#fluff and angst and smut

[alltheirdamn]

Killing Me Softly | (Joel x teacher!f!reader)

Chap. 10 Home

Summary: How bittersweet it is to come home. Rating: 18+ Explicit Word Count: 8.6k Warnings: NONE!!!! Find out for yourselves xoxo A/N: If you made it this far, thank you. This obviously isn't the absolute END, there will be an epilogue to come... but I still want to thank each and every one of you. This series has such a special place inside my heart, and I will be forever grateful for the love and support you all have given. All the kisses and hugs and love to you all. (I also realize there are going to be a few questions left unanswered, but I promise it'll be resolved in the epilogue) * And once again, I'm the most thankful to @loonmartell for helping me create the most beautiful story. Sending you all my love, sweet pea <3 *

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

You most definitely had a concussion—which was not ideal when you were behind the wheel of a moving vehicle. Not only were you trying to subdue the memories still filtering through your mind, but you were also trying to navigate the roads with blurred vision. Streetlights that had once been unfamiliar slowly morphed into a memorized path, leading you right back to the place you once called home. Sarah had guided you home just months ago after a soccer game, but this was different. This was a reawakening, a thousand tiny moments rising from their endless slumber. Each turn of the wheel and stopsign guided you back to the one person your heart cried out for… Joel. 

If only your brain and heart could get on the same page. While your heart ached for Joel in ways you hadn’t felt in months, your mind still clung to the anger you associated with him over the last several months. You couldn’t just stop loving him, but you didn’t know how to stop hating him at the same time. 

The final turn into his neighborhood was coming up fast, yet your speed came to a crawl. It hadn’t even occurred to you that he could have moved on. Half a year was enough time for Joel to move on, to find another woman, to be happy without you. You experienced the exact opposite: you couldn’t move on, didn’t find another man, and were far from happy. Seeing him again was probably a mistake, but how would you move on now that you knew everything?

The nausea was back in full force as you pulled up to Joel’s home, his truck parked crooked in the driveway. This was your home once upon a time. Yeah, you were going to be sick again. Wrenching the door open, you leaned out of your car and dry-heaved. Nothing came up, which you were thankful for. You needed a strong stomach and a clear mind for whatever would come. The ground beneath your feet became distorted as you walked the path up his front yard. You took a moment to shake away the double-vision, your mind clouding around the edges. It was not the time to lose your grip on reality. 

The worn wood of Joel’s front door taunted you, your hand hovering over the center as you debated knocking. All it would take is a quick rap of your knuckles, and you’d see him again. Before you could sabotage yourself, your knuckles tapped against the door. 

“Comin’!” 

The sound of Joel’s voice in the distance electrified your nerves. He was right there. Any moment, he’d open the door and—.

The door cracked open, and you stared up into the familiar brown eyes that plagued every memory overlapping inside your mind. Joel stood motionless, his eyebrows slightly raised and lips parted. He looked at you as if you were a ghost. You gave him the most pathetic smile, unsure of what to do with your hands or body. 

“Can I come in?” You blurted out. 

“Of course,” he said softly, opening the door wider. 

A simple step over the threshold, and you were home. 

You took a moment to let it all settle in: nothing had changed. The varnish was worn in certain places on the floor, the same as it had been when you lived here. Joel walked the same path daily: through the front door and to the right, directly into the kitchen. Sarah’s soccer bag hung on the staircase railing, a pair of her shoes strewn across the second step. 

“Is Sarah home?” You asked, your eyes still wandering around the downstairs of the house.

“No, she’s stayin’ with a friend this weekend,” he replied.

Joel shifted his weight, tearing your focus away from the house and back onto him. There was a look of confusion furrowing his brows together, and you realized you hadn’t entirely explained yourself to him yet.

“Listen, I know I’m here unannounced,” you started. “I, uh, I haven’t touched the book since you gave it back. Well, I didn’t until today. I found it again, and this slipped out.”

Digging through your purse, you pinched the Polaroid between your fingers and pulled it free. Joel hesitantly reached for it, his fingers avoiding touching yours as he held it between his hands. A small smile formed on his lips as he ran his thumb over the photo's edges. 

“This was from a campin’ trip we went on with Sarah,” he sighed. “Sarah had just taken a tumble in some mud, and I remember I couldn’t stop laughin’, and you were quick with a camera and snapped this photo.”

“I know.”

“I got a photo of you, too. I still got it hangin’ up somewhere—.”

Joel’s voice trailed off, his eyes drifting up to yours. He had been so wrapped up in reminiscing that he didn’t listen to what you said. 

“Do you still have the one of Sarah, too?” 

Joel’s eyes grew wide, swaying in place. 

“You remember?” He faltered.

“I remember everything, Joel.”

Not Mr. Miller. Joel. 

Joel opened and closed his mouth at least three times before finally just shaking his head. He took a step back, letting the picture fall to the ground. You glanced down at the Polaroid lying between your feet, the photo of Joel doubling in your vision. Your body moved on its own accord, your balance teetering as you stumbled a bit to the side. Joel quickly caught your weight, his hands firm around your arm. 

“Woah,” he exhaled. “Y’okay?”

“I might have a concussion,” you laughed absently. “Took a bit of a fall earlier and hit my head.”

Joel cursed under his breath and slipped an arm around your waist, guiding you toward the dining room. Sunlight bled through the window shades on the wall, and you squinted your eyes to avoid intensifying your headache. The kitchen was just as you had remembered: cluttered and homey. Piles of dishes were laid in a drying rack by the sink, the dark countertops void of dirt aside from a few crumbs from toast or a residual ring of condensation from a beer bottle.

Joel helped you into one of the dining room chairs, moving swiftly to get you a glass of water. You weren’t sure if he meant to do it, but he had sat you in your chair at the table, the one you had always chosen during any family meal with him and Sarah. You smoothed your hands over the table, digging your nails into the groves of the woodwork.

“Here,” Joel said, extending a glass to you. 

You muttered a soft thank you, taking a drink as he took a seat beside you—his seat. The silence between you both was louder than the ringing in your ears, and you couldn’t stand it any longer. 

“Say something,” you pleaded.

Joel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he peered up at you through glassy eyes. You knew that look: the exhaustion, the sadness. You had worn it well the last several months, and clearly, so did Joel. The person you were six months ago would have loved seeing Joel look so disheveled, but not now. Not when the past was hanging in the balance, finally uncovered and real. 

“Does Bennett know you’re here?” Joel asked, his eyes rising to yours. 

“What?” You gaped. Out of all the things Joel could have said, he chose that?

“Tommy saw y’all together,” he huffed. 

You wracked your brain, remembering when Tommy could have seen you and Bennett together. The only time you had seen Bennett was after the…. Oh. 

“He asked to meet me after everything happened,” you explained. “He wanted to share his side of things. You left out a lot, Joel. There was so much you didn’t tell me, and I had to rely on Bennett to piece the rest back together.”

“Are you datin’ him again? ‘Cause if you are, just tell me, and I’ll—I’ll find a way to move on and let you be happy. I ain’t gonna get in the way of your happiness, even if that means it’s with him.”

There was no way to ignore the bitterness in his words, yet you stifled a laugh. 

“After everything that’s happened, you actually think I'd go back to him?” You questioned. 

“Christ, I don’t know,” Joel sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck. 

“Bennett’s married,” you stated. “You must not have seen his wedding band when you were beating the shit out of him.”

Joel was harrowingly silent, his eyes trained on the work boots covering his feet. All you ached for was some sort of reaction—some kind of response—and he gave nothing. Your expectations had been set so high for this moment, yet nothing was going as you hoped. 

“I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest,” you said.

“Of course.” 

“Why didn’t you fight for me?” You whispered. “When everyone was making decisions for me, why didn’t you step in and fight back?”

“I tried,” he lamented. “Your family decided on everythin’, and I couldn’t step in.”

“Yes, you could have,” you pressed. 

You brushed your hand over the stumble on his jaw, lifting his face to meet yours. You saw it deep within the dark brown of his eyes: regret. 

“That’s not a good enough answer, Joel. No one fought for me,” you pressed. “I was alone in everything, and you should have been the one person standing up to them against everything they were choosing to do. You let Bennett come back into my life when you knew he had been horrible to me in the past. Why were you so willing to just let me go?”

Joel grabbed your free hand and brought it to his lips, pressing soft kisses into the center of your palm. It wasn’t till the first tear hit your fingers that you realized he was crying. Joel looked defeated, his face framed between one hand and your other pressed against his lips. Truly and utterly defeated. 

“I never wanted to let you go. Sayin’ that last goodbye to you while you were in the hospital was the hardest damn thing I’ve ever had to do, and I ain’t got no excuses for the choices I made. If I could go back and change everythin’, I would. I swear I would in a heartbeat. Losin’ you was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, and I know I coulda done more. You deserved more. You deserved better, and I shoulda been the one there for you. Not Bennett. I know I ruined everything. Fuck, I—I really fucked it all up.”

“I hate you for what you did,” you said, lifting your hand to brush away his tears. “I hate you so much for hurting me.”

Joel only nodded, more tears streaming down his cheeks as he closed his eyes. You ran your thumb over his cheekbone, tracing the line of his beard as it dipped down to his jaw. Joel released a shaky breath, leaning into your touch. 

“There ain’t enough words to describe how sorry I am,” he mumbled into your hand. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry for hurtin’you, and I’ve been livin’ with that guilt for years. I just wanted you to be happy. Even if it wasn’t with me.”

“I was happy, Joel. With you. I loved you so much. So many memories are still unraveling in my head, but in each of them, I know I loved you.”

“I’m so sorry,” he cried softly. 

“I hate you, Joel. I hate you, but I can’t ignore the fact that I still love you. I love the life we built together and the memories we made with Sarah. I miss this house, and I miss this kitchen where we’d make breakfast together. I miss waking up beside you every day. I miss staying up late with you and annoying you about the books I was reading.” You took a deep breath, trying to slow yourself down. “I miss you, Joel. I don’t know how long it will take me to forgive you, but I—I really miss you.”

A choked sob escaped from Joel’s mouth, and he leaned his head back, your hands falling into your lap. You didn’t know what to do with yourself other than try not to throw up—because your body was still trying to desperately fight off the nausea rolling inside your stomach. Confessing feelings while also battling a minor concussion had not been your brightest idea, but you had braved through worse before. 

So many moments of silence passed before Joel finally glanced back at you, his lips twitching as he held back another round of tears. 

“Y’have no fuckin’ idea how much I miss you,” he confessed. “I’ve waited so long for the moment you’d remember everythin’. I tried to imagine what I’d do when y’got those memories back, and… fuck. I’m so sorry for everythin’ I did.”

You took his hands in yours, interlocking your fingers around his. It was your turn to start crying, and you felt the tears fall against your fingers.

“What did you do?” You asked. “When you imagined me getting my memories back, what did you do?”

“I imagined kissin’ you and tellin’ you how much I loved you,” he said.

“What’s taking you so long?”

In one fluid motion, Joel sent his chair flying backward as he dropped to his knees before you. Reaching up, he cupped your face between his large hands, his mouth hovering over yours. You weren’t sure what he was waiting for, but you gave him a simple nod, and that was enough. 

The first kiss was delicate— cautionary. He wavered between losing control and reluctance, the path of his lips moving fluidly like they had always known their place against yours. It was so much different than the first kiss months ago, where then it had been about discovery and excitement, each draw of your bodies together new and profound. But now, it was a kiss to rekindle a flame that had dwindled out, a resurgence of emotions neither of you had experienced in years. Yes, those few months together had been exhilarating, but you had barely scratched the surface of where the bounds of your love lay.

You were the first to cave into the chaos, deepening the kiss until Joel’s movements determined your breathing. When his head moved, so did yours. When his tongue overlapped yours, you repeated the motion. Over and over until you lost the ability to identify where you started and he ended. 

“Joel,” you panted, his lips still crushed against yours.

“Hmm?”

He was too enamored with you to respond coherently. You raked your nails over his scalp, refamiliarizing yourself with the softness of his curls. Joel groaned into your open mouth, his tongue dancing with yours once more.

“Joel,” you muttered again. 

“Yeah, baby?” He exhaled, finally breaking away from your swollen lips. 

You pressed your forehead against his, your eyelashes fluttering up at him. Joel looked down at you with blown pupils, the brown color in his eyes nearly black as he waited for your response.

“I think you forgot to say something,” you whispered, laughing softly. 

“Don’t think I forgot at all, baby. Just wanted to savor you a minute,” Joel grinned. “I love you. God, I love you so fuckin’ much. Ain’t ever gonna stop tellin’ you how much I love you.”

“I still don’t forgive you for everything,” you reminded him. “It’ll take me some time to heal from all of this fully.”

Joel brushed his nose against yours, his lips tugging upward.

“I got all the time in the world, baby. Gonna spend every damn day provin’ myself to you. I’m already on my knees for you. Anythin’ you ask of me, I’ll give it to you.”

Breathless. You were breathless. This was the man you should have spent your life with, the man you should have married. Joel saw his faults, admitted them, and submitted himself to you out of love and dedication. Anger was still to be had, but it could wait. 

“Anything?” You echoed.

He trailed his fingers up your bare legs, his hands teasing their way higher. You mindlessly decided on a dress earlier and thanked yourself for it. A shiver ran over your skin as he pushed the hem of the dress further up, his head bending down to kiss a path over your knee and up your thigh. 

“God, I missed you so damn much, baby,” Joel groaned, his tongue gliding over your pebbled skin.

“Show me how much you missed me.”

Joel lay his head in your lap, his puppy dog eyes staring up at you with a glimmer of desire. You knew that look; you had seen it so many times before in his eyes. Too many memories had taken their place in your mind to ever let you forget the way Joel looked at you when he wanted you. 

“Can I?” He asked, brushing his hand between your thighs.

Your body responded easily to his touch, a familiarity you once knew. The friction of your underwear against your clit was growing uncomfortable as it throbbed at the vibration of his voice. Like a moth to a flame, you were drawn to Joel in more ways than one. You craved to be touched, to be pulled apart and put back together in the ways only he knew. 

Joel tugged your ass down to the edge of the chair, flicking the hem of your dress into your lap. You tried working your fingers over the band of your underwear, but Joel beat you to it with a swiftness that left you dizzy. Well, dizzier than you already were. 

Joel hoisted your calves over his shoulders, settling himself between your thighs. Flashes of memories in this exact position came flooding in; this was familiar. Familiarity beyond compare and something you desperately yearned for. 

“Please,” you whined.

He wasted no time giving in to your plea. Joel licked a thick stripe up your slick entrance, rewarding himself with a soft moan leaving your lips. You unknowingly lied months ago when you said no one had tasted you like this… Joel had. He thrived on giving you pleasure like this, doing this countless times before. He knew your body better than anyone else, and your body cried out for him in ways you could not control. 

He devoured you like he sought to destroy the years of distance that had passed between you. Every flick of his tongue against the apex of your sex, every gravelly moan from his throat—it all revolved around that undeniable truth that you both were meant to be together. That’s how it should have always been. 

“More,” you begged.

Words failed you, yet Joel knew what you needed. His tongue plunged inside of you, curling ever so slightly. The pleasure inside you burned slowly, igniting a warmth through your veins. You throbbed against his mouth, his breath hot on your skin as he latched onto your clit. You arched against him, your hand snaking down to latch onto the hair on his scalp. Joel let out a prideful moan, working his tongue faster against your aching bud. 

“There… right there…” You whimpered.

Joel gave the softest nod as if to say I know, driving you closer to the edge. A hitch of your breath, another flick of his tongue, repeated motions back and forth until your orgasm was crashing against the surface. You cried out, tears springing from your eyes as you succumbed to the climax wracking through your limbs. Joel pulled away, his mouth and mustache glistening from your release. 

Lowering your legs off his shoulders, Joel wordlessly hooked an arm around your waist and hauled you onto the dining table, the wood creaking under the weight. You pawed at his shirt, and Joel obliged your silent request as he yanked it over his head. You lifted yourself on your forearms, drinking in the sight of his bare chest. You glanced up at Joel to catch him smirking, amused by your silence.

“Y’can’t be lookin’ at me like that, baby,” Joel groaned, stepping between your open legs. “Not when I got you spread out and ready for me.”

“I can look at you however I want,” you smiled. 

Joel leaned down to meet your lips, dragging you in for a long kiss. 

“I missed you so fuckin’ much,” he chuckled.

His lips worked their way down your neck, sucking marks into your skin, while his hands worked quickly at the belt around his waist. Hooking one leg around his waist, you drew him closer, your breath hitching as he lined himself up with your entrance. 

Joel drove himself deep inside you in one thrust, the tip of his cock spearing into you. You gasped as his cock filled you with its entirety, your body stretched passed comfortability. You forgot how much you loved feeling him everywhere. With his cock fully seated inside you, Joel leaned forward and pressed his forehead against yours.

“I need to hear y’say it, baby,” he begged. “Please tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Joel,” you exhaled. “I love you.”

That’s all he needed to hear—a simple admission, a coupling of words that rewrote the story lost between the both of you. You spent months trying to deny your love for him, but there was no way to deny this connection. There was always an invisible string connecting you both, and though the string had frayed and unraveled, this moment snapped it back into place. 

“I love you,” Joel said. “Ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”

He pulled out slowly, only to snap his hips forward and render you speechless. You reached up to hold him against you, your nails digging crescent-shaped marks into his shoulder blades. Thrust after thrust, Joel drilled into you forcefully—brutally. You cried out every time his body slapped against yours, and your vision started to blur around the edges. Your core clenched around him, your thighs slick from your arousal that dripped between your bodies. 

“Takin’ my cock so well, baby,” Joel praised. “Doin’ so good for me.”

“Yes… yes…” You chanted the word between every thrust that he assaulted you with, every caress of his fingers around your waist, another revelation of how perfect you were together. 

“My perfect—fuck—perfect girl,” he gritted out.

Joel locked an arm around your back and lifted you from the table, spinning you both until your back hit the wall across from the table. The impact was enough to knock the air from your lungs and dizzy your mind, but he gave you no opportunity to recover before he was driving upwards into you, the new angle sending sparks of pleasure through your muscles. With one arm braced around your body and a hand pressed against the wall beside your head, Joel ground into you deeper…slower… your body begging for release. He could sense it, too, the way your thighs tightened around his waist and your cheeks dampened with tears.

“Yeah, I can feel it, baby,” Joel crooned. “I know you’re close. Gonna cum for me? Gonna give me what I want?”

“Please,” you cried, nodding vigorously.

Joel crushed his lips against yours, and you sobbed into his open mouth. Your body sized around him as your orgasm tore through you, stronger than the first. His thrusts stalled as your core pulsed through the aftershocks, the room spinning quicker every time another wave of release rocked through your stomach.

“That’s it, baby. That’s my good girl. Give me everythin’. I got you. Keep goin’.”

It was disastrous how obedient your body was to his commands. You entangled yourself in him, your tongue rolling over his tongue to silence his muffled words. Joel wasn’t far behind you, and soon enough, he punched out your name through clenched teeth, spilling himself into you. 

You rested your head back against the wall, his body sagging into yours as you both fought for air. The slow drip of his cum down your inner thigh and the sweat clinging to your brow was the only sensation you could feel as time passed in comfortable silence. 

“I love you, baby,” Joel groaned, his head falling onto your shoulder.

You carded a hand through his hair, leaning your cheek against his sweat-dampened curls. Right there, in Joel’s arms, everything made sense. The anger inside you could dissolve away—at least for a little while—and you could remind yourself that this was what love felt like. To be held. To be seen. To be cherished. 

Faint sounds of sniffling traveled past the rush of blood pumping in your ears, and you tugged at his curls to pull his head off your shoulder. Joel looked up at you through blurry eyes, his thick lashes coated in fresh tears. 

“It’s okay,” you hushed. 

“It’s not, though,” he argued. “I shoulda came back sooner. I shouldn’t have waited. There’s so much time we can’t get back, baby. S’all my fault.”

“We’ve got time,” you said softly. “I don’t want to be anywhere but here with you, Joel.”

“Promise?” He asked. 

“I promise.”

The evening grew late, and both you and Joel had settled into bed. It surprised you when you cried at seeing his room again, realizing nothing about it had changed. The fan was still humming softly in the corner as it always had, the soft breeze floating over the bedsheets as you climbed under the covers. Miscellaneous items were scattered on his dresser, and worn clothes littered the floor beside his hamper. Joel mumbled a slew of apologies at the sight of the mess, but it only made you cry harder. You didn’t care if it was messy. You only cared that you were finally home. Even without the memories resurfacing, your house never felt this way. It had never been a home because Joel wasn’t there to make it a home.

“How’re y’feelin’, baby?” Joel asked, his hand drawing circles into your back as you leaned against his naked body. 

“Like I could spend the rest of the night throwing up,” you said, half-jokingly. 

Your headache was splintering into a full-blown migraine, and your body had yet to recover from the fall earlier in the day. You had no regrets about being fucked against the wall, but it definitely proved to have done some damage to your fragile state.

“If I had known y’needed a good hit to the head to get all these memories back, I woulda tripped you myself,” Joel teased.

You attempted to laugh, only to have the nausea rising in your throat silence your efforts. 

“Don’t make me laugh right now,” you groaned, curling yourself tighter around his body.

“S’only kiddin’, baby. I’m just way too damn happy to have you in my arms again. I spent the last few months tryna figure out how I’d go on livin’ without you.”

“It wasn’t easy for me either,” you sighed. “I hardly recognize myself most days.”

“I won’t lie, seein’ you at parent-teacher conferences nearly broke me,” Joel admitted. 

“It broke me, too.”

Silence slipped over you, and the fan turned into the only noise inside the bedroom. Joel’s chest rose and fell softly under your head, his heart pounding echoing through your ear as you pressed yourself further into his embrace. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally spoke. “I wish I had a better word to describe how sorry I am. It wasn’t right of me to lie to you, and I shouldn’t have ever let your family make that decision.”

“I haven’t talked to them in months,” you muttered. “I don’t know how to forgive them for what they did.”

“Y’don’t need to forgive them until you’re ready. I just hope y’know they love you, baby.”

“I do know they love me, and that’s why it’s so hard. How can they love me yet still hurt me so much?”

Joel pressed a soft kiss against the crown of your head, his fingers squeezing around your shoulder.

“I don’t want to be angry anymore,” you said, your voice cracking. “But I don’t know how to feel anything but anger towards them. Especially toward Beth. The things she’s said to me in the past…How do I forgive her?”

“I ain’t gonna take sides,” he cautioned. “But I think the accident affected her the hardest. She was so angry at your family's plan, and I think she took out a lot of that anger on you when y’didn’t deserve it.”

“It’s not fair,” you cried. “It’s not fair that she gets to be angry when she wasn’t the one that lost everything.”

“You were her everythin’, baby,” Joel whispered. “She lost you.”

“You’re taking her side,” you grumbled.

“I’m just tryna show you the other side of things,” Joel offered. 

“I know you are.”

Joel sunk further into the pillows, dragging you down beside him. You nestled into his arms, your limbs twisting around him like they had a hundred times before. It’s odd what your body remembers, but your brain forgets; it is a simple gesture of an embrace that can never be entirely forgotten. You understood why things always felt so right when you met him again last year; your soul knew he was the missing piece that had been lost. 

Joel spoke your name softly, the syllables more beautiful than ever when they rolled through his accent. You hummed in response, gazing up at him through tired eyes.

“I woulda waited an eternity for you, baby,” he confessed. “I woulda gone to my grave waitin’ to have you back in my arms like this again.”

You blinked away the tears welling in your eyes, failing miserably to hide the quiver of your lips. Joel didn’t wait for your response, nor could you verbalize anything to match the poetry of his words. You only nodded and said, " I love you, " before your eyes drifted shut. Home. You were home.

Joel was softly snoring when you woke up. In the quiet light of the morning, you took the time to admire every softened feature of his face. The worried creases between his brows had smoothed overnight, yet you still found yourself brushing a finger over the spot they usually were. Brushing your hand down his face, you traced the outline of his lips, slightly parted and pouty, the soft kiss more kissable now than ever. Kissing him could wait; you wanted to savor this moment. 

You drew a path down his neck and chest, the spattering of hair across his torso tickling your fingertips. Joel stirred above you, his head rolling to the other side of the pillow. His eyes never opened, though, and you took the opportunity to crawl under the sheets. 

Joel’s cock lay heavy against his lower abdomen, precum leaking onto the soft skin of his stomach. You ran your hands over his hips, settling yourself lower until you were comfortable between his legs. His cock twitched as you wrapped a hand around his length, stroking him slowly and deliberately. Leaning your head down, you kissed up the shaft of his cock, dragging your tongue up the length and around the head. Joel’s body tensed up, yet he still didn’t wake. You took him into your mouth, the salty taste and musky scent overwhelming your senses. You hadn’t pleasured him like this in so long, and you had forgotten how much you loved it. 

Taking him deeper, you flattened your tongue, teasing the base of his cock with the tip of your tongue. You faintly heard a moan slip from Joel’s mouth, his cock twitching against your tongue. 

“Baby?” He groaned.

You hummed softly, pulling him from your mouth. With your saliva coating the entirety of his cock, you pumped him quicker, feeling his body seize up under your touch. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, bucking his hips upward. 

You rewarded him with another swirl of your tongue over the head of his cock, your mouth and hand working in tandem. He was close; you could feel it. 

“Just like that, baby. Forgot—fuck—forgot how good your mouth feels.”

You took him deeper, the tip of his cock tapping against the back of your throat. You sputtered around him, drool rolling down the corners of your mouth, yet you didn’t stop. Hollowing your cheeks, you heard Joel choke out a gasp. The warmth of his release flooded your mouth, coating the back of your throat and tongue. You drank down every drop, pulling off of him with a soft pop.

“Jesus Christ,” he sighed, slumping into the pillows. “Get your ass up here, baby.”

You crawled over his body, your legs straddling his waist. Joel grinned up at you, his tired eyes still barely open as he drank in your naked body. 

“C’mere,” he yawned, reaching up to grab the back of your neck.

His soft lips met yours, and you molded your body to him, letting him guide your mouth however he pleased. There was still a pang of anger tucked into the darkest corner of your heart, but you knew with time, it might fade away, and all you wanted was to bask in Joel’s love as long as possible. Things would take time, but you were willing to work on it. 

“I missed wakin’ up to you,” Joel muttered, his lips working down your jaw.

You could feel him growing hard against your core as you ground your hips down on him. It was impossible to hide the fact you were slick with arousal between your thighs, your body terribly responsive to every touch he placed on your body.

“You’re drenchin’ me, baby,” he groaned. “Need to feel your pussy now.”

“I’m all yours.”

“Damn fuckin’ right you are.”

You lifted your hips, notching his cock at your entrance. Inch by inch, you sunk onto him, both of you exhaling a shaky moan as he stretched you open. Leaning forward, you laced your fingers through Joel’s, holding him firm in your grasp. All you ached for was the tenderness he could provide, the slow synchronicity that flowed through his body and into yours. 

A gentle rub of his thumb over the back of your hand, the slow rise and fall of your hips against his cock… it was the lazy movements that spoke louder than words. It was the recognition that you were his just as he was yours. Soft moans fell off your lips as Joel guided you against his cock, little reassuring grunts leaving his mouth with each roll of your body.

“S’fuckin’ beautiful, baby,” Joel exhaled.

The sun seeping through the blinds lit the amber flecks around his pupils, the morning light painting his naked body golden. The veins beneath his thick neck strained as he lifted his head to watch you, his lips parted in awe as you sucked him further inside your slicken sex. 

“Touch yourself, baby,” he demanded. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”

Your fingers slipped away from his hand, brushing down his flexed stomach as you made a path to your throbbing clit. The feather-like touch immediately sparked pleasure through your core. You clenched around his cock, whimpering with each circle of your fingertips. 

“I feel it, baby. I know you’re close.”

“Mhmm,” you whined.

Joel raised his body to press into your chest, one hand cradling your heavy breast, the other kneading the flesh of your ass. With his weight against your body, your hand pressed harder against your clit, the arousal pooling between where your bodies connect. 

Your head fell onto his shoulder, teeth sinking into his sweat-covered skin. Joel groaned at the sensation, only grounding you down harder onto his cock. You needed every atom of your being injected with Joel; every one of your senses evaded with his taste, touch, and scent. 

“Joel,” you mumbled, nestling your face into the crook of his neck. “I’m so close… so close.”

“I got you, baby. Gonna fall apart right here with you.”

He barely finished speaking by the time your orgasm ignited in your stomach, your body shuddering within his embrace. Joel spoke your name in broken syllables, his release pouring into you only moments later. 

Neither of you broke apart once your spasms subsided. Joel tangled a hand into the hair resting at the nape of your neck, urging your lips to his. Slotting your mouth over his, you slipped your tongue over his bottom lip, a starved search for a deeper connection. Joel fulfilled your need, devouring the soft sounds you exhaled.

Slowly—reluctantly—you tore from his lips, gasping for air to fill your lungs. Joel’s swollen lips formed into a crooked smile, his brown eyes softening the longer he gazed at you. Somewhere inside your chest, you felt that pain reawaken, a haunting reminder that you could have had this all along. Had the lies never been told… Joel would have always been yours. 

How did he survive the years of pain? How did he allow himself to let you go, knowing you’d never be satisfied with another?

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you turned your head to hide the emotions cresting over your face. Nothing went unnoticed with Joel, and he gently pinched your chin to bring your eyes back to his. With furrowed brows, Joel studied your features, the realization striking home for him, too.

“I know you’re scared, baby,” he whispered. “And I know there’s a lot I gotta fix between us, but I swear to you that I ain’t ever gonna leave again. I made that mistake once, and I’ll never do it again.”

“I want to trust you, Joel. I’m trying. But I don’t know how to forget what you’ve done… what everyone has done. There’s so much pain inside me. It’s unbearable.” 

Joel cradled your face in his hands, leveling you with a gaze you couldn’t discern. So many emotions swirled within his eyes, an endless expanse of grief that weighed him down. 

“Give me your pain. Give me all your anger and everything inside you, and I swear I’ll keep you safe. Y’ain’t ever gonna be alone again. Not while I’m still breathin’, baby. It’s you and me. Forever.”

“Forever,” you echoed. 

“Yes, forever. I don’t want another moment of my life without you in it. I can’t lose you again.”

“I can’t lose you, either,” you cried. “I never wanted to lose you in the first place, so please don’t leave.”

Joel’s eyes clouded with tears, and he shook his head. 

“I love you too much ever to leave you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m keepin’ you so long as y’let me.”

Eventually, you both made it out of the bed. Joel grumbled at your wishes to leave, keeping you in his arms and peppering your skin with kisses. It wasn’t long before your dizziness set back in, and you were demanding water and painkillers. 

As Joel poured you a glass of water, you found yourself swaying against the cold tile floors of the kitchen, the corners of your vision blurring. Your nails scratched at the kitchen countertop as you tried to suppress the lightheaded feeling creeping in. You just needed to sit…that’s all you needed. 

You called out Joel’s name the moment your knees buckled beneath you. His body moved in a foggy haze as you tried to keep consciousness, yet you were being pulled beneath the surface of your headache. Strong hands tucked themselves under your armpits, and Joel lowered you to the ground. 

“Baby?” His voice was frantic—strained. 

You mumbled a few incoherent words as your body sagged into his arms. Christ, your head ached. You hadn’t experienced a fainting spell since the accident, and you forgot how terrifying it was. 

Joel choked out your name, his hand snaking around your jaw to wag your head back and forth. You could see his silhouette over you, the shadow molding into the spots within your field of vision, but nothing else registered. Slipping. Drowning. You weren’t strong enough to fight it. Fear set your nerves alight; what if you lost it all again? What if everything melted away into the darkness consuming you? You clawed tooth and nail as your body plunged deeper into unconsciousness. 

It was no use. 

**

Joel paced the hallway outside your hospital room like a madman. The moment you went limp in his arms, he knew something was wrong. He should have taken your injury more seriously and urged you to the hospital yesterday. But he had you in his arms again, and the world would have had to fall apart before he even considered letting you go. Every admission from your lips weighed down on Joel’s shoulders, another swell of guilt growing inside him. He anticipated your anger, your grief, your heartbreak; he willingly listened without argument. His own struggles were nothing compared to what you endured, and he’d be damned if you ever felt those emotions again. Chewing at his nails, Joel glanced back at the open blinds of your hospital room. The doctors assured him you’d be okay; it was only a concussion, and there’d be no complications. That wasn’t enough for him. He needed to be absolutely sure you’d recover. 

The door cracked open, and Joel rushed toward the neurologist leaving your room. 

“How is she, doc?” Joel asked. “She’s gonna be okay, right?”

The neurologist, Dr. Oliver, nodded with a soft smile. The smile alone settled the rapid heartbeat banging against Joel's ribcage. 

“Miss Smith is going to be just fine,” Dr. Oliver reassured. “There’s going to be a long road to recovery, but I don’t see any long-term effects. I suggest you bring her in for check-ins with me every few months just to monitor her progress.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Joel nodded. 

“What I need you to do, Mr. Miller, is to help her. She may be a bit forgetful occasionally, so leaving lists around the house or notes will help keep her on track. You do live together, I assume?”

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous tick he had yet to learn how to shake. 

“We don’t, but if y’recommend it…”

“I recommend it, but only because she’ll need someone looking over for her. At least, until she regains enough cognitive strength to keep her memory at full capacity,” Dr. Oliver explained. 

“I can do that, Doc. All I want is for her to be okay.”

Dr. Oliver clapped a hand on Joel’s shoulder, his lips curving into a grin. Joel could finally breathe; you’d be okay. 

“You’re a good man, Mr. Miller. She’s lucky to have you here to care for her.”

“Thank you, Doc.”

“Give her some time to rest, and she’ll be clear to go home tomorrow.”

Dr. Oliver said his goodbyes to Joel and bounded down the hallway to other patients. Joel glanced at the open door, your sleeping frame tucked into the bed among the cords and beeping monitors. He entered quietly, his footsteps soft against the floor so he wouldn’t wake you. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Joel took your hand in his, cautious to avoid the IV tube taped onto your skin. Smoothing lines over the inside of your wrist, Joel watched you with weary eyes. 

“I love you, baby. I’m gonna be right here when y’wake up,” he vowed. “Like it always shoulda been.”

Leaning over your body, Joel pressed his lips against your forehead, inhaling your sweet scent as he pulled away. 

You’d be okay, and you’d forever be his. 

**

The harsh light above you reflected behind your eyelids. You groaned as you stirred awake, your eyes squinting to adjust to the layers of white surrounding you. Curling your fingers into the scratchy blanket, you found a familiar body sagged into a chair beside the bed. Joel slept peacefully, yet the worry lines creased between his brows. Extending your hand over the edge of the bed, you brushed your palm over his knee. 

“Joel,” you whispered. 

His body jolted upright as he scrubbed a hand down his face. Big, brown puppy dog eyes met yours, the concern in his face dissolving away once his eyes settled on yours. He made no effort to contain the smile breaking across his face. 

“Hey, handsome,” you croaked. 

“Baby,” Joel sighed, crouching beside the bed. “How’re y’feelin’?”

