakly, providing warmth against the cold night air. Sukuna, exhausted from his earlier run, tucks his legs underneath himself and settles down near it. Megumi curls up next to him and begins washing himself. The stream nearby gurgles and bubbles merrily.

The fight is over, the adrenaline long faded, but still, the stress of it all loiters like a phantom pressing against your ribs. Your shoulder throbs now, where the cat had dug his claws into the skin, but thankfully, it isn’t bleeding. Your hands are shaking. You dig your fingers into the earth, trying to steady yourself. 

Satoru stands a few feet away, pacing, his boots crushing twigs and dried leaves. His breath comes fast and hard, back rigid with frustration. His coat is torn at the shoulder, and there’s a thin line of blood trailing down his forearm.

You should say something. Thank him, maybe. Apologise. But the words stay stuck in your throat.

“What the fuck what that?”

You flinch, but his voice keeps coming, sharp and cutting.

“You froze—I told you to move, and you just stood there.” His hands come up, then drop to his sides. “You could’ve died.”

You bite your lip, shame curling hot beneath your skin, but his anger makes something inside you snap. “I was caught off-guard—”

“No shit!” he bites out. “You don’t get to be caught off-guard, not in the middle of a fight!”

“I didn’t ask to be in a fight!” you snap. “I’m not—” You exhale sharply, hands curling into fists. “I’m not like you, Gojo. I’m not a fucking thief who’s used to running for my life every other night.”

His jaw tightens. “So it’s my fault now?”

“Isn’t it?” You throw your arms out. “If you weren’t on the face of every damn wanted poster from here to the mountains, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

Satoru lets out a bitter, humourless laugh. “Right. Because I’m the one who dragged us into this.”

“You are—”

“No,” he cuts in, eyes flashing. “If it wasn’t for your stupid, fucking dream, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

The words slam into you like a fist to the gut. A cold wind rustles through the leaves, stirring the dying fire. Sukuna neighs lowly from where he’s sat near the flames, but you barely hear him over the ringing in your ears.  

Your stupid, fucking dream. The dream you’d held onto for years, the one that had kept you going, had pushed you forward through every hardship. Your throat tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, it’s not fair? You had no idea what you were asking for when you dragged me along on this little adventure of yours. Now, we’re running for our lives in the middle of nowhere, because you had to see some damn lanterns.”

The way he says it—like your dream is nothing more than a childish whim—makes something ugly twist inside you. “You know what, Gojo?” Your voice shakes, but not from fear. “At least I have a dream.”

His expression darkens.

“At least I want something, something that isn’t just running and stealing and barely surviving,” you press on, chest heaving. “But you? What do you want, Satoru? Huh?” You step closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Do you even have an answer, or are you just going to keep laughing everything off like you always do?”

His lips part, but no words come out. For the first time since you’ve met him, Gojo Satoru is speechless. But it only lasts a second. His gaze flickers, something unreadable flashing through his eyes before his mask slams back into place. He lets out a sharp breath, his expression twisting into something cruel.

“You think you’re better than me?” He steps forward now, and you don’t back away. “You think just because you’ve got some dream, you’re any different?” His voice lowers, turning razor-sharp. “Let me tell you something, sweetheart—dreams don’t mean shit when you’re dead.”

Your breath hitches.

“Out here, it’s about surviving. That’s it.” He gestures between you. “And the only reason you’re still breathing is because I’ve been watching your back.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that you froze. You hate that, for all your fighting words, you hadn’t been able to do anything when it mattered most. Perhaps worst of all, you hate that he saw.

Satoru exhales, shaking his head. “Forget it,” he says. “I’m going to get food.”

He turns and stalks off into the woods. You don’t call after him, because you don’t trust your voice not to break. The moment Satoru disappears into the trees, the night feels oppressive, like the darkness is closing in on you. 

You stand there for a long time, fists clenched at your sides, staring at the spot where he walked off. Sukuna shifts in his sleep. Megumi’s breathing is slow and even. You should rest. You should scrounge through whatever leftover supplies you have from your village and find something to eat.

But your chest feels tight, like there’s a rope around your ribs, pulling, pulling— With a shuddering inhale, you turn and walk towards the stream.

The water is cold when you dip your fingers in, crouching beside it. The icy surface reflects the moon’s pale light. You stare at your own reflection, at the way your lips tremble, at the redness creeping into your eyes. You squeeze them shut. It’s fine. You’re fine.

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, willing the burning away. But the second you take a shaky breath, it hits you all at once—the fear, the frustration, the exhaustion weighing on your bones. A choked sound leaves your throat before you can stop it.

You shouldn’t be crying. You don’t want to cry, but the argument replays in your mind over and over—Satoru’s voice laced with anger, the way he threw your dream back in your face like it was nothing. 

He doesn’t understand, you think. But is he right?

What were you thinking? That you could drag a thief to the capital and expect everything to go smoothly? That the world would just let you chase your dream, no consequences, no danger? Maybe your dream really is foolish. Maybe you are naïve for believing that you could just waltz into the capital and see the lantern festival without any repercussions. Maybe—just maybe—Gojo Satoru regrets ever having met you.

The thought makes something inside you crack, the pressure behind your eyes spilling over. A broken sob escapes, and then another, your shoulders shaking as you press a hand against your mouth, desperate to smother the sounds.

A hand lands on your shoulder. You suck in a sharp breath, jerking away, heart racing—

“It’s just me.” The voice is quiet but unmistakable.

Your breath stutters. Satoru crouches beside you. His presence is warm despite the chill in the air, and you realise now how cold you’ve gotten, how your legs have gone numb from sitting in the same position for too long.

You quickly wipe at your eyes, turning away. “Go away, Satoru.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he sighs heavily and shifts so he’s sitting right next to you, close enough that his knee bumps against yours. “I’m sorry,” he says, finally. “I was a dick.”

You blink.

“I mean, I’m usually a dick,” he continues, gazing at the water, resting his elbows on his knees. “But that was… excessive. I didn’t mean—” He stops. Tries again. “Your dream isn’t stupid.”

Your voice is small when you ask, “Then why did you say that?”

“I just… When you froze back there—” His voice is quieter now, almost hoarse. “I thought you were gonna die.”

You swallow hard. He murmurs, “I’ve seen people freeze like that before. And they didn’t walk away from it.”

“I did walk away,” you whisper, not sure if it’s the right thing to say.

“Yeah.” He turns his head, meeting your eyes properly for the first time since the fight. “You did.”

There’s something about the way he’s looking at you—like he’s seeing you for the first time. Or, maybe, like he’s seeing too much. You don’t know who moves first, but his hand is covering yours, warm and solid. His grip is hesitant at first, but when you don’t pull away, his fingers tighten around yours. You squeeze his hand back. Neither of you speak.

The fire crackles behind you. The water rushes softly. The moon watches from above.

Gojo Satoru, you think, is an enigma wrapped in glib promises and endless grins. You wonder if it’s his coping mechanism. He’s intelligent, quick-witted and silver-tongued. He’s good at fighting. You want to ask him why they sent him away from the palace, but you don’t think you have the right to. He always seems torn about it, when he’s spoken to you about it before—like it’s a bittersweet part of his life that he’s not very keen on revisiting.

He must have been something before turning to thievery. You stare at him like he’s a particularly intriguing puzzle, walking next to him. He guides Sukuna loosely by the reins; only Megumi is perched on his back, you and Satoru having favoured your own two feet instead of the back aches and leaden legs that come with extended periods of horseback riding.

“If you wanted to stare at my face so badly, I could’ve nicked the wanted poster back at Shiu’s inn,” Satoru says, not bothering to look at you.

Your cheeks prickle with heat. “I wasn’t staring,” you mumble.

The night air is cool against your skin; the wind carries the scent of damp earth and distant firewood, the kind of smell that reminds you of home—though, truthfully, you’re not sure what home even is to you anymore. Maybe it’s the road beneath your feet, the anticipation and uncertainty that comes with weeks of travel. Maybe it’s this: Walking beside a thief who used to be something more, who still is something more, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise.

Satoru doesn’t say anything for a long time, but his arm brushes against the side of yours, familiar in a way that’s almost comforting. The dirt path winds through the trees. The occasional torch flickers in the distance, marking the outskirts of the city. Sukuna snorts softly, and Megumi’s ears twitch as he scans the darkness ahead.

Eventually, Satoru speaks again. “It’s rude to stare and not share your thoughts.”

“I was just thinking,” you huff.

“Dangerous pastime.”

You kick a loose pebble from the path. “I was thinking about you.”

He makes a low, amused sound in his throat. “How nice of you. I knew you liked me, but I didn’t think I occupied your thoughts so thoroughly.”

You don’t rise to the bait this time. “I was thinking,” you say, “about what you were before this. You told me once you were from the palace, but you never really told me why they sent you away.”

Satoru is quiet for a moment. The leaves rustle around you, and you tug your cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“They trained me to be a soldier,” he says, finally, softly. “Me and—” He stops, swallowing the words like they taste bitter.

“And…?” You prompt. Your steps slow.

His grip tightens around the reins. “And someone else,” he finishes. “My best friend.”

The way he says it makes your chest ache. Satoru clears his throat and continues, “They trained us young. Said we had a gift for it. A gift for war, for strategy and battle.” He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “But a soldier only has value if he follows orders. And I wasn’t very good at that.”

You don’t push him to say more, though questions press against the tip of your tongue. The capital looms closer, the distant glow of lanterns casting an orange hue against the horizon. The trees begin to thin, giving way to rolling hills and farmland. In the distance, you can just make out the towering walls that guard the city, their stone surfaces illuminated by torches.

As you near the outer gates, the sleepiness of the countryside fades into the vibrant pulse of the capital. Even at this late hour, the city is alive, breathing, stretching its limbs in the form of flickering lights and distant laughter. You can hear the clatter of hooves against cobblestone, the occasional shout of a merchant still trying to haggle his wares, raucous debates from the inside of taverns. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, of damp stone and burning oil. It’s overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your chest tighten with something too big to name.

The capital. Your dream.

Satoru slows Sukuna to a halt just before the stone walls of the capital, guiding him off the main road and into the cover of a surrounding thicket. You follow, ducking beneath low-hanging branches. The trail here is narrow and overgrown, winding through the roots of old trees. Sukuna moves easily, his hooves barely making a sound against the packed dirt. When the city walls finally loom ahead, Satoru pulls on the reins, bringing the stallion to a stop beneath the shadows of an ancient oak.

“This is where we part ways,” the thief says, patting lightly on Sukuna’s saddle.

Megumi’s dark ears twitch, catching every sound, his green eyes narrowing at the imposing walls. The cat hops off the horse’s back. He’s been tense since you approached the capital; he doesn’t like unfamiliar places, and the sprawling city is anything but. 

Satoru tugs the reins over Sukuna’s head and leads him to a sturdy tree, securing him with deft hands. He runs a palm along the stallion’s neck in reassurance before crouching to do the same with Megumi. The cat lets out a mrow but doesn’t resist when Satoru scratches him behind his torn ear.

“You stay here and watch Sukuna, yeah? Be good,” he says, tapping him once on the head before straightening and unhooking your weather-beaten packs tied to Sukuna’s saddle and tossing them over his shoulder.

“You’re leaving them here?” you ask, glancing between the horse and the cat. It feels strange to abandon them at the outskirts, but you suppose it would be impossible to smuggle a massive stallion and a stray cat through the streets of the capital.

“Not leaving,” Satoru explains. “Just letting them sit this one out. Sukuna’s too big, and Megumi doesn’t care for crowds.”

You hesitate. Satoru doesn’t give you time to dwell on it, already striding ahead. You follow him through a break in the trees, slipping past the walls through a hidden opening you never would’ve noticed on your own. The dirt beneath your feet slowly gives way to stone and lamp-light. 

By the time you emerge into the streets, the towering stone walls are behind you, replaced by the overwhelming grandeur of the inner city.

You barely notice the way your breath catches in your throat, too preoccupied with taking it all in. The streets are narrower here, winding and twisting, labyrinth-like. The buildings loom taller than any you’ve ever seen, their façades adorned with intricate carvings and delicate ivy creeping up the sides. Ornate balconies overlook the streets, their silk curtains swaying with the breeze, and the warm glow of candlelight flickers in every window.

A vendor still lingers at his stall, selling roasted chestnuts wrapped in parchment, the rich scent making your stomach grumble faintly. A group of masked performers twirls in the city square, their laughter bright and musical. A nobleman in embroidered silks strides past with a pretty woman on his arm, their voices hushed as they slip into a gilded carriage.

It’s stupendous.

You don’t realise how close you’ve pressed to Satoru, your shoulder pressing into his arm. He notices, of course—he notices everything—but he doesn’t comment. He simply keeps moving, weaving through the crowd with the sort of confidence that only comes with someone who has walked these streets their entire life.

“Stick close,” Satoru tells you. “It’s easy to get lost if you don’t know your way around.”

The deeper into the city you go, the grander the architecture becomes. The modest stone buildings give way to towering structures of marble, their columns wrapped in flowering vines, their streets lined with lush greenery and carved statues. The roads widen, no longer cramped and twisting, but sprawling and lined with golden lanterns. Then—

Your breath stutters as you step into an open courtyard, and there, standing tall and regal under the silver glow of the moon, is the palace.

It’s massive, far grander than you ever could have imagined. White stone gleams under the warm lights, intricate carvings adorning every arch and column. The banners of the royal family ripple in the cool night breeze, deep blue with the yellow royal sigil against the ivory walls. The golden spires reach towards the heavens, their tips catching the light of the stars, as if they themselves are part of the sky.

Awe roots you to the spot. For years, you’ve dreamed of this place; of seeing it with your own eyes. Now that you’re here, it doesn’t feel real.

Satoru stops beside you, watching you quietly, blue eyes twinkling. With a smile curling at his lips, the thief tilts his head towards you and murmurs, “Well, sweetheart. Welcome to the capital.”

Satoru says he knows a place where both of you can spend the next three days until the lantern festival commences. You don’t believe him, especially after what happened the last time with Shiu and the bounty hunter. He had glared at you, deeply affronted, said, “Your lack of faith in me is appalling,” and then proceeded to lead you back towards the inner city.

“Remember that bookshop I was telling you about?” he asks, rounding a corner. 

“I remember,” you say.

“The former owner’s son runs it now,” Satoru says. “He’ll let us stay there.”

You don’t deign to reply, still drinking in everything—the towering buildings, the banners hanging from balconies, the cobblestone streets that shine under the flickering lights. Shopfronts boast their trinkets and fine silks, while street vendors call out to passersby, offering skewers of sizzling meat and honey-dipped pastries. 

It’s strange. The world you have known until now has always been smaller. Quieter. Even in the busiest towns, even in the places where merchants and travelers gathered, there was never anything like this. The capital, you think, is a city that never sleeps; a city that belongs to people like Satoru—people who thrive in movement, in laughter, in places where the streets are never empty and there’s always something new waiting around the corner.

You tune out the thief talking beside you. He’s rambling about something, making some quip about your starry-eyed expression. The city is so alive, so rich with colour and movement, that it fills every space in your mind.

A sharp tug at your wrist yanks you back just as a carriage rushes past, wheels rattling violently against the stones where you’d been standing a second ago. The force of it stirs your cloak, wind whistling against your cheek. The shock of it doesn’t register right away. You stumble, your body pulled by something—someone—solid and hard.

Satoru’s arm is firm around your waist, his fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist where he pulled you. The warmth of him is undeniable, even through layers of fabric. He holds you against him, close enough that you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Your breath is stuck somewhere in your throat, heart pounding against your ribs. You hadn’t even noticed you’d stepped into the carriage’s path, hadn’t realised how dangerously close you’d come to being trampled beneath its wheels.

Satoru exhales slowly above you, his grip tightening for a brief second before relaxing. “Gawking at the scenery is nice and all, but I’d rather not have to scrape you off the road.”

“I wasn’t gawking,” you mumble, more out of reflex than actual protest. Your stomach flips, though whether it’s from embarrassment or something else entirely, you’re not sure.

“You were,” he murmurs, but the teasing lilt in his voice is absent. His fingers, still wrapped around your wrist, loosen just slightly—but he doesn’t let go.

Instead, his grip shifts. His fingers slide down, intertwining with yours, palm pressing firmly against your own. He’s holding your hand. A warmth unfurls inside your chest, one that you don’t quite know how to name.

The two of you weave through the crowd like that, his fingers still tangled with yours, warmth bleeding into your skin with every step.

Satoru doesn’t let go until you round the next corner. The streets narrow, becoming quieter. The clamour of the main road fades behind you, replaced by the occasional murmur of voices from dimly-lit taverns and the sound of the wind rustling through laundry lines strung between buildings. The air smells of damp stone, faintly sweet and petrichor-like.

You clear your throat, trying to ignore the persisting warmth of Satoru’s touch even after he lets go. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he continues ahead. You wonder how often he’s taken this path—how many times he’s disappeared into the quiet corners of the city, both as a thief and as a soldier-in-training.

Eventually, he stops in front of a small, weathered shop tucked between a tailor’s boutique and an apothecary. The wooden sign above the door sways slightly in the breeze, the faint, worn lettering just barely readable. Nanami’s Books.

It doesn’t look like much from the outside. The wooden shutters are drawn, the paint on the door slightly chipped, but there’s something sturdy about it—something dependable, like it’s been here for years, and will remain standing for years to come. A single candle flickers behind the window, casting a warm glow through the glass.

Satoru raps his knuckles against the door. “Nanami,” he calls, sing-song.

The door creaks open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man with blond hair, wearing a crisp, white tunic, and an expression so unimpressed, one would think Satoru had just asked to rob the place. “No.”

“Nanami,” Satoru coos, grinning.

“No,” Nanami repeats, firmer this time, as if sheer repetition will make him disappear.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

Nanami sighs wearily, bringing up a hand and rubbing tiredly at his forehead. “You’re going to ask if you can stay here.”

Satoru places a hand over his chest, wounded. “What, no warm welcome? No, ‘Satoru, my dear friend, I’ve missed you’?”

“I’ve never said that to you in my life.”

“The lack of hospitality here is astounding.”

Nanami does not dignify that with a response. Instead, his gaze shifts to you. His scrutiny is wary but not unkind, expression flickering with mild curiosity. You shift slightly under his gaze, unsure of what he’s looking for.

“You’re new,” he says.

You nod. “First time in the capital.”

“And what trouble has Gojo dragged you into?”

The corners of your mouth lift up in a smile; Nanami seems like someone you can get along with—a kindred spirit in the art of pushing Gojo Satoru’s buttons. The thief, of course, doesn’t share the same sentiment. He gasps, offended, and says, “Why do you assume it’s trouble?”

“Are you really asking me that?” the bookshop owner asks dryly. He sighs, visibly considering whether allowing Satoru into his home is worth the inevitable headache. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, a gesture that suggests this is not the first time he’s found himself in this exact situation. “How long do you plan on staying here?”

“Two nights,” Satoru answers. “Just until the festival.”

“Fine.” Nanami’s shoulders slump as he reluctantly steps aside. “But if you so much as breathe near my ledger—”

“You’re the best.” Satoru claps a hand on his shoulder before he can finish, flashing a triumphant grin. Nanami, on the other hand, looks like he instantly regrets his decision.

Inside, the bookshop is lit by candlelight, the scent of parchment and ink thick in the air. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, packed with books that look well-loved and well-worn. The floorboards creak softly underfoot, and a single lamp flickers on the counter beside an open ledger, its pages filled with neath, meticulous handwriting.

“The loft is upstairs,” Nanami says, rubbing his temples. “Try not to destroy anything.”

“No promises,” Satoru says cheerfully.

You follow him up the narrow staircase, stepping into the small loft above the shop. The space is simple—two mattresses perpendicular to each other, pushed against the wall, a low table, and a window overlooking the street below. Dust lingers in the corners, the scent of old parchment soaked into the very walls. There’s no extravagance here, nothing grand or gilded, but it’s warm and lived-in.

Satoru throws himself onto a mattress with no ceremony, arms spread as he sighs dramatically. “See?” he says, peering up at you. “Told you I knew a place.”

You roll your eyes, but despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips.

You wake up to the sounds of an argument in the shop below. The mattress is lumpy and a little hard, but it beats sleeping on the forest floor with nothing but your cloak separating you from the cold earth. Satoru’s mattress looks the same as it did last night—the covers placed meticulously and tucked into the sides, the pillow not creased, as though he hadn’t slept at all. A quick glance around the loft leads you to find a wooden basin filled with water. You pad over to it and splash your face once, twice. The water is cool against your skin. You rub the gunk out of your eyes.

It seems the argument isn’t going to abate anytime soon. Nanami’s voice rises, and, cautiously, you make your way out of the door and pad over to the top of the staircase so you can hear better. 

“You’re a fool,” the bookshop owner says. “I told you that months ago, and yet here you are. Again.”

Satoru sounds almost amused when he replies, “Well, hello. What happened to good morning?”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

A beat. You shift onto the first step, careful to keep your steps light.

“I appreciate the concern, Nanami,” Satoru says. “Really. But you should know by now that I’m impossible to kill.”

“That isn’t the point.” There’s the sound of something hitting the counter—a book, maybe, or Nanami’s palm pressing against the wood as he fights for patience. “You’re still chasing this—this ridiculous theory? After everything?”

Your fingers tighten around the bannister. “It isn’t ridiculous,” the thief says, quieter this time.

Nanami scoffs, dry and unimpressed. “You’re gambling with your life for a theory you can’t even prove.”

“That’s the point, Nanami,” Satoru counters, sharp. “I have to prove it.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Nanami says, and there’s something frayed at the edges of his voice, something that sounds a lot like concern buried under layers of irritation. “You could leave this alone. Walk away before—”

“Before what?”

“You know what.”

For a moment, neither of them speak. The words sit heavy in the air, thick enough that you almost feel them pressing against your skin. Nanami exhales. “And even if you’re determined to be a reckless idiot,” he says, voice cooler now, “what gives you the right to drag someone else into this?”

You stiffen at the mention of yourself. Satoru clicks his tongue. “Oh, come on. I didn’t drag her into anything.”

“She’s here, isn’t she?”

“She dragged me here. She made that choice herself.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s choosing,” Nanami snaps. “Tell me, Gojo, did you bother explaining anything, or did you simply try to charm her skirts off and decide that was enough?”

