★

2 She’s only been working at the BAU for a few weeks when Spencer scrambles into the bullpen 45 minutes late. He’s never late. He was awake until the early hours of the morning, too wrapped up in a new book to notice the time. When his alarm sounded at sunrise, he turned it off and accidentally fell back to sleep. 

His hair is ruffled and his tie is crooked and his dress shirt isn’t all the way tucked in. Even his messenger bag is half open and on the brink of spilling papers everywhere. He feels so discombobulated, and he just knows that this is going to ruin his entire day. 

She’s the first to see him. Great. She’s so beautiful, and she’s seeing him as a sloppy mess. 

“Hey, Spencer! You okay? We were worried about you.” He knows that she said we, and that means it wasn’t just her who was worried, but his heart feels warm at the thought of her missing him. 

He nods and tells her, “Yeah, I overslept.” He’s embarrassed and shakes his head before ducking it down. He takes in his messy appearance and wishes he could start the whole day over. 

She reaches out to him and carefully tightens and straightens his tie. She then reaches up to his collar and gently folds it over. He can feel himself blushing at the feeling of her fingertips brushing against his chest and then his neck. 

She almost reaches down to the hem of his shirt before she whispers, “I’ll let you take care of that part,” while shyly giggling.

“Right, yes- Um… Thank you.”

“No problem, Spence.”

“Uh… does my hair look okay?” He dares to ask her, pointing up at his head. 

She’s about to reach up to smooth some pieces down when Emily calls her over to speak to her. 

“You look good, Spencer. You always do, don’t worry,” She smiles before she leaves him. 

He’s left gazing after her as she treads towards Emily’s desk. He’s cursing Emily in his head for pulling her away from their moment together. He smooths his shirt down and tucks it in properly as he walks to his desk. 

As he traverses through the bullpen, he just barely catches his name in the conversation she’s having with Emily. 

“...Spencer doesn’t really like being touched. Something about the germs bothers him.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize.” Her brows furrow, “Thank you for telling me,” and she sadly smiles.

He really wants to curse at Emily, now. 

3 Weeks go by before she touches him again. Spencer is sorely missing the day that she fixed his tie. He’s starting to consider coming into work with it crooked again to see if that can tempt her to fix it for him, again. 

Luckily, he doesn’t have to do that or anything more extreme. 

They’re inspecting a scene together, and he’s crouched down over some papers scattered all over the floor. A piece of his hair keeps falling in his eyes as he reads them, but he’s wearing gloves, so he can’t push it back properly. He keeps trying to use his air to blow it out of his eyeline, but it keeps falling back down. 

She comes over and crouches next to him, “Need any help?” 

He looks over at her and sees that she hasn’t put both of her gloves on yet – she has one on and is about to put on the other. 

“Actually, could you help me with this?” He blows air at the piece of hair again and gestures toward it. He’s so proud of himself for asking her. 

“Oh, are you sure?” She says as she reaches toward him with her bare hand, freezing mid-air. 

I hate you, Emily, he thinks. 

He nods with a shy smile, so she completes her movement and tucks the piece of hair back for him. 

They have twin blushes on their cheeks as they look away from each other and focus back on the documents in front of them. 

4 They’re packed into the backseat of an SUV, Spencer, her, and JJ, in that order. 

She climbed into the backseat after him and before JJ, and pressed her entire side against him – their arms and legs completely fused together. 

After JJ climbs in, he looks over to see if she’s also touching JJ like this, and they must have at least 6 inches of space between them. 

He’s absolutely basking in the feeling of her body pressed against his. He can barely contain his smile. 

She softly nudges her leg against his at a red light, so he’s absolutely sure that it wasn’t an accident or a result of the car jostling. He gets the confidence to nudge her leg back, and she looks over at him with a smile. He blushes and ducks his head down. 

5 He gets a call in the middle of the workday about his mom's health declining. The center needs his consent for a new medication. 

He’s sitting and crying in a random hallway with his knees to his chest. He never sees anyone near here, so he thinks he’s safe to do so, just for a little bit. 

“Spence! There you are, I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

He looks up at her with red-rimmed eyes and tears streaming down his cheeks. 

She crouches down in front of him and places her hands on his knees, rubbing soft circles against him. 

“Spence, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” A few more of his tears fall at the endearment.

He frantically wipes his tears away. He doesn’t want her to see him like this. “I’m okay, it’s just my mom… she’s sick.”

She wordlessly moves to sit next to him, and he feels guilty that she’s settling onto the cold, hard, dirty floor. 

That is, until she wraps an arm behind him and starts rubbing his back. Her hand rubbing up and down his spine is the most comforting thing he’s ever felt. 

He whispers, “She has schizophrenia and lives in a treatment facility.”

She shifts her arm to wrap across his shoulder, then pulls him in closer to her. She places a hand on his head and guides it to rest on her shoulder, soothingly rubbing circles with her thumb. 

♡♥♡  He finds her outside of a local precinct, sitting on a bench. As he approaches, he sees her shoulders shaking. Without even thinking, he starts unraveling his scarf to put it around her neck. He’s not sure why she’s out here at 9 pm, but he surely doesn’t want her to be cold. 

He stands in front of her with the scarf draped over his hands, ready to place it around her neck, when she looks up at him, and he sees tears streaming down her cheeks. 

He’s immediately reminded of how caring she was to him when she found him in a similar position, and hopes he can take care of her half as well as she took care of him. 

As he drapes the knit around her neck, she whispers, “I don’t really want to talk about it. Is that okay?”

“No-yes, I mean, of course.” He’s disappointed that she doesn’t want to confide in him, but he would never push her to talk when she doesn’t want to, so he accepts that her wearing his scarf is enough of a win. 

He turns on his heel to walk back inside when she stops him, “Wait, um, would you mind just sitting with me?”

“Of course,” He immediately replies. 

He lowers himself on the bench next to her and thinks about when they sat side-by-side in the SUV. He wonders if he should press his leg against hers or if it isn’t the right time. That was more of a silly thing that they did, and he doesn’t want her to think that he’s not taking her feelings seriously. 

“Thank you, I’m sorry, this is kind of embarrassing.” She feebly says.

“No, no, you’re fine, don’t worry,” He really hopes that he’s being reassuring enough for her. He knows how to calm down unsubs and victims and his mother, but this feels like entirely new territory. 

As they sit in silence, he looks down and sees her wringing her hands in her lap. His own fingers twitch as he debates what to do. Normally, he’d fill the silence with questions or facts or statistics.

He tentatively reaches over and places his hand over both of hers. 

They don’t talk much, as she requested, and normally that would make Spencer uncomfortable. Typically, he tries to avoid silence and fills it with his rants and ramblings. He even avoids silence in his own head by constantly having a book or headphones in his bag available.

This is different, though. Just her presence makes him feel calm and comfortable. 

Eventually, she pulls one of her hands out from under his to wipe away her tears with her sleeve. His heart sinks at the thought that their moment is over. 

That is, until she turns her remaining palm over and he realizes she’s trying to hold his hand properly. 

She scoots closer to him and points up at the shining stars in the night sky. 

“Are there any constellations we can see?” She asks. 

He smiles at the opportunity to share his knowledge with her; this is something he knows that he’s good at. 

He points out the various constellations above them and tells her about the ones that are present at other times of the year. He doesn’t notice that she’s shifted even closer to him on the bench until their hips touch and she’s lowering her head onto his shoulder. 

“Is this okay?” she whispers 

“Definitely,” He replies, and he bends his neck to place his head on top of hers, gently squeezing her hand as he does. 

pretty pls comment and reblog if u liked! i love talking to u guys and seeing ur cute rambles in the reblog tags <3

(tagging those who asked for this part!)

“What’s been up with you, Spence?” JJ asks. “You’re usually our resident computer but you’re…glitching today.” She jokes lightheartedly with a chuckle.

“Sorry…” Spencer mumbles, picking at the thread on his coat. He hesitates before being honest. “It’s Y/n’s birthday today and I bailed last minute.”

“For the case?”

“Yeah, we had a bunch of plans but I didn’t make it to any of them.” He confesses quietly.

“Spence, you could’ve taken this one off. You know Hotch is really understanding about our personal lives.”

“I would never forgive myself if I didn’t go and that little girl died.” 

“You can’t save everyone, Reid.” Emily says gently.

“I can try.”

“You can’t lose yourself trying.” Rossi chimes in. Spencer glances at him.

“Did you give her a heads up?” Derek asks.

“I left before she woke up but I sent her a text.” He explains, glancing at his phone again. “She hasn’t messaged me back.”

“It sucks when plans get canceled at the last minute but surely she understands. I mean you guys have been together for two years. She knows how it goes.” Derek comments bluntly with a shrug and Emily rolls her eyes.

“She understands but I don’t know… it feels like something else.” Spencer mumbles, still deep in thought.

“You think she’s cheating on you?”

“What? No. Why would you say that?” Spencer defends, slightly annoyed by Derek’s brashness.

“Derek, you’re not helping.” JJ scolds. “Don’t put those thoughts in Spencer’s head. Y/n would never do that.”

Derek holds his hands up in defense.

“Ignore him. What makes it feel different?" Emily asks, nodding her head up. Spencer is aware that you and Emily are close so he knows her questions about you are always genuine.

“I missed our anniversary dinner last year. And a few months ago I missed Valentine's Day because of the Kentucky case.”

“So, a few rainchecks don’t hurt. An unpredictable schedule is a casualty of the job.” Derek argues again.

“It’s only truly unpredictable for so long. Then it becomes predictably unpredictable and takes over your life.” Rossi adds again, not looking up from his booklet as he presses the blue ballpoint pen into the thin gray page. “Four letter word for German wine?” 

After a quiet moment, Spencer says “hock.”

Emily’s phone buzzes and she glances at it. She has a good enough poker face for everyone else but Spencer is a Las Vegan. She types on her phone and then avoids Spencer’s gaze for the rest of the flight.

After two hours of nothing but turbulence, they land with tired eyes and day old clothes. Spencer is the first one to stand and exit the plane. The tiny space has been growing tinier and tinier with each mile closer to the airport.

The bright tarmac lights illuminate like Christmas all around the ground crew. Men and women in orange reflective vests work to cart luggage and wave light-up wands to communicate with the pilots. The breeze catches his brown curls and Spencer pushes his hair out of his eyes before checking his phone again. The screen shinning onto his worried face.

Nothing.

He opens the message bar under your name, his fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment until his eyes catch sight of those grey letters again and he huffs before shoves his phone back in his pocket. 

From behind him, he feels a hand on his shoulder and he turns around. “Reid, I know it’s not any of my business but I watched my job destroy my marriage for years. If I could go back, I’d do anything Haley needed from me to fix it.” Hotch says.

The cold air bites at Spencer’s skin. “Would you have left the BAU?”

“Yes but Y/n would never ask you to do that.” Hotch answers plainly and looks over Spencer’s shoulder to see the team chatting as they walk out of the plane. He lowers his voice. “The first few months after returning to the BAU, I almost quit. It felt impossible to do this job properly while raising Jack but I realized that it’s not about every second of your life being in your control — nobody in the world has that. It’s about using the time in your control in the right ways. When you can do that, being away from home isn’t so hard.”

“But how do I do that?” Spencer mumbles.

“You’ve gotta ask her.” Hotch walks away, lingering behind the team.

The metro ride from the airport to his usual stop down the street from your shared apartment is empty and quiet. He spends the shaky, fluorescent bleached ride replaying his conversation on the tarmac with Hotch. He wasn’t sure where to start. His eyes ache with a longing for sleep or better yet, something to rest them on — you.

Eventually his tired feet bring him straight to the door he’d walked out of this morning. The metal key in his fingers clinks against the scratched door. He slips into the apartment fully expecting you to be asleep. He’d planned to crash on the couch but as his sock covered feet slip out of his shoes, he hears rustling in your shared bedroom.

For a second, he lets Derek’s off handed comment about you possibly cheating, get the better of him. With a scoff, he refutes the idea and hangs his work bag on the hook by the door. You would never do that. Spencer knows that for certain.

A small smile grows on his face, happy you’re awake and ready to take Hotch up on his advice. Making the time he has control of matter more than the time he doesn’t.

The hinges squeak with age as he swings the bedroom door open. Spencer is wearing a careful grin but his face falls when he sees you standing by the bed, next to a half packed bag. The only lights on are the small lamps next to the bed.

“Y/n?” 

You jump, clearly very frightened. You hadn’t even heard the apartment door open.”Spencer!” You shout in fear.

“Why are you packing?”

“I didn’t think you were coming home until Wednesday.”

“We finished early.” He mumbles, looking back down at the pile of clothes on your side of the bed. “Why are you packing?”

In a small, nervous voice you reply “I think I need some space…” You look away, too scared to see the look of devastation he must be wearing.

Spencer’s whole body feels numb. 

“In the closet?” It was a stupid question, Spencer knows that but his heart still skips a beat when you shake your head.

“From me?” His voice cracks.

Your heart drops to your feet and tears prick at your eyes. Your jaw feels heavy and your teeth feel too big for your mouth as you admit “from us.”

The knot in Spencer’s tie digs into his neck. “From us?’ His voice trembles with impossibly more devastation. “Why?”

“Spencer… you know why.” You say quietly.

“Are you cheating on me?”

Shock over takes your features and you flinch at his accusation. “Are you serious?!” You say louder than necessary. Spencer curses himself for letting Derek get in his head. 

“I’m sorry.” he says softly and earnestly. He steps forward. “I’m sorry.”

Your hard expression softens. “For what?” The sharp edge that was in your voice is gone but your spine stays stiff.

Spencer takes too long to answer and you humorlessly chuckle.

“I’m not gonna apologize for taking the case, Y/n. The first 48 hours are crucial. We needed to be there as soon as possible. We were working the whole flight over. You have to understand that it was an emergency.” Spencer has a bad habit of thinking emotions can be explained away, he knows this.

You shake your head, offended that he would even think you don’t understand the severity of the situation. Your body drifts closer to him, your weapons down. “Spencer, there is no reality in which my birthday dinner is more important than finding a missing 12-year-old girl alive, I know that. And I love that you have decided to use your limitless genius to help people. The way you care for these victims is more than just extremely attractive — it’s admirable. Everything about you is admirable. But…” You take a deep breath, almost ashamed to say your next words out loud. “I am constantly comparing the best days of my life to someone else’s worst day of theirs. And I never win. It sounds so selfish and petty but just because I understand the importance of your job doesn’t mean my feelings go away. It still sucks to cry in the restaurant by myself on my birthday.”

“You cried?”

You ignore his question. “We’ve missed Valentine’s Day two years in a row, you flew out on Christmas in the middle of opening presents and you didn’t get back until the new year, we never made up our anniversary dinner, and last week you bailed on our first scheduled date night in three months because you guys got a case.”

Spencer sighs. He’d never realized how much he was missing. 

“All I could think about today was what I would tell our child if they were asking where Daddy was on Christmas morning, or their birthday, or their soccer game.” The mattress sinks as you sit on the end of the bed.

Spencer’s heart hitches at the news that you think about having a family with him. Tears well in your eyes and he joins you on the edge of the bed, sitting carefully next to you.

“I don’t want my job to hurt you.” He states. It’s not defensive, it’s honest. It feels like he’s trying to break ground on an open conversation. He turns to face you and places a hand on your knee.

“And I don’t want you to feel like I’m mad at you for doing good in the world.” You say tearfully.

“I don’t feel like that, baby.” Spencer shakes his head. “I just wanna know how to fix this.”

“I think… I just need some space to figure out if this is what I really want.” You confess and a tear falls directly off your bottom lashes, onto Spencer’s hand.

He swallows a lump of nerves and the sudden urge to vomit at the thought of being not what you want. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry.” You cry quietly, your posture giving away more as you sniffle and wipe at your wet eyes.

Spencer shakes his head and the wrinkled covers on the bed shift as he moves closer. His arms wrap around your crumpled frame. “Don’t apologize. Don’t apologize.” He repeats.

“I love you.” You remind him, one of your hands resting on his arm.

He kisses the top of your head. “I love you, baby.” He says earnestly, afraid this might be the last time he’ll ever get to say it to your face, holding you in his arms. His eyes glass over but he blinks the tears away. He kisses your hair again and holds you tighter.

“I’m so sorry, Spencer.” You say again and sniffle.

“Stop that.” He feels you pull slightly and he loosens his hold on you. You sit up and he catches a glimpse of your stricken face — eyes red and watery. He pushes some tear soaked strands of hair off of your feverish cheeks. You look up at him and through his pained expression, he offers you a small smile. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “We’ll get through this, Y/n. Okay?” 

You nod with low energy, closing your eyes for a moment and taking in a deep breath in an attempt to calm your shaky hands.

Spencer rubs your back, trying to comfort you but his kind gesture only makes everything so much harder. His other hand pulls your hair neatly off your neck and he places a chaste kiss against the skin of your shoulder.

You sigh heavily and use every ounce of strength left to raise to your feet, pulling yourself out of Spencer’s arm. The loss of contact is devastatingly heavy.

“I’m gonna stay with Emily for a while. She’s picking me up.”

Spencer’s throat bobs as he gulps. His eyes fall down for half a second, then back up to you. He nods. “Sergio will be happy to see you.” It’s an olive branch in the hurricane.

You chuckle quietly. “Yeah…” You agree.

Neither of you could make eye contact while you put a few things in a small bag. With a mixture of not wanting to smother you and not wanting to be smothered by the godawful thick sadness in the air, Spencer stepped out of the room. He sat on the edge of the couch in the living room, his muscles tense — ready to stand at any moment. The bones in his fingers ache from the nonstop wringing of his hands and his bottom lip stings from his teeth chewing it raw.

The sound of drawers opening and closing, your padded footsteps across the tattered rug, the zipping of small cosmetic bags, plastic racks clicking against each other as you shuffle through the closet. He tried to keep his eyes trained downward but every so often — at a new noise — they would flicker up to your moving figure as you paced around the room then he’d blink hard and look away again.

Each second that ticks by on the clock mocks him. The longer you take to pack, the longer you must be planning to be gone. Spencer squeezes his eyes closed and runs his hand over his face. He can feel a migraine coming on.

“Spencer?” Your quiet voice calls from the open bedroom door. 

His head jerks up and he stands to his feet immediately. “Yeah?” His voice cracks and he clears his throat. 

“Do we have extra toothpaste?” You mumble.

He slouches a bit. “Um, w-we don’t have any. Just take the one we share. I’ll get another one.”

“I’m sure Emily has extra.” You politely try to dismiss his offer.

“You need the one for sensitivity. Please take that one.”

You shuffle awkwardly. “Okay.” You whisper before disappearing back in the bathroom.

Spencer doesn’t sit back down. His knees feel like they’re locking and his lungs feel like they’re shrinking.

“Okay…” You announce quietly as you step back through the threshold, this time with a full bag.

You want to shrink yourself away under Spencer’s longingly stare. Leaving a bad man is rewarding. Leaving a good man is remorseful. Leaving a man like Spencer — the most beautifully layered, thoughtfully loving, good hearted, gentle, patient, and perfectly everything man — feels impossible. Even if you manage to pick your feet up off the floor and drag your beat up sneaker bottoms to the old wooden apartment door, the look he’s giving you will still haunt every room you enter for the rest of your life. Every morning coffee you’ll make, you’ll reach for his dorky chemistry pun mug too. Every time you laugh, you’ll look to your left hoping to see him there. Every hard night will feel heavier without his gentle reassurances and soft kisses. Every book will smell like him and every record scratch will sound like his quiet humming along to an old James Taylor song. Spencer is part of your life no matter what you decide to do during your time at Emily’s apartment. 

He watches you like his soul wants to leave his body and attach to yours.

You move towards the door and Spencer mumbles something about helping you but you politely decline, telling him that you’ve got it.

He steps in slow pace behind you.

The dimly lit space near the door feels claustrophobic, like being trapped in a raging sea of white water at night.

“I’ll do anything…” Spencer confesses, heartbreak lacing his words. His eyes flit across your face.

His heart slows for a second as you drop the bag at your feet and step forward. He melts into you as you wrap your arms around his neck and embrace him tightly. The soft material of your shirt brushes his skin as his arm snakes around your waist, the other cupping the back of your head. He buries his distraught face into your neck, a few of his tears slide down the strands of your hair. Your bodies are flush against one another and he hears you softly say “me too.”

A moment passes and you pull back. You brush his hair back, gazing into his tearful eyes. He leans into your touch as your thumb wipes the glistening streaks of tears off his flushed cheeks.

“I’ll do anything.” He repeats. “Just tell me.”

“I’ll tell you what I need when I figure it out.” You whisper. He nods against your hand before turning his face and placing a kiss against your palm.

His hand reaches up and grasps yours, pulling it into his chest between the both of you. His eyes stay locked onto yours, afraid that even with an eidetic memory he’d forget them.

Your hand slides off his sweater vest clad chest as you step backwards, closer to the door. Your interlocked hands slowly and delicately pull apart. Spencer watches you pick up your bag and before you can talk yourself out of it, you open the door.

With a few minutes left in the day, Spencer quietly says through choked back tears “happy birthday, Y/n.” 

Spencer's hands are careful as he fastens your bulletproof vest over your chest, his brows furrowed. The fluorescent lights of the bullpen wash him pale, catching the faint shadows under his eyes from too many nights spent buried in files.

“You tightened it too much,” you mumble, wincing as he tugs the straps.

“It’s supposed to be tight,” he says automatically, not looking up.

“Pretty sure breathing is also supposed to happen.” That finally earns you a glance. Not amused. Just worried.

“You joke when you’re nervous.”

“And you lecture when you are.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. My lungs would like to file a formal complaint.” His mouth twitches despite himself, but it disappears almost immediately. Spencer smooths his hand over the front of the vest one last time, checking for gaps like he doesn’t trust the fabric to do its job properly. You study him for a second.

“You know,” you say quietly, “most people just say ‘be careful.’”

“I did say that.”

“Three times.”

“Because you ignored me the first two.” A snort escapes you, but it fades when you notice the way his fingers linger near your ribs. Restless. Anxious.The case had gotten ugly fast.Three victims in four days. All connected to the Bureau in some way. Retired agents. Informants. One federal prosecutor. And now the unsub had escalated from taunting the BAU to targeting your father directly. Aaron Hotchner had made enemies before. Plenty of them. But this one felt different.

Personal.

The unsub had been sending photographs for weeks now. Grainy shots of Hotch entering Quantico. Jack at soccer practice. You grabbing coffee outside the bullpen with Spencer. Watching. Waiting. The latest message had arrived that morning.