“A little fatigued, but I think I’ll live.”

“You better,” he chuckled. 

With your arms outstretched, you ushered Joel into an embrace. Joel’s lips crashed against yours the second he wrapped his arms around you, his touch soft and cautious. Beautiful melancholy emotions wracked your body; this was the moment you ached for from the start. To be held in your vulnerability, to be cherished, to be loved. Joel didn’t leave. He’d always be here, now. 

“There’s someone here to see you, baby,” Joel muttered against your mouth. 

You pulled away, confusion scrunching your eyebrows together. God, don’t let it be your family. 

“I know that look. Don’t worry, baby, I’ll be right back. I promise you’ll be happy,” Joel reassured. 

Joel disappeared from the room, and you sat up, settling back into the pillows. You glanced at the monitor beeping beside your bed, the steady line of your heart rate cruising along the screen. Footsteps sounded outside your room, and your eyes flicked back toward the door, a small silhouette hiding behind Joel’s large frame. 

Sarah. 

Her bright eyes looked between you and Joel, her stare quizzical–skeptic. You gave her a small wave, ushering her into the room. 

“Hi, Sarah,” you faltered. The tears were already forming on your waterline. 

“Hi, Miss Smith,” she said wearily. 

You patted the bed, scooting over to make room for her. Her steps were slow as she neared the bedside, her eyes glancing back at Joel. He gave her an encouraging nod, a knowing grin on his lips. 

“You don’t have to call me that,” you laughed softly. 

Sarah settled onto the bed, her tennis shoes swinging over the floor as she fidgeted with her curls. Joel leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest and a smile glued to his face. 

“But you’re my teacher,” she muttered. 

You tucked a loose strand behind her ear, the same hair you had braided and brushed years ago. She wasn’t yours, not by birth. But she was yours just as much as Joel was; she was your home. They weren’t just photos captured in time; they were real. They were real, and they were yours. 

“Do you remember when I used to read you bedtime stories?” You wondered aloud. “You would always ask for the same one over and over.”

There it was. The light sparkled in the gold flecks of Sarah’s eyes, the same gold that sat deep within Joel’s. 

“You and Dad would read The Kissing Hand every night,” she nodded. 

“I know you’re a lot older now, but do you remember what we would do before you fell asleep?”

You reached for Sarah’s hand, lifting it to your lips. With a soft kiss on her palm, you guided her hand to her cheek. Sarah’s eyes filled with tears as she leaned into your touch, the simple caress of your hand against her face enough to bring you both to the brink of crying. 

“I missed you, kiddo,” you cried softly. 

Sarah threw her arms around your neck, muffling her sobs into your hospital gown as you squeezed your arms tighter around her body. You missed so many milestones and moments of her life because of the accident, so many memories that were never made. Every family meal, every soccer game…you lost them all. 

You lifted your eyes, catching the moment Joel swiped away a tear from his cheek. Beckoning him over with a quick motion of your hand, he crossed the room in two quick strides and wrapped his large arms around you and Sarah. You rested your chin on Sarah’s shoulder, hugging her closer. Joel kissed the crown of Sarah’s head, then placed one on your forehead. 

“Wait,” Sarah blurted out, forcing you all to break apart. 

“What is it, sweetheart?” Joel asked, craning his head to look at her. 

“Does that mean you’re coming back home?” She asked. 

You looked at Joel for guidance, trying to find the answers within his gentle gaze. He waited in silence, giving you room to decide. There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt about your answer, not when you had everything you needed right here. 

“Only if you promise never to make pancakes again,” you smiled, pinching her cheek. 

She buried herself into your arms again, her head resting against your heart. You looked up at Joel, your mouth forming three little words. 

I love you. 

~ Two weeks later ~

Joel refused any help as he unloaded the last of your boxes from the back of his truck. When you got home from the hospital, you patched up the holes in the wall—with Joel’s help, of course—and got the house ready to sell. It barely lasted a week on the market before the offers came in, making it easy to start packing. That house was filled with memories you didn’t want to remember, memories that you no longer wanted to revisit. It wasn’t home to you anymore. 

You and Sarah sat on the front porch, popsicles in hand, watching as he huffed an exasperated breath once the box hit the steps. Joel straightened out, running sweaty hands down the sides of his jeans, glancing back at the empty truck bed. 

“Well, I think that’s the last of it,” Joel sighed. “Y’sure we ain’t miss anythin’?”

“I think I’ve got all I need right here,” you grinned, nudging Sarah with your shoulder. 

Joel plopped beside you on the porch, leaning over to lick up the sticky residue of the popsicle that had fallen down your arm. You gave him a warning look, shifting your eyes toward Sarah as if to say: Behave. He only shrugged, sticking out his tongue again to tickle your skin. 

“You hungry?” He asked, quirking a brow. 

“Starving!” Sarah declared, rising to her feet. 

You laughed, knowing Joel wasn’t asking her. Nonetheless, you and Joel followed her into the house hand in hand. Over the last couple of weeks, he had decorated the house in countless sticky notes: ones in the bathroom, the bedroom, the kitchen. Each said something important. The one in the bathroom was stuck on the medicine cabinet, reminding you which toothbrush was yours—the purple one. Joel stuck one by the front door with Sarah’s soccer schedule—snack duty included. There were a few scattered around the kitchen: one telling you where to find the coffee mugs, another one with a list of groceries to buy over the weekend. Three photos hung beside the list, sitting in perfect harmony as they always should have been.  But your favorite was stuck to the cover of Romeo and Juliet, Joel’s messy handwriting scribbled across the yellow paper. It was only a few words but the only reminder you needed. 

Welcome home, baby. 

I love you.

[andthekitchensinkao3]

Update the nth on Stories

Do I look forward to checking my phone every five minutes for the coming week to see if I have any comments? Not particularly.

Enjoy the new chapter, everyone.

[artausrayne]

And the Saga continues~

Introducing part 3 of Past, Present, and Future: An Arcana Saga:

The Interlude

The three years that take place between the Masquerade ritual and the in-game route, told in very short stories between Asra, Aisling (The Apprentice), and Julian's POVs. Ft. Altheia Featherstone, LunaStarhawk's OC. 😊

It's much shorter than the other two parts, but if you haven't read those first I highly recommend because there will be a lot of references that will be missed!

[mayhemandtrouble]

Pitter Patter chapter 32 of Not Giving Up

Finished story on Ao3 with detailed tags

It’s funny how something can be expected, welcomed even, and yet still catch you off entirely off guard. Rey’s first labor pains set Varykino into a whirlwind of ‘hurry up and wait’. Only a few days after the wedding, and the others were still lingering - catching up, renewing bonds and trying to plan for a peace they hadn’t been expecting. Without anyone actually saying it out loud, nobody wanted to leave until after Rey had delivered.

She’d first noticed the contractions during a morning walk with Finn, the two quietly discussing plans for both themselves and the Resistance. There had been no convincing him that this phase of the labor would probably take hours and there was no need to rush - her overly protective and self appointed guardian hurried to alert the others. Who all came running just as quickly as though it were an actual emergency, Ben with his face half covered in a shaving cream.

 

Now, with the sun starting to set and Rey’s pains increasing, Rose and Ben had Rey’s hands, walking with the woman carefully up and down the halls of the Retreat. Finn had gathered what seemed to be every towel in the entirety of Naboo and was arranging them in neat stacks at strategic locations, from her bedroom to the intersections of major pathways.

Poe had woken up the medical droid and was pestering it with questions every five minutes. He refused to leave the droid alone until it threatened to go into hibernation. Leia chuckled privately, doing her part by keeping Chewbacca occupied with assembling the last bits of baby toys and whatnot. While one of the three porgs ‘nested’ in his large lap, the other two waddled about Rey’s feet.

Ben was seriously contemplating kicking the ball shaped birds hard enough to splatter against the wall but his wife’s steps were slow and steady, avoiding the feathered nuisances. Besides, he had bigger problems. Like helping Rey time her contractions, nodding in agreement at anything she said, and massaging her legs whenever she wanted to rest. It was difficult to school his emotions, trying to make sure that the only emotions Rey would be able to pick up on were positive.

Especially as the hours wore on and he began to notice her energy flagging. The droid continued to chirp that everything was proceeding normally for human birth givers, and even Rose offered Ben a reassuring smile. Easing Rey onto a large, plush ottoman, Ben couldn’t help but feel a surge of panic all the same. What if this killed her, just like Grandmother. Mother had had a difficult labor as well. What if…

“You worry… too much.” Rey patted his hand lightly, smiling as Ben tucked a pillow under her head.

“Skywalker trait.” He snorted in reply, grinning a little in pride that she’d caught him. His wife was strong enough to match him, Rey would be fine. She had to be. His bare fingers brushed over her hair gently.

It was supremely surreal for Rose to watch Ben sing quietly to Rey. She was the only other one close enough to hear, flopped onto a nearby couch while he crouched next to the ottoman Rey had decided was perfect to rest on. With the laboring woman laying on her side for a moment and Ben’s face only a few inches from Rey’s, the Supreme Leader sang her the melodies of his childhood. Each one a promise and a wish for their family.

His low tenor lulled Rey, if not to sleep then into rest. Rose watched as Rey’s fingers threaded with Ben’s, who remained crouched awkwardly long after his muscles must have begun to protest. What the man was, or had been, he was devoted to his wife. And that was enough for now.

It wasn’t difficult to see the toll labor was taking on her. Rey had one cheek puffed out, storing ice chips. It made her look like she was doing a strange impersonation of some woodland creature, not that anyone dared to comment on it. Rey had outright screamed at Chewie when the Wookie shot Ben a dirty look over something or other, after which Chewbacca played safe by appointing himself the guardian of her ice water.

Leia gently wiped the sweat from Rey’s forehead with a cool cloth that she refreshed from time to time in said ice water. Ben alternated between checking on Rey and Mother, wanting to make sure the latter didn’t wear herself out caring for the former. Leia shooed him away every time, Rey’s answers were growing more colorful by the hour.

Rose took turns holding Rey’s hand with Ben, both attempting to coach the woman in breathing - Rose more successfully than Ben, despite his efforts. Finn and Poe were banished to the hallway once the medical droid started checking Rey’s cervix more frequently. They demurred to Rey’s modesty gracefully, until the doors were closed. Then Finn wore fresh grooves in time-tested flooring while Poe slammed back a few of the foulest shots he could locate - just to keep his nerves steady.

“I got you, I got you.” Inside, Ben’s arms curled around Rey, just below her breasts, as she tried to walk and stumbled through a contraction. Giving her his strength as her own began to fail, and swallowing how much it terrified him.

“Ben, I can’t do this.” How long had it been already - the droid kept beeping at her cheerfully but Rey was certain it was just the damn thing’s bedside manner programming. She was running low, struggling just to reach out and feel the twins or Ben despite how close he was. Closing her eyes, Rey had to fight against the growing fear that she would leave her children without even a memory of her. What if she just…

He swallowed. Leia and Rose were already answering her, assuring Rey in all the proper ways. Saying all the right things while Ben buried his face in his wife’s neck for a moment, breathing in deeply. She smelled of sweat and exhaustion, he could feel her never-ending determination ebbing low, the terror of leaving them all and the temptation that was starting to torment her. 

“The hell you can’t.” Taking a deep breath, Ben growled against her skin with a flash of his brown eyes. Rose started towards them and Ben only held onto Rey more possessively. The others couldn’t feel her the way he did, his dyad. They didn’t understand the extent of Rey’s distress, couldn’t feel the pull to merely borrow life from the others. It would be so easy, Rey only had to ask Ben and he would slaughter the galaxy for her comfort, let alone her life. Especially now. “You are Rey, scavenger of Jakku. The desert couldn’t destroy you, the First Order couldn’t bow your head.”

She nearly laughed to hear him snarling out her strengths, leaning fully against him and trusting Ben to carry the weight of her and the twins. A trust not misplaced, for the man didn’t even stumble. Only braced himself further and kissed her temple before continuing, in a lower, more human tone.

“You could walk into the mouth of a Sarlacc and emerge unscathed, with it as your devoted pet.” Nuzzling slowly against her skin, Ben felt a surge of relief as her spirits rose, and she let him ease their tired frames onto the edge of a loveseat.

Strange, to feel warmth now. As though she was able to truly share in his strength. Perhaps it was a function of their Force bond, or perhaps it was simply trusting one’s partner. Cracking her eyes open, Rey could see a slowly growing smile on his face in response to Rey’s rising resolve.

“You are Rey Solo, Princess of Alderaan, Captain of the Millennium Falcon and Resistance hero. There is nothing in this galaxy you can not accomplish.”

The fierceness of his love and devotion overwhelmed her, feeling soft kisses brush along her cheek, at her temple, in her sweaty hair. Like a tidal wave that swept Rey off painful, rocky beaches and tossed her wave to wave but never let her shoulders dip below the water. Ben sent her soul whirling about, with the heights of love and the valleys of doubt but always kept her safe. So long as she had him, Rey would never drown in her own Darkness. 

Grasping his hand tighter, Rey nodded at the medical droids chirping encouragement. Pushing with a scream. Over and over, till her throat was raw from the effort of bringing new life into the universe. Till Ben was certain Rey had broken at least two of his fingers and time seemed to move at a crawl.

It was the wailing scream of the first baby girl who seemed to break the spell for both new parents. Rose wiped the little one down with warm towels, Leia cooed sweetly over her first grandchild and Ben couldn’t believe his eyes. A shock of dark hair, waving arms, beautiful brown eyes and there was still one more to come. His wife was breathing, screaming but alive. 

It was almost an assembly line, Ben mused though he kept the comedy to himself. Watching in surreal joy as Rey labored to deliver the second Solo twin, how Rose tenderly cleaned the second infant once birthed. Mother handed the older twin to Ben so that she could take the younger. Joining Mother in presenting both to Rey together.

“Two beautiful girls.” Leia leaned in to kiss Rey’s forehead, unable to resist the show of affection.

“My girls. Our girls.” Rey breathed out, her voice exhausted and proud all at once. Mother would have loved to be here, she was certain. And perhaps they were here, both her parents, even if she couldn’t see them. Leaning her head against Ben’s shoulder, Rey didn’t bother hiding the joyous tears.

“Our girls.” He agreed, unable to take his eyes off the twins. Beautiful, with scrunched faces and hair that stuck up in all directions. How he had been part of making such perfection was beyond him. They seemed like a mirage that would disappear from his grasp, or bits of glass that would shatter if the wind blew too hard.

“Congratulations.” Rose’s face was split by the first true smile since she’d arrived at Varykino. Rey had fought to protect what she loved, and if anyone deserved a soft ending, she did.

Finished story on Ao3 with detailed tags

[shimisstuff]

The new cover inspired all of this, it’s not my fault 😭

18+ on Patreon

[jurijurijurious]

When you write a nice lil bit of fluff then it evolves into insane p0rn... There's noting quite like that, amiright?

[simonz-angel]

shower time w/ simon n his pretty lil roommate

water beats down at his shoulders, scorching drops pelting down the arch of his arms, down the rippling muscles of his chest. soap lingers on his skin as his hand words quick strokes over his cock, head falling back to let water run through his hair and over his flushed face.

on the other side of the shower curtain there you are, he can barely see the silhouette of your body, can barely make out the soft of your voice. but fuckkkk the mere outline of your plush curves had him in some fuckin trance.

“ugh, i still don’t understand why they couldn’t just come over and watch a movie with us.” you’re speaking of your friends, painting your lips in a cherry, explosive red as you get ready to go out to the bar together. but simon couldn’t focus on anything except the emphasis of us. good god.

he presses his free hand to the striking cold shower tiles, lip stung between his teeth as he chokes back his guttural noises. his stomach rising, flexing and pulling back suddenly taut against his organs, breath ragged.

“si?” you chirp, and he can hear the click of your heels at the edge of the curtain. he can see the slightly sliver of your soft, thick legs. fuck fuck fuck. “would you tell me if i look good in this.”

and he abides, folding his back to the shower wall, hips reeled forward to keep working his hand. and when the beads of water strike his cock, he’s in shambles, jaw dropping and eyes rolling, barely concealing his reaction when his neck rolls and his head hits the cool tile.

his eyes scan you, your sweet dress cuts down into your breasts, accentuating em in a way that they spill into his face. it cuts into the plush of your waist, silhouetting your figure sweetly. and when his eyes drop to your legs, his cock spurts.

“so?” you giggle, giving him a lil spin, before you’re popping a hip in question. “how do i look?”

and simon chuckles to himself, pulling his lip between his teeth to hide the whimper that works itself up his goddamn throat.

“y-you look beautiful, babe.” he chokes slightly, desperate to lick the tang of your red lip off, to have it ringed round the base of him. n his head rolls back, low eyes looking down your dress as he mumbles, “one more spin for me?”

[tojbnuy]

boyfriend!toji who doesn’t know why but he feels this weird jealousy everytime he sees you meet your friends and greet them all with a big hug. you never did that with him. you relationship was still fairly new to the both of you, but you kissed you fucked you even held hands sometimes when walking around. but, what toji was now realizing, was that he wanted a hug. well, he wanted a hug from You. not a casual little hug, a hug. holding each other. he didn’t know how to broach the subject without sounding needy and like the complete opposite of how he usually acts. he had never cared about this kinda stuff with other people, he’d never experienced it growing up and he thought he could live without it. until you. until you showed him that wanting to be held was normal. he’d been thinking about it for a while until one night, as the two of you got ready for bed it simply slipped out.

‘how come you don’t hug me?’

immediately you stopped plaiting your hair and turned to him with a shocked look.

‘what?’

‘how come you don’t hug me? like when you see your friends or you say bye you hug them. you don’t hug me.’

as soon as he said it he felt stupid. a grown man like him, older than you and he was sat here asking for a fucking hug. what if you turned the question around and said ‘well you don’t hug me’ what would he say? that i’ve never done that before sorry i don’t know how? his thoughts came to a stop when he felt a small hand grab his own larger one.

‘i- toji im so sorry. i’m sorry i didn’t think that was something you wanted.’

fuck now he’s made you feel bad.

‘nah doll you don’t have to say sorry, its nothing let’s just go to bed’

‘no toji please. let’s talk about it.’

you lifted the blanket and made your way over to his side of the bed so you could sit face to face. everything about you was so soft, so kind. such a complete contrast to himself. he was panicking, he didn’t do stuff like this, never talked about stuff like this.

‘honestly toji, i really just thought you weren’t a touchy person. i’m sorry for just assuming especially considering everything you’ve been through,’

‘no please doll. i wasn’t trying to blame you for anything. i just’

his palms were actually sweating, but your face. god your darling sweet face, looking at him like he hung up the stars in sky. like every word out of his mouth meant the world to you. you would wait for him to get the words out no matter how long he took.

‘i don’t know to be honest. you’re right i’m not a touchy person i’ve never really hugged anyone. but i want that. with you. and im sorry, i should be the one to initiate it i just didn’t really know how doll.’ his voice was so quiet, just a rough whisper.

he looked up to stare into your glassy eyes when you leaned in and kissed him. a small whisper of a kiss.

‘can i hug you?’ you said with your lips pressed against his.

he knew you knew he would prefer not to dwell on it.

and then he wrapped his arms around your back so tightly like he was showing the universe just how bad he needed you. he pulled you into his lap and let his cheek fall to your shoulder. he felt your arms wrap around his neck and you fingers stroking the hairs at his nape.

neither of you spoke, you simply sat and held each other and made a silent promise to maintain the closeness from today onwards.

‘thank you for telling me toji. you big baby.’

‘yeah that’s enough. time for bed.’

your giggle was music to his ears.

[reignpage]

In Sheep's Clothing

Synopsis: in which you're alone in a cabin in the woods during a rough snow storm and an enigmatic, sexy wolf hybrid!Toji turns up at your door providing much more than his handyman service Warnings: plot with a side of porn, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, knotting, degradation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, masturbation, praise kink, rough sex, manhandling, cowgirl, thigh fucking, hair pulling, slight anal play, biting, dom!toji, blowjob, allusion to shower sex, dirty talk, dry humping, pussyjob, fingering, panty sniffing, cum eating, spanking, titty slapping, pussy slapping, biting, dumbification, primal play to the extreme, !!dark themes!! beware cannot emphasise this enough people (dw there's no gore or noncon or anything, it's just the nature of the plot), acts of violence, angst, fem!reader, romance, barely proofread Word Count: 19.9k (it's a lot I know I know sowwy)

Perhaps running away to the mountains and hiding in the woods wasn’t the greatest idea you’ve ever had. But it was the only one you had at the time. Your grandmother’s cabin is a little run-down, though that was expected considering how many years it had been since she passed, still, it has solid bones and you can’t complain.

It’s a two bedroom bungalow — spacious enough for a family, what with its generous kitchen and hearty fireplace, but far too small for you. Dust has settled on all imaginable surface and it took hours to remove the coverings on every sofa, chair, table, and bed, and even longer to wash everything that could be washed by hand, since the washing machine and dryer in the back room have long since given up on themselves. 

Most of your days since whisking yourself away here is spent dusting, washing, wiping, and cooking. You’ve yet to feel the dent you’ve been chipping away at. There’s still a draught coming from the front door, the main heating system isn’t working, and somewhere, in every corner, is an odd creaking that keeps you up at night. 

Sighing, you glance out of the window, curled up underneath a mountain of blankets, and watch the snow fall. It’s always snowing here. It was barely possible to trek up here as a snowstorm was creeping in; the townspeople were less than eager to even hear you out until you flashed an extortionate amount of money. 

A nice, elderly man took pity, though, upon discovering your last name. He knew your granny. Said she was a sweet soul with a real talent for baking. Having ordered one of his sons to drive you up, he gave you his telephone number, insisting that if you ever needed anything, anything at all, they would come at the drop of a hat. 

That warmed your heart a little. The kindness of a stranger is not something you’re familiar with and thought you’d never get to experience, but there he was, smiling, and waving the cash away like it was the silliest thing in the world and it had no real consequence. 

It had been four days since and you won’t lie, you have considered phoning in that favour. You’re way out of your depth here. With a sigh, you pull a blanket, red and knitted by your grandmother, up to your chin and continue to watch the snow fall. Even though you’re at your wits end with all the scrubbing this cabin needs, you couldn’t possibly call it quits now and beg the man to come up just to take you down. How embarrassing would that be?

You hear knocking. 

There’s someone at the door, pounding. Your heart begins to beat fast. You must have mistaken the sound of the wind howling for a knock at the door. After all, you are miles away from the town and the snow is far too thick for anyone to have gotten up here. Would it be wise to get up from the warmth of your sofa to be sure?

The knocking gets louder, more adamant. Okay, so you weren’t, in fact, mistaken. Something about that noise, unyielding and firm, pierces your heart. You can’t imagine being out in this weather. You’re at the door faster than you can even process the speed at which your feet moved. 

When you fling the door open, the freezing wind attacks, stinging your cheeks and nipping at your skin. Arms rushing to hug the blanket you thoughtfully to drag with you tighter around your body, you squint up through the blinding white of the snow at a hulking beast. 

Broad shouldered and glaring, he watches you cower beneath his gaze. He’s dressed in a simple, fitted t-shirt and baggy joggers, and you feel impossibly colder just by looking at him. His face is hidden behind a disheveled beard, rough and scratchy. He’s a very hairy man. 

“H-hello. Can I help you?”

His nose twitches. He jerks his chin to something behind you. “You’re cooking. I’m hungry.”

Without waiting for a reply, he pushes past you. Pressing yourself close to the door frame, you just about avoid the graze of his arm against you. This turn of events has your head spinning. Who does this man think he is? 

The wind howls harder. You slam the door shut. “Excuse me! You can’t just walk in as you please. This is my home. Get out.”

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even register what you say. Instead, he crosses into the kitchen and lifts the lid of the pot of stew you’ve been working on for hours and grunts. When he fixes himself a bowl, you’re left speechless at how he seems to move on autopilot, opening cabinets and drawers for what he needs without so much as a glance. 

Now he’s sitting at the table, scarfing down your stew and you’re bewildered, spluttering. You’re being Punk’d. 

“Who do you think you are? I told you to get out. I’m gonna call the police if you don’t within the next five seconds!”

He snorts. 

“The police?” His voice is gravelly, seemingly from lack of use. “Ain’t nobody getting up ‘ere in this state.”

That’s what every serial killer says, and you should be afraid, should be running for help. But there’s no hint of malice or cruel intent in his words, only amusement, the way one responds to a child’s whims. 

“Well, you should still afford me the decency of leaving my home when asked.”

“Your home? Didn’t know the old lady gave it away.”

You gulp, clutching the thick blanket even tighter. “You knew my grandmother?”

He grunts. 

Well aware you really ought to kick him out, you’re ashamed at the realisation that you can’t bring yourself to. It’s awfully terrible outside and there’s no doubt the elements would claim him if he he’s left out with no shelter. Though, that really shouldn’t be your responsibility and there is still, of course, the glaring concern of his ability to kill you. One sweep of his figure and you know this towering man, tall and muscular, could snap your neck with one hand. 

Or worse.

Not to mention, he’s a hybrid. You can tell by the twitching of his ears and his nose, like he’s hearing and smelling things inscrutable by the human senses. You wonder what he is. He has no triangular ears or fluffy tail like a dog, he doesn’t have eyes like a cat, no scales that you can see, but his teeth, when he scrapes them along the spoon, you know they’re much sharper than you’d like to ever find out. 

If he wanted to kill you, he could have done that before. And at any rate, it’s too late to do anything about it now. He knows you’re alone and there’s nowhere you can run to before the snow freezes your limbs. 

Settling back down onto the sofa, you just watch him eat. He’s grabbed a second helping, enjoying the meat more than the potatoes and carrots in there but that’s expected of a man. It does mean, though, that he’s not a herbivore hybrid. You wonder if he likes the taste of a woman’s flesh. 

“Is it good?” You ponder. 

There’s something oddly peaceful about observing him — the way he only chews once and twice before swallowing and shoving another spoonful, the way his throat contracts, how his huge hands grasps the bowl and spoon like they could be ripped away from him before he’s finished, and even the way his foot taps, impatient and tense. 

He throws you a cursory glance. “It’s good.”

A second helping disappears. So does a third.

“It seems like you haven’t eaten in days. Or showered. Or rested.”

Huffing, he leans back in the chair, full perhaps. He scratches his stomach under his shirt and you look away at the flash of skin. In a drawl, he concedes, “Y’r right on the money.”

You note how he doesn’t offer more. And you know by the way he’s observing you in return that he’s expecting you to ask for more. You don’t. It’s stupid. Suicidal even. But a little company to weather this snow storm might not be so bad. 

“I’ll allow you to stay here until the snow passes but no longer than that. There’s a second bedroom in the back, you can use that. The boiler’s broken or something so the radiators aren’t working, neither is the hot water in the shower. So, unfortunately, this isn’t going to be a stay at a five star hotel but we’ll both get along just fine if we maintain boundaries and do our part.”

He grunts. That seems to be his preferred way of communicating. Fine by you. You never liked talkative people anyways. “I want a hot shower. So do you by the looks of it. I’ll go down and check the boiler out.”

Startled, you laugh. “You know how to fix things?”

The look he gives you is answer enough and with no further words exchanged, he marches down the hall, obviously all too familiar with the layout of the cabin — did he stay here after she died, when the house was empty and unused? 

Or maybe he stayed with your grandmother and that was how she got along just fine on her own after your grandfather died.

After thirty minutes or so, he emerges, some grease smeared on his face, and he presses the back of his hand to the radiator by where you sit. He’s standing very close. And from your position, hugging your knees under all these blankets, he looks so much bigger and stronger. 

“It’s fixed. For now. Shit’s old so might need regular maintenance,” he explains. “Ya wanna shower first or what?”

Considering he fixed the damn thing, he should have the first go, shouldn’t he? Especially as he’s been out in the cold for goodness how long.

“I’ll shower first,” you say. 

He nods. 

Unfurling yourself from your cocoon, you stumble to a stand. He doesn’t move, doesn’t give you space. Your chest brushes against his. Tingling rushes down your spine at the graze of your nipples. You hastily move past him, embarrassed and suddenly nervous. 

“I’ll be quick. Um, feel free to have more stew and I don’t know if you have any clothes or anything, but my grandmother kept some of her husband’s clothes, you’ll find them in your room — the second bedroom, I mean. Just down the hall, by the bathroom.”

He doesn’t reply and you don’t wait for him to . 

In your rush to save face, you just miss the way his lips twitch in one corner. 

You had forgotten how wonderful a hot shower is. The way you’re enveloped by warmth and your tense muscles loosen and relax under the barrage of water. You take much longer than you usually do, intent on thoroughly enjoying the water like it could grow legs and make a run for it. Eventually, you’re bathed and fresh. Much fresher than you’ve been in the last couple days since you didn’t have to hurry through your routine or curse under your breath at the burning chill of the water, mocking your ineptitude and foolish spontaneity. 

When you come out, dressed in a sweater and joggers, you’re pleased to find the house much warmer than before. The fireplace is even lit, the orange and red flames dancing with as much joy as you feel. More cozy and welcoming, the cabin has completely transformed in what feels like a blink of an eye. Before, the clinical white lights overhead flickered on its last legs, completely and utterly useless, now only the fireplace sheds light, covering the living room and kitchen in a snug ember. 

It feels reminiscent of Christmas evenings you never had. 

Your guest doesn’t look surprised when you approach — he probably heard you every step of the way — but he does push off the sofa and give you a look over, nodding as if satisfied to see you out of the blankets you wore like a second skin. 

Just as he brushes past you, you grasp his arm. Nerves light up. You drop it like it burns. “Sorry. I, um, just wanted to say thanks. And uh, I guess we should introduce each other. Sorry I didn’t do it sooner. I’m not really sure why I didn’t. Maybe I was just mentally prepared to not speak to another person for a while or something.” 

Tilting his head at you, he releases a huff of air through his nose and says, “Name’s Toji. You’re y/n; the old lady talked about you.”

“Oh.”

Likely sensing that’s as much as you’re going to say, he disappears into the bathroom with a pile of clothes and a towel in hand that you didn’t even notice — maybe because you were far too distracted by how handsome he looks under the glow of the fire or how his skin felt nice, all hard and soft and heated the way only a man could be. 

Or maybe, just maybe, it was because the first thing you really noticed upon entering the living room was not the way it had been transformed or how normal it looked for such a big man to be taking up space here, but rather how this ‘Toji’ was sitting in the exact same spot you’d been making your little home when he came. 

When you awake the next day, you’re surprised he’s still asleep. It was almost midday and there’s no sign of him having walked through the cabin before you. There’s no way you’ll knock on his door. Truthfully, you were surprised, pleasantly so it must be said, to find yourself alive and untouched. You don’t guilty for thinking the worst and you’re not naive enough to think better of him for not being a serial killer, that’s simply the bare minimum. 

But it does mean he’s a man of his word and you can let down a little of your guard. 

Instead of worrying more about what he’s doing in his room, you busy yourself  with breakfast. Toji had finished the stew when you came out of the shower and you were impressed by his appetite, albeit also concerned for your stock; at this rate, your food will run out much faster than you had planned and there’s no telling when the weather will get well enough to call out the old man for help.  

You bake a sourdough, fry up some eggs and sausages and put the kettle on for some coffee — instant, unlike the ones you’re used to in the big city but it’ll have to do. You’re careful not to make too much noise, although you feel a little embarrassed at how thoughtful you’re being. 

Just as you put the plate down, he emerges, shirtless, hand scratching the trail of hair low on his stomach. His hair is mussed up, sticking at all angles, and the plaid pyjama bottoms he must gotten from your grandfather’s box of old clothes hang low on his hips, distinct v-lines peeking in a terrifyingly sinful way. He has fairly thick hair on his arms and chest, the very definition of unkept and wild. 

You clear your throat. 

“Good morning. Sleep well?”

He throws you a look, full of amusement, before he sits down at the table. He must have smelt the food and known somehow you were meaning to share. How presumptuous of him. “Slept fine.”

You serve him his portion, larger than your own, and pour him coffee to which he doesn’t say no. “Not going to ask me how I slept?”

He snorts. “Don’t hafta. You tossed and turned the whole night.”

“You have really good hearing, don’t you? What kind of hybrid are you?”

He eats much slower than yesterday, mulling the taste over rather than scarfing it down, and he seems pleased enough with your cooking skills. For reasons you don’t want to think too much about, you’re feeling pretty proud of yourself. 

“Wolf,” he replies. 

You’ve never met a wolf before. But they are an infamous breed — they needed constant medication to keep their animal instincts at bay, they stuck by their own kind, were aggressive to outsiders, and are known for being fiercely loyal and protective. Toji doesn’t seem to match the description. He’s alone for one and he moves with grace like a deer and not like a clunky predator. 

“How did you know my grandmother, if I may?” You ponder. In all of the letters she’s written to you, she had never mentioned knowing a hybrid like Toji, or any hybrids for that matter. 

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug and shared, “Helped her around during winters just like these. She was too old to get down by herself and there were always things needing fixing.”

“She gave you warm food in return?”

He grunts. 

“How did you know she died?” Raising a brow at your question, you explain, “You said she ‘was’ too old.”

Barking a sudden laugh, you find the noise tickling your skin and you can’t stop staring at the way his face softens for just the quickest second and ever so lightly. You’re ashamed to admit the noise makes you warmer inside than it should. 

“I come sniffing around soon as snow starts to fall. It’s routine. A habit. I was the one who found her. Notified the townspeople and went on my way.” He takes a sip of the coffee, green eyes never leaving yours. “Haven’t been back in years.”

His voice is gruff and now that you’re sat face-to-face with him, it’s clear as day that he’s not used to the sound of his own voice; he furrows his brows and stumbles upon certain words like they’re foreign, as if he’s struggling to reconcile the reality that those words are coming from him. 

“So what made you come here?”

No answer. 

The rest of breakfast passes by in relative silence, the distant moan of the wind outside providing enough noise to wash away the awkwardness of eating with a stranger. You want to tell him you’d prefer if he didn’t walk around so bare but that seemed too big of an ask since it’s likely he runs hotter as a wolf than you do. Eyes falling to your neck and your chest unashamedly, he doesn’t shy away from eye contact. 

You do though.

Then he stands, taking both your and his plate over to the sink. He begins washing up. That actually takes you by surprise. This Toji fella didn’t strike you as the type to partake in house chores. Rather, he seems like the type to firmly believe the kitchen is a woman’s domain. Interestingly enough, his back is marked up, full of scars, and they ripple with his muscles. You want to ask about them but he’s not a man who offers answers and you’re not the kind of woman who should poke and prod. 

“Right, well.” You stand too. “I was wondering if you know how to fix a washing machine. And a dryer. Neither are working and washing my sheets and panties in the bath is a pain. 

His eyes flick to you as you wipe away at a spot on the counter dirtied by flour. You probably shouldn’t have used the word ‘panties’ in front of a man like him but you thought it would be funny. He doesn’t seem to think so. He gives you a half-nod and you feel satisfied enough from that interaction to pad over to the sofa to read a book. 

Toji begins working around the cabin — he heads over to the laundry room and you hear the clatter of metal and thumping against the floor. Upon emerging and giving you the look that says ‘it’s done’, he also starts looking for something in the basement. He carries up a box of lightbulbs in one arm and a ladder in another. 