“I can be persuasive if I want, you know.”

“Insane. You’re insane, and I want nothing more than to—”

You’re not sure what compels you to move, but you step down the stairs, making your way towards them before the argument can escalate any further. Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s annoyance, maybe it’s the simple fact that you’re irked at being talked about like you aren’t standing just a few feet away. At the sound of your footsteps, both men turn.

Nanami regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze. Satoru runs a hand through his hair, but grins at you. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he greets. “Enjoy your beauty rest?”

You give him a withering look before turning to Nanami. “What’s going on?”

“That,” he says, lips pressed into a thin line, “is exactly what I’d like to know.”

“It’s too early in the morning for us to be concerned with all this serious talk,” Satoru cuts in, clapping his hands. He glances at you. “Nanami, does Utahime’s shop open this early?”

“Yes,” he replies. “But I don’t think she’ll be very receptive to you barging in and ruining her morning.”

“Nonsense! Utahime loves me.”

Nanami sighs. “I’ll warn her first.”

“There’s no need for that.” Satoru waves a hand in the air dismissively, placing his other one on the small of your back and gently steering you out of Nanami’s bookshop. You bite your tongue, curious to know what they were arguing about, but unsure if it’s in your place to pry. 

“Where are we going?” you ask instead.

The thief grins, letting the door to the bookshop swing shut behind him. “To get you some new clothes.”

“What’s wrong with—” You don’t bother finishing the question, as Satoru leads you through the winding streets of the capital. The city is slowly waking—merchants setting up their stalls, children darting between their parents, the scent of roses and bread wafting from nearby bakeries and flower shops. You can hear the clang of a blacksmith hammering metal in the distance, the occasional neigh of a horse, and people haggling over the fresh produce that’s just arrived from the surrounding countryside.

You clutch your cloak around you a little tighter, feeling a little out of place. It’s different, now, in the daylight, when the darkness doesn’t obscure your vision and those of others. You glance down at yourself, taking in the well-worn fabric of your cloak, the practical cut of your tunic and trousers. It’s not like you’re dressed in rags, but compared to the finery you’ve seen nobles wearing in the streets, you suppose you do stick out rather like a sore thumb. (So does Satoru, your mind offers helpfully, but unlike you, he moves as if he owns the very streets he walks on, as if the world itself bends to his whims.)

“Is this really necessary?” you ask hesitantly.

“Absolutely.”

You narrow your eyes. “I feel like you’re just looking for an excuse to spend money that isn’t yours.”

“I would never—” he begins, but you give him a flat look, and his lips curl up into an utterly unrepentant grin. “Alright, maybe I would. But in this case, it’s a matter of principle. Don’t you want to look all nice and pretty at the lantern festival?”

You roll your eyes but let him drag you long, weaving your way through the bustling market district. Eventually, he stops in front of a charming little boutique, its windows lined with displays of elegant dresses, rich fabrics draped across headless mannequins. A little brass bell jingles as Satoru pushes open the door. The interior of the shop is warm, bathed in the golden light filtering through the windows. Shelves upon shelves of neatly arranged fabrics line the walls, bolts of silk and brocade in every shade imaginable. The air smells of lavender and fresh linen, with the faintest hint of parchment from the stack of ledgers resting on the counter.

Behind that counter, a woman with dark hair pulled into a loose bun looks up from where she’s inspecting a sheet of shimmering fabric. Her sharp eyes land on Satoru, and whatever semblance of peace she had this morning is immediately shattered. “Oh,” she says, “not you.”

“Utahime!” Satoru places a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

“You deserve it.”

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” he simpers.

Utahime arches a brow. “You are not my friend.”

Satoru wags a finger at her. “Business associate, then?”

“Barely.”

You shift uncomfortably, not entirely sure how to insert yourself into this conversation. The two of them clearly have some sort of shared history, similar to Nanami and Satoru. Curiosity prickles in your stomach; you want to know more about them, about Satoru’s life before he became a wanted man.

Utahime exhales through her nose, then finally turns her attention to you. Her expression softens slightly, the corners of her lips quirking upwards. “And you are?”

You hesitate, suddenly feeling very out of place surrounded by all this luxury. “Um—”

“She’s my new travelling companion,” Satoru interrupts, slinging a hand around your shoulders as if that explains everything. “Which is why I’ve so graciously brought her here—to make sure she looks the part.”

Utahime stares at him, then at you. Slowly, her grin turns amused. “You mean, to make sure you don’t look like a pauper standing next to her.”

You choke back a laugh. Satoru splutters, “I—how dare you—”

“You look like you’ve been sleeping in ditches, Gojo,” the tailor says.

“That is not true.”

“You have leaves in your hair.”

Satoru blinks, reaches up, and, sure enough, pulls a small, dried leaf from his messy white locks. He flicks it away with a muttered curse.

“I can’t stand someone as pretty as her walking around with a man who looks like he lost a fight with a laundry line. Come,” Utahime says, addressing you and already pulling a gown off a nearby rack. “Let’s get you sorted before I throw him out.”

You follow her shyly deeper into the boutique, leaving Satoru to sulk near the counter. The further in you go, the more extravagant the fabrics become—rich velvets, shining silks, intricate embroidery, lacy tulle. You hesitate, again, feeling out of place among such luxury, but Utahime does not seem to care for your reservations. She studies you with a critical eye, holding up various fabrics against your skin.

You shift awkwardly under her scrutiny. “I don’t need anything too fancy,” you say quickly.

Utahime gives you an unimpressed jerk of her chin. “You think he is going to let you walk around in something plain?”

You glance over your shoulder at Satoru, who is currently inspecting a mannequin in the corner, tilting his head. He doesn’t even pretend to be paying attention. You sigh. “Probably not.”

“Exactly.” Utahime flicks through a row of dresses before pulling one out. “Try this.”

The fabric is smooth beneath your fingertips, a deep blue that shimmers like water under the sunlight. The embroidery along the neckline is delicate, intricate swirls of silver thread that catch the light. It’s beautiful—far more beautiful than anything you’ve ever worn before.

“I—I don’t know if I should,” you admit.

“Why not?”

“I mean, I—” You falter. The words sound silly even in your own head. I’m not used to things like this. Things this nice.

But Utahime merely shakes her head and shoves the dress into your arms, though not unkindly. “You should, because you can.” She gestures to a dressing screen next to you. “Go. Try it on.”

You nod, uncertain, before stepping behind the screen, fingers tracing over the soft fabric. It takes a moment to undo the laces of your old clothes and slip into the new dress. The material drapes over you fluidly, the fit surprisingly perfect. The bodice is snug but comfortable, cinching at your waist before flowing down in gentle folds. The sleeves are light, sheer fabric brushing against your skin like a caress.

When you step out, Utahime nods in approval. “Better.”

You look down at yourself, smoothing your hands over the fabric. It’s strange, wearing something so fine, something that makes you feel seen. You’re so used to blending into the background, to preferring practicality over beauty. But now—

A low whistle interrupts your thoughts.

You glance up to see Satoru leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his lips. “Damn,” he muses. “I always knew you were cute, but this is something else.”

Your face heats. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious!” He pushes off the counter, walking over to circle you, inspecting you from every angle. “You’re going to have every noble in the capital turning their heads.”

“Which means you can’t go around looking like that,” Utahime interjects, shooting Satoru a pointed glare.

He blinks. “Like what?”

“Like a half-drowned stray,” she says, and before he can protest, she shoves a bundle of clothes into his arms. “Go change. I refuse to let someone as beautiful as her be seen with an absolute pauper like you.”

You laugh, and Satoru pouts at you. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Extremely,” you agree.

Grumbling under his breath, he disappears behind another dressing screen, leaving you and Utahime in silence. After a beat, she turns to you. “You’re travelling with him willingly?”

“It’s…” You chew on your lip. “Complicated.”

She hums, as if she’d expected nothing else. “Be careful.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you simply nod. A moment later, Satoru emerges, now dressed in something far more refined than his usual attire. The loose, tattered shirt underneath his vest has been replaced with a fitted tunic of dark navy, the high collar emphasising the sharp angles of his jaw. The long coat draped over his shoulders is a deep charcoal, lined with silver embroidery. Even his boots look newer, shinier.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Well?”

Utahime clicks her tongue. “It’s an improvement. Barely.”

Satoru ignores her and turns to you. “What do you think?”

“You look… less like a thief,” you say.

“I’ll take that as a win.”

Utahime rolls her eyes, thrusting a pair of slippers that match the colour of your dress at you, along with an ivory comb to pin your hair back in place. “Take these and get out of my shop.”

So you do.

The capital, you’ve come to realise, is a place of contradictions—grand stone buildings adorned with ivy, shadowed alleyways where whispers slip through the cracks, noblewomen in embroidered shawls brushing shoulders with street performers balancing on stilts. 

Satoru weaves between crowds easily, pausing only when something catches his interest: A vendor selling sugared fruits, a fortune teller shuffling tarot cards at a makeshift stall, a pair of children chasing each other with wooden swords, their giggles ringing bright in the late morning hour. He lingers just long enough to soak in the moment before moving on, as if the city itself is nothing more than an elaborate game designed for his amusement. You try not to stare, but the way he carries himself is captivating—like he’s seen it all before and yet, still finds a way to be charmed by it.

“See?” He nudges your arm lightly with his elbow. “Told you you’d fit right in.”

You press your lips together and say nothing. The fabric of your new dress sways as you walk, softer and finer than anything you’ve ever owned. It feels unfamiliar against your skin, but not unpleasant. It makes you feel different, somehow, like you’ve stepped into a role that doesn’t quite belong to you. People glance at you differently now; not with suspicion or wariness, but with curiosity.

“So, what now?” you ask instead.

Satoru grins, wild, his blue eyes shining with mirth and excitement. “Now? Now, we explore.”

And explore you do.

He leads you through the winding streets, pointing out interesting stalls and dodging carts and carriages. He stops at a street performer juggling knives and dramatically gasps at every toss, leaning in as if he’s witnessing a royal duel. You shake your head, but his antics coax a quiet smile out of you. When he catches it, his smile softens just a little.

A hidden alleyway tucked between two bustling shops reveals an old woman sitting behind a small table, delicate glass trinkets laid out in neat rows. The figures catch the light, shimmering like captured stardust. Satoru crouches, fingers hovering over a tiny glass cat, its tail curled in mid-motion. His white hair falls into his eyes as he studies it, the briefest flicker of something thoughtful passing over his features.

“D’you think Megumi and Sukuna are getting lonely?” he murmurs, turning the figurine over in his hands before placing it back, offering the woman a charming wink as he tosses her a coin for her time.

“You didn’t buy it,” you observe. The two of you step back onto the main street.

“Didn’t need to,” he replies, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Just wanted to look.”

You make your way towards the bustling heart of the market, where stalls overflow with bright fabrics, glinting trinkets, and fresh produce. The scent of roasted chestnuts curls around you, warm and nutty. Satoru pauses, his gaze flicking to a vendor skillfully tossing chestnuts in a wire pan over an open flame. The chestnuts pop and crackle in the heat. Without a word, he steps forward, tossing a few coins onto the counter. The vendor barely has time to acknowledge him before Satoru is already handing you a small paper pouch, its warmth seeping into your fingers.

“Try one,” he says, grinning.

You peel open the shell of a chestnut, the scent much richer up close. When you take a bite, it’s soft and sweet, the kind of warmth that settles deep in your chest.

Satoru watches you expectantly. “Well?”

“They’re good,” you admit.

“Of course they are,” he boasts. “I have impeccable taste.”

You huff a small laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t pull away when he reaches out, brushing a stray hair from your face that escaped the confines of Utahime’s comb. His fingertips barely ghost over your skin fleetingly, but you feel it like an ember catching flame. It stretches between you like a thread being pulled taut—and then he clears his throat and looks away.

“Come on,” he says, tilting his head in the direction of another street. “There’s one more place I want to show you.”

By the time you arrive at the jewelry stall, the sun hangs high overhead, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. Unlike the market district, this section of the city is quieter, the chatter of merchants distant, softened by the hum of rustling leaves. The stall itself is small but carefully arranged—dainty chains displayed on dark velvet, rings nestled in silk-lined boxes, gemstones catching the light in a kaleidoscope of colours. Here, the world feels slower, as if it exists in its own pocket of time.

Satoru steps forward, fingers skimming lightly over the jewelry. His expression is uncharacteristically thoughtful. You watch him curiously. Until now, he’s been aimlessly amused by everything, flitting from stall to stall and shop to shop like a butterfly with no real direction, but this—this is different. There’s an intention behind the seriousness in his eyes.

“What are you looking for?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead picking up a simple silver necklace with a small blue gemstone embedded in its center. He turns it between his fingers, the pad of his thumb brushing over the stone as he studies it for a long moment. Then, as if coming to a decision, he looks at you.

“This suits you,” he says.

You blink, taken aback. “What?”

He steps closer, the space between you shrinking. “Here,” he says softly. “Let me.”

Your breath catches when his hands lift, brushing against the back of your neck. The metal of the chain is cool against your skin, but his fingers—his fingers are warm, careful, the touch light enough to send a shiver down your spine. He lingers for just a fraction too long before fastening the clasp, fingertips grazing the nape of your neck in a way that makes heat bloom beneath your skin. When he pulls away, the pendant rests just above your collarbone. You touch it lightly.

“I—I can’t take this,” you say, voice quieter than before.

Satoru only smirks, but it’s not his usual brand of tiresome arrogance. It’s softer. “Too late. No returns.”

Your fingers tighten around the pendant. The stone is smooth beneath your touch, reflecting the sunlight in shifting shades of blue. It reminds you of something—of fleeting moments, of oceans you’ve never seen, of something vast and untouchable yet undeniably present. The question slips out before you can stop it: “Why?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze roams over you, something unreadable flickering in those too-bright eyes. Then, he shrugs. “Consider it a souvenir,” he says. “Something to remember today by.”

You want to press him for more, but something about the way he says it is fragile, delicate in a way that makes you hesitant to touch it too harshly. It is a thread pulled just slightly tighter, a balance shifted just slightly off-kilter. He reaches for your wrist, tugging you gently back towards the street. 

“Let’s go,” he says, ever the one to move before a moment settles. “We’ve still got time before sunset.”

By the time the sun begins its descent, the capital is alive in a different way than before. Where the market had been filled with the shouts of merchants and the clatter of wooden carts, the town square now hums with a different kind of energy—joyful and infectious.

Colourful paper lanterns have been strung between buildings, flickering to life as the sky fades from gold to dusky violet. Musicians gather in the center of the square, their lively tune spilling into the air, coaxing laughter and movement from the people around them. The scent of honeyed pastries from a nearby stall blends with the perfume of crushed petals from garlands strung over doorways.

“Well, sweetheart,” Satoru says, “it’s your lucky day. Looks like we’ve arrived just in time for a celebration.”

You look up at him, slightly wary. “A celebration for what?”

“The night before the lantern festival, ‘course.” He grabs your wrist and pulls you forward.

“Satoru—”

“Hush, we’ve done nothing but walk around all day,” he says, meandering through the crowd. “Let’s have a little fun.”

Your protests die on your tongue when you step into the heart of the square. The music swells, a melody of flutes, fiddles and tambourines; it is so rich and lively that it seems to settle beneath your skin, curling around your ribs like something alive. All around you, people spin and sway to the rhythm, moving as if the music is stitched into their bones. Women twirl in dresses of deep reds and blues, their skirts fanning out like blooming flowers, while men clap their hands to the beat, laughing as they switch partners. Children dart between the dancers, giggles escaping their lips, while couples sway together, lost in their own world.

You’re so caught up in taking it all in that you don’t notice Satoru moving until his hand finds yours again. The moment you realise what he’s doing, your eyes widen. “Oh, no—”

“Oh, yes,” he counters, grinning as he spins you suddenly, catching you before you can stumble. “You can’t expect me to dance alone, can you?”

“I can if I don’t know how,” you retort, heart racing at the unexpected movement.

He clicks his tongue. “Tsk. And here I thought you were quick on your feet.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Only when I need to be.”

The thief only laughs, that bright, boyish sound that makes something warm settle in your chest. “Just follow my lead,” he says, drawing you in.

Against all reason, you do. At first, you’re hesitant, stiff under his hands while he guides you into the rhythm of the dance. But Satoru is nothing if not persistent. He keeps you moving, spinning you into the flow of the music, making the world blur in bursts of colour and light.

It’s dizzying, the way he moves—not just with grace, but with a kind of unshaken confidence, like he’s never once doubted that the world will bend to him if he asks it to. His hands are steady on yours, his steps sure, and when he grins, it’s the kind of grin that makes you feel like you’re part of some grand adventure, something wild and untamed.

You’ve never met a man like him before.

Somewhere along the way, your hesitation fades. Your body moves with his naturally now, drawn into the lilt of the music. Your laughter bubbles up before you can stop it, spilling into the air between you as he twirls you beneath the glow of the lanterns. Satoru watches you closely, his smile softening, just a little around the edges.

“Told you it’s fun,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, breathless. “Warn me next time.”

“You do want a next time, then,” he says, and you don’t have an answer to that.

Because—maybe—you do. Something in you, you think, has begun to unravel. Maybe, against all logic, you’re slipping. Maybe, you don’t mind. You meet his gaze, heart rabbiting about in your chest. His eyes are impossibly blue, bright even in the dim glow of the lanterns. Your heartbeat is too loud in your ears, your thoughts a mess of tangled emotions, but you can’t bring yourself to step away. Not when his grip is this steady, not when his eyes are watching you like that.

The music melts into something softer, the once-rapid twirls melting into something slower, more intimate. Satoru’s hand shifts, resting lightly against your waist, his other still holding yours between calloused fingers. The world feels smaller now, quieter, narrowed down to just the two of you.

When the song finally ends, both of you out of breath and a little bit sweaty, Satoru steps back and bows with an exaggerated flourish. The fondness in your chest betrays you, and you curtsey back. He holds your hand again, and doesn’t let go. Even as the music fades and the crowd disperses, laughter trailing off into the warm night, his grip remains firm. You should pull away. Should remind yourself that he’s still a thief, still unpredictable, still frustrating beyond belief. 

Instead, you let him guide you through the winding streets of the capital once more, past shops closing up for the night, past candlelight flickering through bedroom windows, past lovers whispering in darkened corners. The warmth of the evening settles over you both, the smell of jasmines and roses and summer heat pressing in close.

“You’ll like this,” Satoru says, turning back over his shoulder.

“You say that about everything.”

“And I mean it every single time,” he replies. 

He takes you through a narrow alley, walking with the surety of someone who has spent their childhood finding all the hidden parts of the city. A wooden ladder rests against the side of a weathered stone building; Satoru lets go of your hand and immediately starts climbing.

You pause. “Seriously?”

“Unless you want to climb up four flights of stairs,” he calls down, teasing. “But I don’t think you’re in the mood for a hike.”

With an exasperated shake of your head, you gather the folds of your dress into your arms, bunching up the fabric. The ladder, thankfully, is sturdy despite having stood in that spot for who knew how long. The climb is easier than you expect, and when you reach the top, Satoru is already waiting, standing near the edge of the rooftop with his hands in his pockets, watching the city unfold beneath him.

Your breath hitches. The view is stunning. From here, the capital is a sea of golden lights, stretching wide until the river that snakes around the perimeter near the far end. The castle looms in the distance, its towers reaching towards the heavens, the marble reflecting all the lights. Beyond it, the countryside stretches endlessly, shadowed hills rolling underneath a sky dusted with constellations. The stars seem impossibly close, as if you could reach out and trace them with your fingers.

Satoru watches your reaction, the corners of his lips curling into something softer than a smirk, something quieter. “Told you.”

You don’t reply immediately, too busy taking in the sheer vastness of it all. The castle, the city, the stars—things that once felt distant and untouchable now seem just within reach. Stepping closer to him, you ask, “How did you find this place?”

“I used to come up here as a kid. Sometimes, when things got—complicated, I guess you could say—I’d sneak away, climb up here, and just watch. The world looks different from above.”

You nod, turning back to the view, letting the quiet settle between you. Satoru plops down onto the shingles of the rooftop, inches away from the part where it begins to slope, and motions for you to do the same. You comply, dress rustling as you sit down next to him. After a moment, Satoru shifts, leaning back on his palms, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The cool night air ruffles his hair, the moonlight catching on the silver strands.

“Can I ask you something?”

“...That depends,” you say.

His smile is easy, lazy—but his eyes are sharp and searching, like he’s trying to peel back all your layers. “Back in the market,” he starts, slow, “you let me pull you into that dance. You could’ve left. You could’ve made an excuse, walked away, ignored me entirely. But you didn’t. Why?”

You suck in a breath, eyes drifting to the city below. The streets are quieter now, the celebrations beginning to wind down. For so long, your world has been small. Not just physically, but in the way that mattered—the way that made it feel like you were meant to stay in one place, bound by duty, by love, by responsibility.

“My grandmother,” you begin, softly. “She was the only family I had left.”

Satoru doesn’t move; he just watches you, waiting. “She got sick,” you continue, wringing your fingers together on your lap. “And I had to take care of her. I couldn’t leave, even if I wanted to. Even if—” You pause, exhaling through your nose. “Even if I dreamed about it sometimes.”

The memories come back in pieces—watching the world pass by beyond the edges of your village, wondering what lay beyond the fields and forests you had never crossed. The way you used to sit by your grandmother’s bedside, listening to the stories she told of places she had never been either.

“She passed away,” you say, quieter this time.

Satoru doesn’t speak, but the way he looks at you makes your chest tighten. You turn your head, looking out over the city again. The castle towers rise high against the star-streaked sky, the view stretching beyond anything you ever could have imagined from your tiny corner of the world.

“I spent so long staying in one place,” you admit, “being careful and doing what was expected of me. But now…” You trail off, searching for the shape of the feeling that’s been unravelling inside you since the moment you first stepped beyond the life you thought you were meant to live. “Now, I think I just want to see what’s out there.”

A slow smile tugs at Satoru’s lips. It’s not the cocky smirk you’re used to, nor the grin that comes with a teasing remark. It’s softer, something almost—fond. “And now that you’re here, is it everything you’ve dreamed of and more?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. “It’s incredible.”