Tick tock, Hotchner.

And underneath it:

What hurts worse? Losing your team… or your daughter?

Hotch had gone frighteningly still when Garcia read it aloud. You’d watched the muscle in his jaw tick once before he started assigning teams like the world wasn’t tilting beneath his feet. Now the bullpen buzzes around you—agents moving quickly, radios crackling, Emily and JJ arguing quietly over routes—but Spencer still hasn’t stepped back.

“Spence,” you say softly. His eyes flick to yours immediately. “I’ll be okay.” The problem is he doesn’t answer. Because Spencer Reid has seen too many people promise that before bleeding out anyway. Behind you, your father emerges from his office already shrugging into his jacket.

“We hit the road in two,” Hotch says. The entire room shifts instantly into motion. Spencer finally lets go of your vest, though reluctantly, like peeling his hands away from something important.

“You stay with Luke,” he says firmly. “Don’t split up. Don’t go anywhere alone." You blink at him.

“Wow. You and my dad should start a podcast.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re always serious.”

“That’s statistically inaccurate.” That almost gets a real smile out of you.Almost. Then Hotch’s voice cuts through the bullpen again.

“Let’s move.” You reach up and pull Spencer down towards you, catching his lips in a quick kiss as your dad, Luke, Walker and Emily all walk towards the black SUV's waiting for you downstairs.

The kiss barely lasts two seconds.

Still, Spencer chases it for half a heartbeat when you pull away, his hand catching briefly at your wrist like he’s fighting the urge to keep you there.

“Be careful,” he says quietly. You soften a little at the look on his face.

“Spence, we’re literally just surveilling a warehouse.”

“That statement significantly increases the statistical likelihood something catastrophic is about to happen.” Luke snorts from beside the elevators.

“He’s got a point.” You roll your eyes, backing toward the bullpen doors.

“You’re all dramatic.” Hotch appears behind you, expression unreadable but tired in the way only your father can manage.

“Move.”And just like that, the moment’s over. Everyone scatters into motion.

The unsub’s name is Daniel Kessler.

Former paramedic. Former military. Smart enough to stay ahead of the BAU for six weeks and angry enough to make mistakes.

More specifically: angry at Aaron Hotchner.

Three years ago, Hotch testified in a corruption case involving Kessler’s brother. The brother went to prison. Died there eleven months later.

Kessler blamed Hotch.

And now bodies were piling up across Virginia with surgical precision and handwritten messages left behind at each scene.

The latest lead had come fast—a possible location tied to one of Kessler’s shell companies just outside Quantico. Which was why the team was mobilizing so quickly. Three SUVs. Hotch and Rossi in the first. JJ and Tara in the second. You, Luke, Emily, and Walker in the third. Spencer stayed behind with Garcia to monitor incoming intel. He looked miserable about it.

At first, the drive is almost painfully normal. Walker’s driving. Emily sits shotgun flipping through case notes while Luke scrolls through updates on his phone beside you in the backseat. Rain taps softly against the windows. The highway stretches dark and endless ahead of you. Your phone buzzes.

SPENCE You forgot your scarf.

You smile despite yourself.

YOU Tragic. I’ll hold a funeral later.

Three dots appear immediately.

Then:

SPENCE Funny people are statistically more likely to survive traumatic situations.

You bark out a laugh. Luke glances over.

“Pretty Boy?”

“Unfortunately.” Emily sighs dramatically from the front seat.

“You two are disgusting.”

“You say that like you haven’t watched them stare at each other for ten straight minutes in briefing rooms,” Walker says.

“I have,” Emily replies. “That’s why I said it. I've also watched them pine for each other for years. This sudden shift in dynamics is weird. I honestly liked it better when Reid was all stuttery and shy around her."

"We didn't pine." You grumble, shifting in your seat. Four separate looks immediately get directed at you. Luke actually lowers his phone.

“Be serious.”

“He wrote you a six-page apology because he accidentally snapped at you once,” Emily says to absolutely no one’s surprise.

Walker snorts from the driver’s seat.

“Reid used to look like he was being held hostage every time she touched him.”

“He still does sometimes,” Luke says.

“Okay, wow,” you mutter. Emily twists slightly in her seat to look back at you.

“Sweetheart, he once walked into the glass conference room wall because you smiled at him.”

“That happened one time.”

“Twice,” Luke corrects. Walker laughs.

“Nah, my favorite was the coffee thing.” You narrow your eyes.

“What coffee thing?”

“You brought him coffee every morning for like eight months,” Walker says.

“Because he forgets to eat when he’s working.”

“And Reid started memorizing your coffee order after day two,” Emily adds smugly. Luke points between all of you.

“See, this is why none of us were shocked when they finally got together.”

“You were all shocked,” you argue.

“We were shocked it took this long,” Emily corrects. Emily cackles. “You're dating a textbook.”

“A very pretty textbook,” you mumble before thinking better of it. Unfortunately the entire car hears you. Walker makes a wounded sound.

“Oh, that’s disgusting.” Emily clutches her chest dramatically.

“No, let her continue. This is healing me.” You flip her off from the backseat. Rain continues tapping softly against the windshield as the SUV speeds down the dark stretch of highway. The radio crackles quietly every few seconds with updates from the other cars. Somewhere ahead, Hotch and Rossi are already discussing entry routes. JJ’s voice cuts in briefly over comms before fading back out. For a moment, everything feels strangely normal.

Easy.

Luke elbows you lightly.

“You know Reid almost called Hotch Sr when he asked permission to ask you out.” Your head whips toward him.

“What?” Emily bursts into delighted laughter.

“He did.” Walker nearly misses the curve in the road because he’s laughing too hard now.

“No he did not.”

“Oh, he absolutely did,” Emily says. “Hotch just stared at him for like ten full seconds while Reid visibly aged.” Luke deepens his voice badly in imitation. “‘Agent Hotchner, respectfully, I was wondering if—’”

“Stop talking,” you groan.

“—if your daughter would potentially—’”

“You’re all dead to me.” Emily wipes tears from under her eyes.

“Your father looked so uncomfortable.” Walker grins into the rearview mirror.

“Honestly brave of Reid. I’d rather fistfight a bear than ask Hotch for dating permission.”

“He didn’t ask permission,” you defend automatically. Luke raises an eyebrow.

“He absolutely did.” Luke laughs. And for one perfect, stupid second, everything feels fine.

Then you see it. Up ahead. Small. Sharp. Metal glinting beneath the headlights. Your stomach drops instantly.

“Walker—” Too late. The SUV hits the spike strips hard. The sound is explosive. All four tires blow at once.

"Shit !" Walker jerks the wheel violently as the vehicle fishtails across the slick highway. Emily shouts something.

"Everybody hold on !" Luke grabs for the handle above the door. Your seatbelt locks brutally across your chest as the world spins sideways.

Then— Headlights. Blinding. A truck horn screaming— And impact. Metal shrieks. Glass detonates. Your body whips sideways so hard your vision whites out completely. Something slams into your ribs.

When you wake up, you can’t breathe. Pain hits first. Not sharp. Everywhere. Burning agony flooding through every inch of your body like someone poured gasoline into your veins. A broken sound leaves your throat. Smoke curls through the crushed SUV. Your head lolls sideways. Everything looks wrong. The windshield is gone. The dashboard is crumpled inward. Blood streaks the windows. Your seatbelt digs painfully into your chest. For a second you can’t understand why your left arm won’t move properly. Then feeling rushes back all at once and you nearly black out again.

“Fuck—” Your voice comes out shredded. You force your head up. Emily’s slumped against the passenger door, unmoving, blood running down the side of her face. Luke’s crumpled awkwardly beside you.

Walker— Walker’s head hangs at an angle that makes your stomach twist violently. Too still. Far too still.

“Walker,” you croak. No response. You try again, panic climbing your throat. You reach forward, wincing at the pull of your seat belt, shaking him. “Walker!” His entire body slumps forward, head landing on the steering wheel with a deafening thud. You bite back the bile threatening to spew out of you, your vision tunneling as you jerk back. Your chest caves inward.

Oh God. Smoke thickens around you. The car groans. Somewhere outside, people are shouting. You fumble clumsily for the seatbelt release with trembling fingers. It finally clicks. The second it unlatches, your body pitches forward violently and agony tears through your side hard enough to make you scream. Something’s wrong. Something is very, very wrong. You look down. Blood. So much blood. A jagged piece of metal protrudes from beneath your ribs. Your vision flickers.

“No no no—” The driver-side door suddenly jerks open. Cold rain floods in. A man appears beside the wreckage wearing EMT gear. Reflective jacket. Medical gloves. Calm eyes. Relief crashes through you so hard you almost cry.

“Ma'am,” he says firmly. “Stay still.” You nod weakly.

“My-My friends - Please you have to-” Your eyes dart around, trying to catch a glimpse of the other cars. You can see smoke and fire from somewhere behind you, and panic claws up your throat. "Oh, god- my-my dad is in- please, you have to-"

“We’ll get them,” he says quickly. “I need to move you first.” Your brain feels slow. Foggy. He cuts through your vest with terrifying efficiency. Strong hands slide beneath your arms. Pain explodes through your abdomen as he pulls you free from the wreckage. You scream.

“I know,” he says soothingly. “I know. I got you.” Rain pours down around you. Lights flash red and blue across the highway. Your head lolls weakly against his shoulder as he carries you toward the ambulance. You can barely keep your eyes open. Your body feels heavy.

Wrong.

“Dad,” you mumble. “Need my dad—”

“We already got the two other cars evacuated. We have extra RA's en route to escort your friends to the hospital. Your father is waiting for you there.” the EMT says. You nod, rain soaking your clothes. He loads you onto the stretcher. The ambulance doors stand open behind you.

Then— Movement. Across the wreckage. Another SUV. Crushed against the guardrail. And stumbling out of it— Hotch.

Your father can barely stand. Blood runs down the side of his face. One arm hangs limp. But the second his eyes land on you— Pure horror floods his expression.

“Sweetheart !” Your breath catches.

What ?

Your breath catches. The EMT had said Hotch was already at the hospital. Your stomach drops so violently it almost makes you vomit.

No.

No, no—

Hotch stumbles forward through the rain, slipping against the soaked pavement as he tries to run toward the ambulance. Rossi is behind him shouting for medics, for backup, for somebody to stop the vehicle, but your father’s eyes are locked entirely on you. On the man beside you. And suddenly you understand. The EMT’s hand tightens on the stretcher rail.

“Wait,” you whisper. Hotch sees your expression change.

“No!” he roars. The ambulance doors slam shut. The sound nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Panic detonates through your body. You jerk upright instantly despite the agony ripping through your abdomen.

“Stop the fucking ambulance!” you scream, scrambling backward across the stretcher. Pain tears through your ribs so hard your vision whites out, but adrenaline keeps you moving. “Stop—” The EMT grabs for you. You swing first. Your fist cracks against his jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways. For one glorious second, he actually looks surprised.

“Bitch,” he mutters. You lunge for the door handles. Your blood-slick fingers almost catch them before he hauls you backward violently. Agony explodes through your side and a scream rips out of your throat. Outside the tiny rear windows, you can still see your father. Hotch is running after the ambulance. Actually running. Broken. Bleeding. Desperate.

“Dad!” you sob, slamming your palm against the doors. “Dad!” The ambulance swerves sharply.

The EMT hooks an arm around your waist and drags you back against him with brutal force. You fight instantly, elbows flying despite the pain.

“Get the fuck off me!” you choke out.

“Jesus Christ,” the man snarls, struggling to keep hold of you. “You really are his kid.” Something cold presses suddenly against your neck. A syringe. Your blood runs cold.

“No—” The needle plunges into your skin. You gasp sharply and shove at him harder, but your limbs already feel wrong. Heavy. Slow. “No no no—” The man restrains you easily now, forcing you back onto the stretcher as the sedative floods your bloodstream. Your vision starts swimming almost immediately. Outside, through the blurred back windows, you see Hotch reach the ambulance for half a second— His hand slams against the rear doors as he screams your name.

“No !” The sound breaks something inside you. Then the ambulance surges forward. And your father disappears into rain and flashing lights. Your body stops cooperating.

Your arms feel numb.

Your heartbeat echoes strangely in your ears.

The EMT pulls off his mask calmly while you struggle weakly beneath him.

Not an EMT.

Kessler.

You recognize him now. The eyes. Cold. Empty. Patient.

“You should’ve stayed still,” he says, almost disappointed. Your mouth won’t work properly anymore.

“You…” you slur weakly. Kessler sighs, pushing you flat against the stretcher as your body goes limp beneath his hands.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “You’re bleeding internally. This is keeping you alive.” You try to fight him again anyway. Your hand barely lifts. Kessler watches you with detached fascination.

"Let's see if Aaron Hotchner's precious daughter is more important than putting me behind bars." He grabs another needle and grabs you arm.

You try to fight back- God, you try.

But your body feels like it's been filled with concrete, like your veins are hardening with every passing second, weighing you down.

Kessler grins.

"Sweet dreams."

-----------------

"Aaron- Aaron, listen to me-" Rossi is waving his arms in front of Hotch as real sirens flood the space. Emily crawls out of the car, coughing and bleeding from her temple, her hand pressed to her side as she limps her way over to Luke's side of the car and tugs him out. JJ stumbles from another wreckage, waving her hand in front of her face as she coughs, a large gash running down the side of her arm. Tara doesn't look badly hurt, just concussed as she stumbles down the stretch of highway, her hand pressed to her head in confusion as Derek helps her forward.

And Aaron Hotchner can't fucking breathe.

"N-No, we- we have to go after her." He rasps, shaking his head. "The ambulance didn't have a license plate but-but it was him. It was him, Dave." Rossi grabs Hotch hard by the shoulders.

“Aaron!” Hotch’s chest heaves violently. Rain pours down his face, mixing with blood from the cut at his hairline. His eyes are locked on the empty stretch of highway where the ambulance disappeared into the storm.

“The ambulance didn’t have plates,” he says again, voice shredded raw. “It was him. Dave, it was fucking him.” Behind them, chaos erupts across the crash site. Actual EMTs flood the highway now, shouting over each other as they move between the wrecked SUVs. Red and blue lights flash violently across twisted metal and shattered glass. Somebody yells for extraction tools. Another medic shouts about fuel leakage. Walker’s body is finally pulled from the front seat. Emily sees the tarp being unfolded and stops dead.

“No,” she whispers. Luke catches her arm before she can stumble forward. JJ presses a trembling hand over her mouth, blood still running down her forearm. Tara stands dazed beside Derek, one hand against her temple as she tries to process the devastation around her. For one horrible moment, nobody speaks. Then the highway explodes back into noise.

“Aaron,” Rossi says again, more firmly this time. “Talk to me.” Hotch looks like he can barely breathe.

“She saw me,” he rasps. “She looked right at me.” His voice breaks on the last word. Dave’s stomach twists. Because Aaron Hotchner does not break. Not like this. “She realized it wasn’t real,” Hotch says, staring blankly down the road. “She started fighting him.” Emily looks up sharply.

“What?” Hotch drags a hand over his bloodied face.

“He was dressed like an EMT.” His breathing turns uneven. “I thought she was being transported until I saw—” He cuts himself off hard. Too late. Rossi catches it immediately.

“What did you see?” Aaron closes his eyes for one second too long. When he opens them again, there’s something almost haunted sitting behind them.

“She was hurt.” The team goes still.

“How bad?” JJ asks quietly. Hotch swallows.

“I don’t know.” Lie. Everybody hears it. Aaron’s jaw tightens violently. “There was blood,” he says carefully, like each word physically hurts. “A lot of blood.” Emily’s face drains of color. Luke curses under his breath.

“She couldn’t move properly,” Hotch continues hollowly. “He had to carry her." Nobody says anything after that. Because they all know what that means. Then headlights tear onto the highway. A black SUV brakes hard across the shoulder. Spencer is out of the vehicle before it fully stops moving. Garcia barely gets the car in park before he’s sprinting after him.

“Hotch!” Spencer shouts, panic already threading through his voice as he takes in the wreckage. “What happened?” Garcia steps out behind him—and freezes completely.

“Oh my God.” The highway looks apocalyptic. Smoke. Rain. Crushed SUVs. Flashing lights reflecting off blood-slick pavement. Spencer eyes scan frantically across the scene.

JJ.

Emily.

Luke.

Tara.

Derek.

Rossi.

Hotch.

His stomach drops. Because you’re not there. Spencer’s breathing changes instantly.

“Where is she?” Nobody answers quickly enough. And terror detonates behind his ribs. “Where is she?” Emily looks away. Garcia starts crying immediately. Spencer stares at them.

“No.” Luke steps forward carefully.

“Reid—”

“No.” The word cracks out of him violently. “What happened?” Hotch finally steps toward him, rain dripping from his ruined suit.

“Kessler staged the crash,” he says hoarsely. “He took her.” Spencer just stares at him. Like the sentence physically does not make sense.

“Took her?” he repeats faintly.

“The ambulance was fake,” Rossi says grimly. “He disguised himself as an EMT.” Garcia lets out a broken sob behind them. Spencer’s face goes completely white.

“When?” he asks.

“Less than four minutes ago,” Luke says. “Local units are already searching—” Spencer looks immediately at Hotch. Not Rossi. Not Emily. Hotch. Because Hotch saw her last. And Aaron realizes Spencer already knows that too. Their eye contact lasts half a second. It’s enough. Spencer’s expression changes instantly.

“How bad was she hurt?” Hotch doesn’t answer quickly enough. Spencer takes a step forward. “How bad?” Aaron looks wrecked. Actually wrecked.

“She was conscious,” he says carefully.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Aaron,” Rossi warns quietly. But Spencer doesn’t look away from Hotch. Hotch exhales shakily through his nose.

“There was blood.” Spencer’s breathing stutters.

“How much?”

“I don’t know.” Another lie. Spencer hears that one too. And suddenly he looks furious. Terrified, grieving, furious. “She couldn’t move on her own,” Hotch admits quietly. “He carried her into the ambulance.” Garcia breaks down harder behind them and Derek crosses the space immediately to grab onto her. Spencer physically sways where he stands. For a second it looks like he might actually collapse. Then his face hardens into something sharp enough to cut glass.

“What direction?” Hotch blinks.

“Reid—”

“What direction did he go?”

“Eastbound,” Hotch answers carefully. Spencer immediately turns toward Garcia’s SUV. Hotch grabs his arm before he gets two steps. “You are not going alone.” Spencer jerks free instantly. His eyes are glassy with panic now.

“You let her get in that ambulance.” The words hit like a gunshot. Silence crashes down around the wreckage. Spencer looks horrified the second he says it. Because he knows exactly who he just said it to. A father who watched his daughter get kidnapped while injured and bleeding. Hotch recoils anyway. Not angry. Just devastated.

“I know,” he says quietly. That destroys Spencer more effectively than shouting ever could. His face crumples. Rain pours around all of you in endless sheets as sirens scream across the highway.

And somewhere out there— You’re alone with Kessler.

--------

When you come to, the first thing you feel is that the pain at your abdomen has lessened.

It’s still there.

Deep. Burning. Wrong.

But dulled somehow, like your body’s been wrapped in cotton. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy as you force them open. Darkness swims above you for a second before dim industrial lights sharpen into focus overhead. Concrete ceiling. Rusted pipes. Water dripping somewhere nearby in slow, echoing intervals. Your wrists jerk instinctively.

Metal rattles. Cold panic slams into you. You're strapped upright to some kind of steel chair bolted into the floor. Thick restraints pin your wrists and chest in place. Your injured side throbs violently when you struggle, making black spots burst across your vision.

“Easy. I bandaged you up but you're still actively bleeding out.” The voice comes from somewhere ahead of you. Kessler steps into view calmly, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he’s in the middle of an ordinary workday instead of holding an FBI agent hostage. Your breathing quickens immediately.

“Fuck you,” you rasp. He actually smiles faintly.

“That’s usually the morphine talking." Morphine. That explains the floating feeling in your limbs. You look down quickly. Your vest is gone. Soaked bandages are wrapped tightly around your abdomen beneath a gray thermal shirt that definitely isn’t yours. There’s dried blood everywhere. Along your arms. Beneath your fingernails. Across the floor near the chair. Your stomach twists hard.

“How long—”

“Thirty-six minutes since the crash,” Kessler answers smoothly. Ice floods your bloodstream. The team. Your dad.

“Where are they?” you demand. Kessler ignores the question entirely. Instead, he walks toward a camera mounted on a tripod across the room. And your blood runs cold all over again. “No.” Kessler adjusts the lens casually. “No no no—”

“You know,” he says conversationally, “your father’s reputation in the Bureau is fascinating. Aaron Hotchner. Untouchable. Unshakeable. Men like him always think they understand sacrifice until it becomes personal.” Your restraints clatter violently as you fight them.

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.” He doesn’t even blink. Then he reaches beside the camera and wheels something large into frame. A timer. Digital.

Bright red numbers glaring through the darkness.

00:59:48

Your stomach drops.

“What is that?” Your voice cracks. Kessler finally looks at you directly.

“The amount of time your team has left.” He grabs your arm, sighing as he squeezes and IV bag and mounts it onto the stand beside you.

“Kessler—”

The dosage is regulated electronically.” He taps the pump beside the bag. “Small increments over time. Once the drip reaches completion…” He shrugs lightly. “Multi-organ failure. Cardiac arrest shortly after.”

Your mouth goes dry instantly.

“No.”

“The fascinating thing about poison,” he continues conversationally, “is how personal it feels. Bullets are loud. Explosions are chaotic. But poison?” He tilts his head. “Poison makes people wait.”

Your stomach twists hard enough to make you gag. You stare at him in horror. Then fury detonates through you.

“You’re a fucking coward.” Kessler hums softly.

“And yet your father still can’t catch me.” He presses a button. The camera light turns red.

LIVE.

—————————

The BAU bullpen is chaos. Medics move between injured agents while tech analysts flood every available screen searching traffic cams, road footage, satellite hits—anything. Nobody’s winning. Hotch stands in the center of it all like a ghost. Still covered in blood. Still soaking wet from the rain. Spencer sits at Garcia’s station beside her, fingers flying across the keyboard so fast they blur. His hands are shaking violently.

“Nothing,” Garcia whispers tearfully. “No ambulance hits, no hospital pings, no traffic cams—he scrubbed everything.” Emily presses gauze harder against the cut on her temple.

“He planned this for months.”