When you jolt up, to offer help, he cuts you another look that says ‘don’t you dare’, and you sit back down. He seems to have his own way of doing things and he knows you’ll only get in the way. Maybe he noticed that your nails are long and clean and he can somehow, with his wolfy powers, sense your hands have never touched dirt.

Still working on this and that around the house, you serve him his lunch and you eat separately. If this becomes your routine then that’ll be ideal. He does all the cleaning and fixing and you cook. Sure, it might be setting back the feminist movement just a little but things like that don’t matter up here, where it’s freezing and you have no idea how you managed for days without him.

Much more quickly than you could have ever expected, the day ends and night falls.

“Thanks for the help,” you say, handing him a glass of your grandmother’s moonshine. You remember where she kept it from your childhood and now, soon after dinner, just sat by the fireplace, feels as good a time as any to bust it out. 

You’re both leaning against the sofa, right by the fireplace, choosing to be on the rug rather than on the soft couch. You can’t remember who followed who, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. In just one day he had solved most of the problems you’ve nearly cried over. 

Toji grunts. 

He’s wearing a shirt now, thin and plain. Your grandfather was a much smaller man so this shirt is practically bursting at the seams on his huge bicep but he doesn’t seem to mind. You do, though. It’s rather distracting actually. His skin brushes against yours and neither of you move away. 

The flames are the only light here and you feel its warmth settling on your face, lulling you to comfort. Stronger than any alcohol you’ve ever had, the moonshine burns your throat, lighting you up inside. Your companion appears to be unimpressed with the concoction, downing the cup in one gulp. 

Slightly embarrassed by your inexperience, despite being an adult, you ask, “Where were you staying before? You said you come here for winter so where do you stay for the rest of the year? Same place you’ve been staying at since my grandmother died? Or somewhere different?”

Throwing an arm on the sofa, right behind your head, he admits, “Nowhere. Everywhere. Just moved around a lot.”

“Why didn’t you just stay here? If you talked to her enough to know about me, then surely she must have told you no one ever visits since everyone in the family hates the cold. You would have had the place all to yourself.”

“I never stay in one place for too long.”

You skim the rim of your glass, watching the clear liquid swirl with the glow of the fireplace. “Why not?”

He waits until you can’t bear the silence, until you feel that itch to look up, to meet his gaze. And when you do, there’s some intensity in his eyes that seems to make the alcohol in your stomach burn just a little more. A finger of his twirls a lock of your hair and he murmurs, “Never had a reason to.”

Nodding, you settle for watching the fire. 

And when the bottle of moonshine was depleted, you left to sleep and he stayed, a scalding brand marking your back and you couldn’t bear to look back to know if it was from the fireplace or from him. 

That was how your first day went. 

On the second day, you repeat more or less the same routine: you make breakfast, you eat together, he goes and fixes something else, you make lunch, you eat separately, he fixes some more things, you make dinner, and you share a drink or two, and sleep. 

Occasionally, you’ll run into each other and you still struggle to meet his eyes, having to crane your head so far back to get a good look. Sometimes when you do gather the courage to look up at him, he’s already looking at your chest, green eyes slowly rising up to your face. His brow rises in challenge just as hip lip twitches. He doesn’t care at all. The man had no manners. 

But he washes the dishes after every mealtime and he doesn’t really make a mess, so you can’t complain when he takes his visual fill of your body. There’s no harm in looking, only a priest would ever know that you do the same thing; there’s always a sizeable bulge in his trousers that you can’t keep your eye off, totally only out of curiosity. 

The day starts off with an exchange of ‘g’morning’ and a ‘g’night’.

The third day tells the same story. 

On the fourth day, however, only one thing out of the ordinary happens and it isn’t anything to write home about but you can’t get it out of your mind, as you lay in bed wide awake. The wolf hybrid had needed to get past you to get something from the fridge and on his way, he gripped your hips, lightly and barely a whisper, but his finger had brushed a sliver of skin where your shirt had risen up. 

His touch was startling, petrifying, making the hairs along your body stand on edge, but more than anything, it was completely and utterly exhilarating. 

When your hand wandered down into your panties that night, you tried your best to stifle your moans with your pillow, chasing the high that followed you the entire day. You fell asleep sticky, sweaty and unrepentant.

The fifth day goes by just fine too. Appreciative of the little song and dance you two have choreographed, you find yourself less and less anxious about the snow and the world beyond. There’s just something about this Toji fella — he’s quiet in a way that would be off-putting from anyone else, but you find it comforting. It’s different from the way everything worked in the city, where silences are this obscene monstrosity that must be filled with the clattering of a busybody. 

Here, with him, you can just breathe in the hot cocoa and the smoky ash burning in the fireplace as you sit by him, shoulder to shoulder, on the rug and not on the sofa. He doesn’t ask questions about why you never visited your grandmother, why you haven’t talked about your family or your friends, or why you don’t ask him questions. 

You like to think too that he appreciates you keeping your curiosity at bay. 

Maybe that’s why he lets you rest your head on his shoulder, why he doesn’t nudge you off when your breath begins to even out and your lashes flutters shut, and maybe, just maybe, it’s why he carries you to bed and lays you down so gently you dream of solid arms, green sparkles in the snow, and fluffy clouds that brush your hair back. 

What you weren’t prepared for, however, is the sixth day. It started off just like any other day: breakfast, reading on the sofa whilst he fixes something or the other, and then lunch eaten separately. 

But, the hybrid must have gotten oil spilled on him when he was tinkering with something in the cellar because he went to shower during the day, instead of at night like you both do. This fact wasn’t known to you. It really wasn’t even on your mind. And that’s why disaster struck. 

Walking into the bathroom to grab something — you can’t even remember what it was and why you were so focused on retrieving it, you hadn’t registered the sound of running water and the fact that the room was steamier than usual — you were met with a sight no HR training could ever prepare you for. Because, there, right in front of you, was your roommate, buck naked with water dripping down his chiseled body, catching on the curly hairs on his chest and lower abdomen. He was leaning with one arm on the glass of the shower stall, forehead pressed onto his forearm whilst the other made slow, leisurely strokes somewhere low, somewhere the steam gravitated towards. 

Forward and back, forward and back, forward...and…back. 

All while his eyes, like freshly cut grass, stayed unmoving, watching you watch him. Feet sinking deeper into the tiles, you were stuck where you are, heaving chest matching his as he let out a grunt, wrist jerking faster, splashing so much water everywhere you could almost feel them land on your skin through the glass. 

Your phone pinged from your hand. You didn’t realise you were holding it. That was just about enough to break the trance he had you under. Wordlessly, you turned back and left, the door clicking shut behind you, and you busied yourself with preparing for dinner. 

When he walked out, dressed, you could see from your peripheral, you grunted in acknowledgement after he let you know he was going to get some wood from outside. 

Dinner was eaten separately too. 

Instead of watching the fireplace, side by side, sharing whatever drink you’ve prepared, you’re settled comfortably under your blankets, hand rubbing furiously in your panties and eyes shut tightly, chasing flashing images of something sinful, delicious, the very source of your delirium. 

Your orgasm is shallow. It’s why you’re conscious enough to notice, through the gap between your door and the floor, that the hallway light is still on and just as you exhale your last lust-induced moan, it disappears, leaving your senses focused solely on the sound of feet padding away.

You don’t get any sleep. 

“G’morning,” you chirp. 

The kettle is boiling and you’re serving the last of the eggs and bacon onto pancakes you made from scratch. There are still some meat frozen but the vegetables and fruits are almost gone and there’s no other way about it — you’re going to have to go down to get some more food. What had supposed to last you comfortably, at least two weeks, is now on its last crumbs before the first seven days had reached its end.

His green eyes flick to yours and with a small smirk, beard twitching, he asks, “Sleep well?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you try to ignore the burning of your face and the sudden shake in your hands. Of course he had heard. Of course! Because, lost in the haze of the shallow pleasure, you had forgotten that you’re living with a man that is far from ordinary. 

So is his hearing. 

“Oh, great,” you grit out. “And you?”

A snort of what you can only guess to be amusement is released from him and when he brushes past you, his heat only sets those embers ablaze again. He doesn’t answer. 

Once sat down and eating, it’s your roommate who suggests more food is needed — as he should, considering it’s because of his insane appetite that things have turned out so hopeless so quickly. 

“How could we possibly get more food in this weather? No one can get up here and walking down is not an option. I mean, just looking at all that snow makes me feel like death is creeping in.”

“Don’t gotta leave,” he says with a grunt. “I’ll go.”

Spluttering, you practically shriek, “You? Are you insane? You’ll die.”

His green eyes glint. “Will the pretty little city girl be sad if I do?”

“Will the big, bad wolf listen and stay if I say yes?”

Toji barks out a laugh. Breakfast ends soon after. 

An hour passes and, as you read a book, you think that that’s the last of that. But of course it isn’t. Just as you finish a chapter, the wolf in question comes out of his room in a worn out coat too small for him and a firm look on his face. He can’t possibly be serious. 

Ignoring your protests, he heads over to the door and doesn’t spare you a glance. It’s only when you tell him he needs money that he does pause. Typical macho men, thinking with their muscles and not their heads, you grumble in your mind. He waits for you to grab your purse and shove it in his hand. 

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

Your question is met with an eye roll. 

“Yeah, quit worrying. I’ll be back before you know it.” He sounds so sure. You’re inclined to believe him. Something about how sturdy he looks makes him sound convincing enough; Toji’s built like an oak tree, with deep-reaching roots and a thick trunk that could withstand the harshest storms and mightiest blows. But all trees can be felled, if one tries hard enough. 

He must have smelt the doubt pouring out of every pore because then he’s making a sound of pure exasperation. “Alright, listen. I’m a wolf, yeah? I’ve been through worse.”

Eyes darting from the snow and to his deadpan face, you mutter, “Just because you’ve been through worse doesn’t mean you should go through more. You can just stay and keep warm. With me. I can’t help you if you’re out there.”

There’s a silence, like a sudden gust. And then a sigh. 

In less than a second, you find your jaw being gripped with one large hand and your head is pushed to the side just as his face buries itself in the crook of your neck, the rough hairs of his beard tickling your skin. The growl that escapes him pulls a gasp out of you and then he’s gone. 

With the speed at which the door flies open and closes, you barely feel the sharp sting of the cold. Or maybe you do feel the full brunt of it, but it’s overshadowed by the envigorating rush that came from that big man inhaling your scent before he left. 

You wonder if he liked what he smelt. 

Before, it felt like time was passing at a snail’s pace, but now it’s like time isn’t passing at all — you’re stuck in some sort of pathetic limbo where you spend every meaningless second switching tasks. From brushing the floor to rearranging the books on the shelves in the corner to dusting every surface to lying in bed and so on and so forth. It feels somewhat akin to engraving tallies into the walls with a paperclip.

Alone, truly alone, you can do nothing but focus on the feeling of ice creeping into your bloodstream. The heaters are on and you can very easily set the wood burning in the fireplace if need be since he taught you. But you don’t want to; you’re lazy. That’s the excuse you’d tell Toji if he asks, biting down the real reason and never spitting it out.

The shivers wracking your body is what you deserve for letting that man go to get food on your behalf. The quivering of your lips is due to the fact that you could have — should have— gone with him, should have bundled him up in something thicker and warmer, and yourself maybe, so you two could trek together to the town. At least, if one of you were to be injured, there’s someone there to pick you back up. 

Who will pick him up?

Gnawing on a nail, your eyes dart, for the millionth time, outside the window, fuzzy socks rubbing against each other as you shuffle on the floor. Night is falling and he still isn’t here. You’re beyond worried. 

How long does it take to hike down and up anyways? It took about an hour by car, so surely it wouldn’t take longer than a day at the very most, right?

But spending even just an hour in this snow, wearing just a coat, would be fatal for anyone, wolf hybrid or not, right? And he’s attempting to bring up groceries? 

Oh, God. 

You’ve allowed that man to walk right into his death. No, you’ve sent him off to die. You’re a killer. Or maybe he’s not coming back. Maybe this was just a ploy to leave without an awkward goodbye. He got what he wanted — roof over his head, a bed, food, warm shower and even a stupid girl to tease. Now that he’s exhausted the supplies, maybe he’s off to try his luck at another cabin. 

Is this what it was like with your grandmother? 

Did she make sure to stock up as much as possible for the winter to ensure he’d stay the entire time so she can have someone to look after her?

Is that what you’re going to turn into?

A food bank?

You shouldn’t have come up here. You should have stayed in the loud, stifling city in your miserable office job, with your stuffy pantsuits and your overbearing boss. You should have accepted your family’s manufactured smiles and cold hugs. You should never, ever have dared to want more. There is nothing in your entire life you have done, or could have ever done, to deserve more. 

A knock comes on the door. 

You jerk up. 

The blanket falls from your shoulders. Stumbling to a stand, you wipe your hands down your front, trying to steady them, and without waiting for a second knock, you twist the knob that had just been above your head and you flung it open. 

“Could hear ya sniffling from miles. You good?”

In front of you is a very hairy man, broad shouldered, coat darkening with the dampness that weighs him down and flakes of snow litter his beard like an upside down tree. He’s scary, hulking and tense, like a wound up toy, ready to explode at any given moment. An ear twitches when you sniffle, just as he said. This man could kill you. He’s strong enough to have been carrying two big, heavy bags, one in each hand, up the mountain. And he knows the exact layout of the cabin, knows there are no hiding spots, no locks in the basement, knows where the axe is, and that the stoker is leaning against the fireplace, too far to get to in time from where you’re standing.

You jump onto him. “Oh my god! I thought you died. Or that you left me!”

He grunts with the force of your body meeting his, but he doesn’t stumble. Bearing the burden of the bags of groceries and your entire weight as you wrap yourself around him like a koala bear, he walks in with ease, kicking the door shut. He saunters over to the kitchen where he deposits the bags on the counter and leaves just enough room to sit you down, untangling your awkward limbs from his torso. 

“Ya think too much.”

He pats the wetness, that had transferred from his clothes onto you, down with a tea towel. Your shaky hands reach up, threading your fingers through his beard and his hair, and you brush the snow away. He’s still here. And he’s warm. 

“I was so worried something happened to you, Toji,” you whisper. 

Stilling, his green eyes flick up to yours, searching, and when he finds the tears threatening to fall he sighs, and presses his forehead against yours, letting you feel the firmness of his presence. He smells like burnt cedar, the musk of the earth, and the saltiness of sea air. With a gravelly voice, he reassures you, “I’m here. Got enough food to last us another week, and by then the snow will stop falling. We’ll be fine”

Your ‘thank you’ stays in your throat when he pulls away and falls on a chair by the dinner table with a grunt so deep and loud you’re snapped back into action — he must be starving and exhausted. Toji did his part and now you must do yours. 

Sneaking glances at him, you work as fast as you can, cutting this and boiling that. You know as soon as the onions and garlic hit the pan with the sizzle his nose will start twitching. If it smells delicious to you, you wonder how it must smell to him. Maybe the anticipation of a warm meal was what pulled him home. 

You won’t disappoint. 

Every second or so, your eyes drift to him, mostly to make sure he’s still breathing, but also because you can’t help it. He’s snoozing, you surmise, when his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm and his eyes are closed. You move around as quietly as you can. 

Plated, you set the steaming soup, fried meat and loaf of bread he had brought down on the table. It’s not the most appealing of all appearances but you know the recipes like the back of your hand so you know he’ll love every thing. Or at least, you hope he will. 

Checking all the necessary silverware are on the table, you try to gently coax him awake with a call of his name. He doesn’t answer. You look up with a sigh, ready to jostle him from whatever dream is so beautiful he’s in deep sleep, only to find those frustratingly alluring eyes already on you. 

“Smells delicious,” he says, making no effort to gesture to the food. 

You gulp and with a weak smile, you sit down and allow him to serve you. “So, how was it? Is the situation bad?”

Toji rolls a shoulder back. He answers, “Snow’s definitely too thick for a car, but the town hasn’t been too badly affected. No one can get in or out but they’re all making do.”

“And you? Was it a difficult journey?”

There’s a pause as he swallows the spoonful he’s shovelled in his mouth and then he’s shrugging, remarking, “Ya think so little of me? Told you, I’m a wolf hybrid. Wasn’t easy but was hardly difficult, ma.”

Warmth pools in your stomach. 

“Good.” You sip some water. “But you definitely need to get some rest. That’s a non-negotiable, I’m afraid. No manual labour of any kind tomorrow. I’ll handle everything. So, just let me know what I can do for you. It’s the least I can do, after all.”

He snorts. “Yeah? Y’r gonna take care of me?”

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

His fork and spoon clatter on his frighteningly empty plate and when you meet his gaze once more, you’re knocked back by the sheer challenge in them. There’s a glint, like light off a knife’s edge, and it slices from your heart down your body, leaving you open and electrified. 

“Careful, little girl,” he taunts, jaw snapping with a laugh, “when I take you up on that, y’r gonna be whining for days about how sore you are.”

There’s no way you’re going to argue with him, not when he sounds so certain, like you’re missing out on some inside joke. So you finish up dinner, with him having three servings, and after, with the dishes in need of cleaning up, you practically have to shove him in his room when he insisted he’s fine enough to stay up. 

He rolls his eyes and lets you slam the door shut in his face.

As you tidy up in the kitchen, you’re pleased to find the fridge full. There’s a lot of fruit and vegetables and all the possibilities are getting you giddy. You suppose you were a little afraid Toji, being a man, would only buy junk and red meat, but he hadn’t. In fact, he had gotten things beyond food, he had bought toiletries and sanitary products for you. Sure it was a little presumptive, maybe you didn’t have periods, maybe you’re on birth control, maybe you’ve just had it and won’t have to worry until after the snow calms enough for you to deal with your personal bodily functions. 

But, you find the act endearing, if the smile creeping on your face is anything to go by. 

Eventually, you retire to bed, feeling much lighter. There’s lots of food and he came back. He hadn’t left. He had gone through so much trouble — life-risking trouble — that it must mean something, right? 

You fall asleep very quickly. 

Sometime around two in the morning, however, you’re awoken by some dull noise outside. Blinking through the sleep in your eyes, you pad out of your room and into the living room, where the fireplace is burning and casting dancing shadows over your roommate’s body. 

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he grouses. “Go back to sleep.”

Finding the spark to laugh, you muse, “I think that’s my line, no?”

He looks wide awake sitting in his usual spot, on the floor with an arm on the sofa and a leg bent. Shirtless, the fire makes him look like he’s glowing, and you’re mesmerised. Clearing your throat, you retrieve two bottles of beer he had cheekily gotten, and sit criss-crossed by him. He takes the beer with a grunt of gratitude.

There’s something different in the air; silence isn’t enough tonight. All the things that have so far been left unspoken, locked away, are climbing over, ready to be shared — at least from your side. You may never know what he’s truly thinking.

Brows furrowed, you begin, “Did you ever wonder how I ended up here? Well, there’s not really a special or interesting story — I just got tired and bored of the same old thing. It felt like my life was missing substance, y’know?”

Grunt. 

“I hated the city,” you confess. “It’s awful there. Everyone treats you like their enemy even as you’re just walking down the street. No one ever smiles or even looks at each other.”

Huff.

“It’s a good thing I was a workaholic and lived frugally; I can afford to camp out here until…well, till forever, I guess. It’s also great luck that you came by ‘cause I can’t fix a boiler or anything of the sort, so I would have likely died by now.”

For a second you think he’s dozed off, as he should have been doing after dinner considering the strenuous journey he underwent to get some food, but one glance to the side up has you gulping when you find his eyes on you once more, like they never left, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather look at. What a dangerous thought. 

The eye contact has you, or him, or both of you, drawing closer, gazes flickering down and then up and back down again. With the warm glow of the fire blanketing you in the night, you feel so safe and secure; it’s you and him in this cabin and no one else matters. No one else has a say, can interrupt, can ruin this. 

Whatever this is. 

The arm he has behind you shifts and then you feel fingers skimming a lock of hair, following it down from the temple of your head, curving around the shell of your ear, and into the slope of your neck, brushing your hair back and exposing  skin to the sizzling air. 

You shiver.

“I’ve always been the kind of girl who stayed in one place. I like the security, the familiarity. But recently things have started feeling tough, like I’m stuck in quicksand, as dramatic as it is to say.”

Your voice is weak and low; you never knew you could sound like that. 

When you were brushing the snow out of his beard, you weren’t surprised to find it rough, you often catch him scratching there so you know it’s uncomfortable for him too, and yet, you find a bubbling desire within you to feel it on your skin, the way you had briefly felt it on your neck and in your hands. How would it feel in other places? 

“I just needed to get out, y’know?” You’re leaning impossibly close — close enough to see the question in his eyes. “Do something new, something exciting, something…” 

“Wild?”

Toji’s eyes flashes and at your dazed nod, he dives forward, swallowing your gasp in his rough, unforgiving mouth. He shoves his tongue in, licking and tasting, and that arm that laid at the back of your head curls around it, pulling you close by your neck. You’re left with no choice but to cling to him and try to keep up with his merciless pace. 

He tastes like alcohol with something deeper running, like an undercurrent, a ferocity only a beast could achieve. You feel intoxicated. Carrying you onto his lap, you’re overwhelmed by the feeling of something hard jutting up into your core. A growl pierces your ears when you don’t hesitate to grind down onto that hard length. He’s leaking heat hotter than the fireplace, he’s hard and firm everywhere your hands can reach, and his clutch is frightening, gripping you like you could never escape even if you fought against him. 

You’ve never been wetter. 

“I can smell ya,” he rasps. “Been smelling this sweetness every day. You taste as good as you look or what?”

Coarse and prickly, this beard is rubbing deliciously against your skin, reminding you from all angles that he’s kissing you, that he wants you just as bad as you want him, and he can’t get enough. 

Burying your fingers in his thick hair, you moan when he licks a stripe up your neck, sniffing at your pulse point. “Find out for yourself.”

His laugh is sudden and gravelly and it’s the last thing you think about before you’re being thrown on your back, legs spreading to accommodate his girth as he kneels above you, shirt going up and over before he throws it somewhere. With the fireplace highlighting the sharp contours of his face and his rippled chest, his beastly grin spikes your pulse and then he’s pinning you down with his body. 

“I don’t think you understand the position y’r in, little girl,” he taunts. 

Using his claws, he rips up your top, exposing your tits to the air for just a second before he swallows one in his mouth, flicking a nipple with his tongue, all while he’s rolling his hips into yours creating a delicious friction that has your back arching and your jaw dropping. 

“Been dreaming about these pretty tits.” He pinches the other, grinding his cock especially hard against your clit. The revelation falls on deaf ears when he smacks one. “Fuuuuck, look at the way they bounce.”

You pull at his hair and he lets you drag him back up to your lips, your nipples sore and tickled by the hairs on his chest whilst he rises up your body. “Kiss me.”

And he does, swallowing your moans he continues squeezing and groping your tits, but he leaves your lips swollen quickly after as he begins his descent, peppering a trail of kisses. 

Pressing a nose right up at the apex of your thighs, he takes a looooong inhale, a satisfied growl echoing in the darkness. Your face heats up, legs threatening to close around his head but his big paws holds them open, nails digging with the promise of pain if you dare shut them away from him. 

“You been flaunting a scent that’s got my mouth watering more than any of your baked goods,” he huffs, eyes narrowing at the wet spot leaking through. He thumbs at it, pressing down as if he could force everything you’ve got to give out. “’S not fair, ma. Waited so long for you to give in to me, heh, gonna make you regret that.”

“Toji!” 

He rips up your pyjama bottoms too and hooks his fingers into the gusset of your panties before those are flying away, shredded beyond hope, and cool air grazes your sloppy slit. 

Not a single second is wasted before he digs in, lapping up your pussy with a fearsome snarl. The tip of his long, slobbery tongue circles your pulsing clit, tweaking it when you whine. “Fuck, you taste this good and ya been holding out on me? Selfish little cunt, hmm?”

Hands flying up to grip his hair for purchase, you fall victim to his incessant licking and sucking and slurping as he flattens your thighs open, the scraggly hairs of his beard tickling your sensitive skin which grows clammier and clammier with the heat of his mouth, his body, and the fireplace. 

When he curls two thick fingers in, stretching your walls further than you could with your own, your eyes fly open. “No! Ngh, too much.”

Still sucking at your clit, he shoves those fingers in and out, dragging them on his way to really take in the squishiness of your insides, forcing out those loud squelches. You tug at his scalp and he lifts up just a little to snap his maw, missing your clit by a hair’s breadth. 

“Don’t get in the way of my meal, ‘cause this?” He slaps your pussy, juices splashing and he barks a mean laugh. “This is mine now.”

Your orgasm washes over you when his lips sucks your clit with a tongue flicking the little button at the exact same time those long digits curls up and lays successive presses against that smooth part inside of you. 

Toji’s entire mouth engulfs your pussy, sharp teeth grazing your skin whilst he suckles on your sweet essence, drinking like a man lost in a desert, his personal oasis. “Ah, y’r no good for me, ma. Gonna get me addicted on this sloppy fucking cunt.”

Panting desperately, you writhe on the floor, feverish and crazed. He doesn’t give you a break, doesn’t let you catch your breath, before he shoves his pants down and lets his cock spring out. 

Just the like rest of him, his cock is huge — long, thick, and throbbing with veins running up the length, carving a path up to his leaking cockhead which flushes a sinful dark red, promising a painful stretch. At the base, there’s coarse hair, wild and untamed like any other part of his body, and oh, God, those balls, they hang heavy, too heavy. 

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and chuckles before he orders simply, “Suck.”

As if entranced, you scramble onto all fours, crawling forward so you can nudge his length with your cheek, his slit leaving a wet trail. He smells like a beast of the earth and it has your pussy drooling, a fat droplet sliding down your thigh and you shut your legs tight in a pathetic attempt to quell that ache. After all, you are much too preoccupied with this monstrous thing in front of you. 

You peer up at him and stick your tongue out, licking from the very base, catching a little bit of his ball sac, and tilting back to reach his tip where you skim the underside. A large hand slides into your hair softly before it bundles up your hair in its angry grip pulling your head back into an uncomfortable angle so you can face his savage scowl. 

“I know y’r not deaf. Fuck did I say? Huh?” He pushes your face into his balls, smothering you. “Be a good girl and suck, yeah?”

So you do. 

Suckling on his balls, much like how he did with your tits, you try to take as much of him as you can before you can’t bear it any longer and you wrap your lips around his cock head, savouring the salty drops that coat your tongue. Everything about him is strong, from his grip to his scent and especially his taste. It’s as if he was built to dominate, to fill up every senses until you can think of and feel nothing but him.

You gag, overwhelmed by the intrusion. 

He tuts, thoroughly scolding when he drawls, “If ya can’t take me properly with y’r mouth, then there’s no way you can take me with y’r pussy. Wanna prove me wrong, kid?”

You push past the painful stretch of your jaw, gliding as much as of his length into your throat as you can, thumb being pinched by your fist. Not even halfway down, you go back up again, not letting go of his tip before you slide back down, and you repeat that motion, taking more and more of him as you go. 

When you hollow your cheeks to suck him in deeper, you see him throw his head back, his abs tensing and becoming prominent, you scrape your nails down that trail of hair before it finds his balls, massaging in the way you know not even he could resist. 

“Fuck. Tryna -ha- make me cum so soon? Naughty,” he says. 

In a flash, you’re being pulled off his cock and pushed back onto the rug once more. Your ankles are clasped in one of his hand, extending your legs high up in the air. “W-what are you doing?”

Cracking his neck slowly, the flames of the fireplace still as virile as ever, Toji looks downright sadistic with the way he grins at you.

“Just enjoying my meal to the fullest.” He pushes his cock through your thighs, right on top of your slit, lathering the underside with your overflowing juices. He groans, sharp teeth catching on his bottom lip. “We’re both gonna cum like this and then I’m putting you to bed.”

Slightly distracted by the way his cock is catching on your clit with every slide back and forth, you ask with a frown, “But why can’t you just fuck me now?”

He laughs. He fucking laughs. And then he’s bending your legs back towards your chest as he leans in close, placing your calves on his shoulders so you can see his face far too clearly. Rubbing the bristles on his jaw on your skin, he lays a soft kiss on your ankle before he scrapes the bone with a canine. 

“Because I fuck rough, city girl. Y’r gonna be bruised, sore and all chewed up and you can’t complain if you hopped on my dick willingly, no?” You can’t answer. “Yeah, glad we agree. So don’t open that pretty mouth of y’rs unless it’s to moan my name, and keep y’r legs tight for me; no one wants to fuck something loose and limp.”

“Hurry up and get it over with!”

Doing just that, he thrusts like a madman, using you like a rag doll to chase his pleasure. You’re being jostled on the floor, the rug burning your skin and your hair so close to being singed by the embers of that fire he’s been tending to, setting alight and snuffing like clockwork every day.

His balls slap against your ass, as if pounding you too. 

It’s all so dirty, so obscene, so wet any rational thought you should have been having about letting someone who’s practically a stranger fuck your thighs like you’re nothing but a slippery hole fly out the window. 

The slight sheen of sweat on his chest is making you restless — you can’t focus on one thing, not the way he’s holding your legs tight, hugging them to his torso like you might run away, the way the friction of his cock rubbing against your clit is bringing you closer to orgasm, and not how your wetness is making embarrassing squelches that you know his hybrid ears can hear in even greater clarity than you can.

“Oh! T-toji! I think I’m -ngh- gonna -ha- cum.”

He bites down hard on your calf just as his hips stutter and his scalding spurts splash onto your chest, even reaching your chin and cheeks. A drop falls into your mouth which is stuck in an O-shape as you orgasm at the same time, digging your nails into the carpet and thrashing your head around as the euphoric feeling wash over you from inside and out. 

Panting, you manage to breathe out, “Y-you made me all sticky.”

“Not fucking sorry.” Toji licks the red mark on your leg away and presses a kiss right in the centre of the two half moon crescents made by his teeth marks. Your heart beats faster. When his green eyes rove over your body, you both see and feel the deep rumble of satisfaction bubbling from his chest. He runs two fingers down your chest and your stomach, collecting his cum before he smears it on your lips. “Not fucking sorry at all.”

Your eyes threaten to shut and he grunts, realising he must have exhausted you despite the fact that it was he who pushed themselves through the elements for hours and not you.

“Alright, up and at ‘em. Let’s get ya cleaned up, kid.”

Hauling you onto your feet, the rest of the night goes by in a blur — you’re taken to the bathroom and wiped down by a wet cloth, redressed in new pyjamas, and tucked in all nice and warm in your own bed. He leaves. Even half-asleep, you find that act ever so slightly disheartening. 

It feels like you’ve been used, like the act wasn’t as intimate as you might have thought. It leaves you biting your nail and groaning inwardly. Of course he didn’t think much about it. The man looks older than you, he’s probably fucked the thighs of many girls and you’re no one special, right?

Maybe the best thing to do is to take a page out of his book and just be casual, so at least you won’t humiliate yourself by asking something absolutely ridiculous like ‘what are we?’

God, the thought makes you grimace. 

You make a promise to yourself to swear off Toji until the snow thaws enough to get down and up this cursed mountain. The mental fortitude you’ve erected seems so solid, so reliable and firm, you actually believe you’ll have a more than easy time keeping your hands, and your heart, to yourself.

That is until he returns smelling of soap and he slides right in behind you, tucking an arm under your back and pulling you into place with your head resting on his hairy chest.

“Had to cut my shower short ‘cause you’re gnawing y’r fucking fingernail off. Cut it out, will ya?”

Your bedmate swats at your hand, pulling it away from your anxious mouth and playfully bites your wrist. That hand stays in his grip. Heart ceasing its painful clenching, you make yourself comfortable in his embrace, enjoying the heat enveloping you, hotter than any fire.

Clearing your throat, you mutter, “Thanks for today, Toji. Really. I couldn’t have ever done that without you.”

He huffs a laugh, thoroughly amused.

“Wouldn’t hafta if I wasn’t eating up all y’r food.” His voice booms under your cheek, the vibrations lulling you to sleep. You’ve only just noticed how nice he sounds, it’s a captivating timbre, rough and scratchy like bark but comforting and unyielding in a way you’ve never known anyone to sound. “Ya would’ve been fine without me, anyways. Don’t sell y’rself short.”

“I think it’s you who’s selling yourself short.”

Those are the last words exchanged between you before you two fall asleep.

—————————

“Fuck you up to?” Toji grouses. 

His voice is laced with sleep and he’s rubbing his eyes, all bleary and confused. He has every right to be considering you’re under the covers, mouthing at his dick and stroking the morning wood that woke up before him. The duvet gets pulled up, revealing your less than innocent smile. 

Kissing his slit, which prompts a heavy hand to lay on your head, you ask, “Waking you up?”

An arm folds under his head, getting him into a great angle to see you much more clearly. His brow rises up, challenging, and he teases, “Yeah? Well, I’m up, ma, so what now?”

The radiators have yet to be turned on this morning so the air is chilly in your room, but still you push those covers back, showing him how you’re completely bare in the bottom, wearing only your shirt to bed. His spare hand falls on your plump thigh, squeezing and kneading. 

“Last night,” you begin, raising your hip so you can seat yourself down on his hard length, “you told me you’d only fuck me if I hopped on your dick willingly. So here I am.”

You’re rubbing your already soaked pussy up and down on his cock, coating him with your wetness just as he did last night. You feel every delectable ridge catching your clit and you grind down on him with shameless abandon. How could you ever possibly feel shame when it feels so good and he’s not even inside you yet? When he’s looking at you like that? Like you’re the tastiest prey who’s ever walked into his trap?

He pushes a thumb into your mouth, watching your lips wrap around it like you did the night before and this morning, before he drops his hand to the apex of your thighs, massaging tight circles into that bundle of nerves, forcing breathless moans out of you. “Ya gonna ride me, doll? Gonna show me just how willing you are?”

“Uhuh.” Grinning, you let him pull the shirt up and over your head, nipples pebbling immediately. He flicks one, palming the fatty globe to soothe the dull pain.

Steadying yourself with your hands on his abs, you lean forward and steal a kiss. It’s supposed to be a peck, just a polite, cursory smooch but then he stops groping your tit to use that hand to keep your faced pressed to his. Toji deepens the kiss, shoving his tongue inside and exploring your mouth. He’s stealing air from you and the longer he keeps you submerged, the more you moan. 

In the haze of the heat he’s growling into you, you fail to realise he’s let go of your head and is now slotting his cock into your pussy. 

“W-wait, Toji!”

The stretch is overwhelming; you hadn’t prepped yourself enough but neither of you seem to care. It’s hard to when his cock head is already pushing through that tight ring of muscle and is worming its way deeper inside you. 

He hisses. “So fucking tight! Fuck, gotta relax, ma.”

“I’m -ngh- trying!”

Down and down, your cunt swallows as much of him as it can. You’ve pushed yourself upright, using gravity to aid the descent. Nothing else in the room has his attention. Nothing could ever take his attention. “Oh fuck, would you look at that? Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she? Dirty girl heh.”

You bottom out, lips tickled by the hairs at his base. 