“I’m glad,” he says, then, after a beat: “Alright, my turn.”

“Your turn?”

“To answer a question.” His eyes flicker to you, playful. “You want to ask me something, don’t you?”

You pause. Then, before you can overthink it, you ask, “Are you still only with me because you want the crown back?”

The teasing edge in his expression falters, just for a second. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, fingers tapping idly against the rooftop, his eyes fixed on the distant castle. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, more thoughtful. 

“At first, yeah,” he admits. “That was the plan.”

You wait, sensing there’s more. Satoru lets out a breath, a faint chuckle escaping him, though there’s a strangeness to the sound—like he’s amused at his own thoughts, still figuring them out. He says, “But you’re not exactly what I expected.”

You frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He shifts, turning to face you fully now, the golden lights casting shadows across the side of his face. “It means,” he says, “that I figured you’d be like everyone else. Predictable. Easy to manipulate. Someone who’d either slow me down or get in my way.”

Satoru smiles, tilting his head, but this time, it’s different—less teasing, more like he’s studying you, trying to commit you to memory. “But you’re not.”

Your heart stutters. You don’t know if it’s the words themselves, or the way he’s looking at you—intent, unrushed, like you are something worth deciphering—but something shifts, something fragile and terrifying in its certainty. You should say something; you ought to shake your head, roll your eyes, scoff at him like you always do. But the night air is wrought with something you don’t have a name for, and the weight of his gaze pins you in place.

“You’re stubborn,” he continues, voice dipping just slightly, low enough that you feel it more than hear it. “Smart. Quicker than I expected. You surprise me.”

The breath you’ve been holding releases in a slow exhale, but it doesn’t make the feeling in your chest settle. “I don’t know if I believe you,” you murmur.

Satoru leans in, not touching—not yet—but close enough that the heat of him brushes against your skin. “You really should.”

You barely have time to process what he means before he moves, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to stop him. Some part of you registers this—but you ignore it, because somewhere along the way, you stopped wanting to.

His hand lifts first, fingertips ghosting along your jaw, barely there, a touch so cursory, it could be mistaken for hesitation. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t pull you in like a man desperate—he waits, breath mingling with yours, gaze flickering down to your lips, then back up again, watching. It’s agonisingly slow, and maybe that’s what makes your pulse hammer in your throat, makes your fingers tighten at your sides as if fighting the instinct to reach for him. 

And then—the faintest brush. Featherlight; testing. A breath of a kiss, a question rather than an answer. You could pull away now, but the moment his lips meet yours, something inside you caves.

It’s soft at first, uncertain, but the second you respond—just the smallest tilt forward, the slightest press of your lips against his—he becomes more insistent. His hand cups your jaw more firmly, his other coming to rest against the small of your back, drawing you in as though the space between you is something offensive and unbearable.

You gasp against his mouth, but it isn't surprise. It’s relief; like something that had been threatening to snap inside you has finally, finally broken loose. His lips move slowly against your, unhurried but devastating, a contradiction of softness and something deeper, something unjumbling beneath your skin. You don’t even realise when your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like he might slip away if you don’t.

You don’t think. You don’t breathe. You just fall.

It’s easy enough to fall into Gojo Satoru like this. Too easy, really. It should be harder. It should be something that gives you pause, something that makes you second-guess yourself. But you don’t, because right now, on this rooftop with the whole city stretching out below you and the stars scattered across the sky like crushed diamonds, it doesn’t feel like a mistake. It doesn’t feel like something you’ll regret. It just feels like him.

Satoru pulls away and watches you carefully, the way he always does when he’s waiting for you to make a move first. His hands rest loosely on either side of him, deceptively relaxed, but his gaze tells a different story. There’s something in his eyes tonight—softer, expectant, something that makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t entirely understand. Maybe you’ll never understand him fully. But you think, maybe you don’t have to.

You reach for him first this time. A brush of your fingers against his wrist. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—just watches, as if memorising the moment. You shuffle closer, until your knees touch where he’s sitting, until his breath stirs the air between you. When you finally lean in, when your lips graze his in something that isn’t quite a kiss yet, you hear the sharp inhale of breath he takes. Then, finally, he moves.

Satoru kisses like he does everything else—sure of himself, but not impatient. He takes his time, lets you press in closer as his hands find their way to your waist, his touch steady and warm. The rooftop is quiet except for the distant sounds of the city and the faint hum of the night air, but all you can hear is him—the way his breath blows on your cheek, the way he exhales softly when your fingers slip into his hair.

You let him kiss you deeper, let him tilt his head and pull you closer and melt into him as easily as breathing. When he pulls you into his lap, hands firm on your hips and his lips trail lower, brushing along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, you decide you don’t want to stop at all.

The inn is a modest place, tucked between streets. Its wooden beams creak, and the scent of old bookshelves and candle wax wafts through the air, mixing with something sweet—honey, maybe, or the remnants of a forgotten perfume. Satoru had brought you here so quickly and paid for a room that, despite the knowing look the innkeeper gave you both, you didn’t have the time to feel embarrassed before he was whisking you away.

It’s quiet here, away from prying eyes. The bed beneath you is softer than you’d expected, sheets worn but clean, warmed by the heat of your bodies. A single melting candle in the corner lights up the room, its glow casting shadows along the rough-hewn walls, pooling in the hollow of Satoru’s throat as he hovers over you.

There’s a moment—just a moment—where uncertainty creeps in. You’ve never done this before. Somehow, Satoru seems to know that without you even saying anything. His hands, steady and warm, never wander too far, never push for more than what you’re willing to give. Even as his lips move against yours—slow, coaxing, patient—there’s an unspoken question between every kiss; an invitation rather than a demand. It makes it easier. Easier to melt into him and to follow the way his fingers map careful paths down your spine.

You barely register when he tugs at the hem of your clothes, when fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling somewhere unseen. His gentle fingers unclasp the comb in your hair, letting it fall down loose. He leaves the necklace on, though, the blue pendant just above your collarbone, reflecting his own blue eyes. They darken when he sees you like this. His hands are on your bare skin, and it’s different—more real, somehow. More intimate than anything else before this.

Satoru leans back, exhaling as he takes you in, eyes dragging over every newly exposed inch of you. His gaze is heavy, reverent in a way that makes you shiver. “You’re beautiful.”

Your breath catches. Heat pools low in your stomach, spreading through you in slow, curling tendrils. Then he’s pressing his lips to your throat, his hands gliding down your sides, settling on your hips. His touch is firm but never rough. Still, the anticipation builds.

Your skin feels too hot, too sensitive, aware of the way his mouth drags lower—over your collarbone, down the center of your chest, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Then, lower still. You shudder. ��Satoru—”

He hums against your skin, one hand sliding beneath your knee, urging you to part for him. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

You hesitate for only a moment before nodding. That’s all the permission he needs. His hands settle on your thighs, parting them gently. His lips ghost over the sensitive skin, teasing and testing, before he presses a kiss where you’re already aching for him.

The first touch of his tongue is tentative—just a slow, languid drag against you, as if savouring the taste. Like he’s learning exactly what makes you tremble. You do tremble. A quiet, broken sound slips from your lips before you can stop it, your fingers tightening instinctively in his hair. Satoru groans, low and pleased, and the vibration of it makes your stomach tighten.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t overwhelm you. He simply moves with purpose, unravelling you piece by piece, lick by lick, until the pleasure builds into something unbearable. You don’t know when your eyes flutter shut and your body melts into the sheets. His grip tightens just slightly to hold you in place. When he drags his tongue over that one spot, when he sucks, slow and deliberate, pleasure licks up your spine like wildfire. You gasp.

“That’s it,” Satoru says, a tad proud. “Just let go.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, your thighs tightening around him as he coaxes pleasure out of you with maddening patience. The tension builds, winding tighter, higher, and when he rubs your bundle of nerves with his thumb, you moan. Warmth spills through your limbs; your breath catches and everything around you blurs, reduced to nothing but the feeling of his mouth, his hands, his name falling from your lips in a whisper. Satoru stays there for a moment longer, pressing one last kiss to the inside of your thigh before moving back up. He kisses you again, slow and deep, and the taste of yourself on his lips makes your head spin.

“How was that?” he asks.

“You talk too much,” you say, and slant your lips against his again.

Satoru pulls away, though reluctantly. Kneeling between your legs, his hands move to his belt. You watch, still dazed, as he undoes it and kicks his trousers off, then pulls his tunic over his head in one smooth motion. You swear you forget how to breathe.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for him, pressing your hands against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. He shudders at the contact, and something about that—about the way you affect him—sends a thrill through you. Wordlessly, he leans back, watching you carefully.

You meet his gaze, and, slowly, slide your hands up, over the defined lines of his collarbones, over the faint scars that mark his skin. You take your time, tracing the firm places of his stomach, the ridges of muscle beneath your fingertips. He has a scar cutting through his torso, a jagged line that should look unseemly, but on Satoru it does not. You don’t think anything ever could. 

“How did you get this?” you whisper, running your fingers along the line.

“Failed assassination attempt on me,” he whispers back. You’re not even surprised anymore.

Satoru is beautiful. It’s a thought that strikes you suddenly, like a realisation that had been waiting for the right moment to surface. He’s all long limbs and lean strength, a body built for running and fighting and surviving. The sight of him, bare before you, makes something warm bloom in your chest.

“You’re staring,” he teases, but his voice is quieter this time, almost breathless.

You hum, letting your nails drag lightly down his torso, watching the way his stomach tenses in response. “Maybe.”

His breath comes out uneven. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he leans down, pressing his weight against you, caging you beneath him. The heat of his body is overwhelming, the feel of bare skin on bare skin sending a shiver through you. Even then, when he presses his lips to yours, he asks, “Are you sure?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

He exhales sharply, his forehead dropping against yours. “You’re going to kill me.”

You laugh, breathless, tilting your head just enough to kiss him again. “Then die quietly.”

His answering grin is crooked. He nudges your nose with his, and his hand finds yours against the sheets as he laces your fingers together. Slowly, he moves.

The first press is slow, careful, an unfamiliar stretch as he eases himself inside you inch by inch. Your breath hitches in your throat, fingers tightening around his while your body adjusts to him. There’s a sting, a deep pull of discomfort that makes you tense, but he stills immediately, exhaling a shaky breath against your temple.

Satoru’s lips ghost over your skin, pressing soft kisses to your cheek, your jaw, murmuring quiet praises in between. “You’re doing so well,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. “So fucking perfect.”

The ache fades gradually, melting into something warmer. You take a slow breath, then shift your hips slightly—just enough for him to move. His sigh is shaky, his grip on your hand tightening. 

He starts moving, and the world narrows to nothing but him. It’s slow at first, every movement measured, as if he’s trying to memorise every little reaction and gasp that spills from your lips. He watches you the entire time, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen it, like he’s seeing you for the first time. The pleasure builds gradually, a slow burn spreading through your veins. Each roll of his hips, each press of his body against yours sends another wave of heat through you, until the discomfort is nothing but a memory. Your legs tighten around him instinctively, pulling him closer, deeper. Satoru groans, his head dropping into the crook of your neck as he curses under his breath.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice strained. “You feel—” He shakes his head, unable to finish the thought. His teeth graze lightly over your shoulder. His pace quickens slightly, pulling breathy moans from you with every movement. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your stomach, winding like a thread about to snap. 

And then he angles his hips just right, hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur. A broken sound escapes your lips. Your grip on his hand tightens, nails digging into his skin. “There?” he asks, voice thick with something you can’t quite place.

You nod, unable to form words, and he groans, pressing deeper, chasing every little reaction you give him. It’s overwhelming—the warmth of him above you, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, the way he whispers your name like it’s something sacred.

When you finally reach that peak, when the pleasure crests and crashes over you in dizzying waves, your entire body shudders beneath him. The thread snaps, leaving you weightless and drowning in sensation as he follows soon after, his movements growing erratic. Satoru pulls out just in time, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he spills onto your stomach, one hand gripping your waist as his body trembles above you. His breath is ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly; he takes in the sight of you beneath him—flushed, panting, utterly wrecked.

For a long moment, neither of you move. His breath fans over your collarbone, fingers fiddling with the silver chain around your neck. He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder, and his grip on your hand loosens just slightly, but he doesn’t let go. Eventually, Satoru shifts, rolling onto his back and searching for something to clean you up. He finds a wash basin with a cloth placed nearby; wetting it gently, he pads back to you. The thief—your lover, now, you suppose—is gentle, wiping you down with slow, careful movements before tossing the cloth aside. Then, without hesitation, he pulls you against him, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing his lips against your temple.

His fingers trace absentminded patterns along your spine, his touch featherlight. You feel his lips press against your hair, and the gesture makes your chest ache. You curl into him. He rests his chin on the top of your head. “Sleep,” he says.

You don’t say anything—just let your eyes slip shut, and let yourself sink into the warmth of him and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Satoru coaxes you out of bed with the promise of buying you a honey-dipped pastry from one of the vendors you’d been eyeing the day before. You grumble about his methods, saying he has an unfair advantage knowing your weaknesses so well, but truthfully, you don’t really mind. You dress quickly, smoothing your hands over the creases in your gown and pulling your hair back with the ivory comb, while Satoru lounges against the doorframe, watching you with that easy, lopsided grin of his. The sunlight catches in his hair, and when he tilts his head at you, something warm curls inside your stomach. You shove it down. 

The two of you leave the small inn just as the sun begins to rise, the golden light spilling over the rooftops. The streets are still mostly empty, save for a few vendors who’ve begun setting up their stalls. You walk beside Satoru, your hands brushing against each other now and then, though neither of you makes a move to pull away. He fills the quiet with his usual chatter, talking nonsense, teasing you about how you hogged the blankets, about how you snored (you did not). You roll your eyes and shove at his shoulder, but he only laughs, catching your wrist and spinning you in a quick, playful circle.

When you finally reach Nanami’s bookshop, it looks the same as it did the day before—quiet and unassuming, its worn wooden sign creaking slightly in the breeze. You push the door open.

Nanami is at the counter, as usual, a book open in front of him. But you can very quickly tell something is off. He doesn’t look up right away. His hands are still, fingers pressed against the page, unmoving. When his gaze finally lifts, it lingers on Satoru first, then flickers to you. He exhales and gives you just the faintest shake of his head. A warning. Leave.

You blink at him, confused. Satoru, oblivious as ever, only grins. “Morning, Nanami,” he sing-songs, stretching as he strolls further inside.

Nanami doesn’t answer. You hear footsteps, slow and heavy—the sound of hard boots against wooden flooring. Not from the entrance. From the back of the shop.

A man steps into view. Tall, with broad shoulders, his dark hair pulled into a high knot, leaving a few loose strands to frame his face. His clothing is different from the soldiers you’ve seen before—black and deep blue, his vest embroidered with the sigil of the royal family. But what strikes you most is his expression: Blank and unreadable; the kind of stillness that feels dangerous without needing to try. His eyes, dark and steady, scan the room methodically before resting on Satoru. He’s flanked by two soldiers on either side of him, standing in metal-plated armour with their faces hidden by the visors on their helmets.

“Ah,” the thief says. “So that’s why Nanami was looking at me like I was already dead.”

The room is still. Satoru doesn’t move. Neither does the man at the back of the shop. Nanami, ever composed, keeps his fingers pressed against the pages of his book, though you can see the tension in his shoulders. He knows exactly who this man is. You don’t.

“You’ve gotten sloppy,” he remarks, as if he was simply commenting on the weather. “I had multiple reports of you wandering throughout the city yesterday. You weren’t even subtle about it.” A small pause, and then: “Frolicking, they said. With a girl.”

His eyes slide towards you. Your stomach tightens. You don’t recognise him, but something about his presence makes your skin prickle. It’s the way he carries himself—the way his posture is lazy, the way his voice is even and smooth, but not emotionless. He reminds you of Satoru, but less flamboyant and raucous.

“I should introduce myself,” he continues, “to our friend here who appears visibly confused. Geto Suguru, captain of the Royal Guard, at your service, madam.”

Satoru merely shakes his head. “You really ought to pay your soldiers more,” he drawls. “Imagine sending them on a wild goose chase to find me. Surely there are more pressing matters to attend to—but I am flattered about the attention you’re very generously bestowing upon me.”

The man hums, unimpressed. “They do their jobs well enough. Unlike you.”

His gaze flicks to a low table pushed to the side. To the crown—the crown that was supposed to be tucked underneath your mattress back in your cottage. Your pulse quickens. Satoru follows his gaze. “Hm,” he says, like it’s all very unfortunate, “I suppose that’s how you found us.”

“You’re different,” the man says. “You never used to be this careless.”

Familiarity bleeds into his tone when he says it. They have a history, the thief beside you and the soldier opposite him, that much is clear. Your fingers curl into your palm.

“Is this the part where you tell me I’ve gone soft?” Satoru grins but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Captain Geto lifts a brow. “If the boot fits.”

Satoru snorts. You stay quiet, your mouth drying up. You don’t know how deep their history runs. You’re not sure if you want to, anymore, even though, earlier, your curiosity about Gojo Satoru knew no bounds.

“You found me, Suguru,” Satoru says simply, grin vanishing.

The captain inclines his head. “You always make things difficult,” he says, lifting a hand.

The soldiers step forward. Satoru doesn’t fight when they grab him. He stays motionless, doesn’t even flinch as they wrench his arms and wrists, twisting them behind his back. He doesn’t move, but you do. “Satoru—”

He turns his head towards you, and you swear you see something shutter in his expression. But as quickly as it comes, it goes, replaced by a grin that looks more like a sneer.

“I assume you won’t struggle,” the captain says.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain Geto,” Satoru says.

You open your mouth, but before you can say anything—before your brain wraps around what’s happening—Suguru turns to you. His dark eyes sweep over you, assessive. “You’re from the villages, aren’t you?”

You freeze. His voice is calm—not unkind or threatening. Just certain. There is nothing that suggests immediate condemnation about the way he says it, but it sends a prickle of something cold down your spine. You force yourself to square your shoulders and look him in the eye when you confirm his question.

Suguru nods at your reply, something thoughtful about the way he regards you. “Then you have a choice,” he says.

“A… choice?” Your pulse thunders against your skin.

He tilts his head once more, slightly, and for a moment, you could almost call him composed—gracious, even. His words are anything but. “Either you come with us, as his accomplice. Or you return to your village and pretend this never happened.”

The words drop between you like stones. Your throat tightens. You know what he’s offering. A way out. A chance to walk away and go back to the life you left behind. You can let these past few weeks become nothing more than a bitter memory, something you can tuck away and bury deep. But if you leave—

You find yourself looking at Satoru. He grins at you, looking for all the world like he doesn’t have a care. Like he isn’t standing there, bound, with soldiers at his back and chains ready to be locked around his wrists. But you also see the way his shoulders have gone taut, the way his fingers twitch, just slightly, like he wants to reach for you. Before you can think to answer, Satoru cuts in.

“I lied to her.”

Your heart hammers in your chest at his sudden declaration. Captain Geto raises a brow, waiting.

Satoru’s grin widens, careless and easy. “She didn’t know who I was. She didn’t know about the crown or any of this. I played her the fool, and charmed my way into her good graces. Can you blame her?”

You feel like the ground beneath you has vanished. He’s lying. You know it, Suguru knows it, Nanami knows it—but he says it anyway, as if willing it into truth, daring Suguru to challenge him. 

“You never change,” the captain murmurs.

“Nope,” the thief agrees, popping the ‘p’ sound.

There’s a silence; a slow, quiet sigh. Suguru shakes his head. “Take him.”

The soldiers move. You react on instinct, lurching forward, reaching for him—but rough hands seize your shoulders, pulling you back. Nanami, you realise. His sturdy arms—too muscular for a simple bookseller—hold you in place no matter how much you squirm in his grip.

Satoru, on the other hand, merely presses his lips together when they fasten the iron cuffs around his wrists. You feel the sharp sting of panic rise up your throat. “No—” Your voice cracks, but no one is listening. Your limbs feel useless, weak, as the soldiers push past you. “Wait—”

Captain Geto steps forward, blocking your path, his presence an immovable wall of black and blue. His dark eyes settle on yours, calm and resolute. “We found the crown at a cottage.”

His words feel like ice water down your spine. You swallow hard. Suguru doesn’t look triumphant, doesn’t even look like he’s enjoying this. He states it as an inevitable fact. “The entire village was searched,” he continues, measured and unhurried, like he’s laying out the pieces of a story so that you understand. “We found the stolen heirloom hidden there. And if it was there, then that means whoever lives in that cottage—” 

He pauses. You don’t dare to breathe.

“—was harbouring the kingdom’s most wanted criminal.”

A leaden weight settles in your chest. No. No, that’s not true. I didn’t know. But the words don’t come. Because you did know, right from the start, when you stole the crown from him.  It was already too late, then, and it is too late now, because now—now, you know the shape of his smile, the sound of his laugh, the calluses on his fingers. Satoru was protecting your secret, and the realisation burns. Your nails bite into your palm. You want to say something, to fight back and demand an explanation from Geto Suguru. Satoru turns his head towards you.

The soldiers pull him to the door, and you watch, your throat tight and your breath shallow. Your feet won’t move, your body feels frozen, like some part of you believes this is the last time you’ll see him. Like some part of you is already mourning. Satoru’s grin doesn’t slip. His white hair falls over his eyes, and for a brief second, you swear you see something there—something reassuring. He’s telling you it’s going to be okay. He’s telling you not to follow.

“Gojo Satoru,” the captain announces, “as the Captain of the Royal Guard, as per the First Commander’s decree, I hereby arrest you for the cases of looting, thievery, causing bodily harm and injury, failure to repay your debts to the capital, stealing the royal family’s most precious heirloom, and betrayal to the Royal Crown. Do you object to any of these claims?”

“No, Captain,” Satoru says.

“Very well. Your punishment for the following acts of treason is death. The execution will be tomorrow, at sundown. Do you have anything you wish to say?”

His blue eyes find yours. “No, Captain,” he repeats, quieter this time.

Your vision blurs. Gojo Satoru, the menace, the thief you’ve journeyed with, the man who knows you more intimately than anyone else, smiles at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, as the guards lead him away.

“There’s a history, isn’t there?” You cross your arms over your chest. Nanami and Utahime—who had arrived almost as soon as Nanami had sent word—look at each other. “Between the captain and Satoru, and—and you two and Satoru. Tell me.”