“No,” Spencer says instantly. Everyone looks at him. Spencer’s eyes stay locked on the screen. “Longer.” Before anyone can respond— Every monitor in the bullpen flickers. Static crackles. Garcia startles violently., fingers flying over her keyboard, trying to figure out how this is happening. Then your face appears onscreen.

Bruised. Bloodied. Restrained.

The room stops breathing.

“No,” Hotch says faintly. Your head lifts weakly toward the camera, disoriented and terrified and alive. Spencer goes white beside Garcia.

“No…” The digital timer flashes beside you.

00:58:03

“What the hell is that?” Luke breathes. Then Kessler steps into frame. And the entire room explodes into motion.

“Trace it now!” Emily shouts. Garcia is already typing frantically.

“I’m trying!” Kessler looks directly into the camera.

“Good evening, Behavioral Analysis Unit.” Kessler smiles like he’s hosting a lecture instead of a hostage broadcast. Garcia’s hands fly across the keyboard.

“I can’t get a lock—he’s bouncing the signal through multiple servers—oh my God, oh my God—”

“Penelope,” Emily snaps, though her own voice shakes. “Focus.”

“I am focused!” Onscreen, Kessler slowly circles your chair. The camera quality is grainy but clear enough to show the blood staining the bandages around your abdomen. Clear enough to show the IV line running into your arm. And the transparent liquid steadily dripping through the tube. Spencer goes completely still beside Garcia.

Not calm.

Worse.

The kind of stillness that means he’s trying very hard not to completely lose his mind. Your head hangs weakly forward before lifting slightly at the sound of Kessler speaking. Your eyes look unfocused. Drugged. Terrified. The bullpen falls silent. Even the analysts nearby stop moving. Because this isn’t just being streamed to the BAU.

This is public.

News stations are already picking it up. Social media feeds explode in real time across nearby monitors. Millions of people watching an FBI agent tied to a chair with a countdown beside her.

“Aaron Hotchner,” Kessler says smoothly, looking directly into the camera. “You know, I expected someone taller.” Hotch doesn’t react outwardly. But Rossi sees his fist tighten. Sees the blood dripping from where Aaron’s fingernails cut into his own palm.

“You built your career profiling monsters,” Kessler continues. “You taught agents how to think like predators. How to anticipate violence.” He tilts his head slightly toward you. “But you never considered what happens when someone decides to study you instead.” Your breathing trembles onscreen.

“Kessler—” you rasp weakly.

“Shh.” He adjusts the IV line almost tenderly. “You don’t need to talk right now.” Spencer physically flinches. Luke swears violently under his breath.

“The poison entering Agent Hotchner’s daughter’s bloodstream,” Kessler says calmly, “is administered incrementally through an automated pump system. By the time the timer reaches zero…” He smiles faintly. “Well. I imagine your Dr. Reid can explain organ failure better than I can.” All eyes snap toward Spencer automatically. Spencer’s face has gone corpse pale. But his voice still works. Barely.

“It depends on the toxin,” he says mechanically, eyes glued to the screen. “If it’s ricin-based or synthetic colchicine compounds, systemic collapse would begin gradually. Respiratory distress first. Then cardiovascular instability. Seizures. Multi-organ failure—”

“Spencer,” JJ says softly. He cuts himself off instantly. Onscreen, your eyes flutter shut for a second too long.

“Hey,” Kessler says sharply, gripping your jaw hard enough to force your head back up. “Stay awake. It's not fun for our viewers if you die right now." You whimper, trying to inch away from him. He chuckles, low and mean. A broken sound leaves your throat as your body jerks weakly against the restraints. Spencer’s breathing changes instantly.

“What just happened?” Emily demands. Spencer stares at the screen.

“The poison’s already active,” he says quietly. Garcia looks horrified.

“But there’s still fifty-seven minutes left—”

“The timer isn’t for symptom onset.” Spencer swallows hard. “It’s for fatal dosage completion.” Nobody speaks. Onscreen, Kessler steps back toward the camera.

“You have one hour,” he says conversationally. “Find me before the drip finishes…” He shrugs. “And maybe she lives. But I should warn you,” he continues. “Removing the IV incorrectly triggers the failsafe.” He taps the side of the electronic pump. “And if the line stops prematurely…” Another small shrug. “The dosage accelerates.” Garcia lets out a strangled noise.

“That’s impossible,” Luke snaps.

“No,” Spencer says faintly. Everyone looks at him again. Spencer’s eyes stay locked on the screen. “It’s not.” Hotch spins around, his chest heaving.

"Garcia, get me a list of Kessler's known adressesses, a list of his spending info- maybe he rented out a place- i want everything you have on him, now !"

Garcia is already moving before Hotch finishes the sentence.

“I’m on it, I’m on it - okay- okay - ” Her voice is high and strained, fingers slamming across the keyboard like she’s trying to outrun panic itself. Multiple windows open and collapse across her monitors. “Known addresses are mostly burned, he went dark after his brother's death but - there’s financial ghosting here, offshore shells, prepaid infrastructure - he’s not staying anywhere with a paper trail -he’s not staying anywhere period -”

“Focus,” Rossi says sharply, but even he sounds strained now. Emily is already leaning over her shoulder.

“What about municipal access points? Abandoned government facilities?” Luke shakes his head.

“We’re checking transit grids already. He’s not static - he’s moving through infrastructure, not occupying it.” Spencer doesn’t blink.

His eyes are locked on the screen. On you.

00:53:18.

Your head droops again, just slightly, and Spencer’s breath catches so hard it sounds like it hurts.

“Hey,” JJ says quietly, noticing him. “Reid, stay with us.” But he doesn’t answer. Because his brain is already somewhere else. Already rebuilding everything Kessler just showed them.

The IV pump. The feed latency. The lack of metadata. The stabilization pattern. Spencer swallows hard.

“He’s not in a building,” he says suddenly. Garcia looks up.

“What?” Spencer’s voice tightens.

“The signal stability - there’s too little fluctuation for a fixed structure. No HVAC interference, no power grid variance, no reflective bounce patterns consistent with concrete reinforcement -” Emily frowns.

“Then where is he?” Spencer doesn’t look away from the screen.

“Mobile containment unit,” he says. “Or a retrofitted transport shell. Something insulated enough to mask environmental noise.” Luke curses under his breath.

“Like a van.” Spencer shakes his head once.

“Bigger.” Silence. Hotch turns slowly.

“Bus?” Rossi suggests grimly. Spencer finally looks at them.

“No,” he says. “Something that can support medical-grade equipment, power draw for a stabilized livestream, and internal temperature control without drawing attention.” Garcia’s hands freeze mid-type.

“Oh my God.” Emily’s voice drops.

“A mobile medical unit.” Rossi’s jaw tightens.

“Like disaster response.” Hotch’s eyes sharpen instantly.

“Ambulance.” Spencer nods once. But it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels worse. Because that still leaves too many possibilities. Too many jurisdictions. Too many vehicles. Too much ground to cover while the clock keeps bleeding out.

00:53:04.

Onscreen, Kessler steps back into frame briefly—just enough to adjust something near the IV stand. You flinch sharply. Harder this time. Hotch makes a sound low in his throat—barely audible, but it cuts through the room anyway. Spencer’s hands curl into fists at Garcia’s station.

“Garcia,” he says quickly, voice suddenly urgent. “Cross-reference registered medical transport units within a fifty-mile radius of the crash corridor. Anything that went off-route in the last hour.”

“I’m already - ” Her screen updates rapidly. “Got it, got it - Okay, there’s twelve possible matches - ”

“Twelve,” Luke repeats sharply.

“We don’t have time for twelve,” Emily snaps. Hotch steps forward again.

“Cut it to three,” he orders. “Now.” Garcia swallows hard.

“I can filter by signal - give me thirty seconds - ”

“Twenty,” Hotch says. Nobody argues. Because on the screen— You shift again. Barely conscious. Barely holding on. And Spencer Reid, who has spent his entire life turning chaos into patterns, suddenly looks like he’s staring directly into something he cannot solve fast enough.

Garcia’s screen updates again. Once. Twice. Then locks. Her breath catches so hard it hurts.

“I’ve got him,” she says. Nobody speaks. Hotch turns instantly.

“Where.” Garcia swallows.

“Abandoned agricultural zone outside Leesburg—old county service land. There’s a decommissioned livestock processing facility on the property. Signal’s cleanest there—he’s stationary.” Spencer is already there before she finishes the sentence.

“How far?” he asks immediately. Garcia glances at the route mapping.

“Forty-six minutes,” she says quietly. The number lands like a gunshot. Silence. Emily shakes her head once.

“We don’t have forty-six minutes.” Rossi is already moving toward the SUV.

“Then we don’t waste a second.” Hotch stares at the map like he can force the distance to shrink through sheer will. Spencer’s voice breaks through again, sharper now.

“How long—how long until completion?” Garcia’s fingers tremble over the timer feed.

“Fifty-three minutes,” she whispers.That finally shifts the math in the room. Because everyone understands it at the same time. Forty-six minutes to reach you.Fifty-three minutes until the drip completes.

Seven minutes.

That’s all they’ll have once they get there. Seven minutes to find you. Seven minutes to neutralize Kessler. Seven minutes to keep you alive. Hotch exhales once, slow and controlled—but his eyes are shattered.

“Let's move,” he says. The SUVs tear down the highway in formation, sirens splitting the night open. Inside Hotch’s vehicle, no one speaks anymore unless they have to. The countdown is on every screen.

Every phone. Every live feed Garcia refuses to close.

00:52:41.

Spencer stares at the map overlay like he can bend it into something faster. Luke grips the seat hard enough to go white-knuckled. Emily keeps her eyes forward, jaw tight, blood still drying at her temple. Rossi drives like a man refusing to accept physics as final. Hotch doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away from the road even once.

“Forty-six minutes,” Luke says quietly, almost to himself. Spencer’s voice is barely audible.

“That’s if nothing goes wrong.” Nobody responds to that. Because they all know what it means.

------------------

00:07:00.

Your body feels like lead.

Your veins are on fire.

Your mouth has gone dry, and you can barely breathe- every breath sounds like a rusty rattle of child's mobile. Your vision flickers in and out like a broken signal. Your body isn’t yours anymore. It’s heavy in the wrong places, light in others. Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints, but there’s no strength left behind it.

The IV pump beeps steadily beside you. Too steady. Too calm. Like it doesn’t care that you’re dying.

You groan, trying hard to stay awake, to stay concsious.

They're coming for you. They have to be.

The room hums with fluorescent light and something worse underneath it—your heartbeat, irregular now, stumbling against the poison like it’s losing the argument. Kessler circles you slowly, hands behind his back like he’s inspecting something he built.

“Do you know what your father hates most?” he asks lightly. Your head lolls a fraction toward him. It takes effort just to keep your eyes open.

“People like you,” he continues. “Not weak. Not careless. Just… loved.” Your throat tightens. Spencer’s name tries to form in your mind and doesn’t quite make it. Kessler steps closer, studying your face like he’s waiting for something interesting to happen.

“You’re very difficult to break,” he says thoughtfully. “That’s what makes this worth watching.” The IV pump beeps again. Too steady. Too final.

Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints. Kessler leans in just slightly.

“I wonder how long it takes,” he murmurs, almost curious. “For Aaron Hotchner to choose between duty and family.” Your stomach drops hard.

“Don’t,” you rasp, but it’s barely sound. He smiles faintly.

“Oh, he already has.” And then— The doors behind him explode inward. Not an opening. An impact.

Wood and metal snap as tactical force hits the room like a wave.

“FBI! DOWN!” The shout is immediate chaos. Hotch is first through, weapon up, eyes scanning—locking instantly on you like everything else in the room ceases to exist.

“Aaron!” Rossi calls, sweeping left. Emily and Luke split right. Derek comes in hard behind them, already moving. Kessler barely has time to turn before Hotch has him pinned against the nearest surface, gun pressed high, voice ice-cold.

“Don’t move.” Kessler actually laughs once. Spencer doesn’t even look at him. He’s already across the room. Everything else collapses into noise and motion behind him—Hotch securing Kessler, Rossi shouting commands, Emily cuffing him down—but Spencer doesn’t register any of it. He reaches you like gravity finally remembered him.

“Hey—hey, hey,” he breathes, hands shaking as they go to your face immediately. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Your eyelids flutter.

"Spence ?" He nods, hands working at your restraints atfer he softly tears the IV out of your arm.

"Yeah, yeah, it's me. I'm here, alright, i'm here." Your body falls forward, exhausted, the second those restraints stop holding you up, your body folding like it’s been waiting for permission to collapse. Spencer catches you before you hit the ground. Immediately. Completely.

“No - no, no, no - hey, hey, hey - stay with me,” he says, voice cracking violently as he pulls you into him. “Stay with me, okay? Stay with me-look at me.” Your head lolls against his chest. He’s on the floor now without even realizing it. One arm under your shoulders. One hand pressed hard against the bandages on your abdomen like he can physically stop what’s happening inside you. He looks up, his eyes frantic.

"Derek ! Derek !" He calls as Hotch and the others disappear outside, pushing a cuffed Kessler with them. Derek's head snaps over and his face drains of color.

"Holy shit." He gasps, his chest heaving. Spencer chokes on a sob, pushing your hair away from your face.

"We-We need an ambulance. She-She's losing blood, she-" He gasps in a breath, shaking his head. "He’s got to have—he’s not carrying something like this without a reversal agent.” Spencer doesn’t look away from you. “Shelves,” he says instantly, voice raw but focused only on survival. “Look—look everywhere. Cabinets. Lockboxes. He wouldn’t leave it unbalanced.” Derek moves immediately. The timer ticks down like a taunt.

00:04:53.

Derek rummages through shelves, cabinets, drawers, cursing under his breath as he throws things on the ground. You clutch weakly at Spencer's vest, your hands shaking.

"Spence.." He shushes you, pressing his lips to your forehead.

"Hey, hey, don't talk, okay ? You're going to be fine. Just fine, okay ?"

"I-I'm so cold." You manage, shivers coursing through your body. Spencer grimaces.

"I know, baby, i know." He looks up. "Derek, where the fuck is that antidote !" Derek rips open another metal cabinet so hard the hinge screams in protest.

“I’m looking, I’m looking!” he snaps back, breathless, scanning shelves packed with medical bags, vials, and sealed containers that absolutely should not be here. “This guy is insane—”

Spencer hears none of it anymore. All of it narrows down to you. To the way your fingers are trembling against his vest. To the shallow, uneven rise of your chest. To the way your skin feels wrong beneath his hands—too cold, too fast to lose heat.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats again, but it’s not steady anymore. It’s breaking apart at the edges. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—just stay with me, okay? Just—just stay with me.” Your head tips slightly against him. And for a second, his entire body goes rigid.

“No,” he whispers immediately, like he can undo it with the word alone. “No, no—hey—look at me. Look at me.”

Your eyes barely open. Barely there. But they do. And it ruins him.

“Got something!” Derek suddenly shouts from the far side of the room. Spencer’s head snaps up so fast it hurts. Derek holds up a small locked case - medical-grade, reinforced, labeled in a way that makes Spencer’s stomach drop immediately. “Is this it?” Derek demands. Spencer doesn’t even hesitate.

“Yes. Yes, that’s it - bring it here, now!” Derek slams it down beside them and Spencer’s hands are shaking so badly he almost fumbles the latch. The lock clicks open.

Inside: syringes. A sealed ampoule. A vial clearly marked in clinical print- ANTIDOTE.

He’s already drawing it up.

“Where do I—”

“Her arm,” Spencer says instantly, tearing his own focus into something sharp and functional because if he doesn’t, he’s going to fall apart completely. “Right arm - no, no - left - there, there - ” Derek moves in, steady hands taking over what Spencer can’t control anymore.

“I’ve got it,” Derek says low. Spencer nods too quickly, not letting go of you for even a second. His other hand stays pressed to your shoulder like an anchor. “Okay,” Derek says. “Injecting now.” The syringe depresses. For half a second, nothing happens. Then your body jerks—just slightly. Spencer makes a sound that’s halfway between a gasp and a sob.

“Hey - hey, hey,” he says immediately, hand cupping your cheek. "You're gonna be okay." But you're still slipping somewhere he can’t follow fast enough. “I’ve got you,” he repeats again, but now it’s desperate. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you - please - please don’t do this - ” Derek looks up sharply at the doorway, where JJ stands frozen.

"We need medical backup now!” JJ nods, rushing away.

Spencer sobs, then immediately chokes on it, pressing your hand tighter against his chest like he can force you to stay by sheer will alone. Footsteps thunder back in—Hotch, Rossi, Emily. Hotch sees you on the floor. And something in his face breaks cleanly. But Spencer can’t look at him. Can’t look at anyone. Because you’re right there in his arms and still not safe.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice collapsing completely now, tears spilling down without permission as he holds you closer. “Hey, hey- don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, okay? Please - please don’t leave me.” Your fingers twitch once.

Weak. Barely there. But it’s enough. Spencer grabs your hand immediately like it’s a lifeline.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, crying openly now, forehead pressing to yours. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s it. Come back to me. Come back—please, just come back to me.” Your shiver, a soft whimper drawing from your lips.

"I-I'm tired." You manage, shaking your head. Blood from your abdomen is still soaking your shirt, your pants, and Spencer is shaking.

"You-You can't sleep, baby. You have to- You have to stay awake. Keep your eyes open." The antidote has taken effect. The colour that had drained from your skin over the hour is coming back, and your breathing has returned to a normal pace. And the pain flooding back into your body is unbearable. You can feel the blood pumping out of you from your abdomen, and you groan weakly as you try to press your hand over the wound, only to find Spencer's hand already lodged there. You gulp, bringing your hand up to softly touch Spencer's cheek.

"Yo-You came for me." You rasp. Spencer chokes on a laugh, a desperate, wet thing.

"Of course I did." He mumbles. "How could I not ? God.." He gulps, shaking his head. "I love you." You smile, holding back tears as you cough. Your body trembles with shivers, and you groan.

"I-I'm sorry." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencer's heart drops. He shakes his head.

"Hey, hey- no. Don't apologise, you're going to be just fine, okay ? Y-You're going to be fine." You nod, smiling through the pain. You want to believe him.

You really do.

The antidote is working.

Derek said it is. Spencer knows it is. But you’re still so cold. Still shaking in his arms like your body can’t decide whether to stay or let go.

Spencer sniffles, brushing your hair away from your face.

"The ambulance is gonna be here any minute. They're going to make you all better. Okay ?" You nod.

"Okay." You say, forcing a smile, choking on the blood that creeps its way up your throat. "I love you, Spence." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencer’s heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic, desperate drumbeat of denial. He tightens his grip on your hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your cold knuckles.

“Don’t you dare say that like it’s a goodbye,” he orders, his voice a raw, broken thing. “It’s not a goodbye. You hear me? It’s an ‘I’ll see you in a minute.’ We’re going to have so much to talk about. Y-You're gonna rub this in my face, yeah ? Brag about how you-you survived this and i panicked for nothing.” He’s rambling, his brilliant mind reduced to a single, primal function: keep you here. Keep you with him. Your eyes are still on him, but they’re starting to lose focus, the light in them dimming like a candle in a draft. The smile on your lips is a ghost, beautiful and terrifying.

“Spence…” you whisper, and it’s the worst sound he’s ever heard, thin and reedy, threaded with the liquid rattle of fluid in your lungs. “It’s… so quiet.” He doesn’t understand what you mean. The room is chaos-Hotch’s clipped commands, Derek’s frantic pacing, the sound of JJ’s voice on the phone with dispatch. But then he realizes. For you, the world is collapsing. The sounds are fading, the pain is receding, and all that’s left is this.

Him.

“No, no, it’s not quiet,” he argues, his voice rising in panic. “It’s not. Just listen. Listen to me. I’m right here. I’m so loud, remember? You say I never shut up. So just… listen to me. Stay with me.” He’s pressing harder against the wound in your abdomen, a futile, desperate attempt to physically hold your life inside you. His hand is slick, warm, and the smell of copper fills the air, thick and suffocating. It’s the smell of his failure. Your breath hitches, a shallow, wet gasp.

"Tell… tell my dad… I’m sorry.” The words hit Spencer like a physical blow. Dad. Hotch, who is standing just feet away, right behind that door, pacing and shouting orders. Spencer can’t call for him. He can’t give him that. He can’t acknowledge the world beyond the circle of his arms.

“You’ll tell him yourself,” Spencer chokes out, tears streaming down his face, dripping onto your cheeks. “You’ll tell him tonight. When we get home. We’ll order Chinese food and you’ll tell him you’re sorry for worrying him, and he’ll pretend to be mad but he won’t be, and we’ll all be fine. We’ll be fine.” Your fingers, the ones he’s holding, twitch weakly. Your grip loosens. The pressure is gone. “No,” he whimpers, a sound so pathetic and full of pain it doesn’t even sound like him. “No, hold on. Hold my hand. Don’t let go. Don’t you let go of me.” Your eyes open again and you nod. He smiles, kissing your forehead. And then, through the cacophony of his own despair, he hears it. Faint at first, then growing stronger, clearer. A high, insistent wail that cuts through everything else.

Sirens.

Relief so profound it’s dizzying crashes over him. It’s the cavalry. It’s the answer. It’s another chance.

His head snaps up, his tear-blurred vision finding the window ahead.

“Did you hear that? They’re here. They’re almost here.” He looks back down at you, his face breaking into a wild, desperate grin. “You hear that, baby? You hear that? The ambulance is here. They’re here. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.” He’s laughing now, a wet, hysterical sound of pure relief, staring at the window as the red and blue lights start to show.

“We did it. We made it. Just hold on. Just a few more seconds. Please, just a few more seconds for me.” He looks back at the doorway, expecting to see the paramedics burst through with their bags and their machines and their magic. But the sirens are still distant, screaming down a street that’s too far away.

He looks back down at you. And the world stops. Your eyes are still open, but they’re not seeing him anymore. They’re fixed on a point just beyond his shoulder, glassy and vacant. The shallow rise and fall of your chest has stilled. The hand he’s clutching is limp and cool in his.

The silence in the room is absolute.

“No,” he whispers. The smile is gone from his face, wiped clean away. “No… no, no, no, no, no.” He shakes his head, a sharp, jerky motion of denial. “Hey… hey, look at me. Look at me. They’re here. The ambulance is here.” He shakes you gently, then a little harder. “Hey.. hey, look at me. You’re not allowed to do this. You’re not allowed to leave me. You hear me? C'mon, this isn't funny." He shakes you."Come on! Look at me.” But you don’t. You can’t. The sirens are closer now, screaming, a piercing, torturous sound. They’re the sound of hope arriving seven minutes too late. The door bursts open. Emily is the first one in, her face flushed and triumphant.