“You’re so big, Toji.”

Both of his arms reach for you, gripping your ass and lifting you up just a little only to let go and let you drop down. You screech. He’s reaching every part of you inside, and when you look down, you’re so certain you can see the outline of him pushing through your stomach. You clench.

“Ah, fuck! Don’t do that,” he scolds you. “Start moving before I get bored.”

The threat makes you frown but you do as he says anyways. Mustering all the strength you have, you start riding him, rising higher and higher each time until you get comfortable with his size. You can’t imagine any amount of prep would ever get you to take him with ease, but the overflowing juices coming from you is certainly helping; it leaves his hairs dewy. 

Years past, or so it feels, as you grind and slide down on his length, and he doesn’t seem the least bit affected. That only fuels you harder. With a vendetta, you get up on your knees, keeping just his tip in, before you slam down. 

You both moan. 

“Fuck!”

His hands dig into your slippery flesh, careful of his sharp claws, but threatening to leave bruises just as he promised. The way he’s poking that sensitive spot inside you has you whimpering with every grind at just the right angle. You can’t imagine ever wanting to stop. Squelches after squelches echo in the room but there’s no shame you can muster, not when he feels so incredible.

The pain is quickly spiralling into pleasure and every part of him is pushing you to the edge— his strength, his length and girth, his low groans and hisses, the hairs that tickle your skin, and those eyes, scouring your features and not missing a single thing. 

Embarrassing sloshes and splats! are reverberating against the walls, just as the creaking of the bed frame, and the slapping of skin reach your ears. You’ve never heard yourself sound so dirty, so reckless, so downright pornographic. All of it is pulling you under even as the ache in your thighs from the overuse of them is making your rhythm irregular and jerky.

“Gorgeous -ha- gorgeous girl,” he says through gritted teeth.

His point is emphasised by a slap against your ass cheek, the sting makes you fall over, back onto his chest which is sticky with both of your sweat mixing and mingling. The hairs on his chest brush against your nipples, still sensitive from his rough sucking and biting last night, and you whimper. 

Growling in your ear, he plants his feet onto the bed, and oh god, he’s grabbing your ass in both hands and you know without even having to look at him that he’s grown tired of your amateurish performance; Toji is taking matters into his own hand. 

“Guess I still gotta do the -hah fuck- work ‘round here. Always such a —ngh— princess. Hold on tight, ma, ’s gonna be a bumpy ride.” His laugh rumbles under your body and an eye roll is all you can manage before you’re being pummelled into from underneath, jostling you in all sorts of directions. 

Plunging his cock at an incredible speed, you feel him in your stomach, in your lungs, God it’s like he’s in your head, filling every fold and crevice with his beastly intensity. “Toji! No! Ngh, s-stop! I can’t, fuck it’s so good! Yes! Oh! Oh! Nooooooooo.”

“No, yes, no? Make up your mind, ma. Use that city girl head for me,” he growls out, punctuating his mean question with a cruel laugh. 

Bundling your hair into a careless fist, he yanks you back from his chest, forcing you to confront him. He’s not flushed, his face isn’t crumpled in desperation, he isn’t even out of breath. In fact, there would be no sign he’s enjoying this —you, being inside you, holding you — except for the bead of sweat trailing down his temple, drawing your attention to the way those jade beads are flickering between your eyes and your swollen lips. 

“Kiss?” You ask, breathlessly. 

Toji furrows his brows, something flashing in his gaze, something that resembles confusion, conflict, or hesitation. It’s so quick you wonder if you imagined it but there’s no time to ponder longer because he continues his incessant assault on your poor pussy, kissing your cervix with every thrust, practically rummaging your insides with the way he’s using you like a toy once again. 

It’s filthy, it’s carnal, animalistic and oh so good.

“Yeah.” He licks his lips, pearly white row of knives for teeth on perfect display. “Give me a big wet kiss, baby. Make it worth my -hngh fuck!- t-time.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to stretch forward, he slams his face to yours, smacking his plump lips, gobbling you up despite your moans of surprise. He shoves his tongue in with as much ferocity as he’s thrusting his cock inside your poor battered pussy. That tongue licks and explores like he can’t get enough, like he wants to memorise every curve and edge.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

A huge hand lays consecutive slaps against your ass again, the flesh rippling and burning. He times it with every thrust, heavy balls smacking your skin too. It’s all too much too soon and you feel an orgasm bubbling from your throat and your cunt. 

“W-what is that? Oh my god!” Something thick is attempting to enter your sloppy pussy, round and threatening. You squeal when it pushes in after a particularly merciless thrust and grind from Toji. The extra stretch brings about a sharp pain. You tear up. 

A hand that’s clutching an ass cheek ventures deeper, trailing a finger to a hole you’ve never touched. Smothered in his chest, the onslaught of stimulation from all angles is killing you. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to breathe, no one to turn to for help from the man making good on his promise to leave you bruised, sore, and all chewed up. 

“’s my knot, babygirl. Fuck, you really don’t know shit about hybrids, huh? Well, y’r gonna be educated soon.”

The dark, sadistic tone of his is making you dizzy. In a panic, you hastily say, “N-no! I can’t. Really, Toji! I r-really can’t. Pleaseeee.”

With your hair still in his grasp, your head’s tilted back once again, but this time to bare your slender neck. In one fell swoop, that bulge gets shoved inside your cunt, plugging you up, and his maw clamps down on your neck, so close to puncturing you with his savage teeth.

“Oh! I’m gonna cuummmm! Toji! T-Toji! Stop!” Your jaw drops, eyes rolling back, and your nails dig into his meaty pecs for purchase. It’s like electricity is wracking your body, sizzling every hair strand, tickling your nipples from inside. Grinding against his pelvis, your oversensitive clit is caught in his hairs, creating a remarkable friction you can’t escape. “Oh, fuuuuuuuuuck!”

Broken chuckles emerge from his sinful mouth, “Go on, ma. Cum on my cock, milk me, just like that, oh shit, such a good girl, fuck!”

His brutal pace splutters as he follows suit, balls clenching whilst your walls attempt to push out the invasion of his cock and his knot. A crazed laugh echoes right by your ear, you don’t know what’s so funny but stuttered moans are the only sounds you can make as you chase your high. 

“Ah, fuck, y’r so fucking tight. Practically -ha- choking me heh.”

You feel hot cum paint your insides, drizzling down your walls with nowhere to go. He’s thoroughly filled you and when you attempt to lift your hips to get up, you realise, he’s not letting you go any time soon. 

“Nice try, ma. Unfortunately for you, y’r stuck with me for about twenty minutes or so till it goes down. Probably should’ve bought condoms heh.”

“You should have given me a warning, Toji,” you mumble, pouting. 

Goosebumps litter your arms; the chill of the morning air is settling reminding you just how bare you really are. Thankfully you don’t have to suffer for too long because he’s shuffling so he can throw the covers over the both of you. With his natural body heat, you’re more than warm and cozy, especially as his burning cock is still inside you. 

He licks a dried trail of tears on your cheek. “Sorry. Thought you knew.”

“Well, I didn’t. This is my first time with a hybrid.”

Grunt. 

A beat or two passes, a comfortable silence humming between you. He’s so big and meaty it feels like you’re going to melt into him. Now that you’re not so distracted by cock and cum, and the morning light is shining through the curtains, you can see his scars much more clearly. He’s littered in them, some like slashes and others just scarred-over holes.

You have so many questions, none of them leave the tip of your tongue. 

“Ask.”

You pause. “Can I?”

Huff. 

“Okay,” you trail off. “Why do you have so many scars?”

Tickling your spine with his callouses fingers, he skims your back absentmindedly. You lay your chin on his chest, watching him look at somewhere in the corner of the room, clearly falling fast in an endless hole of memories. This is a rare opportunity to more about the enigmatic wolf-man who showed up at your doorstep in the middle of a snow-storm, claiming to have known your late grandmother. 

More silence fills the air. His fingers have stopped.

You nuzzle his jaw with your nose, burying it in his beard. It seems to snap him out of his daze. He grunts once more, licking your cheek, not to taste the salt on your skin, but as if to say ‘thanks’. 

“Been on my own for a while. For as long as I can remember, actually. It’s…tough out there. Not everyone is as nice as you and your gran.”

Carefully, you hazard a guess. “Were these from people? Hybrids or normies?”

He gropes your ass like a stress ball. 

“Both.”

“I mean, I’ve heard stories of the kind of abuse and discrimination hybrids face from normies, it’s quite prevalent in the city despite recent equality laws but why would your own kid hurt you? Aren’t you all in the same boat? Isn’t there some kind of…camaraderie? Sorry, is that insulting to assume?”

Spanking your ass, he huffs a laugh. “You’re adorable. No, don’t look at me like that, kid. It’s cute of you to think that’s how it works.”

“It isn’t?”

You don’t take offence to his patronising tone; you had expected to be wrong about aspects of hybrid life. Normal, average humans outnumber hybrids at a ratio of four to one. Some hybrids are lucky enough to be passing, kinda like Toji, but others carry visible signs of their anthropomorphic genes. The latter are rarely treated well despite the fact that they’ve existed just as long as normies have. They used to live in their own continents, building large civilisations far more expansive than humans have achieved at that time. 

But war is a cruel mistress.

For many reasons, humans and hybrids stayed away from each other. It was only relatively recently they’ve begin co-existing, even inter-mixing. The change has been hard for many people. Perhaps not most of society, but enough to make the idea of living as a hybrid make you grimace. 

“Nah,” he says, almost finishing his reply there until he sees your inquisitive eyes and he continues, “there’s lots of different kinds of hybrids. We don’t all like each other. And not all of us running the same race. There’s a lot of competition, suspicion and hatred. ’s always been the case.”

Nodding, you prod further. “And your scars? Did they come from bar brawls or something?”

“Some, yeah. Others from professional fights.”

You perk up. 

“Professional fights?”

In a flash, the cover is falling onto the floor and you’re upright once more. Toji’s pushed the both of you up and off the bed, holding you in his arms with his softening cock slipping out of your pussy. You scramble to gain better grip of him.

“Oh my god! Give a girl a little warning. God, Toji! It’s cold.”

He licks your ear. 

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. With ease, he carries you out of your room and into the bathroom. “Let’s wash up and start the day. ‘m starved.”

Rolling your eyes, you let him have this one chance at evading your question; you’re just pleased to have learnt a little more about him. It feels like he’s letting you in, presenting himself openly just for you. For a wild man like him, whose solitary despite his nature, this is the greatest gift he could give you.

Toji’s a thorough washer — he shampoos your hair better than you ever have and not a single crook or cranny gets overlooked. But as soon as you get clean, the so-called day doesn’t get started anytime soon when he falls to his knees and shoves his face into the apex of your thighs, making a loud sniifffff before he growls and laps up the mixed juices of his and your cum. 

In next three days that pass, you notice the dynamic between you shifts. 

For one, he no longer sleeps in his own room but rather in yours. He follows suit after dinner and removes his shirt, freshly showered and completely bare, and hands it to you wordlessly. You wear his shirt, and only his shirt, to bed. 

Lunch is no longer eaten separately. He joins you wherever you are, whether that’s in your room, all warm and cozy under a mountain of blankets, or on the sofa, also all warm and cozy under a mountain of blankets. You watch movies on your laptop and he never argues with your choices. Sometimes he just eats in silence, right beside you, as you read a book or stare out the window. 

Toji’s much more touchy now. Before, he was sneaking in grazes and quick gropes, now he’s lost all reservation and politeness. When you’re cooking, stirring something as you hum to music, he creeps up behind you, pinning your body to the counter with his hips and he wraps an arm around your torso to weigh a breast in his palm, squeezing and massaging for his own pleasure. 

He’ll tweak a nipple, pushing your hair back to skim his nose against the length of your neck, inhaling deeply and stopping to mouth wet kisses on that bruising around the teeth marks he’s left there.  Most times he’ll let you be after he’s had a fill of your softness, but sometimes he kneels behind you and tears apart your pants with a resounding SSSSSNAP! Before he laps up your pussy from behind, food coming out just a little more cooked than you’d like, though he never seems to mind. 

And it must be worth mentioning that the sex is constant. 

Every night and every morning. It isn’t a stretch to say that you eat, sleep and breathe sex with Toji. Which you honestly can’t complain about. It’s always so rough and so good every time. 

However, his insatiable appetite is making it ever so slightly hard for you after — there’s a perpetual soreness in your joints and in your pussy, you find yourself looking behind you to make sure that when you bend down to pick up whatever it is you’ve dropped he won’t be there playing with your cunt with his fingers and/or mouth. 

His hearing is incredible. 

Sometimes you hide just to time how long it takes for him to find your hiding spot. Longest time was three minutes. The cabin isn’t the biggest in the world but there are plenty of places to hide, like closets, under the bed, behind sofas and doors. 

Still hard at work fixing bits and pieces around the cabin, Toji somehow always knows when you’re up to some mischief. Maybe it’s because your heart starts beating faster or because you let out some giggles, envisioning that glint in his eyes and in his teeth when he grins at your pathetic attempts to escape him. 

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because your panties get soaked with anticipation for his rough, calloused hands throwing you over his shoulder and onto a bed, his or yours he doesn’t care, and fucking you into a drooling mess. Sometimes he even gets so impatient, so riled up, he just takes you wherever you are, your face smothered in a pile of folded clothes or against the wall with your panties dangling from an ankle. 

Everything has been great. So great in a way you’ve never known greatness to manifest. It’s somewhat akin to, what you can only imagine to be, the completely liberating sensation of flapping your wings and cruising high up in the sky or running through a stream, chasing a fish with no end in sight. It’s the kind of greatness men strive for all their lives but never reach because it’s a greatness they were already born into and never realise. 

The routine, the mundane, the ordinariness. 

It’s all so great. 

At night, you trace nonsensical words and shapes into his skin, smiling at the soft snores that vibrate under your head. You’ve always thought living every day the same as the day before and the day before that as a labyrinth you’ve been sentenced to die in, a cage or a prison of your own making. But now, you can’t imagine ever wanting more. 

Of course, it hasn’t been perfect.  

You still find some moments a little too boring but those are usually when he’s busy fixing a wobbly chair or grouting the tiles in the bathroom. And you do crave the feeling of driving through a long, empty road, or eating fast food. Those moments, thankfully, are hastily washed away once you feel his calloused hands tethering you back to him.

One other problem you’re having is his beard. As attractive as it is, it’s scratching up your thighs a little too much. You’ve noticed the rash forming between your legs; he has a penchant for eating you out at the drop of a hat and he’s not gentlemanly about it. At. All. You don’t ever want him to stop and the threatening snarl he makes every time you attempt to push him away from your swollen and overstimulated pussy never fails to halt your movements. 

So there’s only one solution.

“Toji?” He lazily drags his gaze up your bare legs, stopping by the hard nipples poking through shirt, and then he meets your gaze with a brow raised. “Would you ever consider shaving your beard?”

The growl of ‘no’ comes before you could even finish the word ‘shaving’. His jaw clenches and a muscle ticks. 

“But I can shave it for you. Being a woman, it’s kinda part of my existence. I’ll do you up real nice.”

“Hell will sooner freeze over before I let anyone put something sharp against my neck again. Even if they’re you.”

You drop it for now. 

At night, after hours of mind-blowing sex, you lay all sweaty and sleepy on his chest once more with a heavy arm slung over your waist. You twist the hairs on his face, rolling a couple strands between your fingers. They’re quite long and thick. You wonder when the last time he had shaved was. 

“Please?”

“No.”

You sigh. 

The next morning, you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the bathtub and attempting to rub some soothing ointment meant for your face onto the irritated skin of your inner thighs. It’s getting worse and you’re at a loss. Making it hard to walk, you’re cursing every god out there for doing this to you. 

Is his aversion to sharp objects near his head because of some trauma or an animalistic instinct? It’s hard to tell with hybrids, as the internet forums you’ve explored lecture — hybrids are both governed by human complexity and base biological instincts. Studies that have been done on them over the year have put forth some credible results but people are quick to put a disclaimer that animals in captivity rarely behave the way they would in the wild.

You sigh again.

Maybe you’ll have to tell him to stop eating you out. You cringe. That won’t go down well, pun intended, and you don’t want him to. Frowning, you carefully massage in the ointment, hissing at particularly sensitive spots. 

“Fine. You can shave it off,” he grumbles. 

You hadn’t even realised he was standing in the doorway, watching, and scratching his beard like he’s noticing, really noticing, the hairs on his face. One glance at the mirror across the room and he’s furrowing his brows, perhaps baffled at the man staring back at him. 

His tone is hostile, but his acquiescence makes you smile. 

About ten minutes later, you’ve sat him down on the edge of the bathtub, right where you were before, and you’ve assembled everything you need: razors, scissors, a comb, shaving cream, towels, and a tub of aloe vera to soothe any razor burns. Everything but the aloe vera is pretty pink, and you can’t help but giggle a little as you take a step back to admire this big, burly man surrounded by utterly feminine products. 

“Alright, I’ll start by trimming it, okay? I don’t want to come at it straight away and spook you, so let’s take it nice and slow.”

He huffs. “Don’t gotta talk to me like I’m a kid. Do what you gotta do.”

With the scissors and the comb, you cut away at his beard, snipping here and there and trying to get it all even. It’s not an easy job — he growls when you venture too low, past his jawline and closer to his Adam’s apple and when he makes that throaty sound, you’re met with images of him biting into your throat, the way a dog does when you step on its tail.

Terrible as it is to compare a biological human male like Toji to an animal, it’s a fair comparison considering his reliance on his animal instincts. It’s been abundantly clear in the way he uses his senses to gain his bearings, how he never expresses a desire beyond eating, sleeping and fucking. There’s no vanity coursing through his blood, he doesn’t stare at himself in reflections, doesn’t fix up his hair or put on clothes that fit or match, and even how he doesn’t ever say pretty words, only what he means, no more and no less. 

It’s nice. 

So used to the way people sugarcoated their complaints or hid ulterior motives in every sickly sweet words, adjusting to Toji’s matter-of-fact way of speaking had been somewhat difficult. 

But change is necessary. Just as the seasons change, so do animals, even humans. With how they adapt to the change in the wind, the drop in the temperature, the quake in the earth, you know without needing to ask questions or to have more time with him, the hybrid in front of you, part wolf and part man, has never had the luxury of being stagnant. 

It was clear when he showed up at your door with no bag, just the clothes on his back and the muddy, worn down boots on his feet. Even fully fed, lounging on the sofa by the fire with his feet and torso bare, you sense the tension freezing his body; he’s always ready to run. 

He snarls and flinches when he feels the cold blade of your scissors touch his skin. And then his hand grips your thigh, both in warning and to tether himself, perhaps to remind him you’re not a monster thirsting for blood, his blood, but rather just a woman. A woman he’s seen completely bare, a woman who’s crawled on all fours and nuzzled her face against the seam of his jeans when he returns from fixing a tile on the roof, and a woman who’s laid it all out for him, starting from what led you here and ending to where you want to be. 

Uncomfortable and on edge, you already know you’re not going to get very far with the way he’s being. He needs a distraction. 

You kiss him. He growls for a different reason this time. Fingers threading in your hair, he holds you down to him, tasting the sweetness you’re offering. He laps it up. “Toji, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Face burying into your neck, he takes a long inhale there. “I know.”

“I’m gonna get started on the shaving cream, okay?”

His grip on you tightens and you know he’s aware that razors are sharper than scissors, much like how his teeth are sharper than yours. You don’t want to know what events he’s lived through to be so hostile against the act of shaving but he isn’t an animal, not fully, anyways. 

He’s also a man. 

And men conquer. 

Even when they shouldn’t. 

You slide your panties down, dangling it in the air for a second, hesitating but you see the appraisal in his eyes, always so suspicious like he’s thinking of all the ways one could be killed with a scrap of lace. Dropping it on his face, you tell him, “I don’t see why only one of should be vulnerable here.”

Rumbling a pure sense of bliss, his eyes flutter shut and he sniffs at your panties. His hand flies up to your slit just as you’re smearing shaving cream all over his jaw, pulling the panties away from him for a second. 

“Seeing me all tense is getting you soaked?” His lip twitches. 

“Hey, now, let’s not even get started on that seeing as you’re pretty hard for someone suffering some internal battle.”

He gives you a rare grin. 

The rest of the torture goes on in relative peace — you shave him bit by bit, going slowly and keeping your touch gentle especially as you near the softness of his neck and when you go over it with the razor, he takes a deep inhale of your panties, trying to shake off that unnatural acceptance of something so dangerous, so compromising, so utterly unlike him. After every slither of skin you’ve rid of hair, you give him a kiss which he insists on deepening, shoving fingers into your cunt just to feel you clench down on him. 

Soon, he’s completely smooth and it’s only when you step back that you take it all in. He was handsome with the beard and he’s just as handsome now. He also looks more youthful, more boyish, and free. 

Toji comes to a stand, staring at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t say a word, neither do you. A barrage of thoughts pass through his mind, flashing and flickering. His fingers feel his skin, jerking at the complete bareness of it all. You can’t tell if he likes it, if he regrets his choice, and if he even recognises the man under all that wild and untamed hair. He had been running so long as a wolf, perhaps he’s forgotten how to walk as a man. 

That’s what you think, until he makes some gesture with his hand and he says, “Got no reason to push me away now, so spread those legs, ma. Let’s go for a test drive.”

You don’t leave that bathroom until hours later, sore, wet, sticky and thoroughly blissed out.

The next day, just before lunchtime, Toji goes to chop up some more wood for the fireplace whilst the snow has stopped falling just for today. You’re watching him through a window, bundled up in a blanket holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate, and not at all envious of him, what with the chilling weather and his lack of a coat. 

You really have to buy him one. He doesn’t look the least bit cold, which you don’t really understand, but still, something about the picture looks off. It’s not fair you get to be all comfortable, lazing around, and he’s hard at work. 

The phone rings. 

Your head snaps to the coffee table which your phone lies on, vibrating against the wood. A new number. When you answer, you’re surprised to recognise the voice immediately. 

“Hi. Yes, I’m managing quite fine.”

The old man sighs. “How glad am I to hear that. The storm has made it rather hard to get a hold of you and I certainly couldn’t make the journey up.”

“That’s quite alright. I really appreciate the thought, it’s very sweet of you.”

Exchanging pleasantries and talks about the various favours he owed your grandmother, over five minutes pass, and you’re itching to urge Toji back inside, fearing that he could drop dead at any second from the chill.

Eventually, and thankfully, the conversation nears an end with him insisting that as soon as the snow thaws enough you come on down for dinner at his home. He says his sons and their wives all love a good, hearty meal as a family. There are even grandchildren for you to play with should adults not be your speed. “Yes, yes, of course. That sounds great, thank you.”

“Alright, bye, dear. I’ll call back again to check up on you and please remember you can always call on me and my kids for help.”

Humming, you’re about to end the call when his tone changes. 

“Speaking of help,” he begins, clearing his throat. “How have you been managing to get on so well?”

Toji’s still chopping wood, swinging that heavy axe back behind his head and down in one smooth strike, cutting the log in a perfect half. You press your legs together, unable to take your eyes off his bulging biceps. You love when he shows off his strength, it comes so effortlessly to him, unlike the men where you’re from whose muscles are all for show, satisfying their own vanity and quelling their insecurities momentarily before they’re inhaling steroids like air. 

“Oh, you know, this man my grandmother befriended over the years came by and has been helping me out since. He’s quite familiar with the ins and outs of the cabin so I really couldn’t have done any of this without him. I’d like to bring him along to dinn—“

“A man?”

You frown. “Yeah, Toji. Surely you must have met him at some point since he and my grandmother were quite close.”

“I knew it! I knew I saw him here days ago. Oh, goodness. I’m so sorry you ran into him, but please stay away from him.”

What the hell is this man talking about?

“No, it’s Toji, he helped my granny during the winter months. He fixed things up for her and helped her get around. He was like a friend to her in ways me and my siblings should have been. He’s really nice, you’ll like him.”

The man in question is scratching his jaw, still getting used to being so bare, and he’s rolling his head around as if bothered by some crick in his neck. He’s got an impressive pile of logs waiting to be fed to the fireplace and you know he’s going to head back in any second now. For some reason, you feel guilty, like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be, talking to someone you shouldn’t talk to. 

“Y/n, listen to me. Please!” The urgency, the insistence, and desperation in the old man’s voice is palpable, a hand reaching through the screen and choking air right out from your lungs. Your heart begins galloping. “That man is a criminal. He’s wanted, a fugitive! H-he’s a killer.”

Confused and somewhat exasperated, you argue, “No, you’ve got the wrong man. I’m telling you, we’re talking about different people here.”

You can’t shake off the abrupt shift in his voice. From caring old man with a shaky baritone to a firm, military like precision. It’s as if you were talking to a completely different man.

A beat passes and you think he’s hung up, that this odd conversation is over and done with but one glance at the screen tells you differently. He doesn’t say a thing, and all you can hear is the rushing of the wind and grunts and thuds outside. 

Irritated by this entire farce, your thumb moves to press the end-call button but then you hear him on the other line.

“Does he have a scar on the corner of his mouth?”

The blood drains from your face.

“H-how did you know that?”

A noise of death and despair reaches your ears. He’s shouting something to someone else, you can hear their alarm, can feel the anxiety, the dread and terror in their voices, muffled as they are. “Get away from him. Get away from him now! Do whatever you can. You mustn’t let him get his hands on you. H-he’s one of them. One of those abominations. A hybrid, a dangerous kind.”

“What are you talking about? Just tell me what’s happening, please, you’re not making sense right now.”

“He killed your grandmother!”

You drop your mug. It shatters by your feet. The creamy chocolate milk pools into a puddle, soaking your socks. There’s ceramic chipping littering the floor and you can’t move, can’t go anywhere without taking a big leap. 

Slowly, you look up from your phone screen, hearing subdued questions of fear and panic on the other end. Through the window, you meet Toji’s eyes. 

He’s looking right at you.

You hang up. 

It takes three seconds for him to get to the door, pushing it open. He shakes off the snow off his boots, banging them against the doorframe, and the axe he had been holding is set down by the shoe rack, the metal clinking, as he enters. Light from the ceiling bulb reflects directly off the sharpest point, shining in your eyes. Are necks harder to cut through than wood?

“Ya alright?”

Plastering a cheerful smile, you nod. 

He doesn’t look convinced. 

In a blink, he’s in front of you, cradling your face in one cold hand. He tilts your chin back and searches your eyes. He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for so he sniffs the air and his eyes darken. Slowly, like you’re a deer, he asks, “What are you so afraid of?”

“Oh, nothing. Really. I was just reading the news online and stumbled across articles about the war in that country in the East, y’know, the one with the hospital bombing. It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t read it,” he says. “Show me.”

Your heart beats impossibly faster. You know he can hear it. There’s no way he can’t with his wolfish hearing and with a finger on your pulse. Maybe that’s why his other hand, just as cold, wraps around your wrist and he tugs it towards him. His nails scrape against your skin and his hand eats up your wrist entirely, middle finger folding over his thumb. At any given second, he can snap the bone there and not bat an eye. 

Laughing nervously, you tug your hand back, to no avail. With a forced nonchalant tone, you inform him, “I wanna get all cleaned up. I feel a little icky, and all sweaty and sticky from this morning so I’m just gonna take a nice long bath.”

He lets you shake him off but only after he’s taken the phone out of your death grip. He can’t unlock it, he doesn’t the password. But that was never his intention. He doesn’t even look down on the screen. As fast as you can without looking panicked, you stumble away from his reach and towards the door. 

“Y/n.”

Your smile shakes.

“What did they tell you?”

Your smile falls off altogether. 

“Toji,” you begin, “p-please, let’s not do this.”

His scar twitches and when he makes a step towards you, you step back. There. You almost missed it, almost blinked and lost your footing. But his eyes unmistakably flicker from you and to the side, by the door, at the shoe rack. You don’t need to turn back to know what exactly he’s eyeing. Calmly, he asserts, “You won’t last an hour outside. You won’t even reach the forest’s edge before I get to you. You don’t know your way down. And if it ain’t me, it’ll be the elements that’ll kill ya. Be wise, kid.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

With the scarlet blanket still hanging off you, you dash towards the door, pulling the shoe rack behind you and the sound of clattering and a thud forces your legs pumping. 

You run. 

You run and you don’t look back, you don’t stop, not even for a second, not even when your socks are soaked with snow and not melted chocolate. The trees welcome you as you dash in between trunks, lunging over thick roots and dodging low hanging branches. You don’t know where you’re going, where you can go. 

A sob rises from your throat, clawing its way out. 

He was right. You don’t know your way down and the freeze is creeping in, frosting over your veins and seeping into your bones. The movies show the power of adrenaline all the time, how it’ll wash away any and all feelings that aren’t helpful for survival, but it’s not enough. 

Your muscles are aching, your cheeks are burning and your fingers are beginning to itch and tingle. You weren’t meant for survival. You weren’t meant to put up a fight. 

When he gets to you, he’ll snuff the light right out of your eyes with one swipe of his arm. You’ve seen what he can do with those hands, you’ve felt the way they wrangled you into position, hell you’ve drooled over the bruises he’s left on you. And you never once thought you’d be running from the hands that dragged you over a cliff of pleasure, that carried you around, and touched you so soothingly.

Without needing to hear heavy footfall, you know he’s after you. You have animalistic instincts too. 

A dead woman running is what you are. You were dead as soon as you picked up that phone call. 

No. 

You were dead the moment you opened the door. 

“Fuck!” You scream. Ignoring the ache in your legs and the pain in your ankles, you sprint as fast as you can. Your body’s being pushed to its limits; you’ve never ran like this before. Granted, you’ve never been chased by a murderer either. 

The absurd turn of event make you laugh, deranged and broken, and it echoes around the forest. As far as you can see, there’s only trees and snow, perfectly white, pristine snow. There are no roads, no houses, no people. No one to help. No one that can hear you scream. 

You should have stayed in the city, should have never left, should have never gotten bored. Spontaneity isn’t your thing and you’re learning it the hard way. There’ll never be an opportunity to put into practice the moral of the story that’s being engraved into your DNA right now. No one will even notice you’re gone — you aren’t close with your family, and you don’t have friends, not really anyways.

There will be no mourning, no grieving, there won’t even be a goddamn funeral. 

Heart threatening to tear through your body, you collapse against a tree. You’re panting, chest heaving as you gulp down as much air as possible. The bark scratches your forehead but you can’t muster a shred of care, not when every limb is shaking both from the cold and the effort.

There are an array of shallow cuts all over your arms and face from where low hanging branches have whipped against your skin, attempting to get you in their clutches, to slow you down. The forest isn’t your friend. This isn’t your domain, It’s his.

“Y/n!”

You smother the startled cry with the palm of your hand.

He’s near.

Tears stream down your face, falling onto the snow beneath you. Numb, you briefly worry you’ve lost your feet altogether. One glance down disproves that but you’re still not convinced. You hug the blanket closer around you; it does absolutely nothing to keep the warmth in and the cold out. And yet, you can’t bear to let it go. 

“I can hear you.”

Lips quivering, you bite down hard. Iron lays on your tongue. There’s nowhere to go. He had found you so quickly and he knows the forest better than you. How many times had he made the trip to that cabin? How many times had he sought out your grandmother? Had smiled at her, chopped up wood for her, had collected groceries and medicines? How many times had she let him in every time he knocked, every time he emerged from the shadows and soaked up the warmth of her kindness?

What were her last words? 

No, please, don’t! Spare me?

Or why, Toji, why?

What will be yours?

A flash of movement catches your eye. He’s not panting like you, he’s not even sweating. When he steps forward, brushing his hair back, you don’t fail to notice he didn’t come empty handed. 

His eyes glint, sharper than the axe he carries, and he’s roving over your features, watching you tremble. One sniff and his scar is stretching. 

“Y’r afraid.”

“Yeah, no f-fucking kidding!”

Even as he keeps his voice deceptively soft, much like how it is when he’s lulling you to sleep, you can’t stop staring at the axe. That stupid fucking axe he just had to bring with him. You sob. 

“Just leave me alone, please.”

Scoffing, he steps closer once more. “Not even gonna ask if I did or didn’t?”

You shake your head. 

“Don’t do this. Please, don’t do this.”

He lunges, pinning you to a tree with a forearm to your throat. Radiating heat, your body betrays you and presses closer to him, desperate to envelope yourself in that warmth. You want nothing more than to be back in bed with him, oblivious to the rest of the world. You want to go back to before that phone call and make it so that you never found out, so that you never picked up the damn phone. 

Teeth snapping a hair’s breadth away from your nose, he demands, “Ask.”

“Did you?” You scream at him. “Did you kill my fucking grandmother? After everything she did for you? After she showed you kindness and hospitality and gave you friendship? Did you kill her even after she begged? Did you watch the life fade from her eyes knowing she never got to say goodbye to me? To any of us?”

His glare softens. There’s a tenderness swirling in those green eyes, a fervour and understanding that thaws your heart. He looks like the Toji you know, or rather, knew. He looks like the Toji that had pushed himself to trek in the snow for hours so you can be fed, the Toji that kept you company every day, that fixed things without needing to be asked, the one that made you coffee and knew just how you liked it, the one that traced patterns you had drawn him on your skin when he thought you weren’t awake. 

“Did you kill her?”

Scar grazing your lips as he inhales the shampoo from your hair, you feel his answer just as well as you hear it. 

“Yes.”

A gunshot resounds in the air. It’s sharp and startling, cutting through the crisp silence with a violent roar. The sound lingers in the air, echoing and rattling your bones like it had been fired inside you. 

“Get the fuck away from her, beast!”

You turn to the side. A man you don’t recognise is standing metres away holding a shotgun. His face is contorted in rage, creating deep shadows and wrinkles that make him look infinitely older than he likely is. Smoke wisps away from the barrel of his fun, pointed at the sky. A warning shot. 

Toji pushes you behind him as he growls. 

“Fuck off. She’s mine.”

You trip over your blanket. Through his legs, you see that man lower the gun till it points in your direction. You’re frozen in place. 

“Let her go and turn yourself in. An animal like you needs to be muzzled and put down,” the man spits, venom flooding his words. He looks at you. “Come here. My father sent me. You know him.” 

Stumbling to a stand on shaky knees, you back away from Toji, going around the tree and making your way to the other side. He doesn’t stop you, just watches every move you make as if you’re standing in a field of landmines. His grip on the axe doesn’t loosen and he makes no sign he’s going to give himself up. 

“T-Toji, don’t fight, please just come with us. If you give yourself up, maybe they’ll go easy on you,” you plead. 

He growls, grimacing. He’s contemplating it. That means everything to you. In some sick, pathetic joke, you actually pity him. There’s still a huge part of you that cares, that wants what’s best for him, that loves him. But that part needs to be extinguished because he’s a cold blooded killer and he’ll turn those murderous hands on you. 

Leg jerking, he makes a step towards you. It feels so right, you mirror his movement, like this one act, one sacrifice makes up for everything, like it erases the sins of his past and washes away the blood on his hands. 

“Ahh!” You’re yanked back by your hair. 

“Don’t get near him, you stupid bitch! He’s a fucking mongrel.”