It’s been two hours since Satoru was arrested. Two hours of restless pacing, your mind running in frantic circles and your hands clenching and unclenching as you tried to come up with a plan—any plan—that didn’t result in you standing at the end of a sword. 

Nanami had stopped you before you could even try to follow the captain and his soldiers. “That’s suicide,” he had told you, his voice low but firm. “You wouldn’t make it past the castle gates.” He had barely convinced you to stay. But the truth was, you wouldn’t have made it far. Not when Geto had given you just one day to gather your things, buy what you needed from the capital, and leave. Leave. The word itches under your skin. You had nodded shakily when Captain Geto had told you as much. But even as you agreed, you knew. You’re not leaving—not while Satoru is to be executed.

Nanami sighs. “It’s not something you need to involve yourself in.”

“That’s not your call to make,” you snap.

Utahime shifts beside him, arms crossed. “You don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“I don’t care,” you argue. “Satoru is in a cell somewhere, waiting to be executed, and you’re acting like it’s already over.” You take a step closer. “But it’s not, is it? Because if it were, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Fine,” the tailor says. Nanami opens his mouth to protest, but she gives him a look and he stays silent. She leans against the table, fingers drumming on the wood, and takes a deep breath before she starts:

“We were all soldiers once. Me, Nanami, our friends Shoko and Haibara, Geto, and Gojo. We trained together. We fought together. We thought we’d die together. And some of us did. Haibara—he was the youngest of us. Too kind, too trusting—” her jaw tightens— “and he shouldn’t have been sent on that mission. Gojo and Geto were the best of us. The strongest. That strength made them invaluable, but it also put them close to the former captain of the Royal Guard.”

“The First Commander?” you ask.

Nanami nods, his expression darkening. “After Haibara’s death, Geto and Gojo… They changed. Geto became more distant, more dissociated from all the blood and the killing. Gojo became more reckless. At first, we thought it was just grief. Losing Haibara—it did something to all of us. But Geto and Gojo… they were different. They knew something we didn’t.”

Utahime shifts uncomfortably. “They spent more and more time with the First Commander. We didn’t think much of it. He was a brilliant strategist, and they were his best soldiers—it made sense that he’d favour them. Then, one day, while we were busy sparring at the training grounds near the east wing, Geto and the First Commander came up to us. They said—they said that they’ve entrusted us with a new mission: To find and kill Gojo Satoru.”

Your blood runs cold. “...What?”

“We didn’t know why,” Nanami says, grimly. “We still don’t. But we didn’t have a choice, so we played along. We followed his trail, but we never got too close—we made sure of it. Geto was the only one who really cared; the rest of us couldn’t stomach killing our friend.” He lets loose a breath, shoulders slumping. “Eventually, we got sent away for being too incompetent. I took over my father’s shop. Utahime became a tailor. Shoko moved to another kingdom to practice medicine.”

“And Satoru became the kingdom’s most wanted criminal,” you finish for him.

“Yes.” The man sounds tired, resigned when he says it. “The former captain of the Royal Guard became the First Commander—he is the current king’s elder brother, after all—and Geto rose in the ranks to become the new captain. The late queen passed away, and the king’s health deteriorated rapidly, until the First Commander was forced to rule in his name.”

Your head spins with all this information. There must be more to this story—there has to be. Satoru couldn’t have become a notorious thief for no reason. Geto Suguru couldn’t possibly have still been hunting for him if there wasn’t something Satoru knew. Something invaluable. How does the crown tie into this? Satoru must have stolen it for a reason. What could he gain from stealing the royal family’s most priceless heirloom, other than a grand amount of money? You know Satoru wouldn’t have stolen the crown just for the fun of it. 

You’re missing something. Something crucial. You just need to figure out what. But first, you need to save the thief who showed you the world beyond the borders of your village.

Nanami exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. His expression remains blank, but there’s something tense about the way his fingers curl into a fist before he forces them to relax. Utahime has her arms crossed, her fingers gripping the fabric of her sleeves. They had hesitated before, unwilling to speak of the past, but you are nothing if not determined and stubborn.

“Do you guys know your way in and out of the palace?” You shift on your feet. The words leave your lips with urgency, and you don’t dare let yourself hope.

Utahime answers without hesitation. “Of course. I couldn’t forget it even if I tried.”

The certainty in her voice makes your chest loosen just the slightest bit. You chew on your lip, mind racing. The execution is set for tomorrow at sundown. The timing isn’t a coincidence—if your hunch is right, Captain Geto has chosen to use the lantern festival as a veil for the event. A celebration of light and joy to mask the bloodshed. 

Your fingers twitch at your sides, the beginning threads of an idea weaving together in your mind. It’s reckless and dangerous, but what other choice do you have? “I have,” you say slowly, “a horse and a cat waiting for me outside the capital.”

Nanami’s brows furrow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

You allow yourself a small, wry smile. The plan forming in your head is far from perfect—it’s borderline absurd, really—but the best distractions are often the ones no one expects.

“What better way to cause a disruption at a crowded event,” you say, leaning forward slightly, “than by letting a massive warhorse go rogue?”

The lanterns haven’t been lit yet—there are still hours to go for that—but the festivities begin with pomp and affair, much like the evening before, when Satoru and you had danced in the town square. Laughter rings out in waves, warm and unrestrained, carried through the crisp summer air laced with the sweet scent of spiced cider and roasted chestnuts. Music swells from the centre of the town square, a lively melody played by nimble hands on well-worn strings, and for a moment, the festival feels untouchable—like something out of a dream.

Until a scream splits through the dusk. The first crack in the revelry appears as festival-goers stumble back, their joy crumbling into confusion, then alarm. The cobblestone streets tremble beneath the furious pounding of hooves, and the festival—once so bright and golden—erupts into chaos. 

Like a demon birthed from light and flame, the beast arrives. A massive white warhorse, his snowy coat gleaming beneath the lamps’ glow, surges into the square, his reins flopping about his sides with no one there to ride him and his mane whipping about with the force of his gallops. His powerful frame barrels through the market stalls, hooves kicking up a storm of dirt and debris. A merchant barely dives out of the way as a cart of oranges topples over, spilling fruit across the street in a surge of gold and tangerine. The scent of crushed citrus only seems to amplify the panic.

Sukuna. Warhorse, menace, and a walking natural disaster. He rears up, hooves cutting through the air, and lets loose a shrill, defiant neigh that sends festival-goers scrambling. Children clutch at their mothers’ cloaks. Guards—once lazily stationed at their posts—snap to attention, hands flying to their weapons. Merchants abandon their wares, shouting frantically instead.

From the alleyway, you watch, heart hammering against your rib cage. The plan was simple. Let Sukuna loose. Create a distraction. Slip into the palace unnoticed. You were not, however, expecting this. Your eyes drift to where Nanami and Utahime stand, safely behind a water fountain, observing to make sure no real harm is caused and no one is actually injured. Utahime looks mildly shocked, while Nanami looks a little green.

Sukuna swings his massive head to an unfortunate vegetable vendor, plucks a perfectly round cabbage from the wreckage, chews it once, twice—and then hurls it full force at the nearest guard’s nether region. The cabbage makes impact with a resounding thud. The man crumples instantly. You slap a hand over your mouth to keep yourself from laughing, holding Megumi tightly against your chest with your other one. You’ve replaced Utahime’s gown with your tunic and trousers from before and a pair of sturdy boots; it’s easier to move and hide the cat against your chest by covering him with your cloak. Your pack rests against your shoulders, filled to the brim with all your supplies. 

The horse pivots, tail lashing as he sends a stack of pastries flying with a single, well-placed kick. Cream-filled tarts arc through the air, and one particularly unlucky festival-goer takes a hit directly to the face, stumbling backwards in stunned silence. The panic spreads like fire through dry brush. Flower stands topple as people shove their way through the square, knocking over barrels and baskets in their desperate attempts to flee. Musicians abandon their instruments, their once-lively tunes now replaced by the erratic clang of an overturned drum.

You press further into the shadows, gripping Megumi a little tighter. “Alright,” you whisper, gaze darting to the now-abandoned palace gates. “This is our chance.”

The cat flicks his tail against your arm, but doesn’t resist when you set him down. He slinks forward, paws silent against the stone. You take one last glance towards the town square—where Nanami and Utahime are watching Sukuna with the expressions of a duo questioning every single life decision they’ve ever made—before slipping out of the alley.

The plan had been reckless from the start. Nanami had called it suicidal. Utahime had looked moments away from smacking you when you first suggested sneaking into the palace alone. But when it became clear you wouldn’t be swayed, she’d relented, pressing a map into your hands and tracing a single, hidden path with her fingertip. 

“The old passageway beneath the garden wall,” she had told you. “Hardly anyone remembers it exists—except for Geto, maybe, but he won’t be looking for you. It leads you straight through the kitchens and towards the prison underground.”

From this distance, the palace looms like a beast sleeping beneath the stars, its many towers and arching spires silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky. The golden sconces hanging from its walls cast a warm glow, creating long shadows that dance across the stone. Behind you, beyond the square, the festival rages on despite the commotion Sukuna caused. With a population this big, a simple horse won’t stop the people from celebrating—no, Sukuna had done his job well. You don’t hesitate in front of the palace. Hesitation means death.

The main gates are impossible—too well-guarded and exposed. But Utahime had spoken of another way, a smaller side entrance used for deliveries that leads you straight to the garden. It’s tucked away in the farthest corner of the palace grounds. The guards stationed there have been pulled towards the chaos in the square, just as planned. Still, you move carefully.

The shadows are your only ally as you press yourself to the outer walls, each step as silent as you can be. Megumi slinks beside you, nothing more than a wisp in the darkness with a half-torn ear, his sharp green eyes scanning for movement. You follow the curve of the stone wall, past ivy-covered archways and gushing marble fountains, until—

There. A wooden gate, half-hidden behind overgrown vines. You reach for the iron handle, fingers curling around the cool metal. You push against it with your shoulder, and it gives. The gate swings open just enough for you and Megumi to slip through, and then you’re inside the palace.

The palace gardens stretch before you in a maze of hedges and stone pathways. White roses bloom in the moonlight, petals pale as ghosts, their sweet scent thick and cloying. Marble statues of forgotten kings stand in silence, their hollow eyes seeming to follow you as you move. Somewhere beyond, you hear the distant murmur of voices—guards perhaps, manning the main halls. But here, amidst the leaves and the flowers, you are alone. 

You weave through the bushes, careful not to let your cloak catch on thorns. The path Utahime described had been clear in your mind before, but now, with the pressure to get Satoru out as quickly as possible increasing with every beat of your heart, the details feel hazy. A fountain, an old tree, and then the passage.

The fountain comes first, its water glimmering like molten silver under the moonlight. You crouch low, pressing yourself against its cool stone base, scanning the area. There’s no one around. A few paces ahead, a twisted oak rises from the ground, its gnarled roots stretching across the earth like reaching fingers. Its bark is scarred, and its branches are half-bare despite the season—just as Utahime had said.

Your pulse quickens. At the base of the tree, partially covered by weeds and wildflowers, a patch of stone juts out at an odd angle. Unlike the rest of the carefully arranged stone tiles in the garden, this one looks out of place—covered by dirt and worn by time. You drop to your knees and press your fingers against the surface. There is a slight shift, a breadth of space where there should be none.

This is it. With a careful push, the stone gives way, revealing a dark opening beneath the roots. The air that rushes out is humid and damp, as though it has not been stirred in years. You glance at Megumi. “Well,” you whisper to no one in particular. “There’s no turning back now.”

You drop legs-first into the hidden passageway. The moment your boots hit the ground, the world above seems to shrink away, muffled by layers of soil and stone. The darkness here is absolute. It presses in from all sides, thick and mawkish, the kind that swallows light and sound alike. For a moment, you do nothing but breathe, your fingers braced against the rough tunnel walls. The air is damp and stale, carrying the scent of moss, old stone, and something faintly metallic—like rain-soaked iron.

In front of you, Megumi lands soundlessly, his lithe form slipping into the darkness easily. You hear the soft thump of paws against dirt, then nothing. If not for the glint of his sharp eyes, or the way he presses his body against your leg, he might as well have disappeared.

Your fingers find the small lantern strapped to your belt. You turn the wick as low as it will go before striking the flint. A tiny ember flares, then blooms into a soft, flickering glow, just enough to illuminate the path ahead. The tunnel stretches forward, curving out of sight, its ceiling low enough that you have to crouch slightly to keep moving.

The walls here are old—older than the palace above, maybe even older than the kingdom itself. Stones worn smooth by time line the passage, their edges softened by centuries of damp air and creeping roots. In some places, cracks have formed, letting in faint sounds from the world above—the distant echoes of music and cheering from the lantern festival. Each sound feels impossibly far away, as if the tunnel exists in a world entirely separate from the one above.

You move forward carefully, your steps light on the uneven ground. Megumi pads ahead, his tail lifted in the air. The path narrows, forcing you to squeeze between the crumbling walls, and then widens again.

The passage spits you out into a vast, cavernous room, its ceiling arched and lined with thick wooden beams. Dust floats in the lantern’s dim glow, stirred by your arrival. Wooden barrels sit stacked in rows along the far wall, their formerly pristine surfaces marred by age and neglect. Bottles of aged wine and forgotten casks of ale sit upon the rotting shelves, relics of a time when this place had been used for more than secrecy. You drag your fingers across one of the barrels as you pass, feeling the rough texture of splintered wood beneath your touch.

Somewhere above, a faint creak echoes through the ceiling—a floorboard shifting beneath weight. Your breath stills. Someone is walking the halls above. You and Megumi freeze in place, listening. Silence.

Whoever it was is gone now. But the reminder is clear: You’re inside the palace now. You are running out of time. Exhaling slowly, you move to the far end of the cellar, where Utahime had said the servants’ door would be. The wood is warped with age, but when you press your shoulder against it, it gives way with a quiet groan. Beyond it, a narrow stairway spirals upwards. At the top lies the palace kitchens—and beyond that, the key you need to free Satoru.

You unsling your pack, shifting it in your arms, and step cautiously into the palace kitchens. The air is thick with the scent of past meals—roasted meats, cinnamon, and something rich and spiced. The massive hearth smoulders with dying embers, glowing orange. 

The kitchen is deserted, just as Utahime had said it would be. Most of the palace staff must have gone to watch the festival, or—more conveniently for you—to see whatever disaster Sukuna had caused in the square.

Still, you don’t take any chances. You straighten your back, undo the strings of your pack, and heft it in your arms like a sack. Striding forward, you lift your chin as though you belong here. Megumi flits past your feet, disappearing underneath one of the heavy wooden tables.

The ruse almost works—until just as you near the door leading out of the kitchen, footsteps sound from the far hallway. You freeze for only a moment before forcing your limbs to loosen. With a quick breath, you throw a mild look of annoyance onto your face, shift the pack higher onto your hip, and march forward. The door swings open and you nearly collide with a harried-looking cook. He’s a broad-shouldered man with a walrus moustache, apron stained with what looks like a day’s worth of work, and he stops short when he sees you.

“You—who are you?” His moustache quivers. His eyes flick to the open bag in your arms, filled with a hastily gathered of carrots, leeks, and a single sad-looking turnip. 

You let out an exasperated huff. “Finally,” you say, injecting the right amount of irritation into your voice. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to get these here?”

“What?”

“The town square’s a disaster! Some lunatic set a warhorse loose! I had to take the long way around the outer walls just to get here, and by the time I arrived at the usual gate, no one was there to let me in.” You shake your pack for emphasis. “Thought I was going to have to eat these myself. You’re lucky I even bothered.”

The cook eyes you suspiciously, but your complaint sounds mundane enough to be true. He rubs a hand over his face, sighing heavily. “The gods are testing me tonight. Fine, fine, put them on the table. But be quick about it.”

“Yes sir,” you mutter under your breath, making a show of stomping towards the long wooden table in the center of the kitchen. You set your pack down with a decisive thud, dusting your hands afterwards for good measure. The cook is already distracted, grumbling to himself as he turns towards the fire. You take the opportunity to scan the room, eyes landing on a rack of pots and pans hanging next to the hearth.

A weapon. Your fingers itch. It’s not that you’re planning to hit someone, but it’s always good to be prepared. And you wouldn’t exactly be the first person to use a frying pan as a last-minute means of self-defense; you’ve heard of tales of the princess of a neighbouring kingdom escaping her tower where she was kept imprisoned with nothing but a chameleon for company and a frying pan for safety.

Without hesitating, you grab one from the rack, testing its weight in your hand. It’s sturdy. Heavy enough to knock a man out cold if necessary. You slide it under your arm, keeping it close as you edge your way towards the door. 

“Oi.”

You stop. The cook is watching you again. You lift the pan slightly. “Borrowing this.”

His moustache quivers again. “For what?”

“To use,” you say vaguely. “Surely I deserve it after having brought you your vegetables despite all the trials and tribulations I faced along the way.”

“You know what? I don’t want to know. Just get the Hell out of my kitchen.”

You don’t need to be told twice. With a slight nod, you make your way towards the hall, Megumi slipping out from his hiding place to follow at your heels. The moment you’re out of sight, you tighten your grip on the pan and let out a slow, relieved breath.

You’ve done it. You’ve infiltrated the palace.

The halls stretch before you, long and gilded, lined with tapestries and portraits. The marble beneath your feet gleams even in the dim torchlight, and the walls are carved with intricate patterns of swirling gold, catching the flicker of flames like veins of molten fire.

It really is beautiful. A shame you don’t have the time to appreciate it.

Satoru had spoken of this palace with an almost begrudging sort of fondness, describing the soaring ceiling and the endless hallways. He’d said that it was too grand and gaudy, but his voice had betrayed him. Maybe, if things were different, you’d have let yourself stop for a moment; might have run your fingers over the carved archways or peeked behind the heavy velvet curtains just to see if what he had said is true.

But right now, Satoru is locked in a cage beneath all this finery, and if you didn’t move fast enough, he’d stay there. 

So you force your gaze away from all this grandeur and press forward, Megumi keeping pace beside you. The entrance to the underground prison is right where Nanami had explained it would be—tucked away at the end of a long corridor, next to the life-size portrait of the late queen. A single guard stands watch, leaning lazily against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

It’s almost insulting. You’d expected some kind of resistance, but clearly, the festival is a grander affair than you thought it’d be, given the fact that the entire palace is mercifully empty. (Take that, Gojo, you think. It’s not just some stupid, fucking dream.)

The guard is young, barely older than you, and his helmet is tilted back on his head like he doesn’t expect to actually need it. A ring of keys hangs from a nail on the wall beside him, just out of his immediate reach. You exhale slowly. It has to be fast.

You step forward, letting your footfalls become just loud enough to catch his attention. The guard startles, straightening as his hand drifts to the sword at his hip. “You’re not supposed to be—”

You don’t give him a chance to finish. Before he can react, you swing the frying pan. There’s a thunk as the cast iron connects with his temple, and his expression shifts from alarm to blank surprise before his knees buckle beneath him. He falls to the floor, out cold before he even hits the ground. For a moment, you just stand there, blinking down at his unconscious form.

“Okay,” you mutter. “That actually worked.” Megumi lets out an unimpressed meow. 

You shake off the momentary shock and step over the fallen guard, reaching for the keys. They’re cold in your hand as you lift them from the nail, heavier than you expected.. You kneel, looping a thin cord you’d kept in your pocket through the keyring before carefully tying it around Megumi’s neck. The metal dangles against his dark fur, catching the light as it sways with the feline’s movement. Megumi flicks his ears.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, scratching behind his ears in silent apology. “You’re the only one small enough to slip through the bars. Go save Gojo, yeah? I’ll let you use him as a mattress for the rest of your life if you do.”

You glance toward the heavy wooden door leading to the prison. You can already feel the cold draft seeping through the hinges. Satoru is waiting—and you’re almost there.

The moment Megumi slips through the prison door, you press yourself against the cold stone wall, every muscle in your body coiled tight. Now comes the hardest part: Waiting.

The silent stretches, suffocating. The distant echoes of the lantern festival feel like they belong to another world entirely—one where people are laughing, dancing, reveling underneath lantern-lit skies. But here, away from all the joyousness, in the belly of the beast, the air is still. You tighten your grip on the frying pan, the only weapon you have, though you’re not sure how much use it’ll be if someone really finds you. The minutes drag, each one more agonising than the last, and you fight the urge to start pacing.

What’s taking so long? Did Megumi make it inside? Did Satoru get the keys? Did something— A sudden, ear-splitting clang echoes from the prison depths—and then, footsteps. Heavy, fast, running. Before you can brace yourself, the door bursts open.

Gojo Satoru is a blur of white and shackles and laughter, stumbling forward as if he can’t believe the oxygen he’s breathing is real. Megumi bounds after him. The thief’s hair is a mess, his clothes rumpled from captivity, and the iron cuffs that once bound his wrists now dangle uselessly from one hand with the lock wrenched open.

He stops, just for a moment, breathing heavily, and then— “Oh.”

He reaches for you. Strong arms reach around you, lifting you clean off your feet before you can protest. He spins you once, laughter bubbling from his chest, the sound bright and alive and so him that your heart lurches.

“You’re brilliant, did you know?” he says, breathless, grinning into your hair. “My beautiful, clever girl.”

Heat rushes to your face, but before you can come up with anything resembling a response, he pulls back just enough to look at you. His hands settle firm at your waist, fingers pressing into you as if he needs to ground himself, needs to believe that you’re real. 

“You actually did it,” he murmurs, voice softer now, as if the realisation is still settling in. His eyes—so much brighter now that he’s not sentenced to imminent death—roam your face, searching. “You came for me.”

“Of course I did,” you say, and there’s a conviction to your voice that you didn’t know you were capable of. “What, did you think I was going to leave you in there?”

Satoru lets out a breath that could almost be a laugh. His fingers tighten just slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. “Nah,” he says. “You love me too much for that.”

You would have smacked him for that, but Megumi hisses in warning, and—

A slow, deliberate clap shatters the moment. The sound echoes through the empty corridor. Satoru stiffens. You twist in his arms, and there, standing at the entrance to the corridor, framed by torchlight, is Geto Suguru.