“Spencer! The ambulance is here, they’re coming, they’re—” She stops. Her eyes find Spencer, cradling your still body on the floor, and she sees everything. The blood. The stillness. The absolute, soul-crushing devastation on his face. Her triumphant shout dies in her throat, replaced by a small, choked gasp. Hotch is right behind her. He takes in the scene with one sweeping, all-seeing glance. He sees Kessler’s handiwork, he sees the discarded antidote, he sees Spencer on the floor. And then he sees you. He doesn’t make a sound. The unit chief, the man who faces monsters for a living, simply breaks. His shoulders slump, his face goes slack, and all the color drains from his skin. He stumbles forward a half-step, his hand reaching out, then falling back to his side. He knows. Emily rushes to Spencer’s side, her hand hovering over his shoulder, afraid to touch.

“Spencer…?” He doesn’t answer. He’s lowered his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body wracked with huge, silent, violent sobs that shake him to his core. He holds you tighter, rocking you back and forth, a desperate, rhythmic motion.

And Spencer Reid - who has spent his entire life understanding loss in theory before he ever had to survive it in practice - lets out a sound that is not human.

It rips out of him.

Raw.

Shattered.

“No - no, no, no, please - please, please - ” He pulls you closer instantly, like he can reverse it if he just holds you tighter.

Like physics can be negotiated.

Like love is supposed to win this.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, but it’s falling apart now. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you- You're okay. You're okay, you're okay, you're okay-”

"Reid." Derek's voice echoes around the small space. Spencer shakes his head. Spencer doesn’t hear him anymore.

Doesn’t hear Emily crying.

Doesn’t hear the radio chatter suddenly erupting outside as the medics arrive too late.

He just holds you. Like if he stops, even for a second, the truth will finish settling. Sirens flood the building outside. Red and blue light strobing through the broken doorway.

And still -Spencer is whispering your name into your hair like it’s a spell.

Like it’s the only thing left that still makes sense.

The paramedics finally burst through the doorway, their practiced efficiency grinding to a halt as they take in the scene. No one moves. No one breathes. The paramedics slowly back out of the room, hushed whispers echoing in the small space.

Spencer looks up, devastated.

"No.. No, where are they going ? They-They have to save her, they-"

"Reid." Derek rasps again, wiping at the tears falling down his face. He looks back down at you like it’s instinct, like he can anchor himself in you. But you don’t move. Not even a tremor. Not even the smallest betrayal of life returning. Just stillness. Heavy and final.

Spencer’s breath stutters.

Once. Twice.

Then completely stops behaving like it belongs to him.

His hand shakes as it smooths over your hair. So careful. So tender. Like you’re made of glass and he’s terrified of what happens if he presses too hard.

Emily makes a sound behind him—small, broken, human.

“Spencer…” she tries again, stepping closer like she might physically pull him out of it. But he flinches at her voice like it burns.

“No,” he snaps instantly, sharper than he means it. Then it collapses immediately into desperation. “No, no—don’t—” Hotch is still at the doorway. Still completely still. Like something inside him shut off in self-defense the second he understood. But his eyes don’t leave you. Not once. Not even when Rossi puts a hand on his arm and squeezes like he’s trying to hold him together by force. Spencer presses his forehead to yours again.

Harder this time. Like proximity alone can reverse biology.

“I got you,” he whispers, voice breaking into pieces now. “I got you, I got you, I got you—” His sentences stop making sense. They turn into fragments. Into breath. Into something raw and animal and terrified. “I didn’t—” he chokes, pulling you closer like he can physically shield you from the truth, “I didn’t get here fast enough. I didn’t—I didn’t—”

Derek steps forward again, slower this time. Careful. Like approaching something sacred and shattered.

“Reid,” he says quietly. “Kid…” Spencer shakes his head violently again.

“No,” he says again, but weaker now. So much weaker. “No, no, no- Just - just help her. Just - just fix it. Fix it - please - ” His voice breaks completely on the last word. And then he tries again, because Spencer Reid has always believed that understanding something well enough means you can change it. “If I - if I give her CPR - if I - if we - ” His hands move like they don’t belong to him anymore as they lay you down on the ground, flat on your back.

One presses to your chest. Wrong. Desperate. Begging.

“Spencer,” Emily says softly, tears finally spilling over now. “Spencer, stop—”

“No!” he shouts suddenly, panicked, frantic. “No, no, I can— I can do it. I can fix it. I can- I can-” His voice disintegrates mid-sentence. Because your body doesn’t respond. Because nothing changes. Because time doesn’t care how hard he tries. And that’s when it hits him all at once.

Not gradually. Not gently. All at once. Spencer goes completely still.

His hands freeze where they are on you. His breath catches like it’s been hooked on something sharp. He falls backwards, his hands coated in blood coming up to press against his eyes as he sobs. Emily is by his side in an instant, pulling him into her, rocking him as Derek sniffles and gets to his feet, walking over to your and softly guiding your eyes shut. Hotch swears under his breath, wrecked sobs escaping him, and he turns away from you, gasping for air as he rushes out into the night. Luke, Tara, JJ and Rossi have gathered in the doorway, watching as Derek grabs a folded sheet from one of the drawers and lays it down over you, clearing his throat.

"The- uh, the EMT's should come back in here. Take-" He clears his throat, "Take her to the morgue."

The timer beeps behind them like some sick alarm clock. They all look back and the flashing numbers.

00:00:00.

The seven minutes are up.

taglist !

Spencer Reid was one of the more private people of The Behavioural Analysis Unit, it was helpful to him on most occasions. It was easier for him to separate his work life and his home life. His coworkers were his family, of course they were he saw them everyday. But after a long day, he wanted his time in his own space, with his girlfriend and their two cats. It was easier that way and it always had been. His team didn’t know he had a girlfriend of two years, how they’d been living together for a year now. Or the two cats, named Mark Sloan and Rene Descartes. Respectfully.

That was up until The BAU ended up in the same neighbourhood as her music bar, The Live Wire. There was a string of murders in the area, the last one happened two nights ago, down the road from The Wire, as it was known in D.C. Two young women had been shot dead, just outside of where CCTV could capture it. Once in the chest, and then a second time in the head, and then their ankles were wrapped in newspaper. The police had kept an eye on the case, informing the families and allowing grievances. But this time it had deviated, same method, same appearance but this time it was a man. A well known bartender in the area, the other two girls were bartenders too, but not as known as the male was.

The Wire from the outside looks like a hipster bar cafe, plants everywhere and references to music everywhere, during the day it was. But the nighttime? It was a bustling live bar, with live music every Friday and Saturday, a different band each week, some more popular bands. It was a popular spot, everyone knew it. Even The BAU had been in there once or twice.

But they were in here on business, a few people were already in there having lunch, staff were zipping around the bar, trays filled with food that looked delicious. But Spencer already knew the food was good, the menu items he had already tried were good. Some of the staff knew him already, one or two had flashed him a smile already as he walked in with Derek Morgan and Aaron Hotchner. Morgan raised an eyebrow but brushed it off as a place Spencer would come in to read or something scholarly.

“Hey, would we be able to speak to the manager? Wherever he is?” Morgan flashed a smile to the girl behind the bar and flashed his badge. Hotch rolled his eyes at the flirting when they were on a case, not here for drinks.

“Morgan. The case. Please.” Hotch said, they were all at the bar now. The girl gave Spencer a look like she recognised him but brushed it off.

“Yeah, I’ll go grab her for you now. I think she’s just in the kitchen at the moment” She said before wandering off and leaving them with the male bartender who’d just come back with a tray of glasses.

A few moments later, the same girl came back with a woman who was dressed semi-professionally but also had some alternative vibe to her. She had a smile on her face when she approached the group, it was more of a knowing smile when she saw them. Knowing but professional.

“Can I help you guys at all?” She chirped, customer service voice was full throw.

“We were wondering if you had any CCTV footage from the murder of this man from the other day?” Spencer spoke in a voice sounding like it was reserved just for her as he handed her the photos from the incident. She took them from him, their hands brushing together accidentally. As if it were habit. Both Hotch and Morgan raised an eyebrow.

“Ohh, that’s Jonas! He worked across the street, lovely gentleman. God rest his soul” She sighed, taking in the photos before speaking again “Follow me”

Morgan and Hotch looked at each other as Spencer matched into step with her almost immediately. It was as if they knew each other, maybe a little too well, but maybe they were just close friends. Best friends maybe. Not what they actually were. She showed them to the office, it was a little cramped but they all fit. She sat in the chairs and was configuring the computer to get the footage up from the other night.

“See right there? Across the street? That’s the club Jonas worked in. Very popular. People do drugs and shit in there. It’s a good night.” She said, pointing to the CCTV where he leaving work for the night. “He usually finishes around twelve am, they’re sometimes open till 4 in the morning, depends. But, we keep our bar open until quarter to so he can come in for a drink.”

Spencer took more care than he usually would when listening to someone explain what was happening. If he did speak, it was in that same soft tone he used with her when explaining the case.

“But he didn’t come in that night did he?” Hotch asked, a professional voice. She looked up at him as the chair turned.

“Exactly, we got worried but we saw him walk away with a guy so we assumed it was a friend and they left” She shrugged, not thinking everything of it at the time. They were just told to stay vigilant with the murders of the two girls, not told a description of a killer.

“Did he usually walk off with friends after shifts?” Morgan probed

“Sometimes yeah, they would either leave or would come in here for a drink afterwards. Depends on how the shift goes really.” She chuckled softly “But that’s the way hospitality goes, I’m afraid. It’s different everyday”

“Seems like a tough shop” Morgan chuckled, Spencer did aswell, it was a soft chuckle. But a chuckle nonetheless. It would be missed by a passing person, but not a profiler. Definitely not by a profiler.

“You have no idea, FBI is light work.” She joked. It’s clear the mystery woman was cheeky. She had some mischief about her, it was fun. Spencer liked that about her the most.

“Uh huh sure” Morgan was a flirt, she’d heard about Morgan, she had. But didn’t expect that much of a flirt. Spencer really toned it down.

She raised a curious eyebrow, she didn’t ask questions. There wasn’t much time. A radio crackled on the desk, someone called after her, probably asking for something. or needed something fixed. She quickly put the CCTV footage onto a flash drive, handing it to Hotch. She knew he was the boss, even if he didn’t know that she knew. He looked like the boss.

“I have to go back now, so this is for you guys” She said as she quickly wrote down the bar’s number and her own incase they needed anymore information. Handing it to them. “If you need anymore information, please come pop in, or call me. Anything you need” She smiled, like she was asking for them to come by again. They were nice, she liked them.

She showed them out of the office, back into front of house. Walking towards the door, passing by customers who were eating lunch. As she was about to show them out the door, Hotch and Morgan already walked and Spencer held back. He paused in his step before turning around to face her.

“Are we still going ahead with movie night like we agreed on?” He asked quietly, Spencer liked routine and knowing what plans were.

“Yeah, I’m finishing at eight tonight. So I can bring pizza home?” She responded with the same kind of quiet, discreetly brushing his arm as a form of ‘I see you’

“That would be nice, I can find a movie for us to watch” He smiled, but pausing when he realised he had to go back to work now. Pulling away and going to catch up with where Hotch and Morgan were walking down the street. But not before whispering a soft “See you later”.

She watched them walk away from her bar, crossing her arms at her chest and smiling softly. Seeing Spencer would probably be the better part of her day, away from all the murders, the customers and the drivers who sent the bar’s delivery to the wrong restaurant. Going home to him later would be worth it.

As Spencer caught up with Hotch and Morgan, he had a clap on the shoulder from Morgan and an amused smile from Hotch.

“So who’s the girl, boy wonder?” Morgan chuckled

The bullpen of the Behavioural Analysis Unit was usually a cacophony of controlled chaos, phones ringing endlessly, papers shuffling hurriedly. But the moment the latest victim’s photograph was handed to the team, the room fell dead silent. 

Spencer Reid dropped his pen. It rolled off the edge of the mahogany table, clattering against the linoleum floor, but he didn’t even blink. Your name barely pierced through the ringing in his ears as JJ announced it to the team, his fingers curled tighter around the photograph until his knuckles were white.

“... Twenty four. She was taken from her apartment parking lot in Alexandria late last night. If the unsub’s timeline holds, we have less than six hours before he-”

“Four hours.” Spencer interrupted. His voice was hoarse, but it cut through the room like glass, his eyes still didn’t lift. He stood so fast that his chair scraped violently against the floor. 

Hotch’s eyes locked onto him, “Reid, what do you mean?”

“The geographical distribution of the dump sites indicates a comfort zone with a radius of no more than twelve miles, but the escalation in his cooling off period suggests a severe increase in his disorganized erraticism," Spencer rambled, his eyes still locked onto your photograph, your smile, your bright eyes. “He isn’t going to keep her for twelve hours like the others. He’s spiraling. He’s going to kill her in four. Maybe less.” 

Gideon leaned forward, his dark eyes studying Spencer’s erratic pacing, the way he hadn’t looked away from the photograph in his hand once since JJ had given it to him. “How do you know her?” He asked in his calm, quiet tone.

Spencer’s chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. Everyone’s eyes turned to him, a shocked silence settling over the group as his eyes finally lifted to Gideon. 

“She’s… She was my girlfriend.” He said, the word sounding foreign yet heavy on his tongue. “In Vegas, before Caltech.”

A look exchanged throughout the room, one of understanding as Morgan stood, placing his hand on Spencer’s shoulder, he flinched gently under the touch, and lifted your photograph to look at your smile again. “You never…”

“We broke up because she was… she got into her dream program, I got into Caltech,” He swallowed, a hard lump forming in his throat. “I didn’t want to hold her back.”

Hotch caught up with Spencer as they walked towards the jet, a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. His face had drained of colour, pale and terrified. Hotch was trained to look for cracks, and right now, Spencer was fracturing right in front of him. 

“Reid,” his voice dropped to a low and steady tone. “If you’re too close to this, I need to know now. I can’t have you in the field if you’re compromised.”

“I’m not compromised.” Spencer shot back instantly, his voice rising a pitch, he looked around at the teammates ahead, his chest heaving. “I’m the only one who can do the probability modeling on this unsub’s geographic regression fast enough. I know her baseline behavior. I know how she reacts under stress, she’s highly resilient, she won't panic immediately, which means she might buy us time, but we don’t have time. If you sideline me, you’re losing thirty percent of your analytical speed!” 

Silence settled between them, Hotch held his gaze, Spencer’s chest heaving. “I won't miss anything.” He said, his voice cracking as his brows furrowed, almost pleading, “I promise you. I won’t miss a thing.” 

Hotch swallowed, before nodding once. “Okay.” He said calmly, patting Spencer’s shoulder before the two of them jogged to catch up to the others. 

Spencer’s fingers leafed through the crime scene photos, the photograph of you safely tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt. He was running numbers, calculating probabilities, mapping the unsub’s previous movements with frantic energy. 

“Reid, you need to take a breath,” Elle said gently, “We’re going to find her.”

“I can’t breathe, Elle,” Spencer said, his voice cracking as he looked up, his wide brown eyes swimming with a rare, raw terror. “Do you know what she did when I was twelve years old, and the kids at school zip-tied me to a goal post? She didn’t laugh. She sat on the grass next to me and read me The Count of Monte Cristo until the janitor came with a wire cutter. She saw me. Not a freak. Just me.” He gripped his hair, pulling slightly as if he could force his brain to work faster. “Now he has her. If she dies because I was too scared to-”

“Hey. Look at me.” Morgan said, leaning over the table to force Spencer’s eyes to him. “That is not going to happen. Focus. What is your brain telling you about this guy? Where is he keeping her?”

Spencer forced his eyes closed. He shut out the rumble of the engine, the flicking of pages and murmuring of agents, the phantom scent of your perfume and feel of your hair in his hands that always seemed to linger in his memories. 

Think.

“Police sent over the security footage from her apartment complex. The abduction took less than forty seconds. He was waiting for her.” Hotch said as he scanned the file in front of him, his eyes momentarily flicking to Spencer, his knee anxiously bouncing and his jaw tight as he stared out of the plane window.

“Did he target her specifically, or was it a crime of opportunity?” Morgan asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

“Opportunity.” Spencer said, taking a deep breath in before turning to Morgan. “He doesn't know me, and he doesn’t know her. The previous three victims all shared the same physical profile and were taken from transit points within a three mile radius of the interstate ninety-five corridor. It’s random. It’s entirely random… The unsub uses a white van with rusted wheel wells,” Spencer murmured, his thoughts tumbling out. “The soil transfer on the victims shoes was rich in iron oxide.”

Hotch stared at Spencer for three long seconds, the tension in the plane palpable. Finally, he gave a single firm nod. “Alright, you stay on the geographical profiling, JJ, get on the phone with local field office and pull every traffic camera feed within five miles of her apartment. Gideon and I are going to her place to walk the scene.”

The air in the concrete cell grew colder as the afternoon bled into evening. 

Your head throbbed, a dull, agonizing pulse behind your eyes. You tried to shift your weight, but a sharp spike of pain in your ribs made you gasp, the sound muffled by the rough rope tied around your mouth. Through the high, barred slit near the ceiling, the weak Virginia sunlight was beginning to fade, casting skeletal shadows across the damp brick walls. Three hours. By your own estimate, you had been in this room for at least three hours. In the next room, the pacing had stopped, replaced by the heavy, dragging sound of metal scraping against concrete. You swallowed the dryness in your throat, forcing yourself to focus on the ceiling, on the rhythmic, maddening drip of water. One drip every four seconds, you calculated, your mind clinging to the structure of the math because it was the only thing keeping the terror from consuming you entirely. It was a habit you picked up years ago, from a boy who used to explain the mathematical probability of rain just to calm you down during summer thunderstorms in Nevada. 

“If you look at the cloud density and the barometric pressure, it’s actually a beautiful equation,” his voice echoed in your mind, so clear that it made your chest ache. 

Suddenly, the heavy wooden door to the kiln chamber creaked open. Your breath hitched, your eyes squeezed closed for a fraction of a second, then you forced them open, you wouldn’t let him see you vulnerable. He stepped into the room, large, imposing, with clothes stained with grease and dried mud, his eyes vacant and deeply bloodshot. He didn’t look angry, he looked frantic, his hands shaking as he carried a heavy roll of wire and a rusted iron pipe. His movements too fast, his breathing too shallow. He stopped in front of you, staring down with an unsettling, detached curiosity. He reached out, his dirty thumb tracing the line of your jaw, and you flinched away, your teeth clenching. “You aren’t screaming. Why aren’t you screaming?”

You glared at him through your tangled hair, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, but you kept your gaze steady. The man grunted, a dark, frustrated sound, and raised the heavy iron pipe. “We’ll have to fix that.”

“She lived alone, but she didn’t live isolated.” Gideon murmured, tracing his fingers along the edge of a neatly arranged bookshelf. “She was organised, careful, The neighbours said she kept to herself, but she was always polite. She moved here six months ago. Why Alexandria?”

“Maybe a fresh start.” Hotch suggested, stepping into the small hallway that led to the bedroom. “Had a break-up, fell out with a friend.” He theorised. The bedroom was modest. A neatly made bed, a dresser with a few framed photos of your family, a small writing desk near the window. Hotch approached the closet, pulling it open, while Gideon walked over to the bed. He knelt, his eyes catching on something tucked just beneath the dust ruffle. He reached under and pulled out a faded, purple cardboard shoebox. 

“Hotch.” Gideon called out softly.

Hotch turned, watching as Gideon sat on the edge of the mattress and removed the lid. Inside the box were dozens of envelopes, bundled neatly with a blue piece of twine. Gideon slid the top envelope out from under the string. The paper was slightly worn at the edges, handles many times. He turned it over, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read the postmark.

Pasadena, CA. October 2000

Then his gaze fell on the sender’s handwriting. It was incredibly precise, small and frantically slanted. “Reid.” Hotch murmured, stepping closer. It wasn’t a question. He recognised the erratic, rapid-fire flow of the penmanship instantly. Gideon untied the string and opened the most recent letter in the pile. It was dated nearly four years ago. He skimmed the page, his eyes softening as he read the dense paragraphs, a dizzying mix of complex astrophysical theories, ramblings about Caltech’s library, and, woven between the lines, a profound, aching vulnerability. 

…I tried to calculate the probability of us staying together despite the geographic distance, but the variables are too volatile. I don’t want to be the gravity that pulls you away from your own orbit. You deserve to fly. But please know that even if the universe expands forever, my coordinates will always find yours.

“She kept every single one of them.” Gideon said quietly, folding the paper back into its creases. “He stopped writing because he thought he was protecting her.” He paused as he looked at Hotch. “She moved here to be closer to him.” 

“But she never called him,” Hotch observed, his voice tinged with a rare touch of solemnity. “She wanted to see if he would reach out first.”

Before Gideon could reply, Hotch’s cell phone rang, cutting sharply through the quiet apartment. Hotch held the receiver to his ear. “Hotch.” 

On the other end, Morgan’s voice crackled through, thick with urgency. “Hotch, we have a location. Reid cracked the soil analysis. The iron oxide and calcium carbonate point to the old Lorton Brickworks kiln chambers, right off Interstate ninety-five. We’re five minutes out.”

“We’re on our way.” Hotch said, his eyes locking onto the purple shoebox. “We’ll meet you there.”

The sirens of the local police cruisers wailed in the distance, but the tactical team moved in absolute, synchronized silence. 

The old Lorton Brickworks loomed in the gray evening light, a crumbling monolith of rusted steel and decaying masonry. Heavy rain began to pelt the concrete as the SWAT team, flanked by Morgan, Elle, and a visibly trembling Spencer, stacked up against the primary entrance to the underground kilns.

“Breaching in three… two… one…”

The heavy iron door was blown open with a deafening metallic screech. Spencer didn’t wait. He pushed past the tactical shield, his flashlight beam slicing frantically through the darkness of the subterranean corridor, screaming your name into the abyss, his voice cracking with sheer desperation. The team swept through the chambers, the beams of their flashlights illuminating nothing but empty space, piles of discarded gravel, and decades of undisturbed dust. There were no chairs, no ropes. No signs of recent life.

“Clear!” a SWAT officer shouted.

“Clear!” another echoed from the back.