The snarl that ripples from Toji’s throat pierces through haze, rustling the branches up above and forcing a flock of birds up and away. He charges towards you, axe raised up high and you shake yourself from the man’s clutches, jumping out of the way just in time before bodies collide and they both fall. 

Rolling away, you bundle up the blanket you’re shielding yourself with and cry into it. The sound of bodies being beaten, arms bent, stomachs kicked and necks bitten into make you cringe. You cry harder. You don’t dare look at who’s winning, you can’t bring yourself to look. It’s because you don’t want to see the violence, don’t want to see blood, but there’s a voice screaming that it’s because you’ll die if the one who walks away from this isn’t Toji. 

“Don’t fucking touch her!”

“Get the fuck off me! You filthy mutt!”

You’re digging your nails into the bark of a tree, flinching with every blow. You hear fists slamming into flesh, each punch a blunt weapon bruising and breaking, bone-crushing swings whistling through air followed by sharp exhales of pain and vomit-inducing cracks and pops. The struggle is relentless, blow after blow, and you hear the gun clatter as it’s kicked to the side. 

SNAP!

“You should have never come back! You should have died on the side of the street after what you did to that woman”

POP!

“Ahhh! Fuck!”

SMACK! 

“Ya don’t know shit!”

The trees are spectators, moaning and whistling in protest at the unholy sight, at the splatters of blood contaminating their ranks. The branches shake in warning but no one is listening.

Whimpering, you hum a song, trying to block out the repulsive sounds of senseless violence. You should have never been here. You never visited because you couldn’t stand the isolation of a cabin in the mountains, couldn’t stand the unconditional love your grandmother gave you, of which you knew then and you know now, you were never deserving of.

If you had been dutiful and even had a fraction of her selflessness, you would have taken care of her so that she never relied on a man with sharp senses and a dangerous smile.

If you had been a good granddaughter, that man would be roaming the world, unburdened by material possession and human attachments. He wouldn’t be beating a man black and blue, wouldn’t be tearing flesh from bone, wouldn’t be debasing himself for your sake, or his. You don’t know anymore.

You turn to yell at him to stop, for him to run instead. But your words are swallowed by a gunshot. 

A body falls to the floor in a dull thud. Crimson dyes the snow, puddling into a shade so dark you could always persuade yourself it’s not what you think it is. Time slows. You can see every flake of snow pause in the air, you can count them, can collect them in your hands. The wind has disappeared, leaving behind a stillness in the air that’s suffocating, choking you from inside. Even the trees have stopped their moaning.

Your heart stops beating.

Someone stands over the body, holding a smoking gun, and it isn’t who you wanted it to be.

“Toji!” You scramble over, hands shaking harder than ever before. 

He’s clutching his chest. Hot liquid drenches your pants. You didn’t realise fresh blood would be so warm and you wish so badly it wasn’t because it means that the warmth that should be inside him is leaving, being absorbed by the ground, by you.

Green eyes, dulling, meet yours. He smiles. “She asked me to. She was in pain. Couldn’t make it down through the snow. She asked me.”

“N-no, stop it. Save your breath, please.” Through your sobs, you turn to the nameless man, pale under the cuts all over his face as the snow and shuddering from the shock of what he had done. “Call the ambulance! Call somebody! Please!”

“C-car. I-it’s in my car.” Staggering back, he drops the gun and fishes out his keys, muttering frenzied apologies under his breath. He limps his way back, weaving through the trees.  

Despite having less cuts and bruises, he’s in much worser state. His chest heaves and you’re trying to press down on the wound like you’ve seen in the movies but you don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know whether you’re supposed to be smothering the hole with a dirty blanket or if you should be performing CPR. No one had ever trained you for this. This wasn’t covered in any of those HR meetings. “Oh, god, Toji. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Oh. God. I’m so so sorry.”

Lifting a limp hand, he brushes a tear away only for it to be replaced by a hundred more. He huffs a weak laugh at the blood he smears on your face and he tries to brush that away too.

“I’d always wanted to meet you. She spoke of how beautiful, how kind and generous you are. Her favourite. Didn’t believe her, y’know? I thought, no one could possibly be that nice if they never even visit their gran. But I’d always wanted to know for myself.”

You shake your head. He shouldn’t be speaking. He should be saving his breath, should be focusing on keeping awake until help arrives. “Stop. Please, just stop. Don’t waste your energy on me. I-I don’t deserve it. I should have listened, should have heard you out. Oh, god, Toji.”

He huffs an amused laugh. He sounds so clear, so loud, so alive you could actually convince yourself he doesn’t have a bleeding hole in his chest. But you can’t because you can feel the blood flowing out, it’s caking your legs and your hands. 

“You wanna know what I think, ma?” Pulling you close, you don’t fight his grip. Through your whimpers, you press your ear to his lips, holding him close like you could will your own warmth to him, like you could jostle you both back to consciousness. “I think y’r even more beautiful than she said. My gorgeous gorgeous girl. Mine.”

It’s unclear if he said anything else after that; you could only hear your own pleadings and sobbing as his arms fall limp and his body grows cold. There came rustling from all over the forest like they heard a tree fell, a mighty and sturdy tree. They warned you. There are consequences to dirtying the snow’s purity, to upsetting the balance. That’s a lesson all animals know. But the battle that had gone on here wasn’t committed by preys and predators. Just men. 

And men never learn their lesson until it’s far too late. 

The trees cry with you.

For you.

When the marching of people came some time later, all yelling and barking orders to each other, they found you lying on his chest, just as you had for many nights and had imagined you would every night after, with a red blanket pulled over the both of you. 

There, silent as a lamb, you slept. 

A tear-stricken city girl and her big, bad wolf. 

Neither of which would ever live again. 

[bloodyboi]

[alltheirdamn]

A Bounty for Reward (Mando x f!reader)

CHAPTER 9

Summary: Running isn't always as easy as it sounds. Warnings: unprotected piv sex, praise kink, creampie, cum eating/light cum play, soft!mando, some teasing per usual, a fuck ton of angst you might cry (maybe?) Word Count: 8.4k A/N: I just love angst too much, okay? Anyway... this chapter and the next are *Certified* my favorites

Early the next morning, Mando flew the Crest to the deeper parts of the forest outside the village. It was secluded and quiet and further off-grid than you were hoping for. If you wanted to make a plan to leave, this was taking you several steps back. 

He was being extra sweet as the morning faded into early afternoon, speaking softly and leaving faint touches on you as you passed in the cargo hold. Each touch was another brutal reminder of that tether pulling between you, that inescapable feeling that something was keeping you both intertwined. You wanted to hit your head against the metal walls and get a grip, but he was making it so fucking hard. 

And he was keeping good on his word and not treating you differently. He even agreed to train with you, promising weapons and a longer session once the afternoon sun peaked. Shedding those secrets yesterday felt like a burden lifted from your chest, yet that anger still festered deep inside you, waiting to escape at any moment. If you could fight Mando, you could lessen those bubbling emotions.

Outside in the clearing, Mando kept a tight grip on his blade, leveling it with his body as he beckoned you to make the first move. You crouched low, aiming for his thigh, only for him to deflect it before you could even get within a foot of his body. His free hand grabbed your wrist, locking it in a vice until your blade fell with a light thud in the grass.

“Fuck,” you snapped.

That rage was crawling up your spine, torching your nerves. You picked up your blade and got into a defense position as you waited for Mando to strike. He advanced on you slowly, his steps calm and calculated up until the last moment when his weapon came shooting out to slice at your bicep. You stepped back in time to escape his strike, blocking your face with one arm and returning a strike at his shoulder. His other hand caught your forearm, twisting it until you yelped. Thinking fast, you drove a knee up into his abdomen, the bone hitting his armor belt on impact. Pain erupted through your body, and you staggered back, winded from the fight.

“You alright?” Mando asked, his breath ragged. He clasped a hand on your shoulder as you bent over heaving. 

Giving him no time, you sliced upwards, nicking the fabric between his cowl and chest. It wasn’t forceful enough to hit skin, but enough to surprise him and send him reeling backward. You straightened with a wide grin on your face, flipping your knife in your hand casually. 

“Don’t let your guard down, Mando,” you shrugged.

He tossed the blade from his hand, charging at you full force. You managed to dodge him, sliding to the left and breaking into a full sprint. The thrill of a chase pounded in your chest as you took off into the empty clearing, the tall grass dying beneath your feet. Your blood was pounding in your ears loud enough to drown out his footsteps behind you, and you felt free. Maybe this was your shot; maybe you could outrun him. 

But that thought died quickly as a sharp cable looped around your right leg, sending you down into the earth hard. Thankfully, you had enough time to brace yourself before the strength of the cable dragged you backward toward Mando. Your nails clawed at the soil beneath you as you tried fighting against it, but your strength was no match for the weapon on his belt. 

Mando’s hands were on your shoulders in an instant, flipping you over to reveal your muddied shirt and face. With him looming over you in all his armored glory, your body flushed a deep red, the heat crawling over your chest and neck. He crouched down, unwinding the cable from your calf, massaging the skin under your pant leg slowly. 

“Never run from a bounty hunter,” he warned. “They’ll always catch you.”

They’ll always catch you. 

You tried to cool your expression as the words washed over you, draining all the heat and color from your body. Did he know? Of course, he didn’t; he was just taunting you in the heat of the moment. 

“Well, you made a nice mess of me with that stunt,” you huffed, sitting up to rest on your forearms. 

“Could make even more of a mess of you for running away from me.”

“Is that a threat?” You smirked.

Mando crawled over you, his helmet a breath away from your face. You pressed your body up into his, letting your breasts rub against his chest plate. It smeared mud against the shiny metal, and you laughed softly.

“Looks like you’re just as messy as me.”

“You wanna fight dirty?” Mando challenged.

“Yeah, I do.”

Hooking your leg around his waist, you used all your energy to spin him over and pin him beneath you. Mando’s hands found their familiar place on your hips, his grip holding you firm as you straddled him. With one slow grind of your hips, he exhaled a groan, and you relished in the feeling of his cock growing hard against your ass. 

“I like you underneath me,” you hummed, rolling your hips again.

Mando’s fingers dug into the exposed skin of your waist, your shirt long having ridden up from the fight. You placed your hands on his shoulder pauldrons as you ground against the fabric of his suit, the friction shooting waves of pleasure through your core. You could push the doubts aside if you pacified it with a distraction. And he was the perfect distraction.

“Make yourself cum, angel. Let me watch you fall apart.”

“No touching.”

He let his fingers slip away from your waist, setting them behind his helmet as he gazed up at you, silently waiting and watching. You indulged in his request, moving your hips in earnest against the hardened outline of his cock. The drag of your clit against it was intoxicating, and you drew circles until you found the right pattern to shatter you into oblivion. You were all too aware that you were in the wide open space of the forest, completely exposed to any possible threat, but that didn’t stop you from pressing your body down harder onto him. If anything, it fueled the fire inside you even more, your movements growing more desperate and out of control. You scrapped your nails against the metal of his pauldrons as your core clenched one final time. Your release escaped from you with a loud moan, the sound filling the space around you. 

“Look at the mess you made,” he taunted, tilting his visor toward the obvious wet spot on your pants. 

You muttered some sort of jumbled nonsense as you slumped against his chest, too blissed out to care that your cunt had drenched your pants and his. 

“Too bad you can’t taste it,” you tossed back. 

What the fuck? 

Why would you say something like that? It completely went against his Creed to remove his helmet, let alone remove it to taste you. That thought pushed beyond all boundaries, and you weren’t quick enough to swallow those words.

“You have no fucking idea how bad I want to taste you,” he growled, letting a hand coast down your back to deliver a sharp slap against your ass. 

“I can taste for the both of us,” you whispered.

Positioning yourself back up onto his lap, you trailed a hand down your stomach and let your fingers dance under the waistband of your underwear. Swiping a finger through your wet folds, you brought the glistening digit to your lips and eyed him as you sucked it clean. Mando’s body went rigid under you, his hands flexing against your backside. 

“Again,” he ordered.

You repeated the motion, letting the taste of your release coat your tongue. Before you could even swallow, Mando’s hand came up to your jaw, holding it firm.

“Let me see.”

Your lips twitched with a smile as you opened your mouth wide. His gloved thumb ran across your bottom lip and slowly pushed into your mouth. You wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking on the fabric of his glove until you heard him inhale a sharp breath. 

“Tell me I can fuck you.”

You released his thumb with a gentle pop, nodding mindlessly at his request.

“Please,” you begged. 

With that one simple word, Mando had you thrown onto the grass, positioning you on all fours. He made quick work of yanking your pants down your thighs, the light afternoon breeze sending a shiver over your exposed skin. 

“So fucking wet for me, baby,” he groaned.

You preened at his words, humming as he slid a finger inside your aching cunt. Maker, if he didn’t fuck you soon, you’d go mad. You heard the zipper of his suit roll down and the quick brush of the tip of his cock against your entrance. Yes. You needed this. You needed to clear your mind and forget all the ways you’d hurt him when you decided to run. This was the last time, you told yourself. 

Mando pushed into you slowly, letting your body adjust to his cock as it stretched you out. You groaned into the soil beneath you, paying little mind to the mud smearing across your cheek as you braced against the ground. Mando rocked into you slowly at first, finding that perfect rhythm that made you clench around his cock, and then began pistoning into you. You cried out as he drove into you, each thrust hitting you at the core. 

“This pussy is mine,” he growled with each snap of his hips. “No one will ever touch you again.”

You were too dazed to analyze his words or think of anything other than the swelling warmth inside you. He wanted you for himself? Fine, he could have you. He could take anything he wanted, and you’d give it to him willingly. It didn’t change the fact that you’d leave him; your emotions were slowly crawling behind the walls you had built before.

But then, in that moment, you craved the way he fucked you. You focused on the thrum of your heartbeat, the pulse throbbing in your clit, the feel of his cock buried inside you. You cursed into the ground, your teeth gnashing together as that euphoric surge of release splintered across your nerves. You clenched around his cock, your cunt fluttering through the aftershocks of your orgasms, yet he didn’t let up.

“Mando…” You whined.

His hand smoothed over the soft skin of your ass as he crooned out various praises. 

Taking me so good, angel. 

Fucking love how you feel wrapped around my cock. 

Give me more.

You were putty in his hands, and you melted at every syllable dripping through the modulator of his helmet. You wanted the praise. You wanted the release. You wanted this.

“So fucking beautiful,” he exhaled, a hand wrapping around your hair.

He tugged at it gently, your neck craning upwards. The sky above you blurred as another bubbling release coursed through your stomach. You blinked back tears as the tremors tore through you and set your nerves alight. Mando grunted with a final snap of his hips, spilling into you until you felt his release seep out of your aching cunt. 

Releasing his grip on your hair, you felt his fingers work through the tangles knotting at the base of your neck, soothing you as you let your body rest against the ground. He kept his cock sheathed inside of you for several moments, the warmth of his body pressed against yours the perfect salve for the ache inside you. 

Even when it was rough, he made sure to care for you—something no one else had done before.

“Was it too much?” He asked, finally pulling out of you and shimming your pants back onto your hips. You could still feel his cum leaking out of you, and a guilty part of you loved it.

You shook your head as best as possible, your body still fighting off the shakes that traveled up your thighs. Rolling onto your back, you stared at him as he hovered over you. 

“Never too much,” you exhaled.

Mando sat back on his heels and offered a hand to pull you up. He rubbed at your cheek, most likely cleaning the mud from your face and let his hand come down to caress the side of your neck. Maker, each soft touch was another knife to the chest as you tried to remind yourself of what you needed to do.

This was the last time.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, angel.” 

He hauled you to your feet, leading you back to the Crest as you walked on shaky legs. You knew you’d be sore for days, which didn’t make the idea of running sound pleasant. But regardless, you were leaving. You had to. 

After a long time spent alone under the spray of water, you emerged from the refresher with damp hair and a few scatters of bruises. Maybe a year ago, the faint black and blue color on your skin would have repulsed you, but you didn’t mind this time. It was Mando that left them there, and the thought of carrying those marks with you when you left was strangely comforting. 

Mando wasn’t in the hull, and you heard his voice from the cockpit as you climbed the ladder, his voice clipped and short.

“I had to make an unexpected stop in Sorgan,” you heard him say.

“Well, if you’re interested in a few more credits, I’ve got word of a bounty on the planet.” 

It was Greef Karga, and you would know that lively voice anywhere. He was a talker and a good one at that. You only recalled hearing his voice once, and that had been the same day Mando killed a man for you. 

“Send me the coordinates.” 

Silence followed Mando’s words, and you took it as an invitation to enter the cockpit. He turned in his pilot's seat, staring at you slightly longer than usual. 

“Guild business?” You asked.

“It’ll be a quick hunt,” he assured you. “You’re safe here.”

You masked the bubbling anxiety as it accelerated your heart rate. If Mando were leaving for a hunt, it would be the perfect opportunity to run. 

“When do you leave?” You tried not to sound too eager. 

“Tonight.”

“You’ll be back in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?” You wanted him to think you were worried. And truthfully, you were worried. You were worried you’d get caught and worried he’d get hurt.

“I promise, angel.”

You nodded, swaying in the spot you stood. He motioned for you to join him, and though you felt hesitant, you relented and sat beside him. You didn’t know how to fill the silence this time; you were too focused on the thousands of strategies to leave. You’d need to make sure you had your knife with you and some sense of awareness of where the fuck you were. You were off-grid on Sorgan, but you knew they had a docking port somewhere. If you could get in proximity to the village again, maybe you’d find your way to the port. You’d find a way to tuck a few of Mando’s credits in your pocket and buy yourself transport back to Coruscant. Leaving him would mean you’d have no protection, but that hadn’t stopped you before. You managed to survive a few months on your own, and if anything, being around Mando had taught you how to fight and survive. 

“You’re quiet,” Mando commented. 

His voice startled you out of your daze and drew you back to the present. You stared at the red lights flashing on the nav panel, trying so hard not to look at him for fear of risking everything. 

“You’re the one famously known to be quiet,” you tossed back. 

“Hmm,” was his only response. 

Another beat of silence passed, and he spoke up again. 

“Your parents. What were they like?”

Your eyes tore away from the nav panel and straight to his helmet. 

“What?” You balked. 

“I’m just trying to make small talk, angel.”

“But why do you want to know about them?” You were on the defense now. 

He shrugged, tilting his helmet. 

“Because I want to know about you.”

Maker, had this been any other time, the sentiment may have been welcomed. You’d happily talk about them—even if it hurt—and share those parts of your life with him. But now, the more you shared, the worse it would hurt. He’d leave tonight thinking you’d be here in the morning and everything would be fine, but it wouldn’t be. He would return to an empty ship and one less bounty to worry about. Because at the end of the day, that’s what you were. What you had always been from the start. 

“They were…” A lump formed in your throat as you tried to string some sentences. “They were normal. My father had owned the junkyard his entire life. I grew up learning how to rebuild speeders and droids before I could even walk. My mother tried to stay out of the way. She was always cautious about the trades he made or the business he took in.”

“How did he end up getting mixed up with the Pykes?”

You sighed, rubbing a hand across your forehead, no doubt a headache on the horizon. 

“I honestly don’t know,” you said. “He didn’t tell me much about the deals or the people he made them with. I usually stayed inside when traders came to the yard, but when Kesi came that day, I was finishing working on a new prototype of a speeder. It was the end of the workday, and my mother was waiting for us to clean up to join her for dinner when they came by. My father was never one to back down from conflict… he was stubborn.”

“That’s where you get it,” he huffed lightly. 

You couldn’t help but laugh, too. 

“I am my father’s daughter.”

“What would have been your life if Kesi never came around?”

You hit your head against the headrest, closing your eyes to hide the tears that stung your waterline. Why the fuck was he asking so many questions? Why did he care? 

“I don’t know, Mando.” There was a bite to your words. “I never saw myself leaving Mos Eisley, so maybe the junkyard would have been mine one day.”

“Would you ever want that? Your own junkyard?”

“What I want is freedom,” you snapped, turning to look at him through blurry eyes. “I haven’t thought that far, okay?”

Your anger must have been unexpected because he exhaled heavily, turning his helmet toward the windshield. You weren’t even regretful for lashing out, but seeing him so quiet from it pained you a little. He genuinely asked questions to understand you better, but you couldn’t afford to let him in any closer. What you wanted shouldn’t matter to him; he had a job, and that’s all he should care about. Your freedom and your life shouldn’t have been his concern; he needed to be reminded of that. 

“Why do you care so much?” You asked, softening your voice. 

“I don’t know.”

“You always say that.”

Mando didn’t respond, which frustrated you.

“You shouldn’t care about me,” you hesitated. 

“I know.”

The conversation was going nowhere, and you were spiraling inside, wondering if leaving him would feel as easy as it sounded. You just needed to make it through tonight, and you’d be gone once he left. 

“I’m tired,” you lied. 

“Go rest. I’ll wake you before I go.”

You couldn’t manage a response, only giving him a gentle nod before disappearing into the hull. You gathered your blade and the leather thigh holster, sliding them under the blanket on the bed. Reaching for the leather vest on the ground, you hesitated. Emotions crashed inside you as you picked it up, remembering how he had bought this just for you. He wanted you protected, no matter what. It was a sign of trust you both had built together. Leaving meant breaking that trust, but he knew from the start you would leave, just not like this. 

You stowed the vest away along with everything else and crawled into the bed on sore legs. You needed to reach the village first, then find the route to the docking port. Once you made it there, Mando wouldn’t come searching. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. Going to Coruscant was risky; Mando was bound to go looking for you there. You had no other option; until you had a better place in mind, that was where you’d start. 

You fell asleep fast, the night terrors at bay for at least a little while. They crept in slowly at first, then hit you all at once. Memories of hands grabbing you, blades slicing your skin, spice on your lips… all came flooding in. You thrashed in your sleep, your voice crying out for everything to stop.

“Hey,” a voice whispered. “Hey, it’s alright.”

You startled awake, the pull of the voice enough to draw you out of the trance inside your mind. Mando caressed your hand, rubbing circles over your knuckles. You couldn’t hide the flinch in your body as he touched you, and he drew his hand away.

“I’m leaving,” he said. “You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah.” Your voice was hoarse from the screams.

“Wear your comlink in case anything happens. I’ll check in on and off to make sure you’re okay. Just stay on the ship.”

“Okay.”

He slid the comlink onto your wrist, his touch lingering on your skin. You rubbed your eyes, looking at Mando for one last time. You memorized the pieces of armor covering his body and the helmet that stared down at you. For the last time, you wondered what his eyes looked like behind the visor. 

This was it. This was goodbye.

He moved to the weaponry wall, pulling out a blaster and tucking it into his belt. You noted that he left it unlocked for your benefit. He trusted you with it. And that hurt. All the trust you had built would be gone in a mere few hours. 

“Mando,” you called out.

He turned to you.

“Be safe, okay?”

“Always, angel.”

You watched as the night swallowed him, the darkness of the ramp closing the only thing left between you and him. 

This was goodbye. 

** 

He had him cornered. Through the thick weeds that framed the lake, Mando could spot the thermal footprints that the quarry had left behind. After countless hours of hunting, Mando finally had eyes on the bounty. He had sent her a message through the comlink that he’d be gone longer than expected—the bounty was quick, and Mando had a lot of space to cover. He hadn’t heard a response and figured she was asleep again. He hated the thought of her alone with her nightmares; the screams that erupted from her when he woke her were enough to make him reconsider staying. But he needed this hunt. He needed to clear his mind.

Mando pulled his blaster from his weaponry belt, keeping it low and close to his thigh as he trudged through the overgrown forestry around him. The quarry’s eyes peeked through the greenery, connecting with the tinted visor for only a moment.

But it was the only moment Mando needed.

He took his shot… and he missed. Mando never missed a shot. The quarry took off again, furthering the distance between them. His emotions were clouding his skills, and he knew the thought of her forced his hand unsteady. If he had felt strongly for her before, he couldn’t comprehend what this feeling was now. It consumed every thought, every breath, every move of his muscles. 

Sucking in a breath, Mando sent another message to her. This bounty would take up more of his time, which meant he wouldn’t return till later in the day tomorrow. He was miles out from the Crest, and the trek back with a body in tow would only slow him down. 

He realized there still hadn’t been a response from her, only static through the comlink.

“Hey, answer me,” he bit out, the message meeting more static air on the other end. 

“Answer me, dammit!” He wasn’t angry. He was scared. 

He called into his comlink more times than he should have allowed, the time wasted adding up quickly. He was scared, and he still had the quarry to track down. The bounty reward wasn’t high enough— nothing would be high enough— to risk her safety. 

Mando shot into a full sprint towards the Crest, calling into the comlink continuously. The sound of the static drowned out in his ears, the world collapsing around him. He didn’t stop running, letting the miles separating him and the Crest fall away with each stride. 

Finally, in view of the Crest, Mando broke into a sweat as he pushed himself past his fastest pace, knees giving out as his boots hit the ramp as it lowered. Everything looked as it was from the ship's outside: no sign of scavengers or guild members anywhere. Everything inside looked as he remembered: no sign of struggle or fight anywhere. He continued to call her name as he searched the entirety of the ship, coming up empty as he ran back down the ramp to check the perimeter.

“Fuck!” He yelled, pounding his fist into the side of the spacecraft. The metal rattled under the force of the hit, the sound reverberating around him. 

He had told her to stay on the ship. He told her. And she agreed. So, he didn’t understand why she was gone? She would have at least alerted him through the comlink, or maybe she was too fearful to interfere with the hunt. Either way, she shouldn’t be gone. 

The only thing he thought to do was hunt her down. It was the only thing he could do, the fear creeping in as he switched his visor to thermo-tracking. Her footprints lit up in red, vibrantly contrasting the darkened grass. They tracked north, the staggered spacing hinting at the fact she had been running. Still fearful, Mando considered the awful idea that she had been chased down. But there were no other footprints, and he couldn’t recall any ships that had flown overhead.

So, what the fuck did she run from?

Mando considered flying the Crest and tracking her overhead, but he wouldn’t know where her footprints started and ended. He continued on foot, running through the overgrown bushes and grass, slashing away at the greenery with his vibroblade. He had been gone from the ship for nearly half a day and had no clue where she would be. Could she have been taken off the planet? If she had, Mando would have seen or heard some sort of transmission in his comlink. But everything had been quiet those few hours.

 It had been dreadfully silent as he hunted down the quarry. 

Reaching out through the comlink again, Mando called for her, hopeful she still had her comlink on her wrist. With nothing but static feedback, Mando confirmed that it wasn’t functional any longer, the silence growing louder around him. Focusing on the outline of her footprints, he noticed a slowing pace in her running— evidence that she couldn’t have advanced much further. Switching to the body heat scanner, Mando swept the area around him, noticing the forestry open into a vast expanse of land without coverage. There were no traces of her body heat, but phantom footprints still staggered through the clearing.

Switching his scanners off, Mando gazed into the sky, watching dusk fall upon him. He felt beyond helpless knowing he could be losing her— even worse; he couldn’t understand why. If no one had been chasing her, if no one had kidnapped her, then why was she gone? He couldn’t recall any notion as to why she would choose to run. Mando had let his vulnerability win, the strength of his attachment outweighing the risks that threatened his loyalty to the Creed. 

He was ready to give all of himself to her, so why was she gone?

His body was fatigued past over-exertion, from the race to the ship and now tracking her footprints. But he wouldn’t let exhaustion win— he had gone far longer without sleep. Countless bounties had taken days to track down, even so far as a week; staying awake and finding her wasn’t even a question. He would find her.

He’d tear the galaxy apart until he found her. 

Whether he was ready to admit it, she had become his Creed, his loyalty to her bleeding out into the universe surrounding him. 

Nightfall came quickly, the beskar armor illuminated by the waning moons above him. Mando switched his helmet to night vision as he continuously scavenged the ground for lingering pieces of her. Every footprint proved she was still alive; that was all he needed to push forward. The sound of frogs in the distance was the only noise to fill the humid air around him— their sounds were a lullaby to his nightmare. Mando could recall every feature in her face: the scrunch of her nose, the constellations of freckles over her cheeks, that wrinkle between her brows he always wanted to smooth over. Over and over again, he forced himself to reimagine the way she looked, the way she felt in his hands, the sound of her voice when she was soft and under his body. The memory of her was all he had left as he ran across the planet, desperate to turn the memories into rediscovered reality. He wouldn’t— he couldn’t — let her go. 

Mando’s steps faltered as hushed chatter in the east fell upon his ears. He focused in on the noise, making out words that alluded to the terrain and creatures around it— farmers. Stepping out of the shadows, Mando approached them slowly, his posture more friendly than predatory. 

“Hello,” his voice was hoarse from yelling. He cleared it, saying ‘hello’ again. 

The farmers turned to him with startled gasps, their grip on their hunting spears tightening. Mando raised his hands, surrendering his power to gain any knowledge they possessed.

“You are… bounty hunter?” One asked, their accent thick.

Mando nodded, his hands lowering to his sides. He made it a point to keep his hand from his blaster, proving to them that he was no threat.

“I need information,” he began, “I’m looking for someone. Have you seen anyone pass through this area?”

The men looked at each other, their expressions mixed with confusion and fear. The man who had first spoken turned back to Mando, and his chin lifted higher as he regained more confidence.

“We see one girl,” he informed Mando. Mando’s weight shifted, his heart drumming inside his ears.

“Did you speak to her?” He pressed.

The man shook his head, pointing his spear towards the trees.

“She goes north.”

“How long ago was this?” 

“Maybe half day, we not sure,” he shrugged. 

Mando was visibly frustrated, his body language tensing with each exchange of words. He had been tailing her the entire time, yet felt even more behind than he was at the start. If she had more than half a day’s running start, she could be near the north docking port faster than he could get to her. 

The docking port.

The pieces aligned in his head in a dizzying blur; she was leaving him. She had waited for Mando to take the bounty, leave her on the ship, and weaponize his vulnerability against him. He had been so distracted by the bounty even to consider her running, yet it had never even been a passing thought in the first place. How could she leave after he laid out his rawest parts? After she showed him her deepest secrets. He had submitted to her, letting her swim in his soul's depths. And she left him. 

In a daze of tangled thoughts, Mando disregarded all gratitude towards the farmers as he shot into a sprint towards the north, the instincts of a hunter fueling the anger that blinded him. It took her half a day to distance herself; it would take him an hour to catch her. He was no longer searching in fear. He was searching in unbridled rage. 

His pace continued steady as he waded through the terrain heading north. He could hear faint rustling in the bushes, a few scattered animals running away at the sound of his boots. Her footprints in the grass lit a brighter red on his visor, their freshness proving that he was getting closer. He could see far off in the distance that night was quickly turning to morning, the hue of sunrise falling upon the horizon. The first ship off-planet would be coming soon enough, as would her chance to leave. Mando couldn’t allow it. 

He yelled her name into the comlink, voice rugged and labored as he continued running. He didn’t know if her comlink was still on her, but he wouldn’t give up. He would keep trying, and trying, and trying. He couldn’t lose her. 

Not this easily. 

As he trailed her footprints closer, he noticed their imprints in the muddy ground below him, making it easier to track without night vision. The impressions went deeper in the ground, proof that she was using more weight to run and was still en route to the north port. Mando quickened his speed, knowing he was going to catch her.

The path through the trees he had followed began to open up into a large expanse of flower beds and bushes. Several flower beds had been destroyed, their petals and stems crushed— her destructive mark left all over them. Scanning the perimeter of the expanse, his eyes fell upon a shadowed silhouette shaded by a large tree towards the northeast corner of the clearing.

It was her.

Her in all her terrifying beauty; her hair tousled into a bun, her clothes covered in mud and grass stains, her skin dirtied and marked with scratches from thorns and bushes. Though his heart pounded heavy in his chest, and there was a haze of anger over his eyes, relief washed over Mando as his eyes settled on the familiarity of her body. 

It was her.

She didn’t have to turn to know he was there, her body rigid as he continued staring. She had done the same when he had hunted her the first time, her skin paling as if she had seen a ghost. Now, he was a ghost haunting her, seeking remnants of an attachment that had faded away with the moon's glow. Mando stepped forward again, meeting her gaze as she turned to look upon him with an expression he could only understand as guilt. He stalked her slowly, watching her body shiver from the morning breeze that floated over the sunrise as it passed the horizon. Her eyes grew wide, watching as he walked forward slowly, his hand hovering over his blaster. He wouldn’t shoot her; he never would even think of it, but it was an instinctual reaction to inflict fear into her. He wanted her scared. He wanted her to feel every emotion he felt throughout the last day. The fear, the loss, the anger. 

Mando wanted her to understand everything he felt. 

**

The sun’s reflection bouncing off metal was unmistakable even from yards away. You half expected him to let you leave, to wipe his hands clean of a nuisance bounty, and continue through the galaxy. The other half secretly hoped he would hunt you down, tearing apart half the outer rim to find you. It took him less than a day, and you were helplessly alone in the grassy field without a place to hide. Would he have found you faster if he had not been tied up with the bounty? Your plan didn’t have much thought put into it, only the aspect of running. And you must not have done a good enough job if a man covered in beskar steel was walking towards you. 

His stride was slow– intentional– the sway of his weaponry belt shifting into view with every step. You weren’t blind to the fact his hand coasted over the gun holster on his hip, his fingers inches from ending your life. If you were even to tense an arm muscle, your core would be split in two from the plasma beams. Dying at his hand would be more honorable than any other death, and you subconsciously welcomed such a departure from the space you occupied. He had already destroyed you in ways beyond repair, leaving your body and soul torn into pieces. You were a bounty, nothing more. But that couldn’t overturn the emotions that had been festering inside you, nor could it make you forget the way you ached for him physically and emotionally. Giving your body to him wasn’t what hurt; it was knowing your heart was slowly falling into his hands… and you knew he might not treat your heart as kind as he did your body. He was a Mandalorian, a child of the Watch; he knew only of loyalty. Loyalty and love were not the same. 

His pace slowed, stopping only a few yards from you. The familiar black visor was trained on you, and you felt like an animal caught in a trap. You had been here before with him, on Coruscant, but this was different. You hadn’t fucked him yet, slept beside him, or listened to him speak of things he kept hidden. You were a bounty.

 Just. A. Bounty. 

“You left.” There was an apparent inflection in his tone. It cut deep into your chest, tearing you open as you realized how wrong your decision had been. 

“I wanted my freedom,” you spoke through the lump in your throat. 

“And I’m working on giving that to you,”  he countered, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, hand still hovering over the blaster. 

“I can’t keep waiting, Mando. What if you don’t find Kesi? I can survive on my own. I’ve done it before.”

His helmet tilted slightly, and you knew he must have been eyeing you intensely under the protection of the metal. 

“Do you not trust me? I swore I would find him and kill him. Is that not enough?”

“I– yes, fuck, it is enough. I just don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” He repeated your words as if tasting your doubts on his tongue. “You don’t know.”

He stepped forward, looping his thumbs into the waistband of his belt. He sized you up and down, his helmet resting on your face again. 

“How long did you think you could outrun me?” The question was out of genuine curiosity. 