He is calm. He is composed. His uniform is pristine, untouched by the madness of the outside world. Something about the way he stands—the way his eyes glint—tells you that he had been expecting this.

“Oh, my,” Geto says, dark amusement curling at the edges of his voice. “What a touching reunion.”

He doesn’t lunge, doesn’t rush—simply tilts his head, fingers shifting ever-so slightly around the hilt of the sword sheathed at his waist. But that is enough. Satoru reacts immediately.

“Time to go,” he says, and before you can even register it, his hand grips yours and pulls.

You break out into a run, Megumi bounding alongside you both. Your feet barely touch the polished marble floors as you tear through the hallway. Satoru’s grip is firm, unyielding, tugging you forward even as your heartbeat roars in your ears.

The palace corridors blur past in streaks of gold and shadow. The vast, open walls, formerly filled with the hum of courtly affairs and the soft shuffle of silk-clad nobles, now echo with the rhythm of your own footsteps. The grandeur, the impossible opulence—none of it matters now. The only thing that does is putting as much distance between you and the man behind you.

Geto does not rush, but you feel him there, just beyond the edges of your vision. He moves like inevitability, his steps unhurried, the soft tap of his boots against stone barely audible over the breathless pace Satoru sets.

Left. Satoru veers sharply, nearly yanking you off balance as he takes a turn down a narrower passageway. The walls here loom closer, lined with paintings depicting long-forgotten wars and rulers whose names history has nearly erased. Megumi races ahead, his black fur a blur against the dim light, navigating the twisting hallways with a hunter’s instinct.

“Where—” you barely manage, lungs burning— “are we going?”

Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. His grip tightens around your wrist, fingers warm despite the chill in the air. Then, finally: “The throne room.”

You nearly stumble. “The what?”

“Best place to corner him.” He doesn’t sound the least bit winded, despite the speed at which you’re moving. “No exits. Just him and me.”

“That’s a terrible plan!”

“Oh? Got a better one, beautiful?”

You don’t. Not one that doesn’t involve getting caught. Another turn. Another impossibly long hallway. The walls here are different—sleek, dark stone rather than marble, lined with towering pillars that stretch high into the vaulted ceiling. This is the heart of the castle, you realise. The oldest part. The place where power has been passed from one ruler to the next, where history has been carved into the very foundations. The entrance to the throne room looms ahead. Twin doors. Impossibly tall, made of dark oak reinforced with gold filigree. The sigils of the royal bloodline are carved into them, worn smooth from centuries of rule.

Megumi reaches it first. He doesn’t slow—just slips through the narrow gap left ajar. Satoru doesn’t stop running, either. He shoves against the heavy doors, and they groan open, the vast chamber beyond yawning wide to swallow you whole.

The throne room is silent. No guards. No nobles. Just tall stone columns, high windows that cast fractured moonlight against the polished floors, a row of swords hanging on the far end of the wall, and the lone, empty throne that sits at the far end of the chamber. Your stomach drops when you see what’s placed on the throne’s seat.

The crown. Geto Suguru has expected this to happen—had planned for it, even. All for what?

Satoru releases your wrist just as the doors slam shut behind you. The sound of approaching footsteps makes you whip around so quickly, you nearly lose grip of the handle of the frying pan. Satoru turns, unhurried, a smile curling at the edges of his lips even before Geto steps into the dim light.

“How predictable,” the captain drawls. His fingers roll the hilt of his sword idly, his gaze sweeping from the empty throne to Satoru, to you. “Well played, Satoru. But I’m afraid this game is already over.”

He doesn’t move in a rush—not in the reckless, desperate way of a man eager to end a fight—but with slow steps. The grip on his sword remains loose, casual, as if he’s hardly concerned. As if this is nothing more than a simple conversation. Satoru backs up, just as measured, retreating step by step towards the far wall where the swords hang in an orderly row. You stay still, carefully stepping away, Megumi hiding behind your legs. This is not your fight to partake in; you know this because the captain barely glances your way.

“You’ve always been stubborn,” Geto says, tilting his head as his boots click against the floor. “All those years, running in circles, chasing shadows. Looking for something that was right in front of you the entire time.”

“I don’t know,” says Satoru, almost lazily. “I think I was more preoccupied with avoiding your assassination attempts.”

Geto chuckles. “Come now, old friend. I gave you plenty of warning.”

“Oh, sure. That time you nearly poisoned my drink?” Satoru grins manically. “Tell me, was that your idea, or were you merely using the First Commander as inspiration?”

Your breath hitches. The First Commander? 

The laughter in Geto’s expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was doing what I had to do. Look at me now, Gojo. I’m the Captain of the Royal Guard, while you’re just a fugitive with no place to call home. This could’ve been your position, had you not decided to be so fucking righteous.”

“Right. It’s my fault for finding out that the First Commander murdered the late queen.”

Everything clicks into place. Nanami had mentioned that the First Commander was the current king’s older brother—the current king, who has been severely ill for the past decade, who hasn’t been seen in the public eye ever since, because he was supposedly on permanent bedrest. Your heartbeat quickens. Just how much rot is this kingdom hiding behind the rubies?

“Ah,” Satoru continues. “I’m forbidden from speaking of it, aren’t I?”

The captain’s jaw ticks, but his smirk remains. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The thief scoffs. “Of course. Because it wasn’t you who told me to shut up about it instead of confronting the old man. To turn a blind eye, to let it happen ‘cause it was—what did you say?—bigger than us.” He laughs, sharp and humourless. “How’s that working out for you, Suguru?”

“Still so naïve.”

“And you’re still so blind,” Satoru throws back. He reaches behind him, grabbing the nearest sword from the wall, and swings it down. “What was it, again? The commander deserved the throne because he was older? Because the king was too soft? Because it was for the good of the kingdom?” His voice drips with mockery. “Come on, Suguru. Give me that speech again. I loved that speech.”

Geto’s fingers shift on the hilt of his sword. “You never understood.”

“Oh, I understood perfectly,” Satoru snaps. “The commander couldn’t sit on his hands and wait for fate to hand him what he thought was his. So he took matters into his own poison-stained hands. And you let him.”

Silence stretches between them, thick as fog, pressing against the walls. You swallow hard, watching the way Geto’s jaw sets. 

“We’ve had this conversation before, right before you decided to rat me out,” he continues. “We both knew. We knew he was killing them.”

Geto’s eyes flash. “And what was I supposed to do, Satoru? Fight back? Get myself executed like you nearly did? The commander had already won the moment the queen died.”

“The queen,” Satoru seethes, “who had a son, Suguru. The trueborn heir to the throne. The very thing the commander feared most.”

Geto’s lips part—then press into a thin line. There. There it is. The missing piece, the lock to the key.

Satoru takes a step forward, lifting the sword in his hand. “That’s what broke you, isn’t it?” His voice is softer now, but not kind. “You could stomach the poison. You could stomach the lies. But when he tried to kill the baby, that was when you hesitated.”

“I thought you were dead,” Geto says, almost conversationally. “When you ran. The first few months when they declared you a fugitive, I thought you wouldn’t make it. And yet, here you are.”

“I am very hard to kill.”

“That, you are.”

They move at the same time. Steel clashes in a burst of sparks, the force of the impact ringing through the cavernous throne room. Satoru twists, parrying the next strike with ease, but Geto presses forward, forcing him back towards the dais. They circle each other, two hunters hunting each other. You tighten your grip on the frying pan—though it might be rendered useless given the situation.

“You were so convinced you could save him,” Geto murmurs, keeping his blade pointed at Satoru’s chest. “That you could find the heir, put him on the throne, and somehow make this kingdom right again.”

“And you were so convinced that I wouldn’t,” Satoru says. “It took a while, but I managed to steal the crown, didn’t I? The late queen—may she rest in peace—was clever. It was tough trying to figure it out—that the clue rested upon what belonged to the true heir.”

“Clever, indeed. But not clever enough. You see, I’ve already figured it all out.” Geto lunges again, blade flashing. Satour meets him mid-strike. They push against each other, each testing the other’s strength, neither giving way.

“You think you’ve won just because you found the crown?” Geto taunts. “Because you figured out the queen’s little riddle? It changes nothing.”

“No, Suguru. It changes everything.” Satoru grins, eyes alight with someone reckless. He shifts his weight, twisting free of Geto’s grip, and swings his sword in a sharp arc. Geto blocks it, but just barely—his foot skids slightly against the polished marble, his balance momentarily off. Satoru seizes the opening, pressing forward with quick, calculated strikes.

The clang of their swords echoes, the only sound save for your own shallow breaths. You inch closer to Megumi, keeping him shielded behind you, even as you cannot tear your eyes away from the fight.

“You were there that night,” Satoru bites out in between strikes, “when the commander told us of his plan for the queen’s son to be killed.” His blade swings, forcing Geto another step back. “You heard the order.” A sharp clash. “You almost let it happen.” Another blow. “And you knew I wouldn’t.”

Geto parries the next attack with more force, forcing Satoru back. “I told you to let it go. I told you it was too late.”

“And I told you to go fuck yourself!” Satoru fires back. He dodges another strike easily, as though his years of training as a soldier have not left his body despite the disuse of sword-fighting.

“You should’ve joined me,” he says. “We could’ve risen the ranks together. Fixed things together.”

“Fixed things? You wanted to erase the truth. I wanted to bring it back.” Satoru’s eyes narrow. “That’s why you never killed me, isn’t it? Because some part of you—some part of you—wanted me to prove you wrong.”

A flicker of something crosses Geto’s face. A hesitation. A second too long. Satoru moves. His blade sweeps low, and Geto barely has the time to block before he’s forced back again, this time nearly stumbling. His boot scrapes against the first step of the dais, right in front of the empty throne—mere paces away from where you’re standing, clutching your frying pan like it’s a lifeline. Satoru stops, standing just a few feet away, his own sword lowered slightly, his breathing steady.

Geto exhales slowly, eyes shadowed, and then—finally—he laughs. Low; amused; dark. “You always were the best, Satoru,” he says. “I’ll give you that. But I’ve figured it out too. The queen’s secret. The heir’s true identity.”

Satoru’s expression doesn’t waver. “Oh?”

A slow smile spreads across Geto’s face. “Okkotsu Yuta is his name,” he says. 

You take a step forward. Geto continues, “The last remaining royal—”

Another step. “—was raised as—”

Another step; this time, you raise your arms over your head. “—a low-life peasant on the border between our kingdom and the next.”

CLANG!

Geto Suguru’s mouth slackens. His eyes go cross-eyed before he crumples to the floor, unconscious. Satoru blinks. His eyes dart up to meet yours.

You stand over the captain of the Royal Guard’s stupefied body, the frying pan gripped so tightly in your hands, the handle digs into your palms. “...Oops?”

Satoru exhales—a sound caught between disbelief and sheer delight—before throwing his head back with a bark of laughter. “You,” he says, stepping over Geto’s unconscious form, “are fucking amazing. And here I was, thinking I’d have to duel him for longer.”

You lower the frying pan, shoulders sagging slightly as the adrenaline ebbs. “Yeah, well, you were taking too long.”

He drops the sword; it falls to the floor with a resounding thud. You grimace. Satoru wraps his arms around you, melting into you as though drained of all his energy. You lean against him, as well. It’s not over yet—the First Commander is still alive, the king’s health is still failing, the heir is still unaware of his royal lineage, and the kingdom’s fate is uncertain.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, after Megumi weaves about in between your legs. “We might be able to catch a glimpse of the last bit of the lantern festival if we’re lucky.”

You pull back slightly, brows knit together in a frown. “Aren’t you tired? You should be resting!”

“Nah.” He grins. “What sort of man would I be if I brought you all the way to the capital and didn’t let you see your dream?”

“But—”

“Tomorrow. We’ll figure it all out tomorrow.”

“Okay.” You give in. How could you not?

The river glows with the reflections of a thousand golden lanterns, each one a drifting star against the darkened water. Somewhere beyond the riverbanks, the kingdom rejoices, but here—adrift in a tiny wooden boat, far removed from the noise and the world—it is quiet. It is just you and Satoru, bathed in the warm glow of floating light. You trace your fingers along the delicate paper lantern in your lap, the thin parchment almost translucent beneath your touch. Satoru watches you, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Make a wish,” he tells you.

You let your lips turn upwards, closing your eyes. The lantern lifts into the air. It floats upwards, joining the sea of golden light that drifts towards the heavens. Beside you, Satoru releases his own, head tilted back to watch it rise, the glow reflected in the blue of his eyes. For a long while, you don’t speak. The world has never felt so hushed, so suspended in time. 

Then, he turns to you, the shimmer of the lanterns casting his face in soft gold. “I think,” he says, “I have a dream too.”

“Really? Tell me.”

He leans in instead, and his lips press against yours—warm, certain, like the promise of something endless. Overhead, the lanterns continue their slow, drifting ascent, rising higher, higher, until they are nothing but distant constellations in the dark.

It feels like stardust.

⇢ a/n: @mahowaga & @admiringlove, you both know who you are. thank you, as well, to kae, @ylangelegy, for beta reading this fic, giving me invaluable feedback, and letting me ramble about this fic to them; i appreciate you endlessly. and, of course, thank you, dear reader, for reading this behemoth of a fic :) i hope you have a wonderful day! sidenote: due to tumblr’s paragraph limit, several paragraphs that were written as separate word blocks had to be combined into one in order to make it fit in one post. to read it with the original formatting, as it was written in my google docs, ao3 would definitely offer you a better experience!

[ssentimentals]

hellloooo can u please do idol!coups x reader for sleep deprivation on cheol’s part with reader taking care of him xx

helloooo anonie, sure i can, thank you for requesting! 💜

prompt: sleep deprivation

you try not to hover. you try not to act like mother hen in fear of being annoying. you try but it's so god damn hard when seungcheol looks like a dead man standing. your boyfriend has always been a hard worker, that's one of the qualities you admire about him, but his work ethic is also your biggest worry. seungcheol is present but just barely - you are sure that he didn't hear majority of the things you said with his mind being very, very far from here, buried in new dance routines or lyrics that had to be finished. it's amazing to see how work energizes seungcheol and gives him purpose, but it's horrible to watch him crumble under pressure. slowly you reach out for his hand, giving it a light squeeze: 'cheollie, baby. you're with me?'

seungcheol blinks at your touch and it takes him few moments to sit up straighter on the seat and send you a fake smile. 'yeah, baby, sorry, i'm here. what did you say?'

god, you can't believe this man wanted to pick you up after your work. seungcheol can't be trusted with a car now, not when he can barely focus. 'i asked if yuo're sure that we should go out tonight. you look really tired, cheol.'

he stubbornly shakes his head. 'no-no, i'm good. i'm so caught up at work that we haven't seen each other much lately.'

you kind of want to strangle and kiss him at the same time. he is so good for trying to make time for you amidst his hectic workload but he is so bad for not taking care of himself properly - you sigh loudly. 'when did you sleep last time?' you ask straight to the point. thank god for traffic at this hour, so you can fully turn to your boyfriend without paying attention to the road. 'you look like a zombie, baby.' seungcheol purses his lips and you instantly understand what's the problem. 'cheollie... you can't fall asleep?'

seungcheol sags in the passenger seat, looking embarrassed and done with himself. 'yeah,' he admits quietly. 'i- it's so fucking stupid. i don't know, i'm trying everything but it's just not working.' he sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly. 'i don't think i actually slept properly in the last 4-5 days.'

this admission breaks your heart. seungcheol is running on fumes and yet despite it all, he still is here, with you, because he doesn't want you to feel neglected. without thinking you enter new address to the gps, knowing full well what can help him this time. 'instead of the restaurant, let's have a picnic,' you announce in an overly enthusiastic tone.

'at eight pm?' seungcheol asks, confused. 'i mean if that's what you want then i don't mind but-'

'that's exactly what i want.' you squeeze his hand, sending him a small smile. 'no worries, baby. we are very close.'

it doesn't happen often, but it did happen before. sleep deprivation is, unfortunately, a part of seungcheol's life as an idol and you learned hard way how to deal with it. familiar scenes of home or studio don't calm him mind down, but fresh air and water always help. you park the close as close you can to the river and roll down all windows, letting cool evening breeze in. 'alrighty,' you turn to him with a gentle smile and snatch small blanket from the backseat. 'you take this and get comfortable. i'll order us some food.'

seungcheol grabs the blanket, frowning. 'what is happening?'

'we are having a picnic in the car,' you explain, opening food delivery app. 'and you are sleeping until the food arrives, getting much needed rest.' seungcheol opens his mouth to protest and you cut him off: 'this is a date. this is our date that i want to have.'

the thing is, you don't really care about specifics of date as long as seungcheol is close. he doesn't look convinced at first, but when you start talking about your date with a quiet music on the background, he relaxes. it doesn't take him long to fall asleep - adjusted seat, warm blanket, fresh air and your hand in his do their magic. you watch quietly as his breathing slows; in sleep seungcheol doesn't look as tired. still holding his hand you adjust your own seat and lower the radio volume. seungcheol going out of his way to be with you makes you want to do the same; and if date is about you letting him finally sleep and guarding his sleep then you're not complaining, not at all.

a/n: writing this made me so soft :') pls give cheollie all the hugs and sleep he deserves!! - nini

request your own here

my other seventeen work is here

[moonstruckme]

Inspired by this adorable fic by @inkdrinkerworld <3

cw: hospital, mention of surgery, reader has a fear of anesthesia/being unconscious

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 940 words

You wish that stupid heart monitor would stop exposing you to everyone in the hospital wing. 

“You’re fine.” James rubs his palm over your heart consolingly. “Deep breaths.” 

You inhale, and he does it with you, you feel his chest expand against your back. James got into bed with you soon after you got here, when you wouldn’t stop trying to get up and pace the room. After your IV was put in, Sirius threatened to sit on you if you tried to get out of bed again. James is a nicer compromise. 

“This is so stupid.” Your exhale comes out in a disbelieving huff. “I don’t even have to do this.” 

“Dove, you’re already here,” Remus reasons. “You’ve come this far, let’s just see it through. You’ll be alright.” 

Truly, you’re not sure how you wound up here. When your doctor recommended you for surgery, you said you’d think about it, but you were lying. You knew it, your boyfriends knew it, your doctor probably knew it too. Going under was something you had no intention of ever, ever doing. You didn’t know if the problems you were having would persist without the recommended procedure. You almost didn’t care. The one thing you knew for absolutely sure was that you did not want it to happen. 

And yet, it began to. All it took was one evening of lovingly made hot cocoa and sweet-talking from James to get you to set up the appointment. From there, the date marched continually closer, and all your boyfriends had to do was keep you from backing out. To their credit, they’ve had extraordinary follow through. Suddenly you find yourself in a hospital bed waiting for a surgery you could swear wasn’t going to happen. 

“You don’t even have to stay the night,” Sirius says. He’s sitting cross-legged in one of the chairs against the wall, undeterred by the plastic arm digging into his thigh. “We’ll have you home by dinnertime. Focus on that, doll.” 

“I want to be home now,” you mumble. You know you’re acting childish, but you’d rather gripe than cry, and the way you’re feeling those are your only two options. “Are we sure I can’t be awake?” 

“You don’t want to be awake.” James kisses behind your ear. “It’s quite bloody. You’d think it was gross.” 

“Don’t scare her,” Remus cautions quietly. 

You talk over him. “I’d rather be grossed out and know what was happening.” 

Sirius leans forward to grasp your hand, shushing you. “You already know what’s going to happen, baby. We’ve been over the whole thing. Do you want to hear it again?” 

“No.” In truth, hearing about the procedure had grossed you out. But that’s not your main issue. Tears prick your eyes. 

“Hey,” Sirius says softly. His thumb runs over your knuckles. “You’re okay. You’re going to be just fine. Home by dinner, remember?” 

“I just… “ You pull in a wavering breath. “I really don’t like the idea of being unconscious while people poke and prod at me, and I can’t wake up. It freaks me out.”

“No one is going to poke or prod at you.” Remus is leaning his forearms on his knees, eyes honey soft. “It’s a routine procedure. They do it all the time, it’s their job.” 

“I’d just feel better if I could be awake.” 

“It’d be so much scarier if you were awake. This way, you only go to sleep, and the next thing you know it’s done.” 

“That’s the worst part, though. It’s not like I can wake up even if I want to. I’ll be completely helpless.” 

“Sweetheart, no one is going to hurt you.” 

“I know that.” 

“Are you sure?” he asks gently. 

You shut your eyes, tipping your face down as tears start to drip from your nose. 

“Baby,” Sirius coos. His fingers feel cool against your cheek, cupping so he can kiss between your brows. James hugs you tighter. “Oh, shh, shh. I’m sorry you’re so scared, sweet girl. It’s really not so bad as you’re thinking.” 

“Can you come with me?” you whisper. It’s not the first time you’ve asked, but you’re hoping this display of obvious patheticness will sway things in your favor. 

“You know we would if we could, doll. They’re really strict about who’s allowed in the room.” 

You nod, taking in a ragged breath. 

“We’ll be with you until you go in,” James offers, “and as soon as you wake up. You’ll get to meet your anesthesiologist before, too. Her name’s Kara, she’s a sweetheart.” 

That James knows the person trusted with putting you out does comfort you some. He pats your chest with his hand over your heart, gentle and rhythmic. Slowly, it lulls yours into complaisance. Your heart monitor stops its ratcheting. 

“Breathe.” James exhales slowly. “We won’t let anything happen to you. You’re in good hands, angel, I promise.” 

“I’m sorry,” you say, opening your sore eyes. “I know I’m being crazy.” 

Sirius is squatting by your bed now. He tuts, quick to right you. “You don’t have to be sorry. You’re scared, it’s fine. I wish you weren’t because it’d be easier for you, but it’s not your fault.” 

“You’ll feel better once you’re in there,” Remus promises. “Really, lovely, it’s so much less daunting than you’re imagining it to be. It’s going to go by so easily. And then we’ll be with you, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you sniffle. 

“What do you think?” James presses his cheek to your ear, pleasantly warm. “You think you can go an hour without us? You’ll be okay?” 

You make a low, reluctant sound. “Maybe.” 

“There’s our girl.”