Spencer froze in the center of the main kiln chamber. He shone his flashlight at the ground. The dust on the concrete floor was thick, even, and completely undisturbed. No footprints.

“No.” Spencer murmured, his eyes wide and frantic. “No, no, no… this is wrong. This is all wrong.”

Morgan stopped at his side, his hand landing on his shoulder. “Reid, talk to me. What do you mean it’s wrong? The soil report-”

“The soil report in Sarah Jenkins’ shoes had calcium carbonate-” he paused, bending to run his fingers through the soil, “but the Lorton Clay Pit has a high concentration of alumina.” He rambled, his voice climbing to a panicked breathless pitch. He stared at his dirty fingers as if they held every answer he was looking for. “Aluminia is acidic. But the soil on Sarah’s shoes was alkaline. The calcium carbonate wasn’t from the clay itself… It was a shifting agent from limestone runoff. From the Occoquan River.”

He scrambled backward, pulling his folded paper maps from his pocket with shaking hands, tearing the edges. “The Occoquan Clay and Brick Manufactory,” Spencer gasped, a tear of pure horror spilling over his eyelashes. “It’s six miles south. It closed in ninety-four when the quarry flooded. It’s the exact same architectural layout, built by the same parent company, but the geological runoff is entirely different. I miscalculated the geographic regression because I assumed he was staying close to the interstate corridor, but he isn’t trying to stay near the highway, he's trying to stay near the water.”

Hotch and Gideon sprinted into the chamber, their faces grim. “Reid, what is it?” Hotch demanded.

Spencer looked up, his face entirely drained of colour. “We’re in the wrong place. He has her at the Occoquan facility. It’s twelve minutes from here.”

“How much time do we have left on your timeline, Reid?” Gideon asked, his voice steady but urgent.

Spencer looked at his watch. The ticking of the second hand felt like a physical hammer to his skull. “Eight minutes.” Spencer whispered, his chest heaving as he stared at Gideon. “In eight minutes, he kills her.”

Twelve minutes of driving had to be forced into six. The black SUV roared down the rain slicked, winding roads toward the Occoquan River, tires skimming over deep puddles. Inside, the silence was suffocating, punctuated only by the furious, rapid-fire tapping of Spencer's fingers against his knees. “Four minutes,” Spencer murmured, his eyes fixed on the dashboard clock. “We have four minutes.”

“I’m driving as fast as the road allows, Reid,” Morgan growled, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he navigated a sharp, blind curve.

“It’s not fast enough!” Spencer suddenly yelled, a rare, uncharacteristic burst of anger cracking through his panic. He slammed a hand onto the dashboard. “He’s going to kill her, Morgan! He’s going to kill her because I spent three years hiding from my own feelings in California!” 

No one in the car spoke. Elle reached forward from the backseat, gently squeezing Spencer’s shoulder, but he was too far gone to feel it, drowning in the mathematics of his own failures. Up ahead, through the heavy downpour, the dark outline of the Occoquan Clay and Brick Manufactory finally broke through the trees.

Inside the concrete kiln, the shadows had stretched so long that they swallowed the room. Your chest burned with every shallow breath. The pacing in the corridor had stopped. There was only the low, wet drag of boots stepping through the shallow puddles of groundwater on the brick floor. You pulled against your bonds, the harsh rope tearing through the skin of your wrists, but the knots were professional, unyielding. The heavy metal door of the chamber groaned on its hinges. The man stepped inside, carrying the same rusted iron pipe. The weapon scraped against the wet brick with a high pitched, metallic screech that made your stomach roll. “The water’s rising.” He muttered, his voice hollow and frantic. He looked up at the ceiling, then back at you. “They’re close. I can feel them. They’re trying to take you away from me, but I have to keep the sequence clean. Three, then four. It has to be complete.”

You didn’t close your eyes, staring straight at him, your jaw trembling but your gaze fierce. You thought of a boy under a starry Vegas sky. 

The pipe began its downward swing-

The SUV hadn’t even fully stopped before Spencer threw his door open. He hit the gravel running, his boots skidding as he sprinted toward the gaping, dark mouth of the Occoquan kiln entrance. “Reid! Wait for tactical!” Hotch’s voice echoed through the storm, but Spencer couldn’t hear him over the roaring of his own pulse.

Spencer burst into the cavernous, pitch-black underground network. His flashlight beam swept wildly over crumbling brick arches and deep, stagnant pools of flooded water. The labyrinth of identical corridors stretched out before him like a physical manifestation of his worst nightmare. He stopped, holding his breath, desperately trying to listen over the sound of the rain hammering the roof above. A muffled, metallic clang rang out from the deep left corridor. 

Spencer took off. He rounded a corner, his foot catching on a piece of debris, sending him crashing hard onto his shoulder against the wet brick wall. Pain shot through his arm, but he barely registered it. He scrambled back to his feet, throwing his weight against a rotting wooden door at the end of the hall. The door splintered inward. 

The beam of his flashlight caught the terrifying tableau in an instant, the unsub, the raised steel pipe, and you. Tied to a chair, eyes wide with terror.

“FBI! Hands where I can see them!” Spencer screamed, his voice raw, completely devoid of his usual restraint. 

The unsub swung around, his face twisting in rage as he charged at the lanky agent with the pipe. Spencer didn’t retreat. He didn’t wait for Morgan, or Hotch. With a desperate cry, he tackled the larger man, the two of them slamming violently into the muddy floor. The pipe clattered away into the dark as the unsub clawed at Spencer’s face, pinning him down, but Spencer fought back with an agonizing, furious strength, driving his elbow into the man’s ribs. Just as the unsub grabbed Spencer’s throat, Morgan and Hotch burst into the room. Morgan threw himself onto the suspect, ripping him off Spencer and slamming him face first into the wet brick to cuff him. 

Spencer lay on the ground for a fraction of a second, gasping for air, before scrambling on his hands and knees over to your chair. His hands shook violently as he pulled at the knot around your wrists. “I’m here, I- I’m here, I’ve got you.” He choked out as the knot came free. The moment your arms were free, you threw them around his neck. His hands moved to the rope at the back of your head and pulled, releasing the gag from your mouth as you collapsed against him, sending him back to the floor. “Spencer-” You sobbed, your voice a broken whisper against his ear. His long arms wrapped around you, burying his face in your wet hair as he cradled you in his lap, holding on so tightly it felt as if he were trying to pull you directly into his chest, away from the cold, away from the horror, away from the years you had spent apart. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his eyes swimming with tears when you pulled back to look at him. They flicked over your face, the lines of grease and dirt where the unsub had touched you, the drip of blood from a cut above your eyebrow, the skin rubbed raw by the rope gag around your mouth. “I’m so sorry, I- I…” His hand moved from your head to your jaw, his thumb gently tracing your cheek. You leaned into his touch, a small, bruised smile pulling at your lips. “Are you okay?” 

Paramedics rushed in, sirens wailed in the distance. “Let’s get her to the ambulance, Reid.” Hotch said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let the EMTs look her over.” 

The back of the ambulance was relatively quiet, a stark contrast to the storm outside. The rain hammered a steady, muted rhythm against the metal roof. The doors were pulled shut, leaving the two of you in the warm, sterile glow of the interior lights. You sat on the gurney, a heavy, orange blanket dread over your shoulders. The paramedic had finished cleaning the cuts on your lip and eyebrow, and bandaging the raw, chafed skin of your wrists, leaving you with a small cup of water before stepping out to give you some space. Spencer stood just inside the doors, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. He had a white blanket wrapped around his own shoulders to combat the chill of his soaked clothes, his wet hair curling at the ends. He stared at his mismatched socks, suddenly feeling very vulnerable, and very lost. 

“Spence?” You said, your voice soft and scratchy. He looked up, his brown eyes wide as he walked over to the edge of the gurney, his movements hesitant, as if he were afraid to startle you if he moved too quickly. 

“Are you… are you okay?” He asked, gently settling next to you on the edge of the gurney. “The medical examiner- I mean, paramedic said your ribs are only bruised and not fractured, and your wrists…” He trailed off, his eyes dropping to the white gauze wrapping your wrists. He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I miscalculated the Lorton put. I should have realised the soil runoff variable sooner. I cost us twelve minutes. I almost-”

“Spencer.” You reached out, your bandaged hand cutting off his rambling as you gently took hold of his fingers. “You saved my life.” He let out a shaky breath, his fingers slowly curling around yours. “And with a hell of a tackle too.” You added, smiling gently. He looked down at your joined hands as he let out an exhale that could have been a laugh if not for the circumstances, and the dam finally broke.

“I was so scared.” He murmured, his voice cracking. “When JJ handed me your photo, my entire brain just… stopped. I’ve spent years training myself to be objective, to compartmentalise, to analyze everything through mathematical probability. But the moment I saw you, the math didn't work anymore. I couldn’t breathe.” He swallowed, eyes locked on the way your fingers slotted perfectly between his. “Gideon found the letters under your bed.” He confessed quietly, his eyes lifting to meet yours, swimming with tears. “He showed them to me while they were…” He gestured at your wrists with his free hand. “I… I stopped writing because I thought I was doing the logical thing. I thought I was saving you from having to choose between your dream and a boy who was too weird, too complicated, too… broken to keep up with you.”

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, but you didn’t look away. “Spence…” You whispered. “I moved here because I hoped that if I was close enough, maybe the universe would find a way to slide us back into the same orbit. But I was… I thought the letters stopped because you had moved on.”

“I could never move on from you.” He answered instantly, reaching up with his free hand, his long, slender fingers trembling as he gently brushed a damp strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was incredibly light, as if you were made of glass. “I love you. I never stopped, not for a single second.”

A soft smile broke through the pain on your face, watching as a tear finally fell over his lashes. “I never stopped either.” You whispered, watching his whole face soften, his shoulder turned as he moved to face you. He was still trembling slightly, the residual adrenaline of the rescue humming through his veins. He looked down at you, the shadows of the ambulance cast soft lines across your face, highlighting the dark bruise on your cheekbone, the spit on your lip. To anyone else, you looked battered, the victim of a terrible crime. But to Spencer, you were the same girl who had sat in the dusty desert grass, holding his hand when the rest of the world felt too loud.  There was no hesitation, no distance of four lost years, no unanswered letters between you anymore. Just the undeniable, magnetic pull that had always existed. 

His fingers gently cradled your jawline, so careful, his thumb lightly tracing just below the bruise on your cheek, treating you like something infinitely precious. When he leaned down, you met him halfway. 

The kiss was soft, tentative at first, as if he was terrified of hurting you. He pressed his lips to yours with a quiet, aching reverence, a silent apology for every day he had spent letting the silence stretch between you. But as your hand moved to cup the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, the hesitation dissolved. He let out a shaky, ragged sigh against your mouth, deepening the kiss. It was a chaotic rush of warmth, of relief, of a profound love that had survived years of distance and the brink of death. He pulled you closer, his other hand splaying flat against your back, holding you to him as if to convince himself that you were truly here, safe and alive. 

When you finally parted, neither of you moved away. Spencer rested his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling in the space. He smiled, a small, genuine expression that reached his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. “My heart rate is currently one hundred and forty-two beats per minute,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion but carrying a hint of his familiar, nerdy charm. “Which is physiologically consistent with acute cardiovascular arousal, but I’m fairly certain ninety percent of it is just because of you.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, your eyes shining with fresh tears as you pulled on the back of his neck again. “Shut up.”

“Okay.” He mumbled against you as you brought his lips back to yours.

He did not tell the team about you.

At first, it was because the relationship was new. Then it was because it felt good to have something that belonged only to him, untouched by case files and crime scenes and the worried looks people gave him when they thought he was not paying attention.

You met him for coffee near Quantico. You spent quiet evenings at your apartment because he still disliked people knowing where he lived. You learned not to touch him from behind. He learned that you slept with the television on when he was away.

Six months passed.

You knew the names of everyone on his team. They knew nothing about you.

Then Emily Prentiss walked into your office with two agents and asked you to come with them.

The conference room at the field office was too cold.

No one called it an interrogation room, but the camera in the corner and the mirror along one wall made the distinction meaningless.

You sat at the table for nearly an hour before the door opened.

The woman who entered introduced herself as Jennifer Jareau. Her voice was gentle, which frightened you more than anger would have.

She placed several photographs on the table.

Three women.

All dead.

You looked away from the third.

“Do you recognize them?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

JJ watched your face.

You forced yourself to look again. One woman had dark hair. One wore glasses. The youngest looked barely old enough to drink.

“I’ve never seen any of them.”

JJ added another photograph to the row.

This one was of you.

You were leaving your building, one hand inside your purse as you searched for your keys. The angle came from across the street.

Your stomach dropped. “Where did you get that?”

“It was found with the victims’ photographs.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do we.”

The door opened again. Spencer stepped inside. For one terrible second, relief overpowered everything else. You stood so quickly the chair scraped against the floor.

“Spencer.”

He stopped.

JJ looked between you.

Spencer’s face changed.

It was subtle, but you knew him. You knew the small tension near his mouth when he was afraid and the way his shoulders stiffened when the world stopped making sense.

“You know each other,” JJ said.

Neither of you answered.

Her eyes narrowed. “Reid?”

Spencer kept looking at you. “We’ve been seeing each other.”

JJ’s expression remained controlled, but surprise broke through it. “How long?”

“Six months.”

You watched the realization settle over her. The hidden relationship. The photographs. The case. A secret no one had known about until you became a suspect.

JJ turned to Spencer. “You need to step outside.”

“I can help.”

“You’re personally involved.”

“I can still assess—”

“You cannot interview your girlfriend in a serial murder investigation.”

The word girlfriend sounded strange in the room. Too intimate. Too ordinary. Spencer glanced at the photographs on the table.

“What evidence do you have?”

“Reid.”

“What evidence?”

JJ hesitated. That was enough to frighten you. Spencer noticed. Of course he did.

He looked at you again, but the relief you had felt when he walked in was gone. His eyes moved over your face as if he had never seen it before.

“Spencer,” you said quietly.

He left without answering.

They questioned you for three hours. The victims had received anonymous messages for weeks before their deaths. Photographs. Details about their routines. Threats disguised as affection.

Investigators had traced one of the accounts to a public network near your office.

A burner phone found near the latest victim contained your number.

Your car had been photographed near two abduction sites.

You explained everything you could.

The public network was used by hundreds of people every day. Your number could have been found online. You drove through that area to reach your apartment.

The answers sounded weak even to you.

JJ did not accuse you. She did not raise her voice.

She simply continued asking questions until you began to feel as though your life had been dismantled and placed on the table between you.

Then she asked how much Spencer had told you about the investigation.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“He said he was working a case involving missing women.”

“Did he mention where?”

“No.”

“Did he mention how they were taken?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you the unsub was contacting the victims before abducting them?”

You hesitated. JJ noticed.

“He mentioned stalking.”

“When?”

“A few days ago.”

“Before or after the third victim was found?”

“I don’t know.”

The door opened.

Spencer stood there again. This time, no one stopped him.

JJ rose. “Reid.”

“I need to speak with her.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

Something in his voice made her pause. She looked at you, then at him, and stepped outside.

The door closed. Spencer remained standing.

You had imagined the team finding out about you dozens of times. Garcia would ask too many questions. Morgan would tease him. JJ would smile as though she had known all along.

You had never imagined this.

“Tell me you don’t believe them,” you said.

His jaw tightened. “I need you to answer some questions.”

“You need me to answer?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been answering questions for hours.”

“I need to hear the answers myself.”

You stared at him. A bruise of anger formed beneath the fear. “Fine.”

He sat across from you. The table felt wider than it had before.

“When we met, did you already know I worked for the FBI?”

“No.”

“You asked what I did during our second conversation.”

“Because most people ask that when they’re getting to know someone.”

“You recognized my name.”

“After you told me.”

“How?”

“You have published papers, Spencer.”

His fingers curled near the edge of the table. “You searched for me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I liked you.”

The answer seemed to hurt him. He glanced toward the photographs.

“When did you start asking about my cases?”

“I didn’t.”

“You asked why I wasn’t sleeping.”

“That is not asking about a case.”

“You asked whether the women knew the person following them.”

Your breath caught. “That was after you told me they were being stalked.”

“I didn’t tell you they knew him.”

“You said the messages were personal.”

Spencer’s eyes hardened. “You remember the exact wording.”

“I remember conversations with you.”

“So do I.”

There was something in his voice then. Something wounded and suspicious.

You leaned back. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to determine how much information you had access to.”

“Through you.”

“Yes.”

The room went silent. The fear inside you became something sharper.

“You think I used you.”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“You think I dated you to get information about an investigation that did not even begin until four months after we met?”

“Serial offenders often operate long before law enforcement connects the cases.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“You were photographed near two abduction sites.”

“I live twelve minutes away.”

“Your number was on the burner phone.”

“Then someone put it there.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why would someone frame you?”

“I don’t know!” Your voice cracked against the walls.

Spencer flinched, but he did not soften. You looked at him and understood that he was not seeing you. He was seeing every person who had lied to him. Every hand that had hurt him after pretending to help. Every threat he had missed because he had wanted to trust someone.

You knew what prison had done to him. You knew about Tobias Hankel, Maeve and Cat Adams. You knew there were nights he woke beside you and needed several seconds to remember where he was.

You had held him through all of it. And now he was taking every fragile thing you had shared with him and examining it for evidence.

“Was any of it real?” he asked. The question was so quiet you almost missed it.

You stopped breathing.

He looked down at the file.

“The timing. The questions. The fact that no one knew about you. Was that intentional?”

The hurt in his voice nearly made you forgive him before you realized what he was asking.

“Do you think I wanted you to keep me a secret?”

His gaze lifted. “You said you understood.”

“I did understand. I understood that you needed time.”

“You never pushed.”

“Because I loved you.”

The words left before you could stop them. His face went still. You had not said it before. Not even when you had felt it. You had been waiting for him to feel safe enough to hear it.

You swallowed hard. “I loved you enough not to make your fear about me. I loved you enough to accept six months of hidden dinners and leaving your apartment separately. I loved you enough to wait.”

“Loved,” he repeated.

“You brought me into an interrogation room and asked whether sleeping beside you was part of a plan.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He looked stricken, but you were too angry to care. The door opened before he could answer. Emily entered with a uniformed officer behind her.

“We confirmed her alibi for the second abduction,” she said. “Security footage places her inside her office until forty minutes after the victim disappeared.”

Spencer looked at the photographs.

Emily continued. “The burner phone was activated using a stolen identity. Tech found evidence that someone cloned her vehicle registration to place her car near the scenes.”

Your eyes burned. Someone had built this carefully. Someone had wanted the FBI to look at you.

Emily turned to the officer. “She’s free to go.”

You stood. Spencer rose with you.

“I’ll take you home.”

“No.”

“You shouldn’t be alone.”

“You just accused me of using you to murder women.”

“I said I didn’t know what to think.”

“That was the problem.”

You walked past him. He did not follow.

For the next four days, he called eleven times. You let every call go to voicemail. The first message was an apology. The second asked you to tell him you were safe. The third said he understood why you did not want to speak with him.

By the sixth, he had stopped asking you to call back. He only said your name.

You blocked the number after the ninth message. It did not make the silence easier.

You changed the locks to your apartment. You stopped taking the same route to work. You checked beneath your car before getting inside and watched every reflection in every window.

The FBI assigned surveillance to your building, though no one told you who requested it.

On the fifth night, the hallway light outside your apartment went out. You stood on the other side of the door, listening.

Nothing.

You reached for your phone.

The power inside your apartment died.

A hand closed over your mouth before you could scream.

••••••••••

When Spencer arrived at the office the next morning, Emily was waiting beside his desk.

He knew before she spoke.

The surveillance agent had been found unconscious in the stairwell. Your apartment door was open. There were signs of a struggle in the kitchen.

The team moved quickly.

Spencer did not.

For several seconds, he stood perfectly still while Emily spoke, hearing only fragments.

Blood near the counter.

Phone left behind.

Vehicle still parked outside.

A photograph placed on the table.

The photograph showed you asleep in Spencer’s bed.

Taken through the window.

The unsub had known about the relationship.

He had not chosen you because of the case.

He had chosen the case because of you.

The profile shifted.

The unsub was not using you to reach Spencer. He was punishing you for choosing Spencer over him.

Garcia searched former coworkers, neighbors, classmates and anyone who had appeared repeatedly in the background of security footage near your apartment.

Spencer went through every conversation you had ever had.

The man at the coffee shop who always remembered your order. The neighbor who offered to carry your groceries. The coworker who complained that you had become distant after you started dating someone.

He stopped.

“Evan Cole.”

Garcia’s fingers moved over the keyboard.

“Former coworker. Resigned eight months ago after a complaint was filed against him.”

“What complaint?” Emily asked.

Garcia’s face changed.

“Stalking.”

The abandoned house belonged to Evan’s grandmother. By the time the team reached it, you had been missing for eleven hours. Spencer found you in the basement. Your wrists were tied above your head to a pipe. Blood had dried along your temple. Your lips were pale, and your breathing was so shallow he almost missed it.

Evan stood behind you with a knife pressed to your throat.

“You ruined her,” Evan said.

Spencer lowered his weapon slightly.

“She was happy before you.”

“You’re right.” The words came easily because Spencer believed them.

Evan’s grip shifted.

Spencer continued. “I hurt her. She trusted me, and I used everything I knew about her to make her feel guilty.”

Your eyes opened.

Barely.

They found him.

Spencer’s chest tightened.

“But you were watching,” he said. “You knew exactly when she was vulnerable. You knew she would be alone because I made sure she wanted nothing to do with me.”

Evan smiled.

It was enough.

His attention moved from you to Spencer.

Emily fired.

The knife fell.

Spencer reached you before Evan hit the floor.

He caught your weight as the pipe released and lowered you carefully, one hand supporting the back of your head.

Your eyes fluttered. “Spencer?”

“I’m here.”

You tried to pull away. The movement was weak, but he felt it.

His hands froze. “It’s me,” he said.

“I know.”

The words hurt more than if you had not recognized him at all.

At the hospital, Spencer stayed in the hallway. JJ sat beside him for most of the night. No one told him he should go inside. When the doctor finally allowed visitors, Emily entered first. Then Garcia. Then JJ. You did not ask for Spencer. He went home after sunrise.

Three days later, you found a package outside your apartment. There was no note asking you to forgive him. Inside were your spare keys, the books you had left at his apartment and a letter.

You left it unopened for two days.

When you finally read it, the apology filled six pages.