“I thought that if I got far enough, you would forget me and carry on with your life.” Your voice was shaky– uncertain. You lacked confidence even in your persuasion. Why were you trying to persuade yourself that your actions were for his betterment? 

“You thought I would forget you?” There was that inflection again, the spike in octave that shot daggers inside your chest, through your ribcage, and right into your heart. You wished you had armor like his so you wouldn’t feel your heart breaking. 

“I’m only a bounty, aren’t I?” 

“No,” his helmet moved slowly in disagreement. “You aren’t just a bounty, and you’re wrong to think I would forget you.”

Tears stung your waterline as you felt defeat in his words. Just as he had slipped under your skin, into the folds of your brain… you had slipped into his. 

You aren’t just a bounty. 

Even if you were, he would have come here with an intent to kill, and you would have had no chance at negotiations. 

But this was different. You were different. 

“Mando—.”

“I have considered destroying my Creed for you, and you left,” his voice rose in anger. “I have made sacrifices to ensure that my loyalty for Mandalore would never falter, and I’m willing to destroy it all for you. And now you think I’ll just forget you?”

You let out a faint whine, a sob lodging in your chest. How could you say anything to that? The man who was rough around the edges, with a heart you thought to be too cold ever to feel… was wholly undone before you. 

“You left me and took every piece of me with you.”

His helmet bowed down, the visor looking towards the ground. There was pain inside him far beyond the reach of your betrayal. 

“I would never ask you to go against your Creed for me, you know that. I’m not worth it,” you whispered. “I understand the severity of your lifestyle, and I wouldn’t let you do that. You didn’t break your Creed for Omera, and you definitely shouldn’t do it for me.”

“I know you would never ask,” he sighed. “That’s what hurts more. I have given pieces of myself to you that I can’t have back. I’ve let myself become too attached…and now I don’t know how to let you go.”

“I’m not worth it,” you repeated. The tears spilled down your cheeks as you watched Mando’s head raise to meet yours. 

“You are the only person worthy of knowing me.” He pulled your hand to the dewy beskar on his chest, “I am yours.”

The tears coasted down your cheeks, traces of guilt covering your face as you watched him step forward again. Your back was flush against the trunk of a sapling tree, leaving no room to escape the trap he put you in. Your mouth opened, yet silence fell off your tongue. 

“Tell me you want to leave.” 

Tell me to stop. 

He had begged you in a similar way before to resist him and his advances. His loyalty to the Creed prevented him from getting close; his armor was more than just a shield for his body. Every emotion, every fracture of his mind, was closed off to you and the rest of the galaxy. You had spent countless days and weeks trying to break through the armor, to even make a fraction of a dent into the metal that guarded him. But now… now you succeeded– the man behind the armor coming completely undone in your presence. It tore your heart apart knowing your ignorance had led to this. 

“I can’t—.”

“Say it!” His voice rose higher. “Tell me you don’t want to stay!”

“Mando, you knew I wanted freedom.” You were losing the battle in front of you, giving into the temptation that blurred the lines between love and desperation.

He swarmed your body, invading the only space that had remained between both of your bodies. He pulled your arms into a vice between his hands, his grip bruising your skin. You winced, eyes pleading for some sort of humanity behind his mask. You dug your heels into the damp soil around you, grounding yourself against the pull of his hold. 

“I’m going to give you that, so why can’t you wait?” His voice was sharp, biting at the air between you. “Why now?” 

“I– I don’t know!” You were exasperated, finding no words to describe the jumbled mess of thoughts fogging your mind.

 “I’m sorry,” was all you came up with. 

“Tell me you want to leave,” he repeated his plea, his breathing labored. 

You hesitated a moment, sucking in a chestful of air. Freedom was at your fingertips, but was it worth all that could be lost? 

“No.”

When he didn’t react to your words, you repeated it. “No.”

His grip fell from your arms, his boots crunching on fallen leaves as he stepped back. His body language showed all signs of being stunned, his stagger backward more reminiscent of someone being shot rather than being told ‘no.’ 

You managed to push yourself off the tree, feeling stray wooden shards stuck to the fabric of your shirt— some even burrowing into your skin. You paid no mind to the stinging sensation prickling along your body.

“I don’t want to leave,” your voice barely above a whisper. “I was selfish to think I could go without hurting you.” His helmet stayed trained on you, unmoving. “Or hurting myself,” you added. 

“Mando,” you continued, “I want— wanted freedom. I have been on the run for months. Ever since my parents died, I have been alone. This is different for me; you’re different. I’m scared of feeling attached because it’s not lost on me that you have no obligation to attachment. Attachment isn’t part of your Creed, and I can’t do that to myself. I can’t do that to you.” you repressed a cry, “I don’t know what to do now because I am irrationally attached to you. Irrational enough to run and keep my distance just for the sake of not breaking my own heart.”

Mando was agonizingly quiet, the rise of his chest under the breastplate being the only indication he was still alive. You picked at the wooden shards stuck to your shirt, wincing at the ones stuck into the thick of your skin. Gloved hands covered yours, pulling a splinter from your forearm carefully. Your eyes lifted to see him towering over you; helmet tilted as he considered your words— and tears.

“I’m sorry for running,” you let the sobs escape your chest, breaking the barrier that you tried to build up so high.

All that you could think to do was wrap your arms around his torso, nearly pushing him over with the force of your body colliding with his. Your nose pressed against the beskar, inhaling the familiar smell of smoke and fire flooding your senses. It took a moment to feel his arms wrap around you, but you were encapsulated in his hold the second they did. 

“I’m sorry,” you muttered over and over again. It was all you could say, the only words that could subdue the swelling silence between you. 

“Shhh,” his voice was so soft, softer than you had ever heard. It struck a chord inside you, playing your heart to the tune of his baritone. You let the sound vibrate through your body, arms squeezing tighter around his back. 

“You shouldn’t feel—.”

“I know,” you quickly responded. “Trust me, I know.”

“I can’t—.”

“I know.”

“I can’t let you go,” he finished, despite your interjections. “There isn’t a corner of this galaxy you could run to where I wouldn’t find you. I would hunt you down just to keep you as mine.”

Mine.

Mine.

The possessiveness on his tongue was like honey, seeping into your veins, rearranging the molecules that made up your entire being. You were his, even from the start. You had begged him to keep you, absentmindedly wishing he would protect you from all that lingered in your past. And he did. Without question. Without asking for anything in return. Perhaps you were the reward after all.

You tried forming words, tried making sense of any coherent thought that could describe the way his admission inflicted the emotions inside you. The only sound to escape was a whimper that drifted between the small space between you. 

“Don’t leave me again.” He pressed his helmet to your forehead, a reflection of your tearful face staring back at you in the visor. You wished so badly to see his eyes despite knowing how wrong it was. You wanted to know how he looked in this moment; the pain, the anger, the relief… all of it. He was the one constant in your life, the person who had stuck by your side and protected you. And you hurt him. You could never live with yourself knowing you would have left him hollow and broken. He was your home. He was your freedom. No matter where you ended up in the galaxy, he would always be where you felt safest.

“I won’t, I promise.”

You peeled away from his embrace, brushing off the dirt littering your vest. The port was still miles away, and you knew you would never reach it. Mando would have gotten to you before you set foot on a transport. It was laughable to think about now. 

“It’s going to take at least two standard days to return to the Crest,” you sighed. 

“I don’t care.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

Mando shook his head, pulling your hand into his to lead you south. 

“We’ll find shelter somewhere tonight and make the rest of the travel tomorrow. I’ve got you now. That’s all that matters.”

The remainder of the day was spent walking in silence, and Mando never let go of your hand. Ever so often, he’d squeeze his thumb against your knuckles, a reminder he was there. You stole glances at him occasionally only to realize he was doing the same. 

“Do you hate me?” You asked after a few hours of no conversation. 

“No,” he answered. 

“I hurt you.”

“I’m okay, angel. I was more scared something worse had happened to you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mando stopped walking, turning you toward him to capture your full attention. 

“Do you trust me?”

“Always,” you whispered. 

“Then trust me when I say I’m not angry. Not anymore, at least. I understand why you decided to run, but I need you to promise me you’ll stay. Let me give you the freedom I promised you. Don’t go without saying goodbye.”

Your lips trembled, and you nodded solemnly. 

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough to say goodbye.”

“Then don’t.”

“What’re you saying, Mando?”

“Stay. I’ll protect you. I’ll give you whatever you want, so long as you stay.”

You chewed on your lip as you contemplated his offer. You had freedom at the tip of your fingers, yet the temptation to stay swayed your mind. 

“Maybe.”

He nodded, looking towards the trees before you.

“Where does this leave us?” You asked.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. 

You squeezed his hand this time and ushered him to keep walking. You were safe, and for now, you were his.

[nezuscribe]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

pairing: gojo x fem!reader

part two

summary: gojo satoru was the most notorious man across the land. he was the strongest soldier the north had ever produced, the most brilliant of minds, and somebody who slept his way through the noble ranks. his parents set him up in a marriage agreement with you, hoping that a tie with a ring would help save his image. you know gojo never wanted this, and you try to act as if that was normal. but soon, without you or even him realizing it, he comes to the conclusion that while he never wanted this marriage - he's beginning to want you.

warnings: 18+ mdni: arranged marriage, angst, slight no comfort, gojo is emotionally constipated for a bit, heavy making out, eating out (fem! receiving), fingering, (naoya)

word count: 19.7k (sorry)

note: inspired by this drabble. i'm so happy this behemoth of a fic is done!! art credit: _3aem

jjk masterlist + series masterlist

Gojo Satoru was the most powerful man alive. 

Not only physically, though some people chalked him up to being half god, but his name held even more control. The Gojo family of the North was as old as the gods themselves, and they’ve been making sure it’s been kept that way. They owned so much land that you would walk to the ends of the earth and circle back around and it would probably still be theirs. They had armies of unfathomable sizes under their command, so much riches that they could probably buy an entire nation and still have plenty to spend. 

His presence was just as large as his name created him to be. Any ball he went to, all eyes would fall on him. On the battlefield, men feared to see the flash of white hair, knowing that his strength was unbridled. 

And his physical beauty? Most people assumed he was blessed by the gods himself. Gojo had a certain look that just made your knees weak, your heart palpitate, and your cheeks heated up. The handful of times you’ve seen him from afar you’ve been able to understand why all the girls (and some of the guys) yearned for his attention. His eyes were a piercing blue as if somebody had held a mirror to the sky when creating them. His hair had grown whiter with the years, as white as the snow that sunk deep into the grounds of the north. Gojo had the build of a soldier, and he towered over most people. His bulky build was intimidating, but you heard some girls whisper behind their hands about how he must look underneath all those ceremonial garments. 

The lord of the North was power itself. 

Which would make you, by martial association, the North's most powerful lady.

And for somebody who grew up with the same respect as a stable boy, it was all too much too soon. 

And yes, while on paper you still had your father's last name and legacy tied to it, you weren’t really a daughter to your parents. Your mother, though you had to call her by her name whenever you weren’t in public, seeing how she wasn’t really your mother, made sure it was kept that way. Your other three half-sisters should have been in your spot, either one of them more true to the family name than you. But seeing how they’re already married, you were the final resort. 

Gojo Satoru, though you’ve seen him countless times (something common because of how close in ranks your families were), had only acknowledged you a couple of times. You didn’t care much, never did, because that's what you were used to. After all, it was a common fact that you were what they nicknamed “the bastard daughter” of the West.

But it didn’t seem to matter much to his parents, as they offered their son up to you in a marriage arrangement. 

And who were you to turn that down? 

They, his parents, assured you that their son was looking forward to this union. He was the one to offer it, they said, which you were skeptical of but weren’t stupid enough to question. You knew how much Gojo Satoru was tarnishing their reputation with his promiscuous ways, but as long as he was okay with this arrangement you couldn’t find any part of you that would disagree with it. 

After all, you knew that this marriage wasn’t out of love, fascination, or even a mutual understanding, but because of the strength your own family (more so your father) held, and how you were the only feasible option for a bride. 

So, after weeks of rocking back and forth on agreements, paperwork, dress rehearsals, and grueling dancing lessons (and still no sight of the man himself), you found yourself standing at the end of the aisle, your arm linked around your fathers as a large smile plasters itself on your face. 

Ever since you were young you had convinced yourself that the only man who would want to taint his name enough to marry you would have to be either a troll or an ogre, so that fact that your future spouse was human was better than anything you could have asked for. 

And you’re not daft. As your heart hammered loudly against the limited space of your chest, waiting for your cue to start walking, you reminded yourself that this was just a mutual agreement. It’s hard for people at your level to marry for love, but even then, you can’t help but hope that you can make a decent friendship out of this. 

You glanced at your father next to you, catching his eyes as he nodded once, staring ahead of him into the small crowd of just your two families, and patted your arm. 

You still remember the music playing, the instruments harmonizing together as you took a tentative step forward, feeling warm under the eyes of people you didn’t know, but you kept reminding yourself that this was the best thing that could’ve happened to you. Either you died as an old maid in the little room you had near the kitchens at your old home or got married to some warlord who wanted an entire village as family. 

The orchids that surrounded the venue still infiltrate your nose as you think about it, the way the silk of your dress felt against your skin that had been scrubbed raw earlier that morning. 

And there you saw him, standing at the end of the aisle. At that moment you realized how much of a mistake this was,

Because the man that stood there, the man who you were about to marry, seemed like he’d rather be dead than be your husband. 

—

You blink out of your trance, sitting up straighter in your seat as you mindlessly stop tearing up pieces of your bread, rubbing your fingers together to get rid of the remnants of flour. 

The dining hall was huge, far bigger than the one back home. Though you rarely ate there, you could still remember it, and it definitely wasn’t as big as this. Yet, despite its size, you felt like you were a little grain of rice in its vastness. 

The Gojo estate itself was humongous. His parents resided in a smaller house near the ocean now that you’ve moved in, but you would bet that the word humble they used to describe it was anything but humbling. You’ve been here for weeks and yet you feel like you’ve only discovered half of what this place has to offer.

There were guards at every corner, but at this point, you’re convinced they're just for decoration. If your husband is as decorated a warrior as they say he is, he could protect this entire estate with no help necessary. 

You stare at your plate, at the array of food prepared just for you, different sorts of cured meats, loaves of bread, cheeses, fruits, and juices from all over, and still, you feel no hunger. 

Months ago you’d be ecstatic to see how much your life has changed. You get new clothes that fit you, food whenever you desire, people at your beck and call. Your room is no longer that cramped space you’d been given to hide you away from the rest of your family, but twice the size of your father's old bedroom. You wake up earlier and sleep later, do whatever you want, but none of it feels deserved.

The only thing you can bring yourself to think about is how the last time you saw your husband was the night of the wedding. The look on his face when you made your empty vows to one another, his faint lingering kiss on your cheek. You can blink your eyes and still see the way he left, his jaw clenched as he ignored the calls from his parents. How, even here, rumors seemed to follow you. 

Safe to say, you spent your meals alone. 

Not only that, but your rooms were entirely separate as well. You were told that you had to consummate the night of your marriage, but from what you’ve heard, your husband sleeps in an entirely different wing of the estate, with walls and corridors between the two of you. 

You tried taking your mind off of things, pretending as if this was normal. 

Most days you’d walk around, trying to familiarize yourself with the layout of the grounds. You’d walk the gardens a couple times each week, try to memorize the way back to different places, and stay in the library the other half of the time. 

A part of you was happy to at least be away from that miserable home, but it felt like swapping one prison for a slightly better one. Your maids were kind, of course, but you didn’t know anybody here. They treat you like a lady of noble ranking, as expected from being the wife of the Lord in the North, but you’d rather be given an apron and start working around instead of this mind-numbing boredom of just sitting around. 

You stare at your plate, chewing on a grape slowly. 

Looking up you see the sun filtering in through the large windows, illuminating the long table that sits like an empty grave. Clicking your tongue you pick up another grape, slumping in your seat as you look up. 

This is just the way things will be.

—

“Alina?”

You call out from your vanity, staring at your maid as she’s picking out different earrings for you to pick from for dinner. 

It’s a couple of days later, and still no word from Gojo. But that doesn’t mean that you haven’t stopped for a single second to not think about your supposed husband. 

You try not to care, pretend that you’re lucky that he’s not bothering you or going out of his way to remind you of this unfortunate situation, but above anything you just feel alone. 

The maid looks up, a curl falling from her tight bun as she smiles at you in the mirror. 

“Yes, my lady?” She stands up straighter, flattening out the wrinkles from her apron tied around her waist as she begins walking towards you with the jewelry. 

“Is this…is this normal?” You crane your neck around to look at the different pairs she’s holding up, nudging your head to the red ones that shine bright, and watch as she sets them down on your desk, resting her hand on your hip as she stares at you quizzically. 

“What do you mean?” She asks as you begin taking your earrings off, putting the new ones on yourself. In the beginning, she protested, saying that a woman of your caliber shouldn’t have to do such measly tasks. But the more you protested, she eventually gave up. 

“Do husbands and wives usually sleep separately?” you say, feeling your chest contract in embarrassment at the stupidness of your question. 

You watch as she swallows thickly, avoiding eye contact as she sets on fixing some parts of your hair. 

Staring patiently through the vanity mirror as you watch her work, Alina wets her lips, her eyes downcast as if not wanting to answer. 

“Was there somebody else he preferred to marry?” You decide to ask, twisting that knife that you knew was lodged in her side, one that was stopping her from talking, and watch as her eyes widen slightly in shock. 

“If you don’t answer I’m just going to keep asking more uncomfortable questions,” you warn and Alina snorts softly, shoving your shoulder a little bit as you crack a smile. 

She moves around, picking up a necklace, and begins clasping it behind your neck. 

“I…I don’t know. He’s always been pretty secretive and,” she looks at you briefly, “Selective. I don’t mean to speak ill of my lord but it would be stupid not to acknowledge his old ways. But we never heard of a specific girl.”

Alina places a gentle hand on your shoulder, a sad smile on her face. 

“You’re lucky my lady,” she says, her voice hushed, “Most wives don’t have the freedom to say their husbands don’t care what they do. Had you married that Zenin, you’d be pregnant by now.”

You shudder out a breath, nodding once more. 

“I’ll see you after dinner, my lady,” she says, moving out of the way as you stare quietly at the floor before leaving silently. 

—-

Tonight for dinner the cooks made you a wide array of different dishes, all from the Northern shore. There are different types of fish, each cooked in various ways. It looks delectable, a feast fit for a king. 

You feel awful, though, seeing that you can’t eat any of it. 

The last time you had fish your face swelled up and couldn’t breathe properly, so that family physician told you to steer away from it. But you’re here now, and it somehow slipped your mind to ever mention this little fact to them, so you’re awkwardly poking around some of the vegetables under the fish, looking for something to eat. 

You pile some potatoes and carrots on your plate, scraping off any bits of fish on them as you hold this wasn’t your last meal. 

The only sound that fills the room is your fork and knife sometimes hitting the porcelain plate, and you look up every now and then as you chew, looking at the paintings on the wall. 

You’re so focused on a portrait of an old man that you don’t even notice the figure standing at the entrance of the dining hall, not until you hear a muted curse. 

You look up instantly, your fork and knife dropping to the plate as you stare at the man in front of you, eyes wide at the sight of your husband. 

He stands there, blinking slowly as you stare back. 

You could swear time has never moved so slowly before. 

You can hear him mutter a quiet shit under his breath, not knowing if he should make this worse by turning around and leaving or if he should join you. 

He’s wearing a simple tunic, his face a little flushed, hairline beaded with sweat. Did he just come out of training? He must often do that, you decide, seeing how he must’ve felt comfortable enough walking in here without any clothing of import. 

His eyes seem to track your little movements; the way your chest rises and falls in a slow movement, the way your fingers have frozen in mid-air, lips slightly parting. Your eyes dart around the room, everybody seeming to have tensed up.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but you’ve never been so moved to silence. It seemed as if years of learned vocabulary slipped your mind within an instant, and no matter how hard you tried, nothing was coming back.

Gojo looks behind his shoulder, at the large double doors he entered through, deep in thought. This would be the first time the two of you had seen each other in weeks, and his tirade of avoiding you has come to an end. It looks like an entire battle is being fought in his mind, and you don’t know what to do.

Suddenly, you watch as he shakes his head, deciding to give in and join you for dinner. 

The seconds go by like hours as he walks up to the seat at the other end of the table, staring at his seat for a brief second before he pushes it out and sits there. 

You don’t know what to do. 

Servants and maids quickly swarm the room, setting up his plate, cutlery, food, and drinks. It was all so hectic and rushed, but you were glad that it offered some sort of noise in the drowning silence.

A part of you wants to say something about the fish but you know this isn’t the right time. 

In the flurry of movements you allow yourself to discretely look at him a little better, seeing how the last time you saw him was so brief and hurried. 

The man radiates a different sort of aura you’ve never experienced before. While your father was one of the most powerful men in the West, Gojo was the strongest throughout the majority of the North and East. His frame took up the entire chair, his muscular shoulders and arms visible even through the loose fabric that was draped over him. You feel a little disappointed, knowing that if you were a different girl you’d probably be able to enjoy all of this. 

You try to make yourself seem indifferent, moving some of the vegetables in your plate around, but secretly just trying to shovel them down as fast as humanly possible to get out of this thick atmosphere. 

One of the men who was setting up some of the plates in front of Gojo takes notice of this, a smile overtaking his face as you briefly look up from your plate, startled to see the man walking closer to you.

“My lady, I’m so happy to see you enjoying our Northern delicacy!” He claps his hands together as you stare at him with wide eyes, your mouth still full of potatoes as you try chewing faster to get it all down before he gets closer to you. 

His eyes wrinkle around the edges, his graying mustache trimmed ever so carefully, and you can tell he’s trying to loosen up the tension, but you stare in abject horror as he stands at your foot of the table. 

“Would you like some more?” He motions to the fish that lay untouched in front of you, and you glance over to Gojo, hoping that maybe he is focused on his meal, only for your heart to sink at the fact that he is staring at you. 

“...y-yes,” you croak out, wiping some of the carrot remnants from the corners of your lips as you give him a wobbly smile, “It’s alright, I can serve myself,” you exclaim, trying to thwart him off as he quickly waves this aside, shaking his head as he grabs the tray, beginning to portion some hefty pieces of fish onto your plate.

You don’t have the heart to tell this jolly man that this amount of fish would kill you within an instant, or even that he was wasting this all on you, so you just sit there, giving him a tight-lipped smile as you try not to breathe it in too much. 

“Is that enough, my lady?” He asks, setting the tray down as you look at your plate now full of different sorts of sea creatures you swallow slowly, looking back up at him as you give a wobbly smile. 

“This is great,” you muster up and watch as an even larger smile takes over his face, and you feel awful for it, “Thank you so much,” you tell him, watching as he bows lowly, excusing himself as he, and the other servants, leave the room,

Leaving you and Gojo alone. 

You’re grateful that he’s already dug into his meal, not looking at a struggling you that’s moving the fish around with your fork as you try to find the last bits of vegetables you had saved up for yourself. 

The smell itself is enough to make your stomach turn, and you wince, reaching for your cup of wine to wash some of the nausea down.

“You have very good wine,” you say suddenly, against your will, and have an out-of-body experience as you realize what you just did. 

Gojo looks up from his plate, a little startled as he looks at you and the goblet in your hand, his white brows furrowed. 

He nods once, not saying anything, and you feel the strange need to continue, somehow enjoying the feeling of stabbing yourself in the foot.

“Our wine back home tasted like cow piss,” your eyes widened at your slip of crass language, “Er - not piss, um, urine…?” You wince even more, feeling as if a ghost with awful intentions had taken control over your body, “Not that I’ve had cow piss - urine!” You correct yourself, “But I imagine that if I had…that, um, it would taste like o-our wine back home...”

He’s staring at you, unblinking, and you smile awkwardly, raising the cup to him as a sort of cheers gesture. 

You count twenty seconds of silence in your head as you set the cup down, playing with your fork as you glance back up at him. Gojo looks as if he is regretting his decision to stay, his fingers tapping on his knife in a hurried sort of way. 

“I don’t really like wine,” you continue, feeling like the only thing that could stop you now was if somebody were to bludgeon you to death, “I like juice more. Oh, well, but I guess…wine is juice…?” you mutter to yourself, contradicting your own words mid-sentence, “Back home we had this mulberry juice and it tasted nice. Kind of like your wine,” he’s not even looking at you and so your words die, quieting down as you sink back into your seat, hoping it could eat you entirely. 

“Do you like wine?” You ask, tilting your head to the side, smiling faintly, awkwardly, “Or juice? Or… mulberries…?” 

He shakes his head, still not staring at you. 

“Did you have a good-”

“I prefer eating in silence.” Gojo finally said, raising his head slightly as he stared directly at you, watching as your mouth clamped shut. 

Your smile grows small, eyes falling to the table to hide the embarrassment in them. You give him a brief nod, mumbling a quiet apology under your breath as you begin moving some pieces of carrot around on your plate. 

You can hear the clinking of his utensils against his plate, wishing you could somehow fit an entire fish down your esophagus to escape this moment. 

You give it a couple of seconds, counting the groves in the wood of the table, and rise, stomach empty, heart churning as you finally excuse yourself. 

It only takes you minutes to find your room, quicker than last night, and allow yourself to sink against your bed, rubbing your skin raw of the rouge Alina had applied an hour earlier. 

—-

You don’t tell anybody of the awful encounter with the man that’s legally your husband, but you’re sure that those there to observe have already begun talking about it. You try to pretend nothing happened, but Alina could pick up on your closed-off demeanor that night, her hands gentler than usual when helping you take off your garments, her eyes filled with concern. 

“How was dinner, my lady?” She asked, staring at you as you waved off her worries, mustering up a lame excuse of a smile as you took off your silk shrug, avoiding any sort of eye contact as you slipped into your nightly garments. 

“It was good,” your words are void of emotion, “I had fish.” 

The following days are empty of any sight of your husband, but you’ve grown to find that normal. It doesn’t help that you can’t stop thinking about how idiotic you acted, your big mouth never knowing when to stop, tossing and turning in your bed at your excuse of an interaction. 

You continue with your old routine of walking around the estate, sometimes trying to track down Alina and your other maids, seeing if maybe they had some free time to spend with you. You know there’s a town nearby, the girls often talk about how they go there sometimes at night, but you’re too afraid of going out alone, not used to that sort of thing. 

Sometimes you sit out near the fields with a book, twisting the ring that’s searing into your finger, mindlessly taking in the words on the page. Other days you walk around the gardens, picking out some flowers for the vase in your room. On the days when you’re feeling really adventurous, you’d go near the east wing, where you’ve heard Gojo’s room is, and look at what sort of things lie there. But most times you chicken out, going back near your side just as quickly as you went.

You never see him at dinner again, knowing he wasn’t about to put himself through that torture again, so you go back to eating in silence, sometimes pretending that the chairs were full of people and that you were in one of those balls you longed to go to as a kid.

They seem to keep bringing fish out for you, and it’s in so many days deep that you’re in this sort of limbo where you can’t tell them you’re deathly allergic to it without feeling awful for all the work they’ve put in just to realize it’s gone to waste, so those nights, tonight, for example, you try finding as many vegetables as you can. 

The roasted asparagus and beets are lovely, but there was only so much of it. And you find yourself getting a little bit sick of it too, your stomach-churning as you try to chug as much water as you can to get rid of the dirt after-taste that the beets have.

You thank the cooks and the servants as you leave for the night, your stomach still relatively empty as you get to your room, telling Alina to leave early for the night as you get ready for bed by yourself, wanting to be with yourself just for a little bit. 

You lay on your bed, staring emptily at the ceiling, one hand on your stomach as if gurgling, still hungry for more. You try to sleep, trying to pretend like you were at your old home, those nights when this would be normal, but it’s no use. You’ve been too spoiled at the Gojo estate, and no matter how much you try to ignore the pang of hunger, it continues to bite you back. 

So you find yourself twisting off of the warm comfort of your bed, sitting in silence as you contemplate what you’re about to do, but give in, lighting a candle as you slide into some slippers, leaving your room as you try to find your way down to the kitchens. 

Thankfully, it’s well into the night when everybody is asleep, so this embarrassing walk of shame is only seen by the guards on duty. You walk down the testing staircase, careful to look around the corners for anybody there, but you’re alone. 

You make your way to the kitchens, not hard to find seeing that they’re near the dining hall, and you peep your head inside, a sigh of relief escaping your lips to find that it’s completely deserted. 

At your old home, your room was behind the kitchens. You grew up in a small room, nearly the size of a broom cupboard, but you made do with what you had. One benefit of this situation was that you were raised by the smell of different sorts of food, by people who specialized in the art of cooking. You knew how to make meals that nobody else in your family could even imagine, which you’re grateful for right now as you fumble around the kitchen, trying to find where they put different ingredients. 

You rummage through the cupboards, finding some eggs, bread, cheeses, and seasonings. You’re able to find the pots and pans a few feet away and start assembling everything for a little omelet.  

In your hurry of trying to be quiet and careful, you somehow manage to miss the large shadow figure that’s standing near the doorway, observing you. 

You crack the eggs into a bowl, beating them together with a fork you found, too tired to look for an actual whisk, turning around to throw the eggshells away when a cry of surprise escapes your lips. 

“Oh!” Your heart nearly falls right out of your ribcage, your hands flying to your chest as you find yourself staring at him, cheeks heating the way they seem to do whenever you’re looking at your husband. 

His blue eyes are tracking you, watching what you do, brows furrowed slightly as the two of you can’t do anything but stare at each other. 

“I…” You can’t find anything to say, looking at him and then behind your shoulder, to the things you have found, and swallow thickly, wetting your lips as you straighten your back up, suddenly aware of just how flimsy and bedroom-worthy your outfit is.

You can only stare at the ways his arms are crossed over his chest, biceps bulging, and lips pressed into a thin line. It seems like he wasn’t planning on seeing you here, yet another moment in which he’s probably going to regret somehow finding you in such a large estate.

“I’m making an omelet,” you finally say, your words falling like a whisper from your lips as you point to the eggshells now discarded in the trash, “I tried to be quiet…” you shake your head, eyes dropping from his heavy gaze for a second as you glance back up at him, lips upturned in an apologetic smile, “...sorry.” 

Gojo doesn’t say much, you’ve noticed that, but now you’re wondering if he has some sort of impediment that stops him from speaking to specific people. 

His chest rises briefly as he inhales, his white hair a little tussled as if he were sleeping. It doesn’t make sense why he’d be awoken, though. The kitchens are a far walk from the east wing…?

“I wasn’t asleep,” he finally says as if reading your mind, his voice deep as you feel it rattle your bones.

You nod once, not knowing what to do with the information. 

“Well…um,” you fidget with your fingers, “good, that’s good.” You nod once, as if that was all you were going to say, and look at the slight wrinkles in his clothes, crossing your arms over your chest, feeling naked with the way you’re not wearing any undergarments under your little nightly dress. 

“I’ll call for a cook,” Gojo murmurs, looking you up and down one final time as he turns to leave, seemingly done with this conversation. 

You sputter, shaking your head as you watch him turn to look at you through a confused stare. 

“No! Sorry…no, no need,” you say quickly, taking one step forward as if to stop him, “Please, it’s alright. I can cook myself,” you motion once more to your eggs and little station, noting the way he’s looking at you strangely, and so you feel the need to continue talking, perhaps one of your worst flaws.

Gojo looks at you finally, his fingers tapping on his arm. 

You notice that he’s not wearing his wedding ring, your chest filling with a strange feeling as you try to hide your ring-clad finger. “Do you not like their cooking?” He asks, and it takes a second for you to blink out of your stupor, a weird sensation in your throat as you shake your head slowly, trying to pull your eyes away from his hand. 

“I do,” you assure him, the words falling thickly from your lips, a lump in your chest, “I just feel bad waking them up right now,” you shrug as if you weren’t feeling any of these strange emotions, “And as I said, I can cook…so…” 

He nods, seemingly not believing you, not picking up on the storm that happening inside your head at the fact that he’s not wearing his wedding ring. You have to remind yourself that this isn’t an actual marriage, the ring was only for show. 

“Did you not eat dinner?” He continues, pressing, and your eyes widen slightly. 

You’ve always been terrible at lying, never able to do so. Even when your father's wife continued to drill you on who ate the candies from a party when you were younger, showing her your chocolate-stained fingers that you had hidden behind your back, not even a minute into the interrogation. 

“I did,” you say slowly, rubbing up and down your arms to warm them up from the chill breeze that seems to have picked up from the open windows, “The beets and asparagus were very nice,” you agree, not knowing what else to say without blowing this weird secret you’ve been holding onto. 

His brow raised slightly, lips pursing slightly. 

“And the fish?” 

You swallow once again, fidgeting with the fabric of your slip, your hands, your ring, and you don’t notice the way his eyes fall to the gold on your finger, darting back to your face when he notices you staring at him. 

“I…” you feel your face heating up beyond human measures, laughing awkwardly as you tug at your necklace chain, wishing that you hadn’t made that stupid decision to leave your comfortable bed, should’ve listened to your gut instead of your stomach, cursing your past self for being so rash, “I, um, I can’t…eat…fish.” 

Gojo’s stoic face, so sure and confident, seems to falter for a brief second.

His arms tighten over his chest. 

“...what?” He eventually asks after a couple of seconds of mind-bending silence, his head tipping in utter confusion as you sway from side to side on your feet, chewing your lips raw as you wish the ground could open up and never spit you back out. 

“The fish always looks great, don’t get me wrong,” you say quickly as if that’s going to do anything, “But I can’t eat fish. Otherwise I’ll swell right up and um, die…probably,” you wince at how bad you are at talking to people, your husband especially.

He lets out a little puff of air that sounds like a shocked scoff, eyes falling to the floor as he shakes his head, not understanding what you are saying. 

“But they’ve been cooking fish almost…four times a week?” 

You nod, smiling awkwardly, looking at the painting of a fish on the wall as you look back at him. 

“They have,” you affirm, leaning against a counter as he stays frozen in his spot at the door. 

“And you…you can’t have fish?” Gojo questions incredulously. 

“I’ll swell right up,” you repeat with a little smile that he doesn’t mirror, clearly not a man of humor, and you drop your hands to your side, “...kind of like a pufferfish.” You add quietly, looking at the ground as you say it. 

He coughs, his hand covering his mouth as you glance up at him, only to see him trying to hide the shocked laugh that had escaped him.

“Why didn’t you tell them?” He finally continues, and you hate the way all your hard work of just saying quiet isn’t working and is in fact, coming back to bite you in the ass. 

You shrug once more, shoving a grain of rice that was on the floor with the tip of your shoe.

“The first time it happened I figured I’d just tell them next time, but then that man kept on giving me more fish so I felt bad and I just never said anything.” 

Gojo stares at you, his eyes squinting together as if he were figuring out an enigma, a war strategy that even his best generals couldn’t get a grasp of. 

You look away, feeling like a fire was being lit under your skin. 

“Alright,” you say, clapping your hands together as your stomach grumbles once again, reminding you that it is still in desperate need of food, “I’ll be done soon. And I’ll clean up,” you promise, but you doubt he even cares as you begin to inch away from him. 