[twistedpink]

hi!! could i request ruggie x reader who enjoys cooking baking etc and just spoiling him with food? :3 got the idea from your boyfriend!ruggie post, hdjshdj your works are so cute!! thank you and have a nice day <3

Tysm! Loved writing this

Boyfriend!Ruggie loves getting spoiled- Especially by someone so cute, but he doesn’t like to feel like he’s using you.. You’re too nice for your own good yknow, so is it really that bad if he’s ‘supervising’ the kitchen? Just to make sure nobody comes up to steal your stuff, totally not because he likes how romantic it is!!

Boyfriend!Ruggie that can’t help paying you back, even if it means doing a little white lying,, He only wants to treat you without seeming like a goody-goody nice boyfriend, and if that means “borrowing” a couple ingredients and leaving them in your bag once in a while, then he’s confident it’s a good trade off! It’s a flawless plan! Until he starts getting jealous of his own gifts,, You just beam whenever “the universe” is nice to you- Why can’t you smile at him like that??

Boyfriend!Ruggie can’t help but feel a little conflicted when you treat him,, You’re way too nice to guys like him, and he knows you’ll pay for it one day.. But he’s not telling you to stop anytime soon! You just have so much to share- He’s got no problem exchanging recipes with a fellow “chef” so long as you pay him back double what you owe in meal prepping and kisses :) Normally, he wouldn’t dream of letting a sucker like you off so easy, but his sweetheart’s a special case <3

Boyfriend!Ruggie that’s so tired- His roomies suck, cafeteria food half-sucks (anything not moldy’s going down his gob), and work is never good, but despite the shit that bugs him daily and gets him all riled up, you are worth it. Worth the struggle and the budgeting to see you smile, or getting the gift of your presence.. There’s nothing he loves more than knowing you, and being known in return.

Boyfriend!Ruggie’s just the sweetest, but he’s die a little if you ever acknowledged it. Always doing grocery runs and sidling up behind you when you stir “the good shtuff” in one of his vintage pots. Nana’ Bucchi loves having you over for an extra hand around the house- Your relationship’s just one of the thousand reasons for why Ruggie’s trying his best to be husband material.. He’ll scrape up some cash for a proper ring one day, something you can be proud to show off, so long as you’ll keep him fat n’ happy <3

@kyokills @bju3c0re

[ghostgirl-22]

tw somnophilia but art and patrick cuddling every night to sleep and patrick always wakes up hard with art sleepily grinding his ass against him. he’ll never admit to it out loud though and patrick has to have an intervention bc he cant control himself from grabbing his hips and grinding back :( he wants him sooo bad. of course art secretly loves it 🙂‍↕️

Oh yes anon! I chopped it up a little bit but your somnophilia is still very much present </3

CW: 18+ NSFW, Somnophilia can have a dubcon to cnc element to it so obviously don’t read if that freaks you out. No proofreading is the norm.

——

The problem starts when he mentions it to Art. That he’s kinda liking boys. That he’s sorta into their teammate Tony. He’s not great at tennis but he’s pretty. They’d been flirting with each other, teasing each other a little bit. “I kissed him once,” Patrick admits.

“Huh…that’s cool,” Art shrugs. He plays it nonchalant but it’s clear he never knew anything about it.  

“I think I might try it out this weekend.” 

”Try it out?”

”Yeah, I might hook up with him. I bought this lubricant that heats up when you put it on. It’s kinda hot.”  

“Oh,” Art says, distracted. He’s endlessly distracted by homework and tennis and whatever else he’s got going on. 

Patrick doesn’t really think about it again till that night. Art comes to him sleepy, in his boxers and a little white t-shirt rubbing his eyes, shirt riding up while he scratches his head.

”I can’t see the tv that well from my side,” he says, climbing into Patrick’s twin. They’re not even watching anything that interesting but Art settles in next to him. Lays down in front of Patrick, golden curls still damp from the shower smelling sweet  like the herbal essences conditioner he stole from his ex. Patrick swallows it down but he’s stiff right away. They used to share the bed all the time when they were kids, but they’re much bigger now. And normally they rarely sleep together unless the bed is at least full sized. 

Patrick kinda likes boys now. But he’s liked Art for longer than that. He’s gorgeous… and he looks like…well, art. Beautiful. He has the kinda body all the ancient horny artists his classics professor loves, would carve out of marble from memory Patrick knows it. Not that he’d ever admit it to him.

As gorgeous as he is, as badly as Patrick wants to just… cross the line. He doesn’t have a bunch of friends and he gets too much out of Art to risk fucking this up but… Jesus, his skin is so soft.

Art dozes off in the middle of an episode of Psych that he’d been so desperate to watch. They’re too close. There’s too much of him all over Patrick, carelessly spread out and snuggled up. Patrick is so hard he stays up late, anxious Art will feel it at some point in his sleep. 

What actually happens is so much worse. He wakes up too early and Art is still asleep, pressing up against him. All wiggly. His ass rubbing, no grinding up against Patrick’s dick. Patrick has to hold his breath, has to dig his fingernails into his palms to keep from grabbing his waist and pushing back. Pulling Arts thin boxers down, wetting his dick and slipping inside. Art stills eventually and Patrick does gymnastics to get out of the bed so he can go fucking jerk off in peace.

Art is the prettiest sleeper because of course he is. Patrick snores and drools, wakes up with his eyes all coated in sleepy stuff. Art sleeps like he’s on display. Golden curls fanned out as he grips his pillow, his perfect jawline settled and relaxed, the lean muscle of his biceps on display beneath his shirt sleeves, t-shirt riding up revealing his solid hip bones, one leg bent, his bare knee jutting out from beneath the blanket. He sleeps peacefully, cheeks hollow, lips pouted. Even in his sleep he has to tempt Patrick mercilessly. It’s his job. 

Patrick hurries to the bathroom and shuts the door. Leaning against it as he shoves his hand down his sweat pants and jerks himself furiously. Every detail of Art spread out in his bed already committed to memory. 

He thinks he’s done. But it happens again the next night. Art pads over to his bed and gets in. “No i want the outside,” Patrick says thinking it’ll make a difference if he can press his ass up against art as they watch tv rather than the other way around. Instead he wakes up with Arts leg and arm draped over his waist.  Art is half hard, breathing light and hot against Patrick’s ear as he sleeps and Patrick’s own dick is swollen and very obviously hard, pressing along Arts thigh.

It’s harder to unwrap himself. It’s harder still, not to grab at Arts dick and start jerking him in his sleep. 

He sits on the toilet lid jerking off. Wondering what he did in a past life to have to put up with this level of temptation.

Patrick flirts with Tony during practice but it’s not quite the same as it was before. For starters Art is definitely hanging around them more. it’s not like Art tries to stop it. But if Patrick didn’t know any better he’d think Art was acting a little flirty with Tony too. Laughing at Tony’s jokes or asking him for advice on a new diet regiment when he could care less about the guy before.

And again Art needs to sleep in Patrick’s bed because suddenly television is oh so important to him. Patrick wakes up again the next morning with Art squirming all over him. And he knows it’s bad. Knows it’s fucking wrong. But honestly he’s not really doing much more than using the movement. 

Yeah he’s rubbing himself off on his sleeping best friend. Yes he’s grabbing his hips, rocking his erection along the perfect swell of Arts bottom but they’re both fully clothed. Sure the fabric is paper thin. Sure he comes so hard through his boxers that a bit of the wet seeps onto Arts clothes. Sure he sneaks out of bed and hurries to the shower just as Art starts to stretch and wake up properly. But it’s not like he’s doing anything more than what could have technically happened unconsciously between them both if he was still asleep.

The following night he’s hard before Art gets into his bed. He can barely wait till morning. By then, he's pushing back as Art wiggles. Biting down on his groans. Art is reacting too in his sleep. His cock getting hard. Patrick reaches around and rubs him through his boxers. He makes little noises, wiggles his hips even more and Patrick just comes faster. Rubbing Art till he feels the wet spot spreading along his heated palm.

Art rolls over with a soft sigh and settles back into sleep. 

He’s all flushed when he wakes up later thinking maybe he had a wet dream. Patrick reassures him. “Dude it happens to everyone. Sometimes for no reason.” He knows it’s horrible and so wrong but it just feels so fucking good.

It’s Friday and Patrick’s made plans to hook up with Tony tomorrow night. He’s gonna sleep over in Tony’s dorm room while his roommate’s out of town. Figure out what he likes. He hasn’t shared anything else about it with Art since that night last weekend and Art hasn’t really brought it up. 

It’s a hot night, unseasonably warm for spring and the school isn’t about to turn on the air yet so they’ve got the windows open. It’s too hot to be all up under each other but Art comes over anyway. Half naked. Only in his boxers. He climbs in all sinewy and long. Just a living breathing work of… yeah. 

Patrick could tell him no. Could tell him to stop doing this. Hell, he could even suggest they push the beds together for more space but he’s sick. Wants to use Arts pretty sleeping body for his cock in the morning. 

And when morning comes it’s predictable. Art rubbing up against him. Patrick does the careful balancing act of pushing back without waking him. Grinding up against him. And then something happens that he doesn’t expect.

“Oh fuck, pat?”  it’s arts groggy voice. He’s awake, still letting his hips move. 

Patrick stills, mildly panicked.

“Yeah?” He whispers pretending to just wake up too.

“Your… i feel your…cock. It’s so…”

“I know dude I’m sorry i—“

Art starts pushing back harder against it. “Mmm it feels kinda good.” He sighs. 

“Uh—uh yeah?” Patrick stammers getting a little tongue tied. His whole body thrumming all of a sudden.

“Mmhm,” Art whines, moving faster. “M-maybe I’m into guys too?”

“Shit,” Patrick breathes. He’s on a knife’s edge right and Arts is just pushing it back on him eagerly. Patrick can see he’s got his hand down his boxers. Jerking himself off. Patrick grabs his hips, his waist to provide more friction. It feels so good not to hold back, not to be gentle and they’re rocking hard, the mattress squeaking while they’re grinding into each other. Tension rising to euphoric levels and then, almost too fast, Art is panting, moaning, jerking, coming in his boxers. It’s so fucking hot. That’s all it takes for Patrick to blow it, all pressed up against Arts ass. 

“Oh fuck yes,” Patrick breathes as he comes down. 

“Mm,” Art rolls over. “What if i like boys too?” He asks softly.

“Uh shit… then uh… we should explore that.”

“Me and you?”

“Yeah…if…if you want.”

“But what about Tony?” Art asks. He almost nails the innocent tone but he’s just a little too earnest and that rings… false. 

Patrick smiles as it dawns on him. “God you’re such a fucking snake,” he laughs.

“What do you mean?” Art says, grinning. 

“Oh fuck off. Getting in my bed every night you never wanted me to sleep with him.”

“I dunno what you mean, I just wanted to see the tv.”

“Mmhm.”

“And maybe I remembered you’d always get hard when you fall asleep. It used to wake me up in the middle of the night… like you did when you were rubbing it all over me in my sleep this week you pervert.”

“Yeah that getting hard thing happens with you… when you’re in my bed. And if I’m a pervert what’s that make you? Grinding all over me every morning and giving me a complex you little freak.” Patrick says, shoving him playfully. 

Art laughs.  “It makes me more useful than Tony… at least for your little experiment. Fuck him. Or better yet, don’t.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Patrick smirks and shakes his head before rubbing Arts bare thigh. “god you’re such a manipulative little shit, aren’t you?”

“But you like me.” Art points out.

“Yeah I like you. Maybe me and you can figure out liking boys together.”

[ladyloveandjustice]

She's a good choice and also has the best chance of pulling ahead!

Mako is super strong, and she can beat up men twice her size even in civilian form. She has no patience for bullies, and saves Usagi from three men trying to shake her down in her first appearance. She's tall and she's had bad luck with men who call her unfeminine, so she's very insecure because of that, especially because she really is actually good at cooking and gardening and likes "feminine" things, but most people assume she doesn't. But over the course of all continuities she gets more comfortable with herself. There's actually an episode in the 90s anime where she really looks up to Haruka (a butch lesbian) for being so authentically herself and comfortable in her own skin, and (though the rest of the ep has serious problems) it REALLY tugs on the heartstrings.

Mako is extremely kind hearted, nurturing, courageous and protective. She acts in kind of a "big sis" role to the rest of the group, especially with Usagi, always putting everyone before herself. This level of self sacrifice comes back to bite her at times. She's generally very friendly and often acts as a voice of reason along with Ami (Mercury), but she can get into childish spats with Minako (and Rei, in the live action) and gets unbelievably pissed and kind of reckless if you hurt someone she cares about.

Her parents died in a plane accident and she lives on her own, which is why she's so self sufficient. There's an EXCELLENT episode of the live action where she's initially very mad at Rei for not being as much as a team player as she thinks she should be, only to see Rei basically forcibly dragged to see her politician father. Rei hates him for pretty justified reasons, and she expects Mako to tell her to get along with him, especially since Mako admits she lost her family. But Mako actually says "Well, I don't have parents so that stuff's unknown to me. Let's get you out of here" and busts Rei out. It's SO good.

have some pics, get to know her:

EXTREMELY relevant to this poll (from the live action) (he very much deserved this in context, dw)

Edit: (while I was typing this she pulled into the lead...the gif was prophetic...but she needs a bigger lead to be safe lets go guys)

[ohnoitstbskyen]

Seeing that Luke post get thousands upon thousands notes is giving me hives. How does one become this fandom brained? I know the jokes are "don't mess with fans of X they don't even watch/read/listen to their own film/show/etc." and any fandom is going to cause some amount of ooc behaviour for the sake of jokes and memes and stuff, but surely at some point the character is so bent out of shape you stop to ponder what you're doing.

Who is this Luke Skywalker, collector of wayward orphans? Why would he want to be Reys dad? You get the feeling she might want it at the start of TLJ... And then the rest of the movie happens, going into great detail, at times in overly didactic ways, as to why that's a Bad Idea for her personal growth and the galaxy at large.

Even in older Legends material, where he ends up having actual kids, most of the lauded and beloved portrayals of his character are things like the original Thrawn trilogy, and in that he spends all three books struggling with if there's any place for him in the galaxy after the emperor died. The supposed definitive alternate sequel trilogy is, at least for Luke, largely about if he even should restart the jedi order, since his own training is incomplete and he has a deep fear any students he has are going to eventually succumb to the dark side, and how if they do it'll probably be a direct result of his incompetence. He does naturally, much like in TLJ, overcome these feelings of inadequacy and re-emerge as the definitive hero of the story, but spending a few years wallowing is just a very Luke way to deal with problems in life.

Like yeah I wonder why a bitter, self-isolating old man who views his life as a colossal failure wouldn't be jumping for joy when a younger, more naive version of himself shows up to his house uninvited.

For how desperate to venerate the Nostalgia the sequel trilogy project as a whole is, only TLJ really feels like it actually gives a shit about the story it's supposedly continuing. I didn't think you could look at Lukes death and not feel the overwhelming love and care for him specifically. I always shed a tear when binary sunset kicks in and I'm not even that into the originals. I was a prequel defender in 2010, Luke is the 20th character I think about when people mention SW.

Do people just not engage with the source material at all? Is this a product of the whole fandom tourism boom in the last 5-ish years? I genuinely don't want to be mean. After all, fandom is all of us playing with our toys, and you should always try to avoid a "old man yells at cloud" scenario, but like... It's a movie for 12 year olds that's very deliberately laying out all the cards. A slightly more nuanced and emotionally mature movie for 12 year olds than you might expect but... A child could get it, it's been focus grouped to hell and back so any given child on the planet should get it... How are you as an adult asking why the story had conflict?

I also broke out in hives a little bit when I found out that my addition (?) had made that thing go around. Or maybe it wasn't my addition, I'm actually not sure, but I worry that it was. The OP turned off reblogs, and I can only assume it was because people starting doing absurd bullshit discourse on the post which... hhhh I don't really like being part of inflicting that on anyone over something as unimportant as Star Wars opinions.

Also, the thing I was reacting against really wasn't the fact that people have headcanons about who and what kind of character Luke is - like, that's just normal and generally a good and fun part of fandom. I reacted against the idea of The Last Jedi being thoughtless about his character. It interprets Luke in a very specific way, but that interpretation is, I think objectively, deeply grounded in the history of his character and the thematic throughlines of the Skywalker-focused movies. So it annoyed me a bit to see people treat the depiction like it was some kind of failure to engage with the original material. I think that's not quite fair to what the movie was, and I think it leads to weak criticism of its flaws.

I think that the better angle for critique of the whole sequel trilogy and Rian Johnson's contribution is that obsesses far too much about the original trilogy, and is at its best in those few scant moments when it breaks away from it. If the sequel trilogy hadn't had the corporate mandate to be a kind of Frankenstein remake of the OT, perhaps a kindly old grandfatherly Luke could have been a fun and interesting interpretation of the character's future. Luke is what he is in TLJ because the trilogy absolutely fucking had to recreate the narrative beats of Dagobah, and therefore absolutely had to have Luke learn another lesson from Yoda about learning to let go of his attachments to and fears about the future and be present in the here-and-now.

Johnson is clearly a fucking nerd-ass Star Wars nerd, whose greatest mistake was assuming that other Star Wars nerds would engage with the material with good faith and an eye towards appreciation and discovery, rather than product-brained, screaming entitlement to their supremacy-affirming nostalgia security blanket.

To be clear, here I am talking about the culture war grifter assholes who poison the world, and not fandom people who have a cozy headcanon about Luke as a cheerful old community dad. I don't think it's fandom tourism to have a headcanon about a character, or a favored interpretation of them, even one which feels somewhat divorced from the original source-text. If I had to take a guess, the people on the original post developed that headcanon through fandom - by way of fanfics and fanposting and fanart, by way of fix-it fics and excited speculation. If I had to take a guess, they got their headcanon about Luke the same place everyone gets their headcanons about popular characters: from some combination of appreciation, projection, and a desire to see the thing you love tell a story that you need to hear. That's just human, and I don't think you can spend any significant amount of time in fandom without developing those attachments to certain stories or characters.

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: No Faking It

You were on the phone, curled up on the couch, thinking you had the house to yourself. Your voice was low, casual, as you reassured your friend.

“I mean, yeah, I faked it last night,” you admitted with a soft laugh. “I was just exhausted, and I didn’t want to make him feel bad. It wasn’t a big deal.”

You didn’t notice the way Marshall froze in the doorway. Didn’t see how his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing slightly as your words sank in.

You faked it?

His grip tightened on the water bottle in his hand, but he stayed quiet, listening as you continued.

“It’s not like it happens all the time,” you added quickly. “And honestly, he’s always so good about making sure I’m taken care of—I just couldn’t keep up last night.”

Marshall exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t know whether to be offended, amused, or just straight-up determined.

Scratch that—he was definitely determined.

He didn’t make his presence known until you were off the phone, stretching your arms with a soft sigh. You nearly jumped when you turned and found him standing there, arms crossed, blue eyes locked onto you with that unreadable expression of his.

“Marshall?” You blinked. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” he murmured.

You frowned, about to ask what he meant—until you saw the way his gaze darkened, something almost dangerous flickering behind his smirk.

Oh. Oh.

Your stomach flipped. “Wait—”

“So you faked it?” His voice was calm, casual—too casual. He stepped closer, and you instinctively shrank back against the couch. Not out of fear—out of anticipation.

“Marshall, it wasn’t a big—”

“Nah.” He shook his head slowly, lowering himself onto the couch beside you, one arm draping along the back of it as he leaned in. “See, now it’s a problem.”

Your breath hitched as his fingers trailed up your thigh, slow, teasing. “I—I was just really tired.”

“That right?” He smirked, his voice dropping lower. “Guess that means you’re well rested now.”

Your heart pounded. Oh, you were in trouble.

Marshall tilted his head, brushing his lips against your ear as he whispered, “Let’s see you fake it this time.”

And just like that, you knew—you weren’t getting out of this until he knew for a fact that there was nothing fake about it.

You barely had time to process his words before Marshall was on you, his movements slow, deliberate, and dangerous. His hand slid up your thigh, fingers curling just enough to make you shiver.

“Marshall—”

“Nah.” His voice was rougher now, laced with something primal. “Ain’t got nothin’ to say now, do you?”

Your stomach flipped, anticipation twisting in your gut as he shifted, pressing you back against the couch with his body, his presence all-consuming.

“You really sat here,” he murmured, lips brushing against your jaw, “and told your friend you faked it?” He exhaled sharply, nipping at the skin beneath your ear. “Like that shit don’t matter?”

You swallowed hard, your breath already coming shorter. “I—it wasn’t like that—”

He scoffed, shaking his head, his grip tightening on your waist. “Nah, you don’t get to downplay it now.” His voice was low, commanding. “You really think I’m lettin’ that slide?”

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, clinging to him as heat bloomed beneath your skin. “I—”

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you faked it.”

You bit your lip, squirming under his gaze. “I faked it.”

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. “Not happening again.”

And just like that, he moved—picking you up like you weighed nothing, tossing you over his shoulder in one smooth motion. You gasped, hands smacking against his back in shock.

“Marshall!”

He didn’t respond, didn’t even hesitate as he strode toward the bedroom like a man on a mission. His grip was firm, possessive, one arm locked around your thighs as if daring you to try and escape.

Not that you would.

He kicked the door shut behind him, finally lowering you down onto the bed, his hands gripping your hips before you could even think about sitting up. His blue eyes burned into yours, dark with pure, unrelenting determination.

“You listenin’?” His voice was deep, husky, the edge of a growl beneath his words.

You nodded, your own breath unsteady.

His fingers traced up your thighs, slow and teasing, making you squirm. “Ain’t stoppin’,” he murmured, “till I know for a fact that you ain’t gotta fake shit.”

Your body melted beneath his touch, heat pooling in your stomach. “I—”

He smirked, tilting his head. “Nah, don’t even talk.” His hands gripped you tighter, like he was staking his claim. “Just take it.”

And you did.

---

Marshall didn’t waste any time. He had that look in his eyes—one that meant he wasn’t playing, wasn’t stopping, wasn’t letting up until you forgot what the word fake even meant.

You barely had a second to breathe before he was on you, pressing you down into the mattress, his body caging yours in like he needed you beneath him. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them just enough to let you know exactly what kind of night you were in for.

“You know what pisses me off the most?” he murmured, his lips dragging slowly down your neck, his voice low and gravelly. “You really thought I’d be okay with that.”