Spencer did not explain what prison had done to him. He did not mention fear or betrayal or trauma as though any of it could excuse what he had said.

He wrote that he had profiled you instead of trusting you.

He wrote that he had turned your patience into evidence against you.

He wrote that loving him had cost you privacy, safety and then dignity, and he had accepted all three as though they were reasonable prices for you to pay.

The final paragraph was shorter.

I do not expect you to forgive me. I only need you to know that you were real to me. You were the most real thing I had, and I treated you like a threat because losing you frightened me more than believing you had never loved me.

You folded the letter.

Then you unfolded it and read it again.

You did not call him.

Three weeks passed.

The bruises faded. The stitches came out. You returned to work and began seeing a therapist recommended by the victim services coordinator.

Spencer sent nothing else.

He respected the silence you had asked for, even though you had never said the words aloud.

That was why you finally went to him. He opened his apartment door and stopped. He looked thinner. His hair was longer than it had been the last time you touched it. Neither of you spoke.

“I read your letter,” you said.

He nodded.

“I’m not here because you rescued me.”

“I know.”

“I’m grateful you found me, but that does not erase what happened before.”

“I know.”

“You cannot ever speak to me that way again. You cannot punish me for what someone else did to you.”

“I know.” His voice broke on the last word.

You looked away. “I don’t trust you the way I did.”

“I understand.”

“I still love you.”

Spencer closed his eyes. The silence stretched between you.

“But I’m angry,” you continued. “And I might be angry for a long time.”

“You should be.”

“I don’t know whether we can fix this.”

He opened his eyes. “I’ll accept whatever you decide.”

“That is not what I asked.”

A flicker of confusion crossed his face.

You stepped closer. “I asked whether we can fix it.”

His breathing changed. “I want to,” he said. “I’ll do anything you need.”

“I need you to stop deciding what I need without asking me.”

He nodded immediately. “Okay.”

“I need you to tell the team about us.”

“I already did.”

You blinked. “All of them?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell them?”

“The truth.”

The answer was simple. No defensiveness. No attempt to soften it.

You looked down at your hands. “I need time.”

“You have it.”

“And therapy.”

“I’ve started again.”

That surprised you.

Spencer rubbed his thumb over the edge of the door. “I should have gone back months ago.”

You stood there for another moment, close enough to touch him but not ready to.

Then you held out your hand. He stared at it.

“This does not mean everything is fine,” you said.

“I know.”

“It means you can sit with me.”

His fingers moved into yours carefully. He led you to the couch without tightening his grip. You sat beside him with space between your bodies. For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet was uncomfortable. Then sad. Then, slowly, familiar.

Spencer turned his hand beneath yours until your palms rested together.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

Your throat tightened. “No.”

His shoulders lowered.

“I’m afraid you’ll hurt me again,” you admitted. “That isn’t the same thing.”

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

He did not promise that he never would.

He promised he would listen. That he would ask instead of assume. That he would not use his fear as permission to tear you apart.

It was not romantic.

It was better.

It was honest.

•••••••••

Months later, when he kissed you in front of the team for the first time, Garcia cried loudly enough to attract attention from three surrounding tables.

Morgan complained that Reid had hidden an entire relationship and still somehow received the happy ending.

You laughed against Spencer’s shoulder. His arm rested around your waist, but his grip remained loose, leaving you room to move away.

You did not. When the others became distracted, he leaned close.

“Are you okay?”

It had become his question.

Not an assessment. Not an assumption.

A question.

You looked at him.

There were still things between you that had not healed completely. There were moments when his silence reminded you of the interrogation room, and nights when the memory of the basement pulled you awake.

But he stayed.

He listened.

He told the truth, even when it made him look weak.

You touched his face. “I’m getting there.”

and for you, the truth of this arranged marriage with him keeps crawling behind you like a vice, religiously. as far as to dreamland, even. a place where the world was supposed to be a non-existent truth, not where the fact of life keeps strangling you breathless.

for what it's worth, the reality of it has cut through you for as long as you've breathed, with his last name weighing on your shoulder. 

on some days, it feels as if it's gently reminding you of the consequence of marrying someone whose heart will always be confined behind his ribcage. as well as the price of attempting to tie your soul to another, who will never let his be in the palm of your longing hands.

for all the love you own, the realization of it has the wind stealing the air off your lungs, and it was undoubtedly the start of your nearing end.

when you found a picture of that woman in his wallet on some lonely night, no words had let itself free out of the cage that's your lips, as it's shut tight from where you had stitched it with a thread made from your infinite love. and the night breeze that day, were witnessed on how deadly was the silence, by you. a to-be-forevermore stillness from you, to the strongest one.

an anniversary present given by a wife to her husband, dedicated solely to the cursed marriage she believes he's shackled to.

she‘s a beautiful, enchanting woman, you may so for yourself. you've heard people describe her as a gentle soul with a poise demeanor; a perfect match for the man who's always searching for someone to keep him grounded, someone to keep him tethered to the reality that consistently screws him up.

gentle always followed after your name, too. but not like hers, never will be—something you compare yourself to every so often, while you let yourself drown in your reflection on the mirror—as it’s a different form of gentleness. the kind that someone who‘s, undoubtedly, be the one who satoru devoted his love and soul to.

a woman who doesn't smell like death is calling her name.

the woman in the picture is whose existence you've become sensitively aware of after the engagement happened. after all that whispers? no matter how hard you try, it lingers. it follows your every step alike the smell of cigarette, which often seeps into someone's clothes and scents like dirty ashtray. a smell that deserves to be one with the soil, from how rancid it is.

‘don't you think it's tragic? both gojo and that woman. having to end it all for his duty.’

‘perhaps. it's expected, i may say. no matter how high on the top satoru gojo is, no matter how much privilege being the strongest gave him— they always find a way to make him bend over the rules.’

‘seriously, you two are not giving the fiancee enough credit! imagine being her … a total nightmare. i would cry myself to sleep every single day, if i were her.’

even after many seasons have passed, you still find it in you of the nightmare, that is the ability to recite those words in your sleep. it‘s suffocating, truly. the truth of how your arranged marriage still chases you down, even when you‘re unconscious, is something that has you opening your eyes in startle night after night, with dread haunting all of your burning senses.

“satoru, who … is she?”

his whole body tensed. there was no name drop, no picture— nothing. only a question with no identification of who you were referring to. however, satoru understands in a heartbeat whose existence you were suggesting, as if there's no soul except hers. while you, on the other hand, can feel the way your heart drops to the ground, before it shattered as he muttered the answer.

"… a ghost of my past.” 

the way that sentence left in-between his lips was more than enough to send you buried six-feet-under, if you were allowed to be truthful. his tone, a softness you've never heard before, was taunting you. it almost came across your ringing ears as a mocking on where you stand in his world. not from him. it's a calling by the universe itself.

and it sends chills right through your body, as if the grim reaper is brushing their scythe right by your pulse.

you really did take away his life, his freedom. no, worst. you've taken away their love and crushed it by existing. the sight of him—a husband who owns your heart without knowing—keeps bringing you back to the one undeniable truth: each breath you take is evidence of how satoru gojo life is no longer vivid of love, but monotone from the misery that is your marriage.

 “ah. sh— she's really pretty.” your statement was pure, no malice hidden behind it. she is a beautiful human being. still, despite your own words, you can feel how the world starts crumbling into ruins under your feet.

you didn't pester him after the reality was laid upon you like a misfortune. instead, you continue acting as the lovingly doting wife you always been, all the while a void started to grow in you. a void which is all-consuming. and in the midst of your spiraling, a promise for him was made from the deepest part of your soul and heart.

even if the man can‘t hear it, you promise with your life that he'll own his life.

it wasn't surprising when the next day everything in the house was clean and tidy. a perfectness expected from you, as a housewife. no trace of you was seen in the place you arrogantly called home, for time and again.

that was one of your last acts of love for the man, who'll always be the reason for your pounding heart. soon to be halting, with all the love pouring from it. an act of sparing him from your strangling existence he was forced to have; sparing him from the longing and pain of what-if, as well as what-could-have-been, with her.

his clothes were all stacked thoughtfully in the closet. the fridge and pantry is filled with everything he loves. all of his necessities that were near empty have been stocked up, by your caring tendencies. the delicate hands of yours had also prepared his usual meal plan, for the last time. everything you've done over and over like breathing, was finally seeing an end.

and that night, for your last act of love as his wife and someone who loves him far too consuming— you‘ll give him the freedom he always yearns for. an unshackling from what he never should have to tolerate, you.

satoru, the light of my life,

the glass was held firmly on your trembling hand, as you slowly brought the rim of it towards your awaiting parting lips. your intense gaze, slightly wavering, was capturing the sight of how the liquid starts to run dry from your glass, down to your throat as it slowly flame you from the inside.

for everything we’ve shared and all the things you've done for me, i really, really thank you.

under your touch, the glass had let itself slip and shatter against the cold tiles; crashing against your shared bedroom floor, as it echoes through the silence, while your body stumbles around before eventually falling hitting the solid ground.

no matter what anyone says you‘re my favorite, and will always be.

in the emptiness of the house that was never yours to live, no one was there to watch how the froth started forming in your mouth like the beginning of an end. the sounds of your strangle breath that engulfed the room was, undeniably, aching to hear— filled with defeat, helpless, and somewhere in the back, a sense of relief.

i truly have no regrets in this life, other than holding you back from the life you dream and deserve. a life where you know nothing but laughter and endless joy, with your loved one.

your body that was uncontrollably shaking as it takes in the source of satoru‘s freedom, had finally come to a halt. one might say that it was an act of kindness from the grim reaper, for how they have seen you suffer enough with the selfless act, based on a love you never had the privilege of confessing to.

these past few months of being your wife have brought me a happiness that no one had ever given me. truly. a happiness i'm sure the maggots will be jealous of, when i'm finally erased out of this world.

a pair of bright eyes, ones which were always searching for his ocean blue eyes—the one you find yourself diving in every time— were dull and drained of color, by the end of the day, as it stares empty at the endless darkness it often greets.

i‘m sorry for all of the mess and pain i've caused you, satoru. never once in my life have the thought of hurting you ever crossed my mind. so, please … have a good life after this, will you?

on your shared bed, a letter is laid as it waits for the owner to come pick it up, and read the life-changing words written on it. your wedding ring was placed neatly, tucked in its box side-by-side with the letter on the bed. the proof of the end of the marriage was waiting for him, as well as the rightful owner of the ring, to wear it.

i love you, my light, my sirius. with the very little that i am, i hope you'll never get tired of shining your light my way, even when i've become one with the soil.

even though you'll never see the way his face bathes in sunlight, when the morning comes anymore— you‘re relieved that the end of your life is the new start of his, the freedom that you promised to him. and you're someone who always, always, keeps their words no matter how devouring it is to fulfill some words arranged.

for you, i‘m letting go.

after all, even if the world turns upside-down, you know his love and soul were never yours to keep.

( ✦ ) @besidesjustmyamour @httpskrys @1stmagnoila @vegasbabyyyy @mariteez @babybitchy12 @violetpurplez @scaraslover @ritsatoru @enouche @wh1ms1soul @raendarkfaerie @bakugouswaif @mellyie @angelita-uchiha @vamqyx @luvleixo @iam-souless @taylorissogoofy @liveforkny @cruziival72 @buhchira @jennyistrendy @fushiguroooozzz @sovaintilla @fxckinbreathe @neutralizeeverymaninsight @loowyinsixeyes @withersworld @bunnydoeprincesspink @daddyaremi @whispers-of-aurora @sexykissesss @nanahach1

Sukuna found himself in another’s body in his mid-twenties, awakening one morning in complete darkness, even though he’d been certain his eyes were open. It was a strange feeling at first, a resignation to a suspicion he’d held all his life that there was no destined person for him, giving in to the belief that he’d spend a day floating in nothingness with no other half for his soul to cling to.

His assumption was broken swiftly, at the realisation that he still held some manner of awareness even if his sight was impaired. There was a breeze blowing against his body, chatter sounding off in the distance, and soft sheets were pressing up against skin which surely wasn’t his.

This person, whoever they were, had a body that was exhausted. He ached in places he’d never ached before, his shoulders and upper back straining, like their owner had been carrying a weight beyond their capability. He felt desperately weak in that form, suddenly aware that he only had a human number of limbs to control, and lacked the strength and size he was used to commanding.

In the darkness clouding his vision, he was surprised to find that the blackness wasn’t as deep as he’d originally thought, able to make out fuzzy shapes in the dark which he could only assume made up his surroundings. His hand reached for his eyes, setting his lips into a grim line at the confirmation they were open.

His destined lover was blind.

Disappointment settled into his chest. He had never taken much stock in soulmates in the first place, didn’t really believe in love, but this just furthered his confirmation that the whole matter was a farce. He found respect for the strong - strength was the only thing that truly mattered to him, and yet here he was, in the body of a blind woman.

A feeble little thing hardly able to fend for herself.

What good was she to a man like Sukuna?

A knock on the door startled him. “Are you awake? The madam wants me to help you get ready.”

Sukuna said nothing, trying to figure out why it felt like your body wanted to draw in on itself, your pulse quicking in a seemingly innate reaction to the voice at the door.

“Please, I know you’ve been ill but he’s been calling every day for the past week, the madam doesn’t want to keep him waiting any longer. He’s been bringing forth all manner of threat, and if you’re not careful he’ll buy you out. I know that isn’t what you want. Just let me tend to you and allow him a visit. Keep his temper at bay.”

Sukuna frowned, attempting to piece together what was happening. It was hard without the visual clues of his surroundings, but based on the snippet of conversation he concluded that you were likely a courtesan of some form. Once again, his view of you, and the soulmate system in general, dropped through the floor.

Blind and a whore.

Perfect.

“One moment.” He called out, taken aback by the lovely feminine voice that fell from his lips. It was a soft, delicate sound, one which wouldn’t sound out of place accompanied with a harp. He found himself shocked at how much he enjoyed it, considering saying something else just to hear it again.

Finding the door proved to be a more difficult task than he’d been expecting. He’d already stumbled standing up from your bed, thrown off by his lack of vision and by feet that were ridiculously small compared to what he was used to. His centre of gravity felt all wrong, and his body felt generally unbalanced without his lower set of arms.

Moving at a snail's pace, he made it across the room, impressed that he didn’t run into anything on his journey over. He was grateful for the shadowy outlines present in your visionless gaze, certain that the situation would be made harder without even that as a guide.

Fumbling for the handle, he slid open the door. “Morning. Oh honey, you look like a ghost.” A hand pressed against his skin, and he was ushered over to another part of the room, grateful for the guidance. There was the sound of a chair being moved. “Take a seat.”

Sukuna hesitated, not quite sure where the chair was. He reached out nonchalantly with his hand, trying to feel for it while the other woman’s focus was elsewhere, seemingly rifling through a bag of something. Able to just about make out a black splodge in the centre of his vision, Sukuna took a seat, only to thud down onto the floor.

It hurt. It hurt significantly more than pain Sukuna was used to enduring. He’d experienced all manner of injury - he’d had his blood and guts pouring out onto the floor in the midst of a fight, but somehow this was worse. How fragile was this body of yours? He was glad that he wasn’t born as some weak human, grateful that the abominable aspects of his body increased his strength rather than weakened it.

How could you live like this?

“My lady?” The woman seemed immediately panicked, reaching down and easily hoisting you up by the arm, aiding Sukuna onto the chair. “I’m sorry, you usually tell me you don’t need assistance, I wasn’t expecting-” she cut herself off for a moment, leaving Sukuna in silence and struggling to read the room with no visual cues. “You don’t seem like yourself at all this morning. You’re being very quiet.”

Sukuna said nothing, certain that he could hear the hint of a smile in the woman’s tone.

It was said that when soulmates swapped bodies, you could not under any circumstance tell someone that you were a different inhabitant to usual, else the spell would be broken and you’d both be immediately sent home.

It was an option Sukuna had contemplated the moment the woman walked in, eager to return to his own healthy form. However, he was also a man of great curiosity and it wasn’t like he had much going on at his estate that day anyway. So he opted for silence, figuring he’d at least see, or hear, how the day played out.

There was no harm in that.

Regardless, the woman had seemingly sensed it immediately based on her sudden change of demeanor, but being likely as aware of the rules as Sukuna was, she kept her suspicions silent.

“It's Officer Sugawara who’s set to see you today,” she explained, soft hands running through your hair with a comb, giving Sukuna a shiver of pleasure. “You usually play shogi with the guy for a while and let him get drunk. He’s a proud man who’s desperate for a legitimate win, so you always give him your best and he refuses to give up until he’s too pissed to think anymore. So be on your best game, or he might want to pass his time in another way.”

The warning was clear and Sukuna found himself disgusted. If that man tried to lay a single hand on you while he was inhabiting your body, he’d make sure Sugawara wouldn’t walk out of the establishment alive.

Fortunately, Sukuna was an avid shogi player. He held a great love for the game and was self-assured where his skill was concerned. No one in his estate could beat him, so he was certain he could beat some Officer of the Shogun.

Although, he’d never played it blind - a fact that mildly concerned him.

He hoped the pieces were skillfully made with deep indents, else he’d be completely lost.

“Even though you’re usually talkative with me, you’re not all that chatty with regulars, so it’ll be fine if you stay quiet. On account of you not feeling yourself and all,” she said with a knowing giggle.

It took an ungodly amount of time for that woman to get you ready, and Sukuna wondered how you could bear experiencing such a thing day after day. It seemed such a waste to have so much effort devoted to doing your hair and make-up, and dressing you up, when you couldn’t even see the end result.

For all you knew you could look like a clown.

But Sukuna quickly became certain that wasn’t the case when he was led into another room, your helper grasping his arm in a steadying manner and making sure he was settled down on a pillow before introducing him to a man sitting opposite him. Sugawara wasted no time with greetings, letting out a gasp of awe at your radiant appearance and reaching out to kiss your hand.

Sukuna wanted to reel away at the feeling but remained still all the same. He hoped he didn’t have too much of a scowl on his face.

Even if he didn’t have any interest in you, he didn’t really want to ruin the life of some random blind girl. He loved cruelty, but even for him that felt like an unnecessary slight to a person who was supposed to hold the other half of his heart.

“You look gorgeous. Not sickly at all, might I add. I hope the madam hasn’t been telling lies.”

You were sick - outside of the blindness - Sukuna could feel it. At first he’d brushed off your frailty as something normal for puny little humans, but since rising from your bed he’d become aware that your quivering legs, aching bones and hummingbird heart were far from normal.

“I haven’t been well,” he said simply.

“Oh you poor thing, it's always the most beautiful ones who suffer the most.”

Sukuna found himself wondering what you looked like. He had a vague knowledge of Official Sugawara - he wasn’t an ugly man, certainly not one lacking in prospects by any means. He was powerful in his position in the government, and wasn’t the type who would visit some woman out of pity.

You must’ve been genuinely gorgeous to earn such affection from him.

It was a shame Sukuna would never know.

He wouldn’t look for you once he was back in his own body. He’d move on with his life and that would be that, leaving this day as nothing more than some distant dream.

The games of shogi went by quickly, and Sukuna found that it was easy to slip into your body without arousing suspicion. Once he’d gotten over the original barrier of having to feel each piece for their indents as he picked them up, he fell easily into the flow of it all.

This man across from him seeked little conversation once the games had started, and Sukuna was pleased at how well he was playing that afternoon. He didn’t let the man win once and, as your attendant had mentioned, Suguwara filled himself up with more and more drink. It felt nice to play someone outside of his estate, most of his servants were too afraid to face Sukuna in any sort of test.

It was equally nice to completely destroy a government official with his skill. He was certain this man was having the worst game of his entire life, unaccustomed to this treatment from the lovely courtesan he’d frequent.

But it was at the end of the seventh game, when Sukuna was feeling at his highest, that a disastrous hit would come to his ego.

“You’re really off your game today. I see you really aren’t feeling well,” Sugawara said. There was the sound of shuffling fabric, as if the man had leant forward.

“What?” Sukuna asked, the low disbelief coming out strange in your small voice.

“Your plays are much sloppier than usual. It feels like you’re going easy on me, given you usually destroy me before I can even think about what to do next. Today you’ve been giving me proper games. I don’t like it. You know I hate being pitied.”

Sukuna had to stop his mouth from falling agape.

He wasn’t playing bad games by any means, on the contrary, he was certain that he was playing better than he had in a while, happy to have a new opponent for once. Was this man really saying that you, the normal you, was more skilled at shogi than he was? He really found that hard to believe.

What would some blind courtesan know of tactics?

“Perhaps you’ve simply improved,” Sukuna mumbled bitterly, unwilling to accept that your mastery was greater than his.

Sugawara laughed. “How polite of you, my dear. I can assure you that isn’t the case, and we both know it.” There was some shuffling, and Sukuna sensed that the man was climbing to his feet. It was frustrating to have such limited vision, and he was glad to know that he’d wake up the following day able to see the world once more - he couldn’t imagine living like that all the time. “I’ll leave you to rest. When I return in a few days you best have returned to form, or perhaps the nature of our meetings will need to change.”

A heavy hand rested on your shoulder, wet and clammy against the silk you were draped in. Sukuna wasn’t sure if the disgust was born from his own thoughts on the matter, or from an impulsive response from your body. From your attendant’s words it was clear that you would never sleep with the man, likely keeping your shogi skills sharp to ensure he never won.

Once he was gone, Sukuna sat there in silence, thinking on the man’s parting words.

Were you really so talented?

Part of him wanted to convince himself that he’d been playing worse than usual on account of not being able to see the board, making it difficult for him to think out moves in advance, taking more time than normal while he grazed the pieces with his fingers.

But deep in his soul he knew that wasn’t the case.

He’d played expertly, and still that man knew his opponent wasn’t the real you. All on account of how amateur Sukuna’s ability had seemed compared to yours.

And as his day drew to a close in your body, he realised that he had to know. He had to play you, had to see firsthand just how dramatically your skill exceeded his. He wouldn’t believe it until he’d seen it.

The soulmate thing didn’t matter.

But he needed to meet with you all the same.

Just to sate his interest. That was all.

—

Months had passed since the day you’d swapped with your soulmate. Since the morning you’d awoken to a world of light of colour you’d never seen before, and would never see again.

It was a day you’d never be able to forget - the image of the grand estate you’d awoken in seared permanently into your mind, just like the face of your soulmate who had stared back at you in a bronze mirror. You’d gazed upon his body for longer than you should admit to, wondering for a brief moment if you’d misunderstood how humans looked.