You watch as a strand of hair falls into his face, watch as he goes to move, never breaking his eye contact with you, until he looks behind you at the eggs and bread, and then to the window behind you, the moon as bright as ever.

He nods a final time, looking over you a final time before he exits. 

You make sure he’s far gone, letting out a heavy breath as you hold yourself up by the table, eyes wide at the fact that you had spoken more than two words to the man who seemed to despise your entire existence. 

You go back to your eggs, whisking them in silence as your mind reels. 

—

Gojo is there, for dinner, the following night. 

You enter the dining room to see him at the end of the table, already eating, and glances up briefly when he sees you walk in. 

Trying to hide the shock on your face you quickly look away, finding the way to your side of the table as you look around to see what they’ve given you tonight. A sigh of fleeting relief escapes your lips at the lack of fish, glad you’ll be going to sleep full of food tonight. 

You serve yourself, piling roasted meats and potatoes onto your plate as you fill your cup with water, not trusting wine after the last time you had it in his presence, and pretend that everything is normal as you pick up your knife and fork. 

His words rang in your mind from the last time, the fact that he ate in silence, so you forced yourself to clam up, knowing that it was probably from the best and save you from any more mortification. 

Your eyes fleet up now and then, grateful that he’s never looking up when you do, and give yourself some time to really take him in. Maybe in another universe where everything was normal, this could’ve just been another regular thing, and you try pretending that it is.

He’s probably only here because of a timing issue, you tell yourself, maybe this was the only time in the middle of training, state affairs, or other things that he was able to have dinner tonight. Yes, yes, that has to be it. 

You look back down at your plate, chewing as quietly as possible, missing the way he lifted his head to look up at you. 

—

Dinner with Gojo becomes a strange weekly occurrence.

The two of you eat in silence a couple of times a week, and every time it happens you’re so sure it’s going to be the last. 

On one of the nights you find yourself accompanied by the man you decide that the silence is more choking than whatever it is you find yourself saying. 

“Have you been notified about this…gathering in a couple of weeks?” 

This gathering was something you were told about that morning by Alina. One of the smaller families allied to the North, the Tokoshi’s, had invited you and your husband to join. 

“Yes,” Gojo says, and you’re a little surprised that he didn’t just give you a faint nod, “It shouldn’t be too big.” 

He cuts off a piece of his lamb, dipping it in some of the gravy as he glances up at you. 

You try to hide your excitement, not only from the fact that he’s spoken to you but also from the fact that this was an actual ball you would be able to go to. You knew that marrying him meant attending more of these sorts of events, but seeing how this was your first one, it was hard to not act a little giddy. 

“You have a lovely library,” you speak after carefully chewing through some of your food, your pointer finger resting on your fork as your legs crossed. 

Gojo glances up at you, those mesmerizing blue eyes finding yours from across the long table. 

“At my old home,” you pause briefly, wondering how he feels when you refer to his estate as your other home, “I wasn’t allowed to go into our library unless my tutors asked to have some of our sessions there. So I just wanted to say thank you for letting me - um, go there,” your words quiet down at the end, looking at the roasted pig in front of you momentarily as you wonder what you were even trying to get. 

He takes a sip of his wine. 

“The grounds are as much mine as they are yours,” he says, but his words sound rehearsed as if he were told to say this. 

“Even the east wing?” 

You regretted it the moment you asked it. 

Shit. 

Gojo opens his mouth and then shuts it. You chew on the inside of your cheek, waiting for him to speak, to say something, anything, but it reverts to that same silence that floods your senses and makes you aware of every other sound in the room.

Your burst of what you attempted at comedy seemed to keep coming back instantly in your face, a form of punishment for somebody who never knew how to make uncomfortable situations better.

Suddenly, all of your appetite is lost. Stupid, stupid, stupid, you can only chide yourself, the food in front of you, no matter how good it looked, felt like it would taste like ash on your tongue. You kept feeding this burning fire that was your marriage, expecting your hay-like words to act like water.

There’s a thick tension in the room, and you look around, blinking slowly as you fidget with your fingers. 

You try to go back to eating. 

You were wrong,

That initial silence was better. 

—-

That night you found yourself back in the kitchens. 

You’re wiping at your cheeks, hoping that the therapeutic motions of baking can help alleviate some of your many turmoils. 

When you were younger, you were used to silence. People normally avoided you, and those who didn’t weren’t ever your age. The cooks at your old estate were kind, but they were usually too busy to entertain a little girl. You would usually help the maids out with their washing and folding, rather doing something than nothing. You would listen in on their gossip and stories, always happy to be included. 

You assumed that it would be the same here. 

But the maids assured you that a lady of such high rank shouldn’t be meddling in such lowly tasks, and the cooks here were cooking for such a larger number of people that you knew you couldn’t bother them the way you used to. 

So you find yourself with a lot to say but nobody to say it to. The jokes and ideas that pop into your head fall flat because the old ladies who helped clean the bedsheets and used to laugh hearing them are no longer here. In those moments you’re with Alina or your other maids are sparse, and so you sometimes imagine that if you speak more when Gojo is around, he might warm up to you. 

You also had to remind yourself that your track record with men wasn’t the best either. Those fleeting crushes on some of the other boys who you’d see at balls always ended with them scurrying away from you as if you were the plague. The only other marriage offer you’d gotten was from a man who had struggled with finding a woman who could keep up with his awful ways. So the fact that Gojo Satoru, the most well-known man in the realm, didn’t want much to do with you wasn’t shocking. 

And Alina was right. A lot of wives aren’t as lucky to say their husbands don’t care, but you wondered how it would’ve been if he did. You exclaimed to her a couple of nights ago that you should’ve just married Naoya, but deep inside you knew that’s not what you wanted. A part of you knew ever since you agreed to this arrangement that you wouldn’t be getting an actual husband out of it. 

You sniffle, your eyes blurry. You don’t like crying in front of people, and so you allow yourself to do so in the pale moonlight of the kitchen, the only sound other than your ragged breathing being the repeated sound of flour falling softly in your mixing bowl. 

Baking was something that nobody ever could judge you about. You were good at it, and you knew you could do it with no error. Your cakes and pastries always turned out well, save for the minor problems you ran into as a kid, but you sometimes act like you’re baking for a group of people, about to take it out to see a sea of smiling faces who are happy to see you and your deserts.

“I thought you only cooked when they served fish for dinner.” 

A voice, one that’s seared into your memory, says from behind you. 

It takes everything in you not to jump from surprise, and it takes even more willpower not to turn around. 

You quickly wipe at your cheeks, breathing in to make sure your voice won’t come out in bits and pieces. You keep your back to your husband, continuing to sift your flour in the bowl, a continual motion like waves hitting against the dock.

“I’m baking,” you specify, cringing at the way you sound like you’re fighting a nasty cold. 

Gojo doesn’t say anything for a beat and does nothing to move. You’re glad he doesn’t, too scared that if he saw your puffy eyes or your tear-stained cheeks he’d begin to think that you have no backbone at all. It felt almost pathetic to have the world's strongest warrior see you recover from crying alone. 

He hums in the back of his throat at your words, and you wonder what he looks like right now. 

“I doubt these walls have seen a lady of such high rank before,” he comments, and you look up briefly from the mountain of white building up in the bowl, “They must whisper to themselves once you leave.” 

You let out a little puff of air, something resembling a soulless laugh. 

“Everyone whispers to themselves after I leave,” you say, reaching for a whisk, “I’ve heard more whispers than my own name.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you quickly try to wipe at the corners of your eyes.

“You come down here a lot,” it’s posed as a question, but Gojo says it like a statement. He must have eyes everywhere, reporting to him what you’re doing. You wouldn’t be shocked, but you just nod, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you begin to whisk your dry ingredients together. 

“I hope it’s okay,” you throw in a pinch of salt as you mix, “I like the kitchen.” 

He let out a little breath as if he was about to chuckle, but then he got confused. You decide to spare him the endless questions that must be going on in his head, wondering why somebody in your position would prefer the kitchens rather than anywhere else. 

“My bedroom used to be behind a kitchen. I’d have to go through the pantry just to reach it,” you turn briefly to grab your bowl with the wet ingredients, pouring it slowly into your flour and sugar mixture, mixing it in slowly and carefully. 

“My father’s wife wanted me out of sight. That estate had never used one of its actual bedrooms to sleep the daughter of a whore,” you can hear him inhale sharply, “I woke up to the sounds of people shouting for different ingredients, to pots and pans clanging against each other. I learned how to cook and bake when I was young, and I usually helped them cook the food my family would eat for dinner.” 

When your batter is all mixed through you go to find the pan you have buttered and dusted with sugar, pouring it in as you wipe off the side of the bowl that had some remnants of batter dripping from it.

“They never asked me to, but I liked it. I liked feeling useful,” you peek over to your side, seeing him leaning against the wall adjacent to you, silent as a mouse. 

You walk over to the other side of the kitchen with your pan, careful with the lid to the brick oven, heated with the fire you had lit an hour ago, and slide your cake pan into it, closing it shut as you stand up straight. 

Finally, you look over at him. 

His eyes rake over your face, lingering on the circles underneath your eyes, the redness that stained the whites of them. He’s clad in the simple tunic and breeches he had worn to dinner hours ago, his large shoulders leaning on the wall as his arms lay crossed over his chest. 

“I won’t go to the east wing,” you say in a whisper, your voice quiet but heavy as it falls from your lips as a promise, trying to muster up a smile but it comes out wobbly, “I was just trying to make you laugh.” 

His lips looked pinker than usual as if he had been chewing on them, something you often did when you were deep in thought. His white hair had been messily pushed back as if his fingers had been combing through them continuously. 

“These grounds are yours,” Gojo says, his words thick from his throat. His exhale and inhale mirror the way you breathe, your two chests rising as though living with the same lungs.

You shrug, a melancholy look on your face as you shake your head. 

“Maybe if I was your wife,” your words are said without any malice, “But I’m just another person who sleeps here.” 

Gojo tilts his head slightly as if your statement had somehow wrenched itself into his mind, weighing it down. Even in the limited light, you could see the way he looked at you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’m sorry about all of this. I know I took away your chance to marry somebody you actually wanted, but my father told me you were okay with the arrangement. I wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise,” you twist your wedding ring around your finger mindlessly, a little habit you’ve grown over the weeks here, “I never wanted to be selfish, and I truthfully never wanted a husband. I just wanted a friend.”

—

Ever since that night, you eat your meals in your room. 

Alina protested, saying it’s not right to eat alone, but you told her not to think about it, saying how you liked the silence. 

You mustered up the courage to ask some of the coachmen to take you to the nearby town, starting by looking around at the little shops, keeping a hood over your head in case somebody saw a new stranger.

Sometimes you’d go inside the shops, finding little trinkets that you thought your maids might like, or ornaments that might help fill up the empty spots around your room. You’ve never been able to decorate before with how small your old room was, so you decided to take advantage of its space.

When you’re walking around you sometimes see Gojo, either in the training yard or walking around with one of his advisors. There have been moments when the two of you catch each other's stares from across the room, but you’re always the first to look away, making sure you’re going in a different direction than him. 

You knew that you’d have to talk to him eventually, especially with the gathering that was coming up at the Tokoshi manor, but each night you pretended it was another day away, instead of one day closer. 

Your maids came bustling in and out of your room more often than usual with preparations for the night that was closing in, shoving you into different dresses, not satisfied until they found the right one.

Alina noticed your shift in demeanor, never picking and prodding at it, but silently observing. You could tell she knew something was wrong, but you didn’t know how to put exactly what you were feeling in words. 

It didn’t help that the closer you got to the night of the event Gojo seemed to be everywhere you were. The gardens, the library, the field, the stables. He probably just had business to attend to, but it didn’t help that whenever he saw you it looked like he wanted to say something. It also didn’t help that you’d scurry away when you saw him open his mouth. 

The weeks turned into days, the days into a day, and that day into hours and you found yourself perched uncomfortably on a chair as three different women attended to your face, hair, and accessories. 

You watch them work silently, taking in all the jewelry and makeup that you’ve been looking forward to wearing. It’s nothing too drastic, but that 

girl who longed to wear pretty things inside of you is gleaming right now. 

“…Lord Gojo requested for her to wear another pair of earrings,” one of your maids says, looking at the earrings Alina had picked out for you. 

Your ears perk up at the mention of his name, watching Alina as she perks an eyebrow up. 

“When did he request that?” 

The older lady looks at you in the mirror and then at Alina. 

“A couple of nights ago,” she shows Alina another pair, a sapphire one that seems to gleam brightly, “he dropped them off when she was…away…” the maid trails off, noticing the fact that you were eavesdropping.

Your eyes dart away as if that would help, but she quickly changes the topic, and you huff in annoyance as Alina sends you a knowing look.  

“Your husband is a strange man,” Alina mutters in your ear as you giggle quietly, rolling your eyes as she playfully shoves your shoulder. 

You don’t say anything in retaliation, and sit back as you put in your new earrings, grateful that they still complimented the color of your dress, and try to pretend you are going down for dinner rather than a gathering with people you didn’t know. 

You’ve been learning this entire week how to properly hold a spoon and fork, and how to cut your food appropriately. You’ve been taking dancing lessons, discovered how to properly greet people, and even learned how to gracefully enter and exit a horse-drawn carriage. All things you should’ve probably learned earlier, but were never able to. 

Alina helps you out of the chair when they are all done, giving you a second to look into the mirror. The dress they had wrangled you into was beautiful, your hair done in the way you liked. You thanked them all, expressing your endless gratitude for their hard work. 

You take a deep breath as you exit the room and go out into the hall, leading yourself down the stairs and through multiple corridors, trying to calm down your palpitating heart. 

It takes a few minutes but you find yourself at the front of the manor, standing alone and looking around, trying to see if you were at the wrong place. But in the distance, you can see the coachmen and the carriage, the door shut, still waiting for you. 

You take a tentative step forward, nearing the entranceway that leads outside, but feel a soft touch hovering above your elbow. 

It’s strange how he usually finds you before you find him, but as somebody who’s trained to know and find things before others do, you suppose it makes sense. You glance to your side, already expecting to see those cerulean eyes as you look up. 

Gojo looks good, somehow better than usual. 

He’s clad in dark blue garments, intricate with Northern design, and your eyes look up and down his entire body. His usual muscular build seems to be outlined by the stretch of his overcoat, the way the fabric is sitting snugly over his chest. 

He seems to be doing the same, though. You can feel his gaze drop to your dress, to the way your lips are a little redder than usual, your hair done in a way that suits your face. His eyes linger on your ears, and there’s a small, barely noticeable tug to the corners of his lips. 

“Ready?” Gojo asks, the first time he’s spoken in a couple of weeks, and you hum. 

He takes his hand away from your elbow as he rests it on the small of your back, and you feel heat travel from his fingertips through the fabric, through your corset, your undergarments, and straight to your skin. 

They bring the carriage out a little closer, a coachman opening the door for you. You brace yourself, heaving your dress upwards as you go to grasp the rail on the side.

But Gojo moves swiftly, offering you his glove-clad hand as you look over at him in surprise, taking it after a moment of hesitation, and haul yourself inside. 

It’s far bigger than the one you usually take to town, and you settle for a corner on the left-hand side near the window. The walls of the carriage are lined with this sort of fabric that feels like it’s lighter than a cloud, colored the traditional blue of the Gojo family. You’d guess it could fit at least an entire family comfortably, so you’re not too worried about the underskirt of your dress taking up too much space.

You watch Gojo follow you in. He looks around, having to duck his head (and a lot of his back) as he sits in front of you, pushing the strands of hair that had fallen into his face.

The two of you sit in awkward silence, your gaze settled on the door that they shut after Gojo entered, and your eyes quickly fall to your hands resting in your lap, neatly folded.

The carriage starts a little bit later, the wheels humming to life as the coachmen yip at the horses to start. The sudden rocking movement that you’ve become familiar with sways you side to side, and suddenly you're totally aware of the fact that you’re alone in a limited space with the man you’ve been avoiding for the better half of two weeks. 

You can feel his stare boring into the side of your head, can hear the way his breathing is coming out strangely as if he wanted to talk, but kept stopping himself off before he could say a word. 

“Did you like the earrings?” Gojo finally asks, and you glance up, eyes narrowing for a second in confusion as realization suddenly comes rushing in. 

“Hm? O-oh, yes!” You quickly stutter out, your hands flying to your ears as if you forgot they were there, “Yes, thank you. They were beautiful. They kind of looked like the inside of a belly button,” you say.

Your husband blinks, brows furrowed slightly as you think about what you had just said, eyes wide in shock.  

“Er…well, gods, no, not bellybuttons,” your head falls to your hands as you shake your head profusely, “Sorry, they don’t look like belly buttons-” 

But you stop when you hear a small laugh from him, quiet as he looks away for a second, a tiny slightly visible grin on his face as he looks back at you. 

“Did you know that sometimes,” his eyes are a little upturned as if he fighting back an actual smile, “I make a bet with myself about what you’re going to say?” 

You smile slightly, your head cocking to the side. 

“Have you ever won?” 

Gojo chuckles, and your eyes suddenly fall to his hand, at the way he’s fidgeting with his ring, his wedding ring, the same way you seem to do whenever you’re thinking about everything and anything all at once. 

“Not once.” 

You grin, and though you still feel this heavy weight of unspoken things resting in the middle of you two, you decide not to acknowledge it at the moment. Things unsaid, unheard, weaved through the air, tying you and him together like a tapestry. 

You fidget with your skirt, looking out the window at the moving scenery. 

Gojo breathes deeply through his nose, his pointed finger tapping on his thigh. 

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he finally says, and your eyes dart away from the trees and the sky to look over at him. 

His bottom lip is caught underneath his teeth, his blue eyes shining with a different hue. He takes up a lot of room with just his size alone, but it looks like he’s trying to make himself seem less intimidating, less of a warrior, and more of a…person.

You don’t say anything, opting to stay quiet to see what it is that he is trying to formulate into words. 

“That night,” Gojo twists his ring back and forth with his thumb, “I…” It’s weird to see somebody so sure of themself struggle to speak, and your brows crease in the middle, not knowing what it was he was trying to get at. 

“I wanted to tell you that you too had a right to a good husband. Somebody who didn't rush you into a marriage because of his own mistakes…somebody you wanted.”

Where is he going with this?

You suddenly feel your throat dry up, swallowing thickly as Gojo looks out the window momentarily before looking back at you. 

“My parents never told me who I’d be marrying,” Gojo explains, his voice hoarse, “I figured out the day of the wedding,” he twisted his wedding ring, looking at the way it shined, “And I wanted to hate you,” 

His words punch you square in the gut, but you can only bring yourself to keep on looking at him.

“I wanted to hate you so much because it would be easier to act like this wasn’t my fault if I could…but,” he sighs, his chest rising and falling, “I don’t think it’s possible to hate you.” 

Your lip trembles slgihtly, a sheen over your eyes. What is he doing?

“I’ve been raised in a way most people our age aren’t. My parents wanted me to be the strongest so was put into training since I was four, and I think this entire time I’ve been trying to approach you like a…military strategy. You were this map in my head that no matter how I approached it nothing made sense. But that night, in the kitchen, everything finally did.” 

Your eyes flitter downwards so that he couldn’t see the waver in them

“You didn’t deserve how you were treated in your old life, nor this new one,” his hand covers his chest, and you feel lightheaded, “And I promise to you I’ll do everything in my power to make this one better. If you don’t want me as a husband, than as a friend.

“I’d like to be your friend, if you’d allow me,” he whispers thickly, his voice heavy. He fidgets with his fingers, moving them together and back out again, and you notice how he does this a lot whenever you’re near.

Your heart is beating so quickly that you feel like it's going to stop, and your mind is working so hectically that you don’t know what to think. This is the same man who looked at you as if you had torn down the moon and stars when he saw you the first time, the man who never seemed to be that interested in what it is you had to say. The very same person who would’ve rather married a broomstick than you. 

…right? 

And yet he’s here, asking to be your friend. Something that nobody has ever asked before, something that people wouldn’t ever dare to murmur out loud to you. He had no beneficial gain from doing this, no ally that he would please if he offered to be your friend.

Your heart twists because why does he look like he cares about what you say? His eyes are creased slightly around the edges, his lips pressed together as if he were preparing for whatever outcome it was to what you said.

Nobody has ever told you those things, the things that made years of pain and hurt strummed into one beat that your heart never wanted to drum to. This man, your husband, Gojo, was supposed to be another cog in that old machine, one that hummed and spurred like it was about to eat you alive. 

But the more you look at him, the more you let your unspoken words speak in silence for you, you realise that he isn’t lying.

You open your mouth to speak but are cut off when the carriage comes to a sudden halt. 

The two of you look at each other and then to the door, watching as it opens up, greeted to the sight of a large manor with multiple people walking in hand in hand. You swallow your bile, not knowing what to say, deciding to flee instead of face him like you should’ve. 

—

The gathering itself was far more boring than you imagined it to be. 

You and Gojo had the mutual understanding to act more…well, like a couple, than you actually were. You didn’t comment on the way his arm circled around your waist a couple of minutes into making your rounds talking with people or the endearing way he referred to you as my wife. 

You’re glad that he doesn’t do anything to talk about what he had told you in the carriage whenever the two of you were alone, acting like nothing was wrong and everything was normal as he inquired about your day. 

You told him brief things, still trying to shove his words out of your mind, but it was no use. I’d like to be your friend, your mind kept repeating, and you were too scared of brining it up in case he had changed his mind in between those minutes of quiet.

People you had never seen before congratulated you on your new marriage, their brows raised in that excited way as they motioned to your stomach, hinting at a special little someone who might be joining your lives soon. 

“Soon!” You said with a curt laugh, glancing momentarily at Gojo only to see him already looking at you, a light blush dusting his cheeks.

He made sure not to stay with people who were strangers to you for too long, not wanting to bore you to death, and allowed you to take in more of the well-lit and vastly decorated manor. 

Though its size was incomparable to the Gojo estate, it was still massive. The Tokoshi family had been a family with the Gojo one for centuries, so there was no question that the riches they had amassed over the years by being trading partners with them had culminated in this. 

Gojo told you earlier in the carriage, before everything else, how the young Tokoshi couple were good people. They liked to throw parties a couple of times a year, inviting only a select few. He liked them far more than a lot of the other people he had been forced to grow up with over the years. 

You look at the dining hall, at the corridors with openings that allow you to look outside without the glare of glass. His arm never left your body, holding you close to him as he let you walk around, your mouth hanging open slightly as you craned your neck to look at everything. Candles were lit everywhere, the bouquets of different assortments of flowers decorating the stone flower holders carved into the walls. 

You mentioned to him in the privacy of the carriage, that you hadn’t ever been able to experience a party of this sort of caliber before. You could see how he wanted to ask more questions, but you could see the answers already formulating his head as to why.

“We probably look like one of those couples where the wife’s dying and the husband takes her out to see the stars one last time,” you whisper to him, still looking around in a stunned sort of way at the beauty of it all. 

Gojo’s head ducks down a bit, trying to hide the chuckle that had broken out and made its way onto his face. He coughs into his fist as if that was the issue, but you look over at him to see the humor in his eyes. 

“Did you lose your bet again?” You ask, glancing at him from the corner of your eyes as he looks like he’s fighting the grin that’s threatening to take over. 

“I’m always losing that bet,” he tells you.

Though he doesn’t do anything to bring up his conversation, you can see it in the way he looks at you, as if he’s still teetering on an edge, wanting to know what you were thinking in that frazzled mind of yours. 

You decide to push past it.

“Can I get in on it?” You ask, turning slightly so that you face him, very aware of the fact that his hand hasn’t moved from its spot on your waist.

You try not to think about it, reminding yourself that it’s just for show, but you can’t stop the feeling of heat that travels wherever it is he seems to touch you. His hand is larger than an average one, his fingers moving mindlessly up and down on your corseted stomach. 

“Do you need the extra coin?” His voice is carrying a strange tone…is he teasing you? 

But again, you try not to think about it, it’s all for show, (you also try not to think too much of the fact that you’re pretty separated from everybody else).

“No, I just need coin,” you explain, fixing one of the medallions on his chest that had been slightly slanted, “I have nearly nothing left.” 

Gojo moves barely away from you, his eyes searching yours as if to find the joke. 

“Have you run through my family gold already?” His voice is still toying, but now it’s filled with a little confusion. 

“No, of course not,” you snort, rolling your eyes as you tilt your chin up to look at him better, “I haven’t touched any of your gold. I just ran through mine.” 

His brows quirks upward, mouth parting slightly. 

“You’ve emptied the gold your family sent up?” 

It’s your turn to be confused. 

“What gold?” You ask, moving away from him, his hand falling to his side, and you suddenly miss his warmth. 

You remember your father talking about how the Gojo family had rejected your initial dowry, saying something along the lines of outlandish practices, but aside from that, you weren’t told about any other sort of money that was supposed to be sent with you. 

He pinches the bridges of his nose, sighing deeply. 

“The gold that they sent with you? It wasn’t supposed to be a lot but it was supposed to suffice for the journey here.” 

You blink owlishly at him. 

“What gold have you run through?” He specifies, plastering on a fake smile when he catches the eyes of somebody behind you, but then focuses his stare back to you. 

“Well…” you shrug, “My gold.” 

Gojo looks like he’s about to make a new bet, one that’s with every time you’ve almost given him an aneurysm trying to figure out your strange riddles and rhymes that are supposed to be actual words. 

“I used to make some gold at my old home,” you explain, keeping your voice low in case somebody was somewhere that you hadn’t seen, but realizing that Gojo was lost, you continued, “The stable boy gave me some of his salary if I took care of the horses and cleaned the stables. Sometimes he’d give me extra if I could haul in the large bags of hay.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head slightly. 

“Why?” That seems to be a question he’s been asking lately. 

You shrug again, feeling his hand circle back around your waist as some people come near you, 

“I needed new clothes and my shoes had holes in them. My father’s wife didn’t let him give me much, so I tried to fill in the gaps.”

You smile at one of the couples that are coming near you, going back into your other persona as you begin chatting with them. Gojo pulls you in tighter to his side, staying silent. You don’t notice the way he hasn’t stopped staring at you, nor the way his heart seems to have churned so painfully in his chest. 

—

The night progresses and you find yourself inside the dining hall, being shown to your seats by one of the maids, finding your name next to Gojo’s on a name card. 

The two of you sit down, watching the people the file in, the sound of laughter filling the room, the clinking of china against each other filling in the rest of the silence. You take it all in with a smile, looking every and at everyone.

“I hope I’m not embarrassing you,” you whisper as you lean closer to Gojo, an apologetic smile on your face as you sit further into your seat, “This is all just so new to me.” 

You don’t see the ways his eyes soften, his hand inching closer to yours as he shakes his head. 

“You’re not embarrassing me,” he murmurs back, leaning his head closer to yours, wanting his words only to be heard by you, “I’m glad you’re enjoying this.” The smile that makes its way onto your face could power the universe, and Gojo feels like the wind had been knocked from his lungs, far worse than in training when somebody's foot slams into his chest. 

“I am!” Your enthusiastic and hurried words are hushed, but he can still hear the way you’re trying to hide your joy. The small talk is horrific,” he laughs a little bit, “but still I love it.” 

He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by the sound of a knife hitting glass. 

“Everyone! Give me your time, just for a moment!” Miyo Tokoshi, whom you spoke to briefly, stands up, his chair behind him.

All eyes in the room fall on him, people still smiling, their teeth glimmering in the light. 

“I cannot express my joy to be in a room with you all tonight,” he says, looking around the room, making sure he saw everyone for a split second. “And my wife and I couldn’t be more ecstatic to host the first gathering of the season!”

You look at the woman sitting next to him, Lana, who you had also met momentarily, is gleaming at him, her face full of genuine adoration. She, along with everybody else, claps, laughing joyfully. 

You wonder if this is what a real husband and wife should look like, and you look briefly over to Gojo, your mind reeling with the charade the two of you have been playing this entire night. 

“And we couldn’t be happier to welcome the first couple of the year,” he exclaims, pointing his glass over to you and Gojo, saying your name and then your husbands as he claps his hand softly against his wrist, “May every moment you spend together be better than the last. We wish the two of nothing but a lifetime of happiness and prosperity. 

Gojo raised his glass to him, his hand grasping yours as he lifted it to his lips, planting a kiss on the back of it. 

You feel like you’ve stopped breathing with the linger of his lips on your skin, the last time that happened on the night of your wedding, and watching him grasp it even tighter when he sets it back down, weaving his fingers through yours. 

Stop, you chide, raising your glass as well, a shaky smile on your face, it’s just an act.

He winks at the two of you, nodding once more as he focuses his stare somewhere down the table, obstructed by where you are sitting.

“And to the future couple! Naoya and Freya!” 

Gojo turned his head immediately to look at you, watching the color drain from your face, and before you knew it, the man, Naoya, was standing up, a hand over his chest in faux gratitude as he thanked the host. 

You could never mistake that hair, the feline look in his eyes as he scanned across the room, a slimy smile on his face. You watch as it grows even wider when he finally catches his prey when he finally sees you, and you feel nauseous, like you’re about to throw up all those little crackers they had given you earlier that evening. 

The hand holding yours squeezes, knowing he can’t say anything right now, and you swallow thickly, eyes darting over to his as you feel your head about to sway. 

Naoya’s here. The man you turned down for Gojo. 

The rest of Tokoshi’s speech is muted to you. It feels like your head is being held underwater, and you feel sweat dotting your forehead, your chest, and your palms. You can feel Gojo’s eyes on the side of your head and can tell he’s trying to tell you something silently. 

The clinking of glass brings you out of your haze, looking up mindlessly as you haphazardly clink yours against Gojo’s, rubbing a hand down your face as if that would help. 

You're grateful for the flurry of movements and noises, everybody talking to somebody, the people beginning to serve themselves the wide array of food places in front of them. 

Gojo squeezes your hand one more time, and you finally look over at him, trying to muster up a smile but with how queasy you feel and the way your head spinning, it probably looks like you’re about to be sick all over him. 

“I’ll be okay,” you say through clenched teeth. 

Gojo nods, his thumb rubbing up and down your hand in a soothing way. It’s just for show. 

“I’m sorry my palms are sweating,” you laugh mirthlessly, and he squeezes it again, you’re sure he’s only doing this because of the extra attention of the two of you ever since they realized you and Naoya were in the same room, “you don’t have to keep holding it.” 

“Do you want me to let go?” He asks, and you stop poking around at the turnips on your plate. 

No. 

“N-no,” you croak out, desperate for his touch that’s grounding you, “No, please.” 

Gojo nods, his thumb not stopping its comforting motion of moving up and down. 

“Don’t worry,” he mutters, leaning closer to you as you duck your head so that your ears are near his lips, “My hands get sweaty too.” 

You laugh quietly and it sounds like wind chimes. You look at Gojo and watch as his lips tug upwards into a soft smile, one you had never seen before, and one you thought you never would. 

—

You tried to hide away the rest of the party, but Gojo didn’t seem to mind. 

When it was time to leave you accepted the gracious hug of the hosting couple, promising them that you’d come back for a more private dinner, and let Gojo lead you out into the courtyard where all the carriages were held. 

You slept the entire ride home, not wanting to mess anything up by taking, and you’re happy that Gojo didn’t bother you. You felt groggy when you returned to the estate, grateful for Gojo’s steady hand as he helped you out of the carriage. The two of you looked like you wanted to say something, but couldn’t, so you bid each other good night and went your separate ways.

Separate except for one brief moment. 

You were walking away and up the stairs when you suddenly stopped, remembering what it was that you wanted to tell him. You call out his name, watching as he turns, white brows slightly furrowed. 

“I…” you start but realize you didn’t exactly have a plan for what you wanted to say. He gives you his patience, not looking annoyed or frustrated when you try to think of the right words to string together. 

“I…I would like to be your friend too,” you finally say, and watch as a smile forms on his face, his pink lips tugging upwards in a way that made his eyes shine, the way your earrings did in the candlelight. 

He rakes his hand through his snow-white locks, pushing them away from his face. 

“I’ll see you at breakfast then,” Gojo says, and you dip your head down in a small smile. 

You give him a small wave, disappearing as you round the corner.

And since then, you found him joining you not only for breakfast or the sparse dinners but for any meal he possibly could. 

Gojo talked more, about anything and everything, and you did the same. 

You realized that he was actually an open person the closer you got to him, seeing that he too was capable of laughing and making jokes, his teasing eyes growing more frequent the closer your chairs got to the dinner table until you eventually just sat side-by-side, growing tired of shouting at each other across its length. 

On the days he wasn’t busy with strategizing or talking to other lords, he’d walk around the estate with you, telling you stories from his childhood, the times he’d run amock around the halls. Other times the two of you would go into town, looking at the different stores together. 

You could tell he was trying, could see it in the way he glanced at you from time to time to make sure that you were doing well. 

He’d accompany you to the library if you asked him to, and you’d go down sometimes to the training yard just to see him. Gojo would never tell you how much he tried to show off when you were there and knew he never had to. You could see the way he tried to appear even stronger when fighting with one of the other men, the poor soldier coming out with bruises and cuts all over his body.

Over many weeks, you find yourself looking forward to spending time with him, and a part of your cracked self begins mending itself again. 

It felt like after years of searching for somebody, somebody found you. 

On one of the nights when his sparring had gone on for far longer than it usually does, you decided to head down to the training yard after your night bath, tugging on a large robe over yourself as you walked the familiar stone steps down to where you knew he was. 

You could hear them before you saw them, a cacophony of fists hitting skin, groans, shouts from one another. There was a little perch from where you could watch what was happening below, and you usually hid yourself in a corner so that they wouldn’t see you. 

You’d rest on a pillar, arms crossed over your shoulder as you looked at the men below. Gojo was always easy to find, the flurry of white hair a tall-tale sign of where he was. You had watched him before, but you never got tired of it. You found it almost inhuman the way his movements seemed to flow like water, the way his hits were precise and direct. 

Gojo truly was the best warrior the North had ever seen, and sometimes you forget that you’re married to a man who brought down entire armies with just his bare fists. 

You watch as he jests with one of his friends, his chest rising a little bit at an irregular pace, slightly out of breath, but happy to be there. He turns to one of the guys behind him to say something, but his eyes immediately track upwards to the figure trying to stay hidden, you and a wide smile break out on his face. 

He waves at you, and it gets the attention of the other men there. They all turn to see where you are, their boyish grins and calls making you roll your eyes at their antics, your face heating up slightly as you wave back at them. 

Gojo says something to the person next to him, and you hear the man shout at the other ones to wrap it up for the night. Some of them wave goodbye to you as they begin exiting, going back to their common rooms. 

You make a move to lean slightly over the railing, your arms crossed over the wood as you peer down at the ground where Gojo remained alone, finding him to already be looking up at you. 

“Care to come down?” He juts his chin at the staircase to your left, the one that leads down to the courtyard, and you nod, disappearing behind the stone pillars as you take the steps leading downwards. 

You’ve been here a couple of times, as per your own request. You wanted to see what they did during training, what the training yard actually looked like from the ground. You lift the ends of your dress up slightly as you near the bottom, rounding the corner to see Gojo standing in the middle. 