Your breath hitched as his fingers dug into your waist, possessive and unrelenting.

“I—I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you admitted, barely able to focus when his mouth was moving lower, his hands everywhere all at once.

He huffed out a dark, humorless chuckle against your skin. “Not a big deal?” His fingers pressed harder into your hips, like he was trying to hold himself back. “Nah. See, this—” he punctuated his words with a slow, deliberate grind of his hips against yours, making you gasp “—this is a big deal.”

Your hands gripped at his hoodie, your body already trembling under his touch. “Marshall—”

“No,” he cut you off, lifting his head, his blue eyes locked onto yours. “You don’t get to say my name like that. Not yet.”

You swallowed hard, already feeling the heat build between you, already knowing he wasn’t going to let up—not until you felt everything he needed you to.

“You wanna make sounds for me, baby?” he murmured, his fingers trailing lower, teasing, taunting. “Make the right ones.”

Your breath shuddered, your grip on his hoodie tightening as his hands roamed your body like he had all the time in the world.

“You faked it once,” he whispered against your lips, his voice nothing but pure, unfiltered promise. “Let’s see how many times I can make up for it.”

And with that, he really got to work.

Marshall was determined. You could see it in the sharp set of his jaw, the heat in his blue eyes, the way his hands refused to let you go—like he had something to prove. And maybe he did.

Because he wasn’t letting this go. Not until there was zero doubt. Not until you couldn’t breathe without thinking about the way he had you now—trapped, trembling, completely at his mercy.

“You feel that?” His voice was low, rough, a little smug as he pressed his body firmly against yours, leaving no room for escape. “Ain’t gotta fake a damn thing, do you?”

You barely had enough breath to whisper, “No.”

He smirked against your skin. “Damn right.”

His hands moved with purpose, mapping out every inch of you, dragging sounds from you so easily it was embarrassing. He wasn’t playing around—not teasing, not taking his time just to mess with you.

No, this was pure focus.

Marshall wasn’t just setting the record straight—he was rewriting it. Making sure that by the time he was done, the only thing your body would remember was him.

“Say my name,” he muttered, lips trailing fire down your skin.

You did. Breathless, desperate.

He groaned at the sound, his grip tightening. “Not like that.”

You barely had time to process what he meant before he gave you more—more pressure, more intensity, more of everything that made you fall apart right under him.

The second time you said his name, it was loud. Uncontrolled. Real.

And that was what he wanted.

He smirked, brushing his lips over yours, his voice smug as hell. “That’s better.”

But he wasn’t done.

Not until your voice was hoarse, your legs were shaking, and there wasn’t a single doubt in your mind:

You were never faking it again.

Marshall wasn’t stopping. Not yet. Not until he got everything he wanted—until your body gave in, until your voice was raw from saying his name, until you felt exactly how deep his determination ran.

And right now? That determination was burning in his eyes, written in the way he held you down, in the way his hands gripped you like he owned you. Like he was branding the moment into your skin.

“You good?” he murmured, his voice rough, breath warm against your lips.

You could barely form a thought, let alone a sentence, but you managed a weak nod.

He smirked, shaking his head. “Nah, I don’t need you noddin’. Need you talkin’.”

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself, but he was already on you again—teasing, pushing, making sure you felt everything he gave you.

“Tell me you ain’t fakin’ now,” he muttered.

Your fingers curled into his shoulders, a sharp gasp ripping from you as you shook your head frantically. “I’m—not—”

He hummed in approval, his grip tightening as he pulled you even closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Good. ‘Cause I’d hate to have to start all over again just to make sure.”

Your whole body shuddered at the threat—the promise—hidden in his words.

“Marshall—” His name slipped out, raw and desperate.

He groaned, dragging his teeth over your jaw before kissing the spot to soothe it. “That’s what I wanna hear.”

You weren’t sure how much more you could take—your body trembling, your mind spinning, the way he wouldn’t let up until he was completely, absolutely sure.

And finally—finally—when you were nothing but a breathless, spent mess beneath him, he slowed.

His hands softened, his grip turning gentle, his lips pressing softly against your temple.

He exhaled, brushing his nose against your cheek. “Bet you won’t ever pull that fake shit again, huh?”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh, too spent to even respond properly.

He smirked. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

And just like that, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, letting you melt into him—safe, warm, and very satisfied.

Lesson learned.

---

The room was quiet now, the air thick with warmth and something deeper—something settled. Marshall’s arms were still wrapped around you, his body loose and relaxed, but his grip on you was firm, like he wasn’t letting you go anytime soon.

You melted into him, completely spent, your head resting against his chest as your breathing slowly evened out. His fingers traced absentminded circles on your back, grounding, comforting.

But then, after a long stretch of silence, he spoke.

“Why’d you do it?”

You blinked, stirring slightly against him. “Do what?”

He shifted, tilting his head to look at you. “Fake it.” His voice wasn’t accusing—just curious. Maybe even a little confused. “Like, for real. You know you ain’t ever gotta do that with me.”

Your stomach tightened. You knew this conversation was coming, but you’d been hoping you could avoid it.

You swallowed, staring at a spot on his hoodie, fingers absentmindedly playing with the fabric. “I dunno,” you muttered. “It’s just… habit.”

Marshall frowned. “Habit?”

You nodded slowly, avoiding his gaze. “With my ex… it was just easier. He’d keep going and going, and I’d just—” You hesitated, sighing. “I’d fake it so he’d stop.”

Marshall’s body tensed underneath you. His fingers stilled against your back, his grip tightening just slightly. “…What?”

You bit your lip, still not looking at him. “It wasn’t… like, bad or anything. Just… I don’t think he ever really cared if I finished. It was more about him, so I just got used to pretending.”

Marshall was silent for a long moment, but you could feel the shift in his energy—felt the way his breathing changed, the way his fingers twitched slightly where they rested against you.

Then, his voice came, low and rough. “You’re tellin’ me… before me, you never—?”

You hesitated, then sighed. “No.”

His whole body stiffened.

Your stomach flipped at the reaction, so you quickly tried to downplay it. “It’s not like I knew what I was missing, you know?” You forced a small laugh. “I just thought maybe that’s how it was supposed to be, like maybe it was harder for me or something.”

Marshall exhaled sharply through his nose. “Harder for you, my ass,” he muttered.

You finally looked up at him, and the expression on his face nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

His jaw was tight, his blue eyes burning—not with anger, not at you, but at the idea of what you’d been through.

He shook his head, running a hand down his face. “That’s some bullshit,” he muttered.

“Marshall, really, it’s fine—”

“Nah.” He cut you off, his voice low, firm. “Ain’t fine.”

You swallowed, unsure of what to say.

He shifted suddenly, flipping you onto your back so he was hovering over you again, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to process this new information.

His voice was softer now, but no less intense. “You really thought that’s all there was to it? Just… go through the motions, pretend it’s good enough?”

You shrugged. “I didn’t think about it. It just… was what it was.”

His jaw clenched, and for a second, he just looked at you, like he was trying to figure out how to undo years of that mindset.

And then, after a long moment, his voice dropped even lower.

“Aight,” he murmured, fingers trailing slowly down your side. “Guess I got more work to do.”

Your breath caught. “Marshall—”

He smirked, but there was something dead serious in his eyes. “Nah, baby. You already know what I’m on.” He leaned down, brushing his lips over yours. “Gotta make up for lost time.”

And just like that, he was proving—again—that with him, you’d never have to fake anything ever again.

[ragana62]

Hermione doesn't break rules openly, because she knows that having the aura of following rules means that when someone starts looking at the trio for who was responsible for all the laws broken, she will be written off on principle. She knows that being the responsible one gives her protection, and it gives all of them an escape route should things go badly.

I have always held it as a survival tactic. It's Hermione knowing that nobody even notices the quiet, polite, bookworm in the corner who just keeps her nose down and always turns in her work, with extra credit, perfectly complete a day early at least. The magical world is a dangerous place, she doesn't know anyone there at the start, and the people she does know have made clear to her on observation that even for those the magical world doesn't hate on sight, there's not much of a guarantee of help coming much less help that can do much of anything in the face of some of the opposition. She needs to fade into the background, because being in the spotlight is a target, and if she is going to take the spotlight, it needs to be for something positive like her academic work where she can still be written off as 'one of the good ones'.

And... it works. First year Hermione can walk up to multiple professors and say 'It's my fault, I read about trolls and thought I could stop it before it hurt anyone, they were just helping me' and every last one of them just nods and says 'yes, that seems perfectly plausible, good job boys, perhaps we don't do that again Hermione'. Second year Hermione already knows how to brew multiple NEWT level highly controlled potions and can steal the ingredients to make them, brew the potions in broad daylight, and turn up into the hospital wing when one goes wrong looking like a were-cat, and it raises no questions. The assumption is that she was just trying to work ahead and made a mistake, it absolutely wouldn't be that she stole ingredients to knock students unconscious and stick them into a closet so her friends could break into another house's common room while impersonating them. We see the pattern time and time again.

Hermione doesn't openly break rules, so her teachers, her peers even, don't look at her when a rule is broken, and more than that, if something goes wrong in the pursuit of breaking rules, she can bullshit her way out of it with little more than a 'oops, I was just really excited to try something new I learned and it went a little wrong, I'm sorry' and the problem goes away. And that's exactly why she feels confident she can get away with putting Rita in a jar, or stealing books from Dumbledore's office after sixth year, or any number of other things. Because she already has gotten away with things like that, and quite frankly, even if she does get caught, all she has to do is say 'I'm sorry, I was just really interested in some new reading material and didn't think he would mind since it was to help Harry...' and McGonagall will ignore it, or 'She broke the law, look, unregistered animagus! I was just trying to be responsible and help, especially with all the bad things happening around the tournament, you don't think she might have something to do with that, do you?' and everyone will just say 'ah yes, Hermione was just trying to enforce the rules and got a little overzealous, this is why we're going to make you a prefect. Maybe we need to put a little more thought into how we do that next time, okay? In the magical world, we tell an adult these things, instead of just jumping straight to trying to catch the perpetrator ourselves.'.

(I also think this is why Dumbledore is so confident in just saying 'two turns, you can save them both, have fun kids' and knowing she will know what he means. He has a rather similar understanding that appearances will always matter more than actions when it comes to consequences, even if I don't always agree as much with the actions he chooses to use appearances to cover over, and I think he recognizes that in her as well.)

i love how hermione has such a rule following aura that everyone ignores that she is the real rule breaker of the trio. harry sneaks out at night sometimes. hermione straight up kidnapped a whole woman and held her prisoner in an enchanted jar. even tom riddle didn't do that.

[inawickedlittletown]

Decided to rewatch S8 and I made it to 8x06.

Ugh. This episode.

This is the first time I'm rewatching it since it aired and I couldn't make myself rewatch it before, but I'm watching it now and gah the writing.

Under a cut because this got long...

I'm not even too bothered by the anniversary dinner. The woman approaching them is whatever in the long run...Buck is awkward but it's very Buck to be like that so that doesn't bother me. Tommy's reaction to it also not a problem. Buck acting like he doesn't know his boyfriend is gay? Writers WTF. This is the type of conversation that would be normal a few dates in not 6 months in. It's actually very reminiscent of stuff from their first date.

It's the way they didn't know how to bring up Abby and so gave us this convoluted way to bring it about and it's very clear to me on a rewatch that they're trying to make sure the casual heterosexual audience understands things. Like they want to reestablish that we know for sure that Tommy is gay and Buck is still attracted to women but also lets not use the word bisexual. And oh the shock value of it because take out the Abby of it all and the break up still works the same way...they did the Abby thing just for the hell of it.

It's bad writing.

The next thing that makes me cringe is Buck's scene with Maddie and Josh. In the past we've seen Maddie listen to Buck and maybe poke fun at him a little but always in a kind way and then she gives him advice.

Maddie in this scene is acting so strange (actually Maddie this whole episode is not acting quite herself). I know some people have an issue with Josh's speech about Glee but tbh I don't think it's that bad and I didn't the first time I watched it. I think he has good motives in saying it. My issue is with Maddie.

Her joke about Abby turning men gay, the way she explains to Josh that Buck slept with Tommy's fiance changing the facts entirely just to mess with Buck, the way that she just very clearly thinks Buck is being dramatic and ridiculous. She just doesn't take Buck seriously at all and when Buck calls her out on it she turns it around on him because as she says she doesn't think there's a problem. But it's not about if there is a problem with them having both dated Abby, it's how Buck feels about it that he needs advice on.

Josh for all that I do think he is helpful, he also does not know Tommy and shouldn't speak to what Tommy experienced. Buck voices his concerns that he thought he knew who Tommy was but now he's finding out that Tommy lied and hurt Abby and it's thrown him because he's having to meld those two versions of Tommy.

Buck doesn't think that Tommy will do the same to him and Tommy doesn't. He doesn't lie to Buck or string him along. He's actually very honest with him and that honesty contributes to the break up. Yet another way in which we see that Tommy has changed from who he used to be.

The thing is that Josh doesn't know Tommy and admits as much but he gives Buck some broad thing about glee and what the world was like before it and after but he's basing it on his own experiences and the queer experience is not a shared trauma...and he puts in Buck's mind that he can't judge Tommy and also that he should thank him. Buck clearly internalizes this. He also I think it suddenly forced to think about what he wants from a future with Tommy and he jumps at wanting to live with him.

Now onto the actual break up.

The whole scene is actually good. They're cute together and silly and flirty and even after the Abby thing is revealed to Tommy nothing has fallen apart. It's all kinda good and their conversation is actually great. When Buck says he admires him, Tommy seems to like that...or at least he takes it how Buck intends it.

This is where it falls apart. And considering I refused to watch this again until now I didn't really think about it like this until now.

Yes I think Tommy had his eyes opened a little bit with everything Buck said...but Tommy also could have ended the conversation at the point where Buck tells him he admires him and they could have gone to the movies and just continued their date night. Why? Because Tommy already sorta knows this and it's what's he's expected from it...he already knows this is Buck's first relationship with a man and that as such Buck must feel some gratitude for what Tommy has given him and he's clearly in his mind already decided that it will end eventually because as he tells Buck first is not last (Tommy, who hurt you?).

But then Buck asks Tommy to move in. And Tommy can't.

It's one thing for him to date the baby bi guy...for him to get feelings for him that maybe go deep but that are manageable. He can handle that...but moving in together? For Buck to dangle that to him and offer him a future when Tommy doesn't expect that Buck will be able to deliver it? That's where Tommy just can't because he knows it will hurt when they break up...but if they live together and form deeper attachments and routines and they become intrinsically a part of each other's lives in a home they share then that's not heartbreak he's prepared to face. It's heartbreak he knows he won't survive.

I actually don't see the break up as bad writing. Everything else surrounding it absolutely is, but that scene is heartbreaking because they both want the same exact thing but Buck couldn't reassure Tommy that he really did want for them to be together...he didn't even tell him he loved him...and Tommy needs more from Buck to be secure in thinking that in this instance first could also be the last.

I think we learn so much about Tommy in this episode and I wish we had been able to dive in deeper.

This episode still hurts. Tommy's face when he says "Buck" hurts. The way Buck is left behind hurts.

The writing is a mixed bag of bad with some alright moments. It also leaves so much open. I remember that night being optimistic because it is so clearly a storyline left open to be continued. Some interviews turned that optimism right around but without that there is no real reason for any of us to think that this is finished.

Do I think it was a bad idea to break them up? Absolutely. Do I think there are other forms of tension for them to explore? Yes. Do I think they will manage to give this story and Buck and Tommy a happier ending? I have no idea, but I hope so.

Buck himself calls his relationship with Tommy the most transformative since Abby. He misses Tommy so much he spends the next couple of episodes baking and wanting to reach out. We also know that Tommy wants to reach back out too. These are indications that it isn't over and I just hope that they stick to being a little cliche and following the romcom trope right through to the end where they get back together.

I guess that's where I am going into 8b. Hopeful, but not holding my breath and well aware that fanfic exists and so much of the scenarios we want for our blorbos will only ever be possible there. Oh, and I'll be shipping Buck with Tommy because that is definitely not changing no matter what the show does.

[tyrannosaurusprex]

Opinion: Mark Scout’s arc is not about moving on from Gemma, and [spoiler] is not necessary for his healing.

Long post, spoilers for Severance up to Season 2 Episode 7 below the cut.

Mark Scout’s arc is not about moving on from Gemma. Leaving her fate in Lumon’s hands is not necessary for his healing.

It seems that the common consensus among the fanbase, at least before S2E07, was that from a meta perspective, Mark should not be trying to rescue Gemma, because he needs to move on from her and her “death” in order to achieve character growth. The argument was that his inability to move on from her brought him pain and suffering, and that from a storytelling standpoint, it would therefore be unsatisfying for him to be “rewarded” with Gemma again. He could only fulfil his character arc by moving on.

I never really liked this theory. Mainly because I never thought that Gemma died in the first place; it seemed more likely that she had been kidnapped by Lumon, and that she deserved to be freed. It seemed cruel and unjust to leave her in the hands of Lumon just so that Mark could achieve character growth. The show makes us empathise with all the innies, so I felt bad for Gemma and Ms Casey, too. They all live bleak lives and they all deserve freedom. But I also realised that this interpretation of Mark’s reaction to Gemma’s disappearance is just inaccurate, as far as my reading of the show goes.

People were basically saying that Mark never tried to move on from Gemma, which brought him pain; therefore, trying to get Gemma back will bring him more pain, and the only way to achieve peace is to move on. I think that would make sense if the premise were true. But the problem is that Mark did try to move on from Gemma. The whole reason he got severed was to try to move on. He left his job at the college they both used to work at, and he moved out of the house they used to share, and he got a procedure so he wouldn’t be able to remember her for 40 hours of the week. Was it a healthy attempt at moving on? No, but it was a genuine attempt. So many things show us that Mark was legitimately trying:

Devon says that “forgetting about her eight hours of the day isn’t the same as healing”. This dialogue is basically exposition that tells us that he is trying to heal from his grief, but he is going about it the wrong way.

Mark tells Petey that his wife died two years ago and that the severed job is helping him.

Mark goes on two dates with Alexa; the second one goes much better than the first. Mark comfortably brings up Gemma but apologises for talking about her too much. He and Alexa share a sweet kiss and sleep together, showing that Mark is capable of forming new romantic connections. And in fact, the reason the second date ends badly seemingly has nothing to do with Gemma. If Mark had not picked up Reghabi's call, and had not witnessed a violent murder, he might very well have gone on more dates with Alexa.

After Mark drunkenly rips up Gemma’s photo, he puts it back together and reminisces about her in a touching moment. The next time we see him, in S1E8, he’s contemplating leaving his job at Lumon, because as he says to Cobelvig, he doesn’t think he needs it anymore. Implying that what he needs is not to forget Gemma, but instead remember her and keep his love for her alive. This will help him deal with his grief in a healthy way. This whole episode he looks much happier and more at ease than he has seemed pretty much the whole season.

In S2E02, he is staunchly convinced that Gemma is not alive, no matter what Devon says. He is trying to move on from her here. If he weren't, he probably would have jumped at the possibility.

Milchick convinces Mark to return to Lumon with the promise that Lumon will help Mark continue to move on from his grief. Milchick tells Mark that Mark has found love at Lumon, and instead of seeming repulsed, or uncomfortable, this seems to give Mark hope, as he returns to work the next day. Because he wants to move on.

Mark only starts to suspect that Gemma is alive when Cobel avoids his questions about her in a very…weird…way (i.e. demonic screaming). And even then, he only believes that Gemma is alive when Reghabi tells him she’s seen her at Lumon. Before this, practically the whole time, Mark was genuinely trying to forget and move on from Gemma, which was actually what was bringing pain and suffering to him, his innie, and Gemma herself. His attempt at moving on — that is, his job at Lumon — resulted in his torture on the Severed Floor and Gemma’s torture on the Testing Floor. Only after Mark actually confronts his memories of Gemma in S1E7 does he seem happy, healthy, and willing to quit the evil corporation.

To me, all this is saying that Mark’s character arc is not about how he needs to forget about Gemma to heal. Forgetting about Gemma is what led him to the evil company. Perhaps what he needs is to confront his memories of her instead of avoiding the pain. When he believed Gemma was gone, his desire to forget about her drove him to split his brain in half, creating a version of himself which was doomed to hell; now that he believes she’s back, he’s decided to stitch his brain back together, freeing his innie, in a way. Reintegration is clearly dangerous but I don’t think the show is trying to tell us that it’s the wrong choice. It’s currently the only way that an innie and outie can coexist.

So is the show saying that we shouldn’t try to move on from grief? I don't think so. I think it’s saying that we shouldn’t try to ignore all the negative things we experience. We shouldn't compartmentalise to such an extreme extent. As Devon says, forgetting is not the same as healing. There are things we all need to confront, and Mark has needed to confront his grief and his love for Gemma. This, I think, is the first step to his actual healing.

[diushek]

Shen Qingqiu is poisoned with those sex pollen again- and about a month and a half later, Shen Qingqiu has morning sickness.

Thanks to Mu Qingfang its confirmed: he will really have his husband's child! Oh shit, oh shit- Well, it's not that they were actively trying to have children, but after more than five years of marriage, these things happen, don't they? The natural order of things? Get married, settle down, have babies?

The idea not bad, really, and Shen Qingqiu's terror fades away in the face of his husband's adoration. Everything is okay. Everything will be okay.

... when Shen Qingqiu is two months pregnant, one morning he finds his husband, the Emperor, the Heavenly Demon, weak and nauseous from the smell of his own cooking. Shen Qingqiu comforts him, drags him to rest and finishes making some congee himself. He have read a lot about couples sharing pregnancy symptoms for some reason, so it's not abnormal. Also he's not such a disastrous cook now!

However, Luo Binghe genuinely still looks pale and sick with that smell. Shen Qingqiu dismisses breakfast, he is not that hungry after all. His husband cries a little in his arms with its thick crocodile tears and they both sleep off the morning.

The problem is that Luo Binghe's symptoms continue. He can hardly tolerate strong scents, and is even worse than Shen Qingqiu. He cannot tolerate scents from many foods, hair oils, or perfume. Even scented soaps are too much for his nose. Worried, Shen Qingqiu decides that they should go see Mu Qingfang, whether it is something of mirror symptoms or Luo Binghe feeling all the symptoms stronger than Shen Qingqiu for some reason.