That thought didn’t remain for long. It took no expert to understand that the man you’d been paired with was something unique - the very four armed monster who had half of Japan living in fear.

And as such, you wished you could forget your experience in his body, wished you could see anything but his oddly charming face, because your promised beloved was a monster of the highest calibre. But with only one singular day of vision under your belt, what you’d seen wasn’t so easily displaced, and you found yourself thinking of him often with a longing that you knew to be wrong.

You had told no one of the experience, not even your handmaid, who had outright asked what your body swap experience had been like, what your soulmate had been like, claiming that whoever they were had presented themselves as rather reserved when possessing your body. You’d brushed her off with a shrug, claiming him to be some soldier and nothing more.

No one could know the truth. If they knew you to have any link to such a terrible man they might view you as an associate, and someone deserving of death for something you hadn’t asked for.

The workings of fate seemed strange to you. Was it not enough punishment to be born blind? Why would you also be paired with a monster who seemed to view the human race with general disdain? You were certain he cared little for love, his servant had made that clear when you were in his body, so any hopes of having a soulmate had been stolen from you as a result of this pairing.

Part of you wondered if a man so vile as him might even take things a step further and track you down to put an end to your life, insulted by fate to suggest that it could control him in any capacity. Perhaps he would be further insulted to be paired with someone so damaged rather than some untarnished beauty.

You’d always heard he held great hatred for weakness.

Even so, despite your fear and desire to conceal yourself from him, you couldn’t forget him, couldn’t stop the flicker of longing in your chest you were certain all people held for their destined lovers. Because while he was unquestionably a monster, with a throne of skulls you had witnessed through his very eyes, he also seemed to be more than that.

He was a man of great loneliness, living in grand halls with only a handful of servants for company - and all but one of them would scuttle out of the way when he approached. He seemed to hold a great love for art, with his estate packed with paintings and tapestries and great vases, all kept in pristine condition. For a cannibal, he seemed to take great pride in the cleanliness of his surroundings, in the neat nature of his gardens and springs.

Even in his own appearance, he seemed to take great care, for there was no denying him to be a handsome man even with his unique features. He had a voice to match that beauty, one that you could hardly peel from your mind any more than you could forget his image.

His body was hard to maneuver, too big and confusing to control his many hanging limbs. In a way, it felt akin to your blindness, something different to the way humans were built to be, leaving him to struggle with an issue that no one else could relate to. You wondered how it had been for him in childhood - if he’d felt as isolated and scared as you had to know that everyone else was normal in a way you’d never been.

You pitied him, even through all his sins. You felt you could understand at least a piece of him from a day buried within the confines of his skin.

But still, you would never reach for him - wouldn’t poke the bear even if you could understand why it might bite. You were certain that someone like him would be unwilling to hear you out, unwilling to love or reflect on how he became the way he was - he would swipe your head from your shoulders just like everyone else, and that would be that.

So you would stay away, keep your dreams of him locked deep within your chest, and accept that distance was for the best.

There was more to life than soulmates.

Unfortunately, that choice wasn’t yours alone to make.

The madame had knocked on your door early that morning, with the golden light of the sun only just starting to peek in through your window. Lately you’d been having longer lie-ins and taking less clients as the cold of winter gripped the region. Along with the blindness, you’d been born with a particularly feeble body as a result of complications with your mother during her pregnancy, ailments which were always worse for you in the colder months.

Your bones strained as you pushed yourself up to a sitting position, calling for the woman to enter. As much as you longed to slip back into your dream of red eyes peering back at you with fiery desire, you were still beholden to the will of your employer, even in your months of weakness.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” She asked, as she slipped in through the door. You felt her weight dip the bed as she took a seat beside you, a gentle hand coming to rest on your shoulder.

“Mornings are always the worst but I can manage once I’m up and about. Has Sugawara come calling again?” Most regulars were understanding enough of your condition, and those that weren’t would generally be chased off by the madame or unloaded onto another of the courtesans. Sugawara was one of the few that generally wouldn’t accept such treatment, with only eyes for you.

It didn’t matter too much since the man only ever wanted to play shogi, and that was manageable enough even on your worst days. It seemed that he had no intention of laying with you until he’d beat you in a game fair and square, claiming that if that ever happened he’d buy you out and take you home for he would’ve earned your heart.

That talk always made you uncomfortable, for you had little interest in the man, but you were more than certain he had no chance at ever defeating you at shogi, and could therefore never lay claim to you - assuming he kept his word.

“Not Sugawara…” There was hesitation in her voice. “We’ve received a request for our finest shogi player to be sent to the mayor’s home this evening. Apparently the other courtesan houses have received the same request.”

“I didn’t think the mayor cared much for shogi.”

Again, there was a moment of silence. “No, he doesn’t. A rather unwanted guest has taken up residence in his home, and this is the demand that has come of it.” Immediately your blood ran cold, thoughts drifting away from the madame’s continuing chatter to the red eyes that sat so prominently in the darkness of your mind.

There was no question in your mind as to who this guest was.

And to call for shogi players had you certain he was looking for you. Would he execute you when you walked into a room so clearly lacking in vision? Put an immediate end to the one person who could potentially stir his cold heart if fate were to be believed?

It seemed like the only reasonable explanation

The request to send another in your place died on the tip of your tongue as you once again tuned in to what the madame was saying. “...make sure you’re in top form, I’ve heard any who lose to him are immediately disposed of, but I’m sure that man will be no match for you.”

You wouldn’t send another to face their death. You were the only courtesan in the house who was any good at shogi, anyone else would certainly perish. This was a meeting dictated by fate and you had no opportunity to run from it. You would face him head on and deal with your death graciously, greet your end alone in the dark just like everything else you’d ever faced.

“I’ll do my best,” you said to the madame, and that was the final moment you had for yourself, your sacrifice sealed by your words.

The rest of the morning was spent in a frenzied rush, dressing you up and perfecting your makeup, turning you into a sparkling beauty ahead of your presentation to a monster. Based on the quiet nature of your handmaid, the experience felt more like she was dressing your corpse for burial.

Neither of you spoke such a thing aloud, but tears dripped from sightless eyes all the same when she led you out to the carriage, the madam trailing behind her, sending you off with a soft farewell filled with a sense of finality.

—

Sukuna had undergone an annoying few months.

Steadily, he had made his way, region by region, up to the north of Japan in search of a blind shogi player whose skill allegedly eclipsed his own. In each area, he would call upon all shogi-playing courtesans to meet with him and join him in a game, in the hopes that one day it would be you sitting across from him.

So far, he’d been unsuccessful, and had left a growing pile of bodies and burnt villages in his wake, utterly irritated that the thing he was seeking still evaded his grasp. No one had beaten him. A few had come close but none of them had been blind, so he could be certain that they weren’t you.

He was beginning to wonder if you’d gone into hiding somewhere, forsaking your courtesan life entirely in a bid to avoid him. It wouldn’t surprise him - you’d been in his body, you’d seen he was a monster, a fragile little thing like you was probably terrified at the idea of ever crossing his path.

Either way, he’d still persevere. He’d kill every shogi player if that was what it took to get to you.

He’d recently found his way into the mountainous region of Miyagi, where winter was in full spring. Taking up residence in the mayor’s home in one of the more populous towns in the prefecture, he once again started his usual process of gathering the shogi players. Word spread fast and droves of them appeared swiftly, waiting to be called before him.

It went much as usual, with boring girls presenting themselves before him and providing him with equally boring games of shogi. These people were painfully predictable with no appreciation for the art of the game - really it was a gift for him to steal their lives from them, because he couldn’t imagine living while being so pitifully unskilled.

The pool of Miyagi courtesans was gradually running dry and Sukuna was preparing himself for another disappointing journey further north when his luck finally shifted.

He knew he’d found you the moment you walked in through the door.

You’d stumbled in meekly, eyes averted down to the floor as you bowed low and shuffled towards the centre of the room. You were taking care not to raise your head for him to look upon, and he quickly realised you were making your best effort to conceal your blindness from him, like you could keep your identity secret that way.

It was a futile attempt, for the very atmosphere around you felt charged, his heart picking up inexplicably at the very sight of you.

To say you were beautiful was an understatement. Everything about you was gorgeous, from your soft hair to the striking intensity of your unseeing eyes. You wore the finest silks and they hung off you well, complimenting your figure. He found himself eager to touch you, to rid you off your lovely gown and have his fingers against your smooth skin.

But that wasn’t the reason he had come, and he would play you before entertaining any other matter.

“Sit,” he ordered, taking great amusement in the shiver that seemed to run through you at the sound of his voice.

You dropped to your knees on the cushion before the board, hands pressing against the edge of the table. It was the first chance he got to take a proper look at your eyes, expecting them to be clouded over, but taken aback by the lovely colour your irises still held beneath that mist.

“You’re blind.” He observed aloud, taking note of the way your teeth caught your lower lip anxiously.

“I see more than enough,” your response was guarded.

He hummed, a sly grin settling on his face. Idly, he wondered if you could sense it, because you seemed to tense up a little, fidgeting across from him in a way his traitorous brain seemed to register as endearing. “Is that so? Do you see enough to know my strategy before we commence? Or will you disappoint me like the others?”

“You tell me.”

Your words had his heart stirring against his will, impressed by your serenity before him, still sitting up straight and calm despite the fear he could sense within you. You were a woman who held confidence despite it all, harboured strength even in the face of your obvious weaknesses. He wondered what you were thinking, if you believed he was there to execute you for the mere transgression of being his soulmate.

It wasn’t a foolish assumption.

He would kill you without a second thought if you were uninteresting to him.

But he’d reserve that judgement until after you had played. He had been promised someone exceptional and that was what he wished to see, anything less and your blood would stain the floor just like every other woman who had sat before him. Would you still be so calm if you could see the bodies littering the room? He assumed not.

He wondered if you hated him, if you cursed fate itself to be paired with a man like him. Nothing about you gave anything away, all your focus fixed on the board in front of you, your hands moving steadily against the wood of the board, as if centring yourself.

“Shall we begin?” He asked.

“Yes.”

Sukuna couldn’t quite comprehend what had transpired in that first game he played against you.

He had approached things in much the same manner that he always would when playing shogi - opening strong and attempting to completely overwhelm his opponent, and yet somehow he found opportunities snatched from him at every turn.

Nothing seemed to catch you off guard. Any attempted play was greeted with an easy answer from you, as though you were battling a child. You were always three steps ahead of him, never hesitating in the shifting of a piece, moving with a certainty that had him transfixed.

He found that he couldn’t draw his eyes away from you, his struggle on the board forgotten at the realisation he’d been well and truly defeated. There was no point in struggling further - you had swatted him aside in the way that he usually defeated others, and you had done it with no glee or brag, nothing more than passive indifference once the games finally came to an end.

Your shoulders were raised, as if awaiting something you wouldn’t be able to see coming. A strike from him, perhaps? Or the neat removal of your head from your shoulders? The same fate of all others he’d played across the last few months.

But he wasn’t in the position to do anything at that moment, lashes fluttering as he stared at you, his heart hammering against his ribcage.

There had been no lie told about your skill - on the contrary, you had exceeded his expectations spectacularly. He wanted to play you again and again, wanted to witness the beauty of the way you played, wished to spend hours lost deep in thought considering how he could even begin to pick you apart in a match.

He could spend years sitting across you, gazing upon your lovely form while you worked away in silence with such unquestionable mastery.

No wonder Sugawara had been disappointed in Sukuna’s ability. He couldn’t hold a candle to what you were.

“How?” He asked, unable to think of another word to offer.

Your head was still lowered, eyes fixed elsewhere. He wished you’d look at him, allow him a clearer view of your face, but it occurred to him that such a request may not be easily granted with your lack of vision. You would never be able to lock eyes with each other - it would be something entirely meaningless for you.

“You aren’t all that good,” you spoke softly, a smile playing on your lips.

Sukuna disagreed with your sentiment, considering he’d never been beaten before, but perhaps you’d consider all his previous opponents to be genuinely pitiful at the game.

“So, will you take my life now? Or is that reserved for the losers?” You asked.

“To take the life of someone I could not best would be cowardly and pointless,” he said with a snort. “How would I ever grow to be better than you if I extinguished you from the world? Don’t be foolish. We will play again.”

And again you played.

Game after game until the sun began to rise in the sky, and Sukuna could sense exhaustion drifting through your fragile form. You were shivering from the cold, and he had Uraume bring in a robe to wrap around you, keenly aware of how sickly you seemed to look beneath all the beauty. You were setting up the board for your tenth match when Sukuna finally put an end to things.

“Enough. I would take no joy in defeating an exhausted opponent.” He rose to his feet, stretching as he moved. He wasn’t keen on remaining still for long periods of time, but you seemed accustomed to it, staying deathly still upon your cushion, uncertainty evident in your posture.

“Then, you will send me to my home?” You asked.

“No.” The word escaped him before he could stop it.

He did not wish for you to go anywhere, lest you slip from his grasp never to be found again. It was because he wanted to play you more, that’s what he told himself, but there was more to it than that, and in his soul he knew it.

He never wanted the image of you on your knees before him to slip away, never wanted to lose the pleasurable feeling of warmth that swelled in his chest with you there within his gaze.

“You’ll accompany me to my home, and we’ll play until I’m satisfied.”

—

Weeks had passed since you’d arrived at Sukuna’s estate in the Hida Mountains.

You’d been given no time to bid goodbye to the women at the only home you’d ever known, swept off in a carriage down south where you had to relearn your surroundings in a totally new environment.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time you’d been in the estate, but that experience made little impact on the ease of traversing around with no vision. You had to move slowly, fingers brushing on blurry objects shadowed in the darkness, hoping you didn’t trip over something or walk into a screen door.

For the most part, you were left to your own devices. Sukuna had spoken little to you on the journey home, opting to ride on his horse rather than in the carriage with you, and he’d been equally elusive in his own estate, leaving you in isolation for days at a time.

You couldn’t complain, for your days were spent in peace and serenity.

You would take long walks in the breeze of his garden, have his servants read aloud to you, and practice playing the erhu. On days where it was particularly cold and the chill seeped into your bones, you would remain in the grand bed he had provided and find greater comfort than you ever had in the old bed you’d laid upon in the courtesan house.

The only obligation you ever had to fulfill were shogi games. And during the times that he wasn’t absent from the estate, those would take place every evening, in Sukuna’s own private quarters.

It was an odd decision, considering that the servants played shogi out in the garden, where a proper table was set up for that purpose. But it seemed that Sukuna took care in ensuring your meetings were private - a decision you didn’t dare read into too deeply.

You didn’t dare read into any of his behaviour too deeply, lest you rip your own heart from your chest.

That first meeting with him had been like nothing you’d ever experienced - genuine desire overcoming you at the deep tone of his voice. Even knowing that he could cause your death with little effort, you couldn’t bury the lust within you, a fire that only burned stronger with each encounter with him.

It was hard to hold it together, to pretend that you wouldn’t fling yourself into his arms given the chance, but you tried all the same, keeping yourself distant and cold, like you didn’t dream of him between your legs each night, imagining the sound of his voice whispering sweet nothings against your ear.

Whether he felt the effect to the same extent you did, you weren’t sure. You were certain you’d never know. His interest in you was surrounding shogi, and shogi alone.

One evening, you were sitting across from him having played a handful of games, finding victory had fallen into your hands even more easily than normal. Sukuna seemed distracted by something, the sound of fidgeting settling in your ears. He hadn’t moved to start a new game, and based on the shadowy shapes in your vision, you could only assume he was leaning forward upon the table, bringing him close enough for his breath to fan your face.

“I killed today,” he said. Those were the first words he’d spoken to you that evening - you always followed his example with conversation, if he was feeling chatty you would indulge him, if he wished for silence you would give him that too.

You weren’t exactly sure where he was going with that statement, nor were you certain what type of response he was seeking, so you offered him a hum of acknowledgement and little more. You didn’t wish to think of the death that stained his hands, but nor did it build your animosity towards him.

To some extent you could understand lashing out at the world when you were someone so desperately lonely as he was. Part of you believed that if you hadn’t been so frail perhaps you’d lash out at the world for your own condition. His primary servant had told you he’d been despised throughout his life, and when you find only cruelty in humans it's difficult to cling to kindness.

Sukuna wasn’t so simple as a mere monster. You’d understood that in the day you’d spent in his body, and had only further confirmed it by the intelligence he displayed when you’d speak over games of shogi. He had a great admiration for art and skill, and had seemed rather taken when you’d recited poetry, responding with verses of his own.

He was a multi-faceted man, and much of what you saw only seemed to further your attraction to him, even knowing it was wrong, even knowing you’d be hated for it. For once, you felt you’d found someone who understood what it was like to be you, to be cut off from the easy lives lived by most others.

A soul that entwined so perfectly with yours, even if he’d never be aware of such a thing.

“Do you wish to know who I killed?” He asked.

“I know few people, my lord. I doubt a name would mean anything to me.”

“This one might. I’ve heard you’re familiar with Officer Sugawara? He’s one of the Shogun’s men?”

Thoughts of your regular flickered through your mind. If you were being honest with yourself, you were glad to not have to see him anymore - him or any of the other clients you’d been forced to take. Courtesan life had been difficult for you, forced into it thanks to the conditions of your birth and kept there by a disability that made it hard to escape the life for something better.

Life in Sukuna’s estate had been easier, especially as the weeks passed and you grew more comfortable in the belief that Sukuna wasn't going to steal your life from you. You’d lived in fear of Sugawara buying you out, of being forced to live like some doll in the house of a terribly boring man whose voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard to your ears.

“I know him.”

“Knew him, would be more apt. His body lies at the foot of the mountain.” Sukuna spoke matter-of-factly. “He came to claim you from me. I refused and we couldn’t reach an amicable agreement, so I dealt with it another way.”

You weren’t sure how to react, struggling to process the words. That Sugawara would follow you down to Hida already came as a surprise, you hadn’t known how deep his devotion ran. But somehow, you found yourself rather taken by Sukuna’s decision, by the certainty in his choice to keep you.

To kill a man whose death could cause him issues with the Shogun might as well have been an outright confession of love.

Sugawara’s death meant little to you. Men like that died all the time, and they saw women as little more than pretty objects to own. Sugawara had seen you as an impressive party trick, a clever cat rather than a human with depth and desires of her own. You hadn’t wanted to be his, wouldn’t have liked for Sukuna to surrender you to him.

“Are you irritated with me? When I controlled your body you seemed repulsed at his presence. Perhaps you have a heart too soft for blood and death.”

“No- I-” You hesitated. “Did you do this to protect me?”

There was silence for a moment, and you longed to see his facial expression, but were forced to settle for the hint of confusion in his tone. “Of course. I’ve protected you since bringing you here. You can hardly protect yourself.”

You couldn’t find it in you to be offended - he’d been in your body, he knew of your frailty better than anyone.

“Why? Just because you enjoy shogi so much?”

“Somewhat. Though I must confess, lately I have been losing interest in the game. I feel I’ve come up against an insurmountable wall.” Panic filled you immediately, mind running at a million miles a minute as you analysed his statement. If he was growing bored of playing would he cast you aside? What use did he have for you if not shogi?

But then again, why would he kill Sugawara if he was moments from disposing of you?

“Perhaps it is the fault of my own discipline, for I’ve found it hard to focus on the game for quite some time now.” He hesitated, and you found yourself flinching at the feeling of a soft hand caressing your cheek, leaning into it once you overcame the initial shock of touch. “It is difficult when you have a beautiful woman sitting across from you. It’s even harder when my soul calls for you whenever you're near, drowning out any thoughts I might gather of strategy.”

“Oh.” You weren’t sure what to say, wondering if you should pinch yourself, for many of your dreams centred themselves around such a confession. But the touch had never felt so real before, large fingers brushing against the soft skin of your face.

“I wonder if I’d be more focussed if I admitted fate might make some sense after all. I have never denied myself anything before now, and I’m tired of denying myself you. You have captivated me thoroughly, and I believe the hole in my chest was carved out to allow you to one day settle there.”

The words were by far the most romantic statement anyone had ever uttered to you. In your time as a courtesan you’d heard plenty of cheesy and affectionate lines, ones you’d brush off and forget by the time the client was done with you. Sukuna’s words would burrow into your heart and remain there for as long as you drew breath.

Could anyone fault you for loving a monster who would speak such beauty to you? Could you be hated for finding one who had been cursed by the world just like you had?

“I have no care for the Shogun’s men,” Sukuna continued, “in my eyes they are little more than flies most of the time, an annoying thing to be ignored unless they brush too close. Would it amuse you to know I killed Sugawara out of jealousy? To hear that my chest tightened at the idea of you being taken from my side?”

“Because you enjoy having such a capable rival in intelligence?” You asked, a wry smile creeping onto your face.

“Because I enjoy you.”

It was clear he was waiting for you to say something. The words that had poured from his mouth were unlike any he’d spoken before, and although you couldn’t see him, you could feel the sense of restlessness that gripped his body.

You would not leave him in uncertainty.

“I have only ever seen the world through your eyes,” you confessed shyly, “the only face I see in the endless darkness is yours, and I dream of it every night.” Sukuna’s fingers twitched against your face. “If you’ll have me, I am yours.”

“Even though I’m a monster?” He asked. There was no remorse in his tone, nothing to suggest that he was pained over who he was, it was just an honest question for you to answer as you wished. “You were scared of me when we met. I know you hid yourself from me after discovering our connection, eager to ensure our paths would never cross.”

“Because I believed you would kill me. I thought you to be a man who would stamp out any notion of love and eliminate me along with it.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, failing to deny your statement. You knew it to be true - if you had lost your shogi game on that first meeting, he would’ve done exactly that. It was in his nature to love only that which piqued his interest.

“Especially to be paired with someone so weak, I thought you would consider it an insult.”

He scoffed. “You are far from weak, I’ve found it impossible to best you.”

“I meant physically,” your voice went small. “I did not imagine the King of Curses would favour a sightless woman, nor one so easily broken.”

He was silent for a moment, seemingly processing your words. “I was small and frail once. Perhaps frailer than you. I wish someone had valued me then for my other virtues. I’m big enough and sharp enough to make up for your failings and you are clever enough to cover mine.”

Your mind was reeling at the idea of him admitting to having failings. Your heart stirring at his affection, and his easy desire despite your condition.

“I had not imagined a soulmate to be so well suited to me, for my tangles with fate have always been cruel,” he said. “But you’re something different, something I need at my side, and I will be your eyes, your protector, whatever it is you want in order to keep you there.”