He’s waiting for you, his eyes tracking your movements as you come near to him. 

His nose twitches slightly, his eyes squinting as he lifts his head in the air, suddenly picking up the scent of something unusual. 

“What’s that smell?” Gojo asks as you come to him, his eyes looking over your body as if it were emitting from you. 

You scoff, appalled, and then suddenly remember that Alina had applied some lavender oil to you after your bath. 

“If it’s a good smell then me,” you cross your arms over your chest, nose wrinkling in disgust as you take in his smell of sweat and grime, “If bad then you.”

Gojo snorts, coming closer to you as he continues sniffing, exaggerating the sound. You step away from him slightly, the smell of sweat overpowering, and he takes notice of this. 

“What?” He inquires, annoyed that you are moving away from him, and he takes a step closer. 

“What do you mean what?” You tease, moving again as he tries to smell the air, “You smell like an army of unshowered men. I just took a bath.” 

Gojo seems offended at this, trying to move back closer to you but you side-step him, apparently serious about this. 

“You really won’t let me come near you?” He sounds like you’ve kicked him down, his cheeks stained pink from earlier, and you laugh slightly, shaking your head. 

“I really won’t,” you affirm, shoving the back of your wrist to him to show him that what he was smelling was in fact you, “See? Lavender oil.” 

Gojo just seems to be getting more annoyed the more you try to evade him, his blue eyes swirling with an idea as you look at him in worry. 

“No, the smell is coming from somewhere else.” He argues, changing his footing so that he stands right in front of you and you let out a shocked laugh, not expecting this as you take a step back. 

You don’t know where else he can smell the lavender oil. Alina dotted it to your wrists and your neck, but surely can’t differentiate the difference in location…right? 

“Come here,” he almost whines, “I’m not going to rub off my smell onto you.” 

You laugh again out loud, picking up the skirt of your dress as you try to outrun him slightly. 

“You will!” You insist, motioning to the sheen of sweat on his body, “You reek of sweat. I swear it’s just lavender oil!” 

He groans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at this inconvenience. 

“You’re killing me right now,” Gojo dramatically grabs his chest, “You won’t let me smell this strange aroma and it’s killing me,” his face breaking into a little pout as you laugh even louder, shocked at how petulant he was being. Your laughing seemed to spur him on even more, running towards you as you ran backward, hoping you didn’t trip on the fabric of your dress. 

“You have a plethora of bottles of lavender oil in your own room,” you argue, “this isn’t something innovative that you’ve never smelled before.” 

Gojo shakes his head, and your heart flutters at the way his smile is so playful and teasing, the way some of his hair falls into his face in that messy way when he’s usually training and not caring about his appearance. 

“It’ll only take a second,” he reasons and you shake your head no, your eyes both shining with playful laughter. 

The courtyards lead out into the large fields of the Gojo estate, and you look behind yourself at the opening. It’s night, there’s nobody around. Nobody would judge you for running away from your sweaty husband. 

You look back at him, see the gleam in his eyes, and know that he’s not going to back down. 

He can see the thoughts forming in your head, can assume them before they’re even created, and so he’s straight on your heels as you sprint away from him, a large smile on your face as you squeal out loud. 

“Please!” You shout over your shoulder, running down the little hill as the moon lights the way for you, “I just took a bath! Leave me alone!” 

You can hear the grass rustling beneath your feet, your screams of laughter contagious as you try to outrun the fastest person ever, and try not to slow yourself down by looking over your shoulder to see where he is. 

But after a couple of seconds of running you realize that the only footsteps you hear are your own, and you pause momentarily to look behind you and are surprised to see that he’s not there. 

Did he not come after you? 

You look around the field, the large blades of grass looking like waves that move with the wind, and whip your head around every time you hear a twig snap. 

You're a little bit further away from the manor itself, and the only thing you can see besides its large stone walls are the torches lit outside. You can make out the guards who are standing outside, but no sign of Gojo. 

You try to catch your breath, confused as to where he could’ve gone when a force stronger than a horse running at full speed slams into your side. 

The scream you let out echoes around the field, and you brace yourself for the harsh impact of hitting the ground. With your eyes squeezed shut you wait for the flash of pain, but peek them open to see Gojo framing your head with one of his hands, his body shielding you from the impact as he lays on top of you. 

“How…?” You scream, your chest moving up and down with your fit of giggles, trying to push him off of you, “You’re a beast!” You cry out, moving your head to the side as he laughs along with you, his chest rumbling with the movement. 

You shove his face away with the palm of your hands, shoving your wrist into his nose as if that would satiate him. 

“I took a bath you behemoth!” You whine, thinking about the dirt and mud that must be staining your skin and dress right now, “Are you so void of any good fragrance in your life that you must hunt me down for it?” 

Gojo tsks, shaking his head as he swats your wrist aside. 

He’s also slightly out of breath, most likely because he ran across and entire field from another entranceway that you weren’t aware of to catch you off guard, and you’re suddenly very aware of just how close to two of you are together. 

His hand is still cradling your head, the other one holding your hips. Truthfully he doesn’t even smell bad, which is frustrating that it’s just another one of his many talents. 

He judges your jaw up with his nose, and you helplessly comply, your heart hammering wildly as he leans in closer to the skin of your neck, taking in a whiff as he looks back up to you, his eyes gleaming. 

Gojo’s hand on your hip moves up slightly to hold your waist, not hard, but to stop you from squirming around. 

“It smells different here,” he nudges your neck with his nose again, and your breathing hitches, “Smells sweeter.” 

You swallow thickly, blinking slowly as you crane your neck slightly upwards to give him more room. It’s like your body is moving on its own, and you’re not to sure how you know what to do, but you just do. 

“That’s not possible,” you try to argue, trying your best to keep your voice from wavering, “You just lack the nose for good oils.” 

Gojo laughs lowly, shaking his head at your antics as he braces his knees on either side of your thighs, caging you in. 

“I have a very keen sense of smell,” he boasts and you snort, looking away as he pinches your hip to which you yelp.

His hand moves away from your head and to your shoulder, to where your nightgown had slightly slipped off and runs a thumb down a patch of your skin where it was slightly raised, a faint scar on your collarbone. 

“Where’d you get this?” His voice is slightly hushed, and you look down from your chin to where he is talking about. 

 “Hm?” You look around, see that he’s pointing to the tiniest little scar, and chuckle slightly, “Oh, that?” Your eyes squint as you try to remember, “I tried to climb up a tree once when I was little and fell.” Gojo huffs out a little laugh, his eyes still focused on your skin as you chew on the inside of your cheek.

“It probably looks far worse compared to anything you have,” you say sarcastically, “The family physician kept saying I wasn’t going to make it through the night.” 

He scoffs, rolling his eyes at your antics as he raises himself, moving away from you as he sits back down on the grass. You miss his warmth, the way his heat radiated onto you like a furnace. 

“I don’t know how you keep surviving between your inability to consume fish and your near-death occurrences,” Gojo’s voice holds a teasing tone and you smile, moving up so that you’re facing him. 

You rest your weight back on your hands, kicking your legs out in front of you as your skirt flows around the grass. A while ago you would’ve felt improper sitting like this in front of anyone, but you don’t seem to care all that much when it’s Gojo. 

“I showed you my battle would,” you say, putting one leg on top of the other, “What’s your worst one?” You ask, tilting your head to the side in questioning. 

Gojo purses his lip, thinking. 

You imagine that he’d tell you or probably motion to where it was, but a second later you watch, shocked, as he tugs his tunic upwards, your face heating as he rises it slightly so that you can see a part of his stomach. 

You hate how utterly built he is. 

His skin is pulled taught over the smooth stomach of his abs, his chest huge with pure muscle, his arms, bulging through the sleeves. It’s something you thought you’d get used to, something you told yourself to stop ogling at, but never could.

But you shift your focus to a large scar that runs across his chest, from the bottom of his hip under his arm. It still looks relatively new, and the scar itself still pink. You could see the way it was jagged, not one smooth line, and gods, fuck, why do you want to touch it?

“Well,” you try to think of something witty to say, seeing the way he’s looking at you as if waiting for it, “Clearly not as bad as mine, but it comes in as a close second.” 

He throws his head back as he laughs, his muscles contracting as he does so. You feel flushed, not able to look away from the scar, knowing that you were merely compensating for not knowing what to say. 

“I know,” he says eventually with a shrug, looking down as he surveys the scar, “It’s not as bad as it could’ve been.” 

You pout slightly, thinking. 

“Does it hurt?” 

He looks up at you, at the way you can’t take your eyes away from it, and shakes his head. 

“Not anymore,” he sits up a little straighter, closer to you as you watch him move, “Sometimes I can feel it sting, but it’s barely noticeable.” 

You beg to differ. 

The two of you don’t say anything and a part of you has decided that silence is bad for you. Because before you can really think about what you’re doing, you push yourself upwards, leaning in closer to him as you try to get a better look at it. 

He doesn’t say anything, but if only you could see the way he could barely use his lungs to breath right now you’d make some sly remark about how the best warrior of the North was growing shy from just a look. 

But suddenly you’re not looking anymore as you shuffle in a little closer, your fingers reaching upwards to touch the skin. 

You can hear the wind move around you, the grass rustiling as your fingers run across the scar. His abs flex at the coldness of your hand, but he doesn’t tell you to stop. You’re studying it intently, wondering what sort of weapon could’ve caused this. 

Gojo’s size dwarfs over yours, but you don’t seem to mind. Your lips as slightly pursed as you take it in. 

“Did you fight a bear?” You finally ask, peeking up to look at him. 

You’re startled by the way the flush on his cheeks has grown even more red, or the way you can’t see the blues in his eyes anymore. Has he always looked like that?

Gojo shakes his head, taking in a shaky breath, looking at the top of your head as you go back to looking at the scar. 

“Nearly,” he tries to joke, but his voice is weak, laced with need, “But I doubt a bear would even want to be compared to the man who gave me the scar.” 

You look up, your brow quirked in curiosity. 

“Who?” You ask, shocked at how quiet your voice came out. 

Gojo smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His tongue clicks against his teeth, his hand rising up to grab yours, pulling it away from his chest. He can’t bear to have you touching him like that anymore, not trusting himself to restrain the pure desire that bubbling inside his veins. 

“Naoya,” he says hushed, watching as your lips part and eyes widen. 

There’s a beat of silence, a moment when you think you can hear your heart beating in the same rhythm his is. 

Your hand curls into itself, shock taking over your features as your eyes drop to his scar and then back up to him. You find yourself wanting to say everything and anything, but can’t somehow find the words that you’re looking for. Gojo beats you to it, thankfully. 

“I’ve been having this recurring dream ever since I fought him of that same moment over and over again when he cut me open. But it’s changed, recently,” He sits up straighter, so close to you that your chests are almost touching, “And I keep seeing him marrying you, what would’ve happened if you had said yes.”

“And gods, fuck,” he ducks his head down, raking an agitated hand through his hair, making it even more messy, “I…” He chokes on his breath, looking back at you, and suddenly you see the glossiness in his eyes, the way that tears brim his waterline. 

And suddenly you see the Gojo Satoru, the Lord in the North, the most powerful man alive, cry. 

“I keep reprimanding Naoya in my head about how awful he is, about how I’d kill nearly every person alive if he ever touched you, b-but I was just as awful. I think about the first time I saw you, about the first weeks you were here. I think about how you must’ve felt, how alone you were. Every day…” he wipes messily at his cheeks, his lips wobbling, “Every day I wake up and think of you. I think about your face, your smile, your eyes, your lips, the way your nose scrunches, that line between your brows when you're confused, and every night I go to sleep hoping that this was all an awful dream and I haven’t ruined your life, but then I wake up, and it starts all over again.” 

“I know I’m a selfish man,” Gojo says with a wet chuckle, his cheeks wet with tears, “I know I shouldn’t, but I want you to myself, I want you forever. I want to be your friend, I want to be the person you sleep next to, the person you go to when you want to talk about your little stories. I want to hear your jokes and I want to see you laugh. I want to hold your hand, I want to put that ring on your finger every morning, and I want to propose to you each night.”

He shakes his head, swallowing his cries down, the moon lighting the tear tracks that start from his eyes and end at his chin. 

“But I know you don’t want that. You told me that you wanted a friend, but…” he shrugged, his smile sad, aching, longing, “I think along the way of being your friend I realized I wanted to be your husband too.” 

“I understand if you want to leave. I’ll tell my parents the truth, they’ll understand. I have a house ready for you near the sea, one away from your family, where you can start over.” 

The wind rustles the hills, and you look at the field, watch the way it moves in tandem with the life around it. 

You can feel the tears forming in your eyes, and know that even if you blink them away it’ll do nothing to actually hide them. There’s a burning feeling in your chest, one that you’ve never felt before, one that rings with Gojo’s words. 

You run your fingers through the grass, looking up at him with a certain fire in your eyes.

“What if I don’t want that?”

He blinks slowly. 

“I,” Gojo sniffs, nodding profusely, hoping you don’t see the way he crumbles, “I understand, I promise I do. The house is a couple days-” 

“No,” you cut him off firmly, wiping your palms furisuly across your cheeks, to rid them of the pesky tears, shaking your head, “What if I don’t want that?” You move up to him, reaching your hand down his tunic, your fingers moving against is chest as you dig out the gold chain that’s wrapped around his neck. 

The one that holds his ring, the one he told you about one night that keeps it safe whenever he’s training. 

“What if I want this?” Your voice is cracking, and you tug the chain tighter.

“What if I want all those things? What if I want you to love me?” The ring shines in the moonlight, mirroring her pair thats wrapped around your finger, “I want to be your friend,” you stress, your brows strewn together as tears overflow from your waterline, “And I want to know what things you like. I want to walk with you all around the earth and walk back home again. I want to sleep next to you. I want to make you laugh, and I want you to make me smile. I want you to be my husband so that I can be your wife,” you cry out, your chest heaving up and down as he wraps his arms around your back, pulling you into his lap as he tries to quickly wipe your tears away. 

“I want you too, Satoru,” you whisper, broken with your wet sniffles, a wet laugh escaping your lips when you see him crack at the way you said his name with so much care, your thumbs gliding across his cheeks. 

You slide closer into him, your legs splitting across his huge thighs as he hugs you tenderly to him, his head resting on your chest so that he can hear your heartbeat, make sure that this wasn’t just another dream.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs against your bosom, looking up at you with glistening eyes. 

“Then fight for me,” you whisper, your hands on either side of his face, “Give me all those things. Give me more,” you smile when his arms wrap around your waist a little tighter, his hands holding you up, “And I’ll do the same.” 

He nods, holding your hand that was still holding onto his ring to his chest, one hand moving to your back, and in the mess of tears and broken laughs the two of you seem to move together, meeting each other in the middle as your lips find each other in the dark shadows of night. 

You gasp when his lips capture yours, and he moves towards the sound, wanting to hold it, keep it forever. 

Gojo moves slowly, knowing that this is your first time, and cups your jaw, helping you move along with him as you lips slot and lock against each other. It’s messy and with no order, your chin staining with sweat as you moan against him, feeling delirious without the touch of him. 

You know this isn’t the easiest position for him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He groans against you, his eyes squeezing shut, trying to memorize your taste in case the world ended tomorrow and this was his last meal. 

“Is this-” You cut him off when you swoop in again, his laughter cut short by your needienss, the way you paw at his chest, your hands winding up to his hair as you tug harshly on the soft strands. 

He moans at this, at the way you grind mindlessly on his thigh, your need for each other bleeding out into the open. 

“I love you,” he murmurs against you, kissing down your chin and then back up to you, his tongue swiping against your lips, savroing your whine, “I love you so much,” he says to everybody, hoping even those on mountains oceans away could hear, “I love you, my wife,” and you giggle, eyes bright when you hear those words. 

“Say it again,” you ask, your nails drawing little shapes on his nape, and you see him break into a smile. 

“My wife,” he repeats with a peck to your cheek, “My beautiful wife,” he kisses the tip of your nose, smiling at the way it scrunhed up slightly, just the way he adored, “My wife,” he kisses your jaw, “My wife,” your giggling nonstop and he hopes to bottle up the sound and hear it on his deathbed.

His hands travel back down to your hips, adusjsting you slightly so that you wouldn’t feelt he embarrassing hardening of his dick just from kissing you, and moves his lips down to your neck, hearing the way there’s a hitch in your laughter. 

“Why’d you stop?” he nudges his nose at that spot pf your neck that still smells like lavender, his favroite scent in the world, “Hm?” Gojo hums against that spot, licking a wet stripe up it, sucking at the skin, feeling the way you arch into his chest. 

“Y-your reeking s-scent infiltrated my nose,” you murmur, biting on your lip as he pinches your waist. 

“Yeah?” Gojo continued to tease you, sliding the sleeve of your dress down, giving you more access to the skin of your collarbone, “Want me to stop?” 

“No!” You cry, totally against your better judgement, moaning when he sucks another mark into the skin, biting it, and then presses a soft kiss to it as an apology, “Please, please, don’t stop.” 

He chuckles darkly, shifting you around so that you are lying back down on the ground, his body framing yours as he continues tugging down your dress, going slow in case you ever wanted him to stop. 

His fingers are quick at untying the string that holds you bodice together, unravelingit all until it falls off and he’s greeted to the sight of your heaving chest, the way your naked breasts rise and fall. 

Gojo blinks for a moment, forgetting how to move. 

“W-what?” You ask, a little self-conscience as he continues to stare at your chest, “Do they look wonky?” You move your hands to cover up but a deep gutteral growl escapes his lips, pinning your hands back. 

“Beautiful,” he bites out, moving his head down, pressing a wet kiss in between the valley of your breasts, “You look like a fuckin’ statue,” he says, “You’re s-so beautiful.” Gojo repeats, and you can’t protest with the way he praises you, nor the way his lips hover over a nipple, finally leaning in fully as he sucks on it. 

“F-fuck!” You cry out at the sensation, your fingers lost in his hair as you keep him there, back arching off the ground, “That, that feels…good,” you can’t speak, not with the way his tongue slides across your nipple, pressing little kisses around you areola. 

His other hand goes to your other one, making sure she’s not feeling lonely, his thumb flicking over your sensitive nipples as you whine even louder. 

Gojo switches and you feel your breath shudder in an embarrassing whimper, your eeys squeezing shut when he bites at you, wanting to mark you up for those wretched gods to see and feel humanly jealous over. 

“So soft,” he murmurs against your skin, almost in awe, “feels like silk.” 

You would’ve had a witty joke about this, you know you did, but you can’t fathom to think about anything other than the way his lips feel on your tits, the way he seems like he’d die had he not been here sooner. 

But he then raises his head, and you whine in protest. Gojo almost break at the way you’re looking up at him, the way yor lips tremble from sheer desire. 

“Want more?” He presses, his hands, warmer than the fire that’s burning in your belly, trailing down, down to where your dress was slightly parting, “Here?” 

“Y-yes, fuck,” you moan, parting your legs to make room for him, not knowing what this feeling was but knowing that he was the only one who could soothe it, “Need it so bad Sa-satoru,” 

His eyes roll back, swallowing his primal groan at the way you plead for him, and nods, pressing a kiss against your stomach before his hitches the fabric upwards, sliding down your body so that his face is closer to that heat. 

You know you should feel more shame, but you feel like you’re going to die if your husband doesn’t do something soon. 

Gojo’s hand travels up your calf, trailing up your thigh, and suddenly stops. 

You go to beg, plead, for him, but cut yourself off when his lips find your inner thighs, pressign wet and messy kisses to them, getting dangerously close to where you felt like you were leaking. 

“You’re divine,” he whispers against your skin, hands wrapping around your thighs as he pulls them apart, “Fuckin’ divine.” 

His lips suddenly find there, you glistening cunt, and you mewl out for him. 

“Satoru,” your chest is heaving like you can’t find any air, “T-there, please, there,” and fuck the way you’re begging him is so sweet that he can’t find it in himself to tease you. 

His fingers seperate your wet lips, groaning when he sees just how much you’re dripping, and licks a tentative stripe upwards, your surprised gasp at how good it felt going straight to his cock.

Gojo carefully slides a finger through your tight walls, feeling the way you tighten around that, and lets his lips travel to your clit, pressing small kisses to it before he begins to suck. You clench around him, and your toes curl at the way he begins to pump it in and out, your essence soaking his skin. 

“So wet sweetheart,” he groans swapping his finger for his thumb at your clit, his tongue diving into your walls as he nearly cums from your saccharine taste alone, “S-shit, fuck, you taste like fucking heaven.” 

Your thighs tighten arund his head, but he craves the feeling, his tongue eating you out at such a fast pace that you begin to wonder if you need this more or him. 

“O-oh gods,” your grips his head tightly, can’t find the sympathy in yourself to feel bad, “‘Toru, oh, oh my, don’t stop! 

That coil in your stomach grows more taunt with each second. 

He alternates, adding in another thick finger, feeling the way you try to stretch for him. He glides in and out of you with ease, but he wonders what you’d look like on his thick cock, how you’d preen as he split you open with his girth. 

“Sweet,” he moans against you, his voice vibrating against your pulsing walls, “You’re so fuckin’ sweet.” 

You nod at something, whatever he just said, not fulling understanding anything around you as he continue to stimulate your clit, sucking on it, his teeth gliding across it with a little bite, and you moan out even louder. 

“I…” you can’t think, can’t breathe, “F-fcuk, ‘Toru, something, something’s happening,” you don’t know what this feeling is, this electric, all-consuming feeling that’s zapping through your body, making it numb yet aware of everything at the same time. 

“I know, I know,” Gojo praised you, one of his hands holding your stomach down, the added pressure making you whine, “You’re doing so good for me, you’re there, come on come for me,” his hand travels up your body, finding yours as he weaves your fingers together. 

“Shit, shit,” you mewl, “I’m coming, fuck, c-coming!” You cry out, your back arching off of the ground as your legs grow slack around his shoulders, your walls pulsing around him as that string tightens for the final time and then finally breaks. 

You can see white as your eyes rolls back into your head, squeezing his hand as tightly as you can, your yes dotting with tears. Your climax was all consuming, making you gush around his fingers and tongue, seeming to be never-ending, your body shaking in his hold. 

Gojo presses one final kiss to your cunt, licking off your release from his fingers, groaning at the taste, and lets you catch your breath. 

When you’re finally able to crack your eyes open, you peek them over to Gojo, seeing the way he tilts his head back, your cum still glistening on his chin and cheek, and whine out in embarrassment. 

“What?” He asks, eyes teasing when you go to hide your face in your hands. 

“I can’t,” your words are muffled, “I can’t believe I just…” 

Gojo kisses your forehead, wiping some of the tears from your eyes away as he kisses your brow bone. 

“How do you feel?” He asks, his eyes scanning over your body, glistening with sweat, and you take in a gulp of air. 

“Good,” you say finally with a soft smile, “Really good.” 

You look from his little grin, one that you peck at, your thumb rubbing up and down his jaw, and then look down, to the obvious bulge that’s hiding behind his training trousers. 

You’ve never seen a cock before but fuck he’s massive.

“What…” you trail off, sitting up slightly, and he helps balance you, “What about you?” you paw at his stomach, right before it leads down, and he lets out a shuddered whine. 

“As much as I-” he bites his tongue, feeling like he’s going to cum if you continue to look at him like that, “As much as I want to…not here,” he looks around at the field, shaking his head as a definite no, “Not here.” 

You go to protest, but he stops you, biting your fingers gently as you yelp, shoving his head away with little force as he chuckles. 

You let him wrap your dress around you again, tying some of the knots so that it doesn’t open up when you’re standing, and let the silence wash over the two of you calm your beating down heart down.

He plays with the ring around your finger, and you watch as the ring around his neck moves with his little breaths. 

“I want to sleep in your bed,” you say, and his blue eyes find yours. 

“You’re crazy if you don’t think I’m letting you sleep anywhere else,” he says in a shocked sort of way and you laugh, looking over to the side for a brief moment, and then look back at him. 

“Do you really love me?” 

Your words as whispered, but it feels like the wind picked them up and scattered them all around the field, around the river, the ancient stones, and right into Gojo’s heart. 

“I really love you,” he whispers back, kissing your eyelids, in between your brows, your forehead, the back of your hand, and murmurs the words, “my wife,” to nobody and to everybody at the same time. 

You smile, pulling him down by that necklace of his so that you can plant a soft kiss against his lips.  

[frenchcoucou]

modern day sukuna

ac: _jvtll

[gojover]

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!

[mayhemandtrouble]

Are We There Yet?, Chapter 26 of Not Giving Up

Full Story on Ao3, with detailed tags and NSFW chapters

Ben did not understand Rey’s tolerance - fondness even - of the porgs who had infested the Falcon. But she cooed over them, standing over the nests they’d made the walls and gave them treats till they followed her around like pets. Small, loud creatures who waddled and bit his fingers if he didn’t offer them a snack quickly enough. Leia informed him it was good practice for being a Father, as if he wasn’t certain enough he would fail.

Rey swore there were only three aboard, but Ben suspected there were closer to fifteen. And they stalked him, squawking loudly like watchdogs if he got too close to the cockpit. He contemplated turning them into snacks at least three times an hour but the damn things had the biggest, most pleading eyes he’d ever seen and even Chewbecca growled protectively of them.

Currently, one was hopping atop the dejarik, making it exceedingly difficult to focus on anything resembling a long term strategy. The game wasn’t friendly to start with, with his former baby-sitter as the opponent. Rey had demanded they sit down and try so there they were. Watching a fat-bottomed bird try to stomp holographic creatures, with its wide foot. At least it was absurd enough to distract them both from the utter horribleness of the situation.

The Wookie trilled in low frustration, leaning back and damn near sulking. He also would have preferred to simply eat the damn birds. He’d tried. Even without Rey’s fondness, the pathetic creatures managed to make him feel guilty! Chewbacca doubted they had two brain cells to rub together in a flock, yet they had mastered the art of looking pitiful as a survival tactic. 

“Agreed.” Ben grumbled, leaning an elbow on the table and poking at the creature’s white feathered stomach. It screeched in reply, which brought the predictable response of his love hollering from the cockpit.

“Ben! Leave them alone!”

“Yes, dear!” He answered too sweetly, head tilting. Had Father and Mother had moments like this? Did it fucking matter, he didn’t want a marriage like theirs. Did he? With a groan, Ben let his head fall onto the table. Wherever Mother was taking them, he hoped they got there soon. Maybe it would have a nice, solitary cell where he wouldn’t have to deal with all this emotional shit. Being a monster was so much easier. Callous laughter from beside him and Ben had to concede it was entirely justified.

“Laugh it up.” Ben chuckled self-deprecatingly. If only Hux could see him now, Kylo Ren - taking orders from his heavily pregnant fiancee regarding the kind treatment of pest species. Sitting up again, he looked over to Chewie, who seemed entirely pleased by Ben’s current foul mood. It had surprised Ben how nice he found it that Chewbacca wasn’t afraid of him. Angry, furious, rage - well deserved emotions but without the undercurrents of terror. 

Chewbacca didn’t understand the decisions his honor family were making, not fully. He understood why Rey wanted the sire of her children nearby. He understood why Leia struggled to abandon her son. But how could Rey sleep beside the murderer so peacefully, how did Leia justify it.

Chewie watched as Ben punched in his next few moves. In terms of his long life span, the boy had grown up in only a few heartbeats. Something had happened, something Han and Leia talked about in whispers. Usual brooding during one’s coming-of-age grew steadily darker and something flickered in the boy’s eyes that the Wookie couldn’t place. The circles under Ben’s eyes had grown deeper.

When one of Ben’s creatures destroyed Chewie’s favorite fighter, the Wookie howled in rage, head pulled back to the game. The porg screeched again, facing off with the massive fighter with the confidence of a well-indulged favorite.

“Chewie!”

Rey’s voice cut through from the cockpit again, and this time Chewbacca cradled his head in his paw. Eying the stupid bird and wishing he’d gone through with his initial plan to eat them all. 

“Bet they’d taste good fried,” Ben muttered, unable to keep a smirk off his lips to see Chewie’s reaction to Rey’s scolding. By now, Rey probably knew where they were going and when they were landing and everything about Mother’s plan. For once, he didn’t care - just as long as he stayed at her side until their family was more settled. Then he could worry about all the what nexts.

Chewie snorted in agreement, as much as it pained him to agree with Ben about anything. Fried with triple thick batter, that sauce from his homeworld and maybe some of that spicy shit Han had liked. Glancing over, Chewie felt his heart lurch to see that smirk on Ben’s face. It was unfair of the bastard to look so much like his father and Ben’s childhood self all once. Maybe that was why the other two couldn’t give up on him.

Issuing a halfhearted howl, Chewbacca stood abruptly. It was petty but he was pleased to see that Ben jumped back a little in concern. Good. As Rey whirled around, as best she could in her condition, Chewie hit the button to reset the game with far more force than needed. He might need to buy a new table when they landed but it would be worth it.

“Chewie, what’s wrong?” Rey had only gotten a few steps in when the Wookie trilled at her. A long, angry and pained vocalization that left her shoulders dropping. The two hadn’t even finished the game. Her hopes hadn’t been high but Rey had wanted a little better than that. As he left, Ben’s head dropped to rest in the palm of his hands.

The gentle feel of her fingers stroking through his dark curls was far more comfort than he deserved, but he took it anyway. Leaning into his lover gently when she sat beside him. Rey would tell him that everything would be all right, that they would work things out. He just had to be patient.

He wasn’t sure about that. The further he seemed to get from his life in the First Order, the worse his dreams became. Instead of wallowing in Darkness and being pulled to the Light, it was turning around. Just as it had before. 

Rey’s hand caressed the swell of their children slowly, looking out the view ports with a wide grin. She’d been apprehensive but excited when Leia said where they were going. This was her first time on such a populated world, having barely traveled outside of the Outer Rim. Ben had been shocked, then annoyed at himself for not seeing it coming.

I would have expected Mustafar.

I’m not looking to fail you twice.

Mother had the same confident determination about her that she always had. Failure did not seem to haunt her as it did him, or even normal beings. She saw it, analyzed it, and moved onto the next best choice that she could make. Or was that simply how parents were supposed to seem to their children.

He had to admit it though, Naboo was a beautiful planet. And through his grandmother’s line, Leia had access to resources here. Things she had probably been setting up from the beginning, along with about ten different plans so that she would be prepared no matter what.

“Oh Ben, look!”

“Not a bad place to raise children, mmm?” He teased her, arms wrapping around her from behind. As though they’d picked this place together, and they weren’t fleeing. Still. The joy in her eyes was something he hadn’t seen in months, as she took in the green domed roofs of the buildings and the waterfalls, with the city seeming to go all the way to the edge of water and sky. 

“I doubt we’ll stay here forever.” Rey chuckled, but couldn’t help agreeing with him. As they circled down to land, the city and its surrounding pastoral landscape seemed like something out of a story book. If they had to stay somewhere forever, a place like this might not be so bad. Though it was not lost on her that this was also where her grandfather, and his grandmother, had both come from. A matter to think on later.

“You’ll be here for the foreseeable future, at any rate.” Leia announced, pushing herself up on her cane as the Falcon landed. She was tired, though she refused to show it. The past few days - the past few months - had taken a great deal out of her. If she were particularly fortunate, Leia would be able to rest a bit here as well before she had to return to the Resistance for the clean-up work. Not that she was counting on that.

“The Lake Retreat?” Ben hesitated, then offered his mother his arm. Covering his nerves with a smirk. Pretending that he didn’t feel relief when Leia leaned her slight frame against his broader one.

“It has a proper name, Ben. Varykino. Now, one of you hurry up and get the gangplank lowered. Rey needs something decent to wear and Ben, if those clothes smelled any worse, I would burn them immediately.” 

Laughing, Rey scurried - waddled - along to comply. She didn’t know if Leia had clothes ready for them at this Lake place, or what the plan was. But she had been living on ships for the past few months. It would do her some good to get solid ground under her again.

The plan, as it turned out, was more in line with a holiday than concealment. Which irritated Chewbacca all the more, even if he did patiently hold a woven metal basket for Rey as she tentatively selected garments in a frighteningly posh shop. Ben had sighed in annoyance, waving off assistance and grabbing a handful of ready-made garments without bothering to check prices. Leia personally threw the offending garments, left from their time on the Supremacy, into a trash chute while the lovers changed into new selections.

By the time the bill was being settled, Ben’s attire was notably cleaner and more in line with the well-to-do of Naboo, but the coloring hadn’t changed. A black tunic, fastening at his right breast with jet-colored ornamentation curling along the line of his shoulders - gathered at the sleeves where the cuffs emphasized the strength in his hands. Comfortably loose, black trousers of fine material that tucked into black boots. A wide belt, already accented with several pouches that contained who-knows-what.

Rey would have scolded him for not choosing a single color, save that the effect took her breath away. He looked like a dark prince from a fairytale, the sort who might save the day or end the world save for a true love’s kiss.

Ben caught her looking as he ran his fingers through his dark curls, not that it was particularly difficult to see where she was looking. He had stationed himself in front of a mirror, doing his best to look ‘respectable’, or something that passed for it. Rey had seemed so pleased to explore the city, he felt an annoying compulsion to pass for the nobility he used to be. 

“Continue looking at me like that, and I’ll drag you into one of the dressing rooms.” Ben spoke low, his brown eyes as they met hers in the mirror. She had been trying to be subtle, brushing her fingers over a bright purple sash, studded with jewels in the shape of stars. The display just happened to be facing towards the mirror Ben was using. Chewie snorted in disgust.

“Ben! Hush!” Hissing out her embarrassment, Rey felt her face burn. Quickly checking that Leia was out of earshot and fumbling with the sash, trying to replace it hurriedly. In her haste, the one in her hands and several others tumbled to the ground. Prompting one of the overly attentive clerks to hurry to the pregnant woman’s assistance. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to… I just… I’ll get some air!”

Layers of soft pastels swirled as Rey quickly moved to the door. There had not been much ready off the rack in her favored tones that would also accommodate her newly acquired figure. Encouraged by the attendants, she’d tried to take it as a chance to try something new. And so, paid for by the Organa accounts, she wore a simple cream short tunic with whitework embroidery and a skirt comprised of several layers of a sheer material done in abstract florals. The wide soft blue waistband was edged with small bits of metal that created a subtle ringing as she moved. It tied with a large bow just above her stomach, pridefully displaying the new life she was bringing into the galaxy. Rey was entirely certain it was the most costly garment she’d ever owned and her interest in exploration was suddenly dimmed by the threat of stains.

“Come with me?” Stepping out of the shop, Ben quickly threaded his arm around her own. Not waiting for Rey to agree before he started leading her away and towards an open air market where he suspected she would be more comfortable.

“We can’t leave Leia and Chewie,” protesting with slow steps though neither Master or Wookie were running out screaming. “What if…”

“You’re my guard, remember?” He nudged her shoulder gently, knowing where her thoughts were going. They were outside of a cell by Leia’s skill and grace. If they overstepped, he would be back and Rey would be either beside him or trying to get him out. Kissing her temple lightly, he finally conceded the truth. “Mother knows - she needs a little time to arrange suitable transportation to Varykino and I want to show you something.” Full Story on Ao3, with detailed tags and NSFW chapters