The reason is that Luo Binghe is also pregnant.

Shen Qingqiu falls silent, almost as stunned as Luo Binghe. He had... Well, sex pollen had been a crazy thing! Whatever had happened that night had been crazy too! Shen Qingqiu had practically forgotten that part… How could it be such a fertile thing?!

Well, actually, it shouldn't be that bad. Shen Qingqiu is coping well with his first few months. His husband unfortunately seems to be the one suffering from terrible symptoms. Shen Qingqiu just hopes that don't last too long.

Soon, he realizes: well, being pregnant is unstable, having a husband who is also pregnant? It's a fucking nightmare. Shen Qingqiu loves and adores his husband, but he has never seen him cry so much, squirm so much, or be so sensitive to anything foreign or external. He can hardly leave his side. And Luo Binghe wants to continue being and doing everything - not being able to cook for his husband practically devastates him, and not being able to eat anything his husband cooks is almost worse.

And they are just entering their third month.

Shen Qingqiu knows it can only get better (no sarcasm) once they get through the first trimester. No very bad symptoms, just some hormones and little baby bumps growing. Shen Qingqiu finds it endearing and adorable. He really wants that to happen.

... his husband hasn't even finished with the unpleasant symptoms when he starts having cravings. Strange and chaotic cravings that Luo Binghe cannot explain and Shen Qingqiu recognizes as demonic foods forgotten by god and man.

God forbid. Shen Qingqiu will strangle Shang Qinghua for inventing those damn fertile fucking flowers. Or he'll get him to move that limp ass of a fourth-rate writer to bring a demonic feast to his pregnant husband. Whichever comes first.

[legorockraiders]

No offense to Healed, someone I respect utmostly, but I don't really like this answer so I'd like to offer my own.

The problem with this answer is the statement being made here that "all good art is made with passion". Even the most cashgrabby shlock has fans, has meaning to somebody. There are people out there, scary as it is to think about, who still _love_ marvel movies. Statistically, many people have gone to the grave loving marvel movies, some tragic handful who died young were born raised and died loving them their entire lives. The value in art comes from the emotions it creates in people, and even the worst stuff can create value-- even indirectly! Food Fight is a horrible movie that was created as an advertisement for various grocery brands, but if it had never existed, all the funny youtube vids making fun of it would have never been made.

So, objections now raised, getting back to the original question. Why would people make art without copyright protections?

Because people like making art. It's really as simple as that. People will make art for free if they don't have to spend their lives toiling for the bourgeoisie. Well, ok, but we're not talking about Sam Raimi going to a cabin in the woods with a half a dozen friends and shooting Evil Dead on a shoestring budget, we're talking about major productions here! Well that's really no different than _any_ industry. Under socialism, why would anyone make insulin without being able to profit off it? This is also a complex and difficult product which requires coordination, and cannot be done haphazardly by someone working out of their shed. The answer is because they want to and other people want them to, and people will work together to make even very complicated things. Socialism is capable of producing both simple and complex products!

Of course what is popular in art will change. What kind of marxist would I be if I failed to point out that the current trend of superhero blockbusters is driven by *material conditions*, not some abstract unquantifiable ideal Taste which is ever-improving. We see these movies because they are cheaper and the rate of profit tends to fall. They are cheaper because camera technology has improved, visual effects technology has improved, **visual effects artists are mostly not unionized**, streaming has made the consumer action of picking a movie to watch a much lower commitment resulting in shorter attention spans and less loyalty to the creative forces involved.

All that to say, under a different social context, when technology has changed what is cheap to make, a different kind of movie will be popular, and this is neither a good nor a bad thing. In 300 years under perfectly realized communism, there will probably be some weirdo in the world who loves the shlock of the early 21st century and wants to make a movie like that. Maybe he won't be able to convince others to help him, but *only* communism, and the eradication of copyright, will make that creative endeavour even minimally possible!

what’s to incentivize people to make art if not for copyright? you might point out that creatives often don’t own their own work, they are paid a wage by a company who owns the IP. but even still, they are only paid that wage at all because the company is incentivized to pay people to make art that they can sell. in a world with no copyright laws, how would people make money off creative works? in a world where people can’t make money off creative works, would we have any art aside from passion projects? would that be a good thing?

i recognize that i’m probably wrong, but please consider explaining why (even though i know you probably have a really funny dunk on the stupid anon locked and loaded).

i mean, just frankly, i struggle to think of any great work of art that's happened because of the profit motive, rather than because somebody wanted to make it, with the need to monetize it hanging around its neck like an albatross. there's a reason why "cash grab" is a perjorative, innit. i think 'passion project' describes essentially all art that's actually worth a damn -- whether it's a blockbuster film that makes billions or a tgirl's edgy poetry that gets 10 notes, every piece of art that's any good has been made because someone (or several someones) wanted it to exist.

moreover, the world i advocate for is not a capitalist world with copyright laws cleanly snipped out, affecting nothing else, but a socialist world, in which people are free to create art without having to worry about it paying the rent. the entire capitalist mode of production is a decidedly bad thing if you want to see more art, interesting art, thoughtful art, good art!

[saintsenara]

Perhaps not the point of your ongoing Snoldemort (Vape?) masterpiece, but I really like how you write Lily. She’s adventurous and determined and charismatic, but also utterly careless about Severus’ emotions and especially his poverty in a way that’s - for those of us who’ve been in the same boat - utterly demeaning. And I think that’s all clearly there in canon too! I know she’s rather underwritten due to her mystery being kept under wraps for 6.95 out of 7 books, but I don’t think she’s *quite* as underwritten as many people think considering she’s only got about 10 lines. So I really love it on the exceedingly rare occasions when she flashes up in fics to be less saintly and more…correct in most respects, but also such a dick about it.

i can't believe i've been foolishly persisting with "snapemort" as the ship name when "vape" was in front of me the whole time.

[a shot of lord voldemort listening to the radio broadcasts of the wizengamot...]

thank you very much for this lovely message about scylla and charybdis, anon! i'm delighted you're enjoying it.

the starting point for her characterisation in the fic was - basically - god forbid a teenage girl not be the most selfless person in history.

i'm always really struck [and completely unsurprised...] that both sides of the fandom debate about snape seem to focus a lot on lily's supposed saintliness. since i'm a snape fan, i end up seeing the anti-lily side of this fairly often - endless rounds of "well if she's so great why didn't she do exactly what snape wanted all the time? why did she simply not accommodate everything he thought? checkmate, snaters" nonsense, which then quickly devolves into "every even mildly negative thought she had about snape was driven by her pure evil"...

but the thing is... even without any of the rest of it - the fact that she's a member of the wizarding world's persecuted underclass and there's a war on, for example - she's allowed to not be constantly thinking about other people's problems. and she's allowed to be annoyed and selfish and uncharitable and rude. and she's allowed to not be constantly filtering her words and actions through every single possible societal nuance in order to make sure she only responds in the most perfect way ever... not least because that's fundamentally impossible.

i like the fact that she never quite gets how snape's poverty changes his engagement with the world - especially in the most recent chapter, when she's thirteen and she thinks she's having a nice time hanging out with her pal and she thinks he's saying what he means when he says he doesn't want anything from the ice cream man, rather than pretending that he doesn't because he hasn't got any money and he finds the idea of admitting that to her to be too humiliating to bear - because it's a situation where neither of them are in the wrong, which i just find much more interesting than the fandom's determination to divide characters who are in conflict into the winner and the loser, or the good person and the bad one, or the person who's right and the person who's wrong.

snape's feelings about his poverty are entirely understandable, and lily clearly hasn't thought as much about it as might be admirable... but it's also his own fault that he doesn't share these feelings with lily, and just expects her to read his mind and modify her behaviour without him offering her any explanation as to why he wants her to do this or offering her any chance to refuse or to ask him to compromise on these desires.

and this lack of honest communication leads to their bigger, much more clear-cut resentments - over james, over mulciber and avery, over dark magic, and - of course - over voldemort. lily's obviously completely correct to say that voldemort is a terrorist and she won't respect anyone who's obsessed with him... the moral argument is black-and-white, lily's the only person who's right.

but the issue is that snape isn't actually arguing from an opposing position. he's not arguing that voldemort isn't a terrorist - he's arguing that voldemort is a terrorist who's also the only person he's ever met who's offering a tangible way for him to get out of poverty. and this is true - both in the fic and, in my view, in the canon text. the material argument is much, much more complicated than the moral one.

lily can't solve these problems - she's just one person, and she doesn't have to risk her own safety to try and deradicalise someone seeking to join an organisation which hates muggleborns - and i don't expect her to have ever been able to do so.

but i also like the fact that - just as snape's major failing in canon is indifference [he can tolerate what voldemort does until it affects him] - the good guys' major failing is indifference too.

the ministry and the order are principled people taking a righteous moral stand against terror... and they also have no idea how the system they're fighting for oppresses all but the elite of wizarding society... whereas voldemort understands this intimately, and he uses it to swell his ranks with disaffected recruits who are looking for someone to blame for their conditions...

[hence why he's the person - even as the text tries to present him as someone whose aims are pureblood oligarchy - who canonically commands the support (or, at the very least, the toleration) of the working classes and the non-human peoples oppressed by the wizarding state...]

but these recruits are nonetheless entirely aware what they're signing up for... they're not joining a legitimate political party, or a union, or an activist group seeking to bring about change through non-violent means... they're joining a terrorist organisation...

but their experience at the hands of the state makes them easy to convince that they've got no other choice...

i like this sort of vicious cycle approach to both the first and the second war because it's so much more interesting than canon's "this is a straightforward battle between good and evil" vibe.

[peachesnpears95]

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Shadowpeach (+ Shadowpeach being parents to MK) incorrect quotes -because my gallbladder is probably trying to kill me, and I'm in pain and bored- Round 3: GO.

WARNING SPICY/SUGGESTIVE LANGUAGE! DO NOT INTERACT IF UR NOT 18 OR OLDER!

WARNING SPICY/SUGGESTIVE LANGUAGE! DO NOT INTERACT IF UR NOT 18 OR OLDER!

WARNING SPICY/SUGGESTIVE LANGUAGE! DO NOT INTERACT IF UR NOT 18 OR OLDER!

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Sun Wukong: Who thinks I can fit 15 peaches in my mouth?

MK: You’re a hazard to society

Macaque: And a coward. DO TWENTY.

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Sun Wukong: In my defense, I was left unsupervised.

Macaque: Wasn't MK with you?

MK: In my defense, I was also left unsupervised.

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Sun Wukong: Macaque and I don’t use pet names.

MK: I see. Hey, what is a fruit that starts with a p again? No, it is not a peach. It's a purple fruit.

Sun Wukong: Plum?

Macaque, appearing out of the shadows: Yes, Peaches? >: 3

Sun Wukong: >/////> MK: Don't ever lie to my face again. >: /

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Sun Wukong: I told Macaque his ears go red when he lies.

MK: Why?

Sun Wukong: Look. Hey Macaque! Do you love me and the Kid?

Macaque, covering his six ears: No. > //// >

MK: OwO

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Sun Wukong: If I somehow die, somehow, my funeral is going to be the biggest party ever and you’re all invited. ^_^

MK: If? :'(

Macaque: Great, the only party I’ve ever been invited to, and he actually can't even die. -_-

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MK: You have to apologize to Macaque for killing him.

Sun Wukong: Fine. Hey BUD! Macaque: Yes?

Sun Wukong: 'Unfuck you' or whatever.

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Sun Wukong: Am I in trouble?

Macaque: Take a guess.

Sun Wukong: No?

Macaque: Take another guess.

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Sun Wukong: You're right, I'm sorry.

Macaque: That's... That's an unusual phrase for you. Did you just learn it?

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Sun Wukong: Please, I'm begging you go to the healing sages!

Macaque, standing there with Wukong's staff stabbed through his eye: I'm sorry is this OUR staff-stab wound? Stay out of it.

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-The event that leads up to Wukong and Macaque fighting, and Mac's death-

Macaque: This is a mistake, I know we shouldn't but fuck you. We fight!

Sun Wukong, enthusiastically: Definitely a mistake we're going to laugh about one day!

Macaque: But not today.

Sun Wukong, still enthusiastic: Oh, no. Today's going to be a mess.

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Sun Wukong: Bad things keep happening to me, like I have bad luck or something.

Macaque: Wukong, you don't have bad luck. The reason bad things happen to you is because you're a dumbass.

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Sun Wukong: Macaque, stop! Don't make me do this! This isn't you; you've gone mad with power!

Macaque: Well of course I have. Have you ever tried going mad without power? It's boring.

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Sun Wukong: I learned some very valuable lessons from trying to become immortal.

Macaque: I’m guessing they are all horrible distortions on the lessons you actually should’ve taken away.

Sun Wukong: Death isn’t real, and I’m basically God.

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Sun Wukong, trying to apologize to Mac for killing him:

.. .----. -- / ... --- .-. .-. -.-- [translation: I’M SORRY]

Macaque: What's that?

Sun Wukong: Remorse code.

Macaque: I'm even angrier now.

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Sun Wukong: Top 30 reasons why Sun Wukong is sorry... Number 5 will surprise you!

Macaque: Top 30 Lego show deaths. Number One: YOUR FUCKING ASS RIGHT NOW!!!

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Sun Wukong: We have a problem.

Macaque: No, YOU have a problem. I have an idiot who keeps making them.

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Macaque: Can you cut me some slack, Wukong? I’m sort of in love.

Sun Wukong: I’m sorry, but that’s really not my problem.

Macaque: I’m in love with you.

Sun Wukong, blushing: Oh. That brings me in the loop a little.

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Sun Wukong: I want to kiss you.

Macaque, not paying attention: What?

Sun Wukong: I said if you die, I won't miss you.

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Sun Wukong, talking about Macaque: WHAT THE FUCK! I WAS ARGUING WITH MACAQUE, AND I SAID- “OOH YOU WANNA KISS ME SO BAD” AND GUESS WHAT? HE DID. HE KISSED ME. WHAT THE FUCK WHAT DO I DO?!

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Sun Wukong: You are the love of my life, and I would do anything within reason to make you happy.

Macaque: I would be happy if you ate, stayed hydrated and got a reasonable amount of sleep.

Sun Wukong: I said within reason, Macaque. How about I murder that guy?

Macaque: So, murder is in reason, but proper self-care isn't?

Sun Wukong: Well, duh. What kind of question is that?

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Macaque, in Sun Wukong ’s bed: Morning your Majesty… how’d ya sleep last night, bud?

Sun Wukong, knocking Macaque off: WHAT THE HEAVENS?!

Macaque: Ow—

Sun Wukong: What were you doing in my bed? You were supposed to sleep on the air mattress on the floor!

Macaque: I had a nightmare.

Sun Wukong: You had a nightmare? What are you, a Youngling monkey?

Macaque: Listen, I needed to feel comfortable, and I was getting this perverse power dynamic vibe from me sleeping on the floor and you sleeping up there-

Sun Wukong, in a royal accent: Why yes, how high and mighty I am up on my BED!

Macaque: That is not what I meant—

Sun Wukong: Silence in the presence of your Monkey King, who sleeps a lofty twelve and a half inches above the ground!

Macaque: Listen, I’m not ashamed. I slept comfortably when I got up on your bed and I’m sure you did too.

Sun Wukong: Yeah, okay-

Macaque: You know what? I want to know. How’d you sleep last night?

Sun Wukong: …That was the best I’ve slept in a while.

Macaque, gasping: The Monkey King slept comfortably with his lowly Moon warrior in his bed!?

Sun Wukong: I did not consent to this-

Macaque, dramatically: But my liege, our love is forbidden!

Sun Wukong: Okay, I'm go to the hot springs and wash all of the you off of me.

Macaque: Oh, maybe together we could—

Sun Wukong: NO.

Macaque: Just to make sure you don't sink like a rock—

Sun Wukong: No! It's not even that DEEP!

Macaque: … point taken, but I'm still coming.

Sun Wukong: Heaven please, give me strength...

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Macaque: I’ve been dropping them the most insanely obvious hints for like ages now. No response.

Sun Wukong: Wow. They sound stupid.

Macaque: But they’re not. They’re really smart, when they actually take time to think. Just dense.

Sun Wukong: Maybe you need to be more obvious? Like, I don’t know… “Hey! I love you!”

Macaque: I guess you’re right. Hey Sun Wukong, I love you.

Sun Wukong: See! Just say that!

Macaque: GODS, YOU PEACH LOVING IDIOT IT'S Y-

Sun Wukong: If that flies over their head then, sorry Macaque, but they're too dumb for you.

Macaque: ... Wukong -_-

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MK: Why is everyone so obsessed with top or bottom? Honestly, I’d just be excited to have a bunk bed. ^_^

Macaque: I'm going to tell him. >: 3

Sun Wukong: Don't you dare. >: U

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Sun Wukong: looks at MK

Sun Wukong: Baby stone monkey. Baby.

Sun Wukong: looks at Macaque

Sun Wukong: Evil.

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MK: Why would you think any of this was a good idea?!

Sun Wukong: Probably because I’m a dangerous immortal stone monkey maniac with a long sordid history, bud.

MK: Oh…

Macaque, from across the room: I don’t understand how you keep forgetting that.

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MK: What did Monkey King do this time?

Macaque: More like WHAT didn't Sun Wukong do this time!

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MK: Is Macaque always like this when they lose?

Sun Wukong: Oh, yes. You should've been there for the great Journey To The West Tantrum!

Macaque: You KILLED ME, and you know it!

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WARNING SPICY/SUGGESTIVE LANGUAGE! DO NOT INTERACT IF UR NOT 18 OR OLDER!

WARNING SPICY/SUGGESTIVE LANGUAGE! DO NOT INTERACT IF UR NOT 18 OR OLDER!

WARNING SPICY/SUGGESTIVE LANGUAGE! DO NOT INTERACT IF UR NOT 18 OR OLDER!

[wortsandall]

YES THE SEX THING !!! it bothers me so much but i see it less so i didn't mention it. but like jazz is friendly and charismatic and his whole thing is music, so i feel like people have this idea in their head that those traits automatically = a nymphomaniac or something.

which would be fine on its own as a standalone context but in context for jazz-it does become an issue because of the connotations of a black coded character being written that way.

especially since jazz has not been depicted like that in any media that has him in it (as far as im aware) so it's an authors personal choice to add this in there for essentially the reason of...? why?

its NOT a jazz character trait. as far as i've seen anyway as i haven't seen every jazz character ever written but i also feel like if he was intended to be seen like that, they'd have no problem doing that. other characters have been written to be like that-there's jokes about certain characters flirting with earth cars and stuff. i mean knock out's entire vibe is tf prime is something like that with his voice, he canonized interface as a cybertronian word for sex, borderline flirting with starscream, etc...

where the nuance comes in here is that there's nothing wrong with a headcanon. and people can headcanon jazz to be like that. and theres nothing inherently wrong with being a flirt and liking sex, whatever.

it just becomes odd that this trait ive only ever seen be added to jazz and never anyone else. and the way its written 50% of the time is completely the 'black guy with a big dick he loves to swing around' stereotype that makes me click off.

(i read one where because jazz is a spy its mentioned he's had to rape people for interrogation purposes before and i immediately clicked off because what the hell are you talking about ???? it felt completely out of place. i guess you could write a story in which that happens-i've got zero issues with dark fic.

but using jazz of all people? i didn't like that. i know jazz is a spy and he's done bad shit before but i just couldn't believe in that.

its the whole 'he wouldn't fucking say that' thing. because people can do whatever they want (all i'm asking is to be a little more socially aware of stereotyping) but ultimately when you're writing fic and you want it to be in character you have to write a set of circumstances that would make a character actually say that. throwing it into a fic that is ultimately the same universe with the same circumstances just slightly tweaked is not enough of a circumstance to make me believe that he would do that to interrogate people. its bad out of character writing. but this is a tangent)

this is getting long (sorry!) but basically yes the "jazz is a beast in the sheets and needs sex 24/7 and we'll talk about every type of past relationship he's ever had and also did you know he's had sex with EVERYONE on the ark" is something that i find so distasteful. because its not jazz.

when i read the idw comics and saw jazz i did not see what these writers were seeing. and it feels like a purposeful choice to see him like that versus the guy he actually is. im not an expert but he's just a charming musician who's pretty laid back and uses that as an advantage for a spy stuff sometimes.

i don't think it's really an act that he's a generally nice dude who just also has the whole "i got to do what needs to be done thing prowl has" but he actually does feel guilt (which is why i don't think he would ever take an interrogation far enough to rape somebody jesus christ) and he does let emotion get in the way like when he killed that guy on earth.

its feels off putting to turn the guy i described above into the type of guy that would:

- continue to flirt with prowl after being rejected over and over again (comes up a lot in jazzprowl)

-disrespect boundaries/be sexually aggressive in general

-talk about sex all the time even when inappropriate

-run off to jerk off or have inappropriately timed sex

all things ive seen across various different fics. and if you want to write jazz that way you better create a set of circumstances that makes me believe it. because throwing it into tf animated of all continuities (as an example) just make me immediately side eye your priorities

tldr; the jazz sex fiend trend does bother me. i don't think writing him that way or enjoying him written that way automatically makes you racist. but i do encourage people to explore any subconscious bias they may have because that trait doesn't make sense for jazz. especially if you want to write in character jazz fics.

in the spirit of honesty...the way some of yall write jazz in transformers fanfic is honestly appalling. it screams ive never met a black person in my life. it screams i watched michael bays 2007 transformers and took notes, as if the bayverse hasnt been criticized for its terrible stereotyping.

yes, he has an accent. yes, he uses slang. but jesus christ. his usage is not as egregious as yall write it. yall write him like hes stupid and uneducated. the ultimate caricature of a black man. its super insulting.

and i get that he's not actually black due to not being human but he is black coded and the treatment is abysmal at times.

my advice? JUST WRITE DIALOGUE. our brains do the rest. i know what he sounds like, i can fill it in myself.

stop writing "ay, ya sure ya got shit handled, fam'? bro, i 'aint no fool, i gots that dog n' me."

ESPECIALLY BC JAZZ HAS NEVER. SPOKEN LIKE THAT ANYWAY.

sincerely, a (very) frustrated black person.