“Oh.” You were positively blushing, whole body trembling beneath the weight of lovely words spoken in that deep voice of his.

Your soulmate wanted you.

A man hated by the world and filled with hatred in return had a space carved out for you, a space for love you hadn’t known him capable of.

You’d loved him from the first time you’d met him, drawn to him by an inexplicable force which seemed to grip him just as hard.

Soulmates really were wonderful.

Silence had settled between the two of you, only broken as the table screeched across the floor, the barrier between you removed. Sukuna shifted forward and an arm came to rest around your smaller body, pulling you towards him. His lips pressed against yours in a kiss you could only describe as sweet.

He didn’t dominate you in the manner you believed a man like him would, instead he took his time, mapping out your lips and drawing you closer to him, letting you bathe in the warmth of his body against yours. It was almost like he was trying not to scare you, aware that you couldn’t see anything he was doing and trying to move slowly as a result.

You wouldn’t have minded either way, your fingers clinging to the biceps of his upper arms, desperate for more of a touch you’d only ever dreamed of.

People always said that to finally touch your soulmate was a euphoria like nothing else, and you truly believed them to be right. Your head felt like it was swimming, chest swelling as if Sukuna’s own soul had wriggled beneath your skin to intertwine with your own.

It was a little overwhelming.

“How I long for you,” he murmured against your ear, breaking the kiss. “I was foolish to have not had you the moment I laid eyes on you, I’ve ached for your touch longer than I care to admit.”

His fingers moved down to your robes, and your breath hitched at the touch. You were no stranger to sex, your job had required it, but the feeling as he undressed you wasn’t like any previous encounter you’d had. What regulars thought of your body was insignificant to you, sex was nothing special with them, just something you had to do if you wished to make a living wage.

This was the first time you’d ever been touched for free by someone you desired, and you felt suddenly nervous at your frail body being judged beneath his crimson gaze - especially when you couldn’t look upon him in the same moment. There was no distraction in the darkness to keep you from worrying about how his gaze might burn through you, imagining discontent on his handsome face.

A cold chill caught you once your robes fell, leaving you kneeling and exposed in front of him. A soft breath fell from his lips, fingers moving delicately from your shoulders down to your breasts, as if checking you were truly real and there before him. More heat flooded you as his finger brushed over your peaked nipple.

“Beautiful. If I didn’t despise the idea of sharing you with another I would paint you like this. Your body is worthy of that reverence.”

“I think my mind is probably more splendid.” You confessed. You had no eyes for awareness of your appearance, and had subsequently never really relied on it. People had said you were lovely, but you could never quite believe it, assuming that they were taking pity on you for your blindness.

“Your mind is exceptional. If I cannot beat you at shogi soon I have half a mind to ask you to assist me with real life strategy,” he said with a chuckle, fingers still trailing a slow path down your body. “But it doesn’t make your body any less lovely, and you cannot deny such things since you’ve never seen yourself. Let me be your eyes and tell you that you are breathtaking.”

A shyness overcame you at those words, head angled downwards as if it would hide your blushing state from him. He raised your chin with a finger, his nose bumping yours before capturing your mouth in a kiss once more, bringing you close against his bare chest. You were so lost in the comfort of the kiss, that you found yourself completely caught off guard when something wet swiped against your stomach and breasts.

Flinching in surprise, you drew yourself back in an attempt to understand what was happening. Sukuna laughed, a hand moving into your hair comfortingly. “It's my tongue,” he spoke easily.

Frowning, you found that his answer didn’t make sense, because still the wet appendage explored your breasts, sending your heartrate flying as it flicked against your nipple with impressive accuracy. How could he be speaking but also doing that?

“There’s a mouth on my stomach. Perhaps you didn’t notice when you controlled my body.”

You were ashamed to admit you hadn’t noticed such a thing. Sukuna had been naked when you’d awoken in his body, and you’d been quick to dress him up in robes, feeling rude to intrude upon the body of another without consent. You’d very intentionally not paid too much attention to the workings of his body, not when the first thing you’d seen was the oddity he sported between his legs.

The memory that he had two of what most men only had one, suddenly had you feeling a little nervous in your position. You had no time to voice such nervousness before he was picking you up, allowing his second tongue to continue its onslaught while he carried you over to the bed, depositing you down upon the silk.

His weight moved on top of you, and he swallowed a gasp with his lips as his monstrous tongue shifted its attention from your breasts down to between your legs, dexterously finding a path between your things and lathering your pussy with attention while Sukuna consumed your mouth. Tears pricked in your eyes at the sensation, unaccustomed to a feeling like that.

In all your years as a courtesan, you’d never been eaten out. Men didn’t come to brothels to serve women, they came to have their own needs attended to, and you’d done that in whichever manner they desired. You were grateful to have never experienced that feeling before, because it was a blessing to have Sukuna be your first.

Pressure built in your stomach over a series of minutes, overwhelmed by the way he seemed to be everywhere. A tongue between your lips, another between your thighs, hands squeezing your breasts, tweaking your nipples, more hands gripping your hips, pulling you up onto his secondary tongue to allow it a better angle to overwhelm you.

For the first time, you started to understand how Sukuna must feel whenever he played you at shogi - stumbling blindly in the dark whilst overcome from all angles with no means of knowing what was going to come next. It was pleasure in its highest form, and you were quick to cum with a yelp of his name, tears dripping from the corners of your eyes.

Sukuna broke the kiss, breathing heavily against your ear. It was a sound you enjoyed, one you could listen to all day if he’d allow you. “I have imagined you beneath me like this every night this week,” he mused, “my imagination is hardly as pleasant as having the real thing. You taste much sweeter than my mind could conjure.”

Again, you were flushing red. “Y-you can taste me through…that?”

“Of course.” You were certain he was grinning, “And I’m glad that I can.” His secondary tongue was still moving slowly through your folds, lapping up the remnants of your first orgasm, teasingly flicking against your clit and making your shudder.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, breathing quietly together. You weren’t sure what Sukuna wanted to do next, but for a moment you were happy to savor the warmth of his heavy body, twitching while he lazily continued his attention to your body. How you longed to see him, eager to witness the expression he was wearing while he attended to you.

All you had to go off was the erratic beating of his heart where his chest was pressed against you.

“Let me have you,” he murmured against your ear. “Let me make you mine.”

“I’m already yours.”

“Is that so? Then let me make it official.”

He shifted atop you, withdrawing his secondary tongue. In the absence of that heat between your thighs, you grew suddenly aware of a heavy pressure against your leg. Your mind jumped to the image of his cocks that you’d filed away in the back of your mind, gut twisting at the thought of either one of them pressing into you.

Sukuna chuckled from above you, a hand coming to stroke your hair. “You’ve seen them, haven’t you?”

You nodded.

“I can tell, you’ve got that scared little look on your face. It’s fascinating, when you play shogi you’re unreadable, but outside of that? You’re practically an open book with your emotions always written across your face.”

Pouting, you let humiliation wash over you. Nobody had ever told you that before. It was hard to guard one's emotions when you had no measure of how the faces of others looked. That was something you’d have to work on. At least you had the good sense to give nothing away when you played shogi.

Another laugh echoed from his lips. “Even now I can see your panic. It’s very endearing.”

Any protest or response you had for him faded away into the recesses of your brain as he shuffled on top of you. He maneuvered you carefully into a new position, raising your legs and placing them up atop his broad shoulders. You were grateful for your flexibility in that moment, because the size difference between the two of you made that no easy task.

Sukuna was watching you from above while he positioned one of his cocks between your legs, running it steadily through your wet folds in a way that had you shivering with desire, still not fully recovered from the actions of his tongue. You were quick to discover that his focus was on his lower cock, as the upper one bumped pleasurably against your clit.

“You know,” he mused, stilling his movements. “I’m surprised you struck no deal with me. It is what I had imagined you would do.”

“What?”

“I’d assumed I would ask for more and you would refuse me. I’d thought your respect was tied to shogi, that you would refuse anything from me unless I was capable of beating you.” Your mind moved to Sugawara as you connected the dots. Sukuna believed you’d made that deal before, as if that tiresome Official hadn’t dictated those rules of his own choosing.

Shogi was a game you adored, mainly because it was an activity you could excel at even without sight, unlike many other courtesan pastimes such as painting, which would forever be an impossibility for you. But it was by no means something you made all your decisions on, nor were you particularly interested in the skill of others.

If someone could defeat you, you would congratulate them for their win and move on, it would ultimately mean little.

To you, it was little more than a game. To various men, it seemed to be something held in much higher regard - a true mark of intelligence rather than a game for which one could learn and remember strategies to allow them a win.

It mattered little to you whether Sukuna could defeat you or not. Your affection for him wasn’t tied to it in any manner.

“To make such a demand would be wasting my own time. Why would I turn down a man I desire over something so trivial? Besides, my bet with Sugawara was made to ensure I never had to lay with him, that is not the fate I want for us.”

“So you believe I am incapable of winning?” He asked, with greater disappointment than you’d been expecting.

“I do,” you said with a giggle, “just as I am incapable of emerging victorious in a battle. We all have our strengths.”

A yelp fell from you as he pushed the tip of his cock into you, catching you unawares. “Yeah?” He asked, pressing deeper into you, his fingers tangling tightly into your hair. “Rather sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t help but laugh again - even in the midst of the dull pain of him driving into you, there was something so endearingly pathetic about his words.

“I am. But you’re free to challenge me whenever you like.”

He was silent as he bottomed out inside of you, his face falling to your neck and leaving a trail of kisses and bites along your skin while he allowed you some time to adjust. You were grateful for his consideration of your wellbeing, fingers digging into his skin, your gut aching as he leaned forwards over you, pushing your legs higher on his shoulders.

There was no question that he was the largest man you’d ever had inside you, practically tearing you apart with his intrusion, but after a few minutes of stillness you found yourself able to relax, the panic exhibited by your body slowly dissipating as you accommodated his size.

“I will challenge you whenever I like,” he whispered against your ear. “After this, the cloud of lust you’ve placed in my mind will be thinner, and I will beat you with ease.”

“Oh, I’m sure-”

Your snarky response was promptly cut off as he withdrew himself from you, only to swiftly fill you up once more, pulling a desperate cry of his name from your lips. There was no second adjustment period given, instead you found yourself clinging on for dear life as he filled you over and over again with swift and deep thrusts that had your eyes rolling back.

One of his hands moved to your stomach, pressing down against the bulge where his cock would press up inside you. It was clear he was fascinated by it, finding great enjoyment in you being claimed by him. You were certain he was no virgin, but it seemed that you were the first woman who meant something to him, the first one who was worth something beyond carnal pleasure.

Legs quivering beneath the weight of his thrusts, you appreciated the way two of his hands came to rest on your thighs, keeping you steady with each brutal snap of his hips. You were crying and whining, your hands blindly reaching for him but finding him just out of range in this position. Seemingly to appease you, he leant further forward, really testing the flexibility of your legs as he practically folded you in half.

Lips pressed against your forehead affectionately, and you enjoyed every single second of his attention, mind floating off on a cloud as your gut tightened with each careful stroke, your walls flexing around his cock. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, a feeling only heightened by the erratic contact of his higher cock rubbing up against your clit.

“You feel so good, fuck. I can’t last like this,” he grumbled, never losing pace. It stroked your ego to know of his desire, to understand just how much he’d been holding back since your first meeting. It was everything you imagined the joining of two soulmates would be - desperately euphoric and overflowing with pleasure.

Sex had never felt so good, it had never really felt good at all, and yet you could spend eternity with Sukuna buried inside of you, your bodies and souls joined just as they were always meant to be.

He was yours and you were his. It was just as fate had decreed.

There was nothing stopping the scream that ripped through you as you finally teetered over the edge, your body convulsing in pleasure and clamping down on Sukuna’s thick cock, eager to milk him for all he was worth. You were sobbing his name and writhing against the silk sheets, your hands gripping them desperately in an attempt to anchor yourself to something in the throes of pleasure.

Sukuna couldn’t hold on long after that either, spilling into you with a warmth that only heightened your pleasure. His other cock found its release at the same time, cum dripping down onto your stomach in a manner that you’d usually find disgusting, if it weren’t your soulmate who was doing it to you. He groaned your name quietly, and let your legs fall from his shoulders.

Without the barrier of your thighs, he settled himself down on top of you, pressing kisses all over your face, his cock still twitching inside your exhausted pussy. You let him lather you with affection, still trying to come to terms with this side of Sukuna. It had been what you’d wanted, what you believed he was capable of, but you hadn’t dreamed it would truly happen.

The most you believed you’d get from him was a lifetime of shogi matches, in which the two of you would remain close but never cross the line you’d been so desperate to leap across.

“Has the fog of lust lifted?” You teased. “Do you believe now you can defeat me?”

Sukuna let out a low, rumbling chuckle. “Perhaps we will have to do that a few more times for it to fully ease.”

“Oh is that so?” You giggled, reaching out for his hair. He gripped your wrist and moved it into position, allowing you to play with the soft locks you’d been so eager to touch since the first time you’d seen them upon his head.

You wished you could gaze upon that lovely shade of pink once more, but it was enough to know he was there before you, yours to touch as you pleased.

“Mmm, I think it would help,” he purred.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”

You’d give him whatever he wanted. You were his and he was yours for as long as he’d have you.

a/n: I had so much fun writing this one! thinking about doing one soulmate au for each of the jjk men because I find them so enjoyable to play with <3

anyway, for any crazy in love fans, the next chapter will be out towards the end of this week!

perma taglist: @calicatzz @suzunu @winkii @sukubusss @bobis-notmylover @tetsuski @torupilled @brattyxackerman @r0vena @chaos-4baby @moonlitreveri3 @feyrinnn @strawberryrosey @creamofsneky-blog @zeeseekay @p1nkfl0wers @apricityn @keiiiluv @dogggggggblog-kaye @duckie3801 @lav4mpira @seellove @cutesytwt @gojodickbig @yuujispinkhair @somos-things @yeagersss @paradisestarfishh @jennilynn63 @tthhaattgguuyy27 @bexxli @being-blue-is-better @tisuruxx @juliarchiv3s @dishs0pe @plutoxxxworld @5kkalara @serenadesvt @00frenchfries00 @warriorofenlightenment @scarlet-issilly @himbosexual @pousivuitton @ksjtozaki @certainfanpoetry @gojoscumslut @ynishalee @nakiich

The same lecture was given to you by your parents, harshly reminding you that anyone with the name Gojo was the enemy and not the sort that you wanted to tangle with. 

They were fiends, and you always had to remember that. 

But for some reason, despite the lessons you were given over the next few years pertaining to your family’s history and feud with the Gojo clan, you could never manage to find understanding in their outlook. Not when every single night had you picturing those bright blue eyes that had stared into yours with such wonder. 

The next time you saw Gojo Satoru, you were eleven years old. 

It was in a similar setting as before - a convergence of clans, but now that you were older there were less eyes on you, more freedom to roam about the grounds upon which the convention was being held. 

You found him beside a pond, staring out at the rippling water in silence, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. He’d jumped ever so slightly as you approached, frustration present in his furrowed brow, only for his expression to morph into wonder at the sight of you, a wide grin crossing his graceful face. 

“It's you!” He exclaimed. His eyes were lit up, excitement bubbling within him. If he were a dog, you were sure that he’d be wagging his tail with great enthusiasm. 

“It’s you,” you responded with a tilt of your head, grateful that he remembered you. You’d worried that the momentary connection between the two of you hadn’t been real, had been nothing more than mere puppy love on your part, a complete insignificance to him. 

Satoru looked around cautiously, frowning once more before reaching out and grabbing your arm. Tugging you along, he headed down a sequence of hidden garden pathways before skidding to a halt in a small clearing beneath a maple tree. You’d let yourself be dragged along easily, half curious as to where he was leading you, and half conscious of the fact that he was doing this to prevent prying eyes. 

The two of you shouldn’t be talking after all. You both knew that. Even though you considered the feud to be genuinely stupid, and you hoped that Satoru did too. 

“No one should see us here, stupid adults are always watching,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. 

You shrugged. For the most part your parents let you do whatever you wanted, so you couldn’t really relate, but you imagined that in this one case, they would go absolutely crazy if they saw you alone with the Gojo clan’s six eyes user, who was public enemy number one in their minds. 

They’d had assassins sent after him, if what you’d overheard your parents talking about was to be believed. 

“What’s your name?” He asked. 

You told him with a smile, and he nodded, introducing himself only for you to stop him. His reputation preceded him after all. He seemed almost proud of the fact that you already knew him, puffing up his chest with a wide grin, like he was keen to impress you. You couldn’t help but smile back, heart fluttering at the sight. 

“I thought I might’ve made you up!” He chirped, offering further explanation as you tilted your head in confusion. “I have this vivid image of seeing you when we were younger, it comes up in my dreams a lot, like this nice shiny memory that makes me feel all warm. But I thought you might’ve just been an imaginary friend.” 

It seemed that Satoru’s clan had taken the opposite approach to your clan, keeping information about their enemy locked down. Although, why would they bother telling him anything about you? It wasn’t like you were special in the same way he was. 

“You’re from that clan, aren’t you? That’s why we never tend to see each other.” 

You nodded solemnly. “My parents will throw a fit if they see me talking to you.” 

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them!” Satoru’s smile was painfully bright, an admiration growing desperately in your chest at the sight of it. There was no doubt that you had a crush - between the fact that you’d met very few boys your age and the idea that he was forbidden, your young heart had never wanted anything more. 

So of course you nodded along, sitting down beside him in the clearing, relieved to be free of the adults for an afternoon. 

Satoru seemed to love talking, chattering away at you for hours. You’d always been more of an introvert - with your clan largely keeping to themselves, there was seldom anyone for you to talk to, and that meant that your social skills were limited. You were grateful for Satoru’s ability to push the conversation forward, asking you non-stop questions about your life and likes, and talking at length about his own preferences. 

You learned that in a lot of ways you were startlingly similar. 

You both had a penchant for sweet things, an enjoyment of catching frogs in the summer, and a deep set desire to escape from the stifling grip of your respective families. It felt like no matter what Satoru spoke about, you could feel yourself relating on a deep level. His thoughts and desires were so aligned with yours that if he were to suddenly reveal that he’d read your diary and this was all some practical joke, you wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest. 

“I used to love climbing trees too,” he added, down to the twentieth hobby on his list at this point, seemingly enjoying being listened to with such rapt attention. “But I’m not allowed to anymore because of this stupid thing.” 

He was rolling his eyes as he held up his arm to show you, a thick scar running up the length of his forearm. Your eyes widened ever so slightly as you peered at the imperfection on his pale skin, inspecting the way that the old wound was scabbing over, clearly having been picked at by his impatient hands. 

“Oh, snap!” You said with a small smile, pushing the sleeve of your kimono back to show him an identical wound, uncannily similar to the one he was currently sporting. “Mine was from a knife!” 

It was a lesson in not playing in your family’s weapon storage. You’d spent plenty of time there throughout your childhood against your parents’ advice, and one day the reality of why they didn’t want you going there came to smack you right in the face. It turned out that attempting to catch a falling knife isn’t a good idea. 

“You were stabbed?” He asked, tilting his head curiously. 

“In a sense.” You puffed out your chest, not eager to confess that the assailant had been none other than your own foolishness. “How did climbing a tree cause that?” 

“It didn’t. My handler just thinks it did.” He huffed. 

It was clear that this was a serious topic for him, one that he’d thought plenty about. You imagined that he still climbed trees in secret whenever he could, because there was something about him that suggested an unwillingness to be truly tamed. 

“How did you get it then?” You asked, rubbing your own scar for half a second before dropping your hand back down to your side. You shouldn’t scratch at it, even if the scab was itchy. It would come off in its own time.

He thought about that question for a second, white eyebrows drawn close together in focus, before he turned to you with an unbothered shrug. “Dunno! One day it was just there!” 

You hummed, content with his answer. It wasn’t like the origin really mattered to you, there were bumps and bruises on you all the time that you just couldn’t explain. It was all part of being a kid, there was so much going on that you couldn’t possibly remember everything. 

Why would you? 

—

It was a few years later, at age fifteen, that you learned just why those unexplainable scars actually did hold meaning. A serious conversation with your parents, in which they sat you down and told you all that you needed to know about soulmates, since you were approaching the age where it might be relevant. 

They explained that some people had a divine connection, something beautiful and otherworldly that would bring the two of them together against all odds. It was the stuff of the fairytales that you’d loved so dearly when you were young, a magic that existed here on earth. 

Your parents weren’t soulmates. Not many couples tended to be. Considering the population of the world, such unions between soulmates tended to be rare, something special whenever one found their prophesied other half. Outside of the inexplicable attraction that one would expect to feel when witnessing their soulmate, there was a single clue to who your other half might be. 

Once soulmates had laid eyes on each other for the first time, any wound inflicted upon one party would be mirrored on the other. 

Cuts, bruises, scars, disfigurements, and even death. Anything that ailed one would ail the other, allowing for a constant physical connection between lovers. Something equal parts beautiful and tragic. You were tied to their fate, no matter what it may be. 

If you’d been older, perhaps you would’ve connected the dots faster. But it had been four years since you’d last seen Satoru, and although his presence was a constant in your dreams, your conversation about scars had long since fled your mind. 

With the emphasis that your mother was putting on tempering your expectations where it came to ever meeting a soulmate, the thought that you might’ve already met him was far from apparent to you. 

You next encountered Satoru less than a year later, when the two of you enrolled in Jujutsu High at the same time. 

It was nice to be able to see him without the shadow of both your clans lingering over you, even if your parents had given you a big lecture beforehand about how you were to stay as far away from the Gojo heir as possible. It was a directive that you ignored of course, throwing yourself wholeheartedly into a friendship with Satoru. 

Why should you build your relationships around some dusty old family feud? Satoru had been nothing but kind to you in the fleeting moments you’d encountered each other throughout childhood. You couldn’t care less if some boring ancestor of his stole your family’s land a thousand years ago.

What did that matter when Satoru was so much fun? 

The two of you were practically attached at the hip for the first two years of school, always getting into mischief together. You’d sit next to each other during classes, go out into the city to check out new bakeries, spend evenings in each other’s rooms watching scary movies - always settled right next to each other. Sometimes Satoru’s arm would brush against yours and your heart rate would skyrocket, a result of the crush that you couldn’t deny that you had on your best friend. 

Your friend Shoko had teased you about it on occasion, waiting until Satoru and Suguru were off on some mission before poking fun at just how attached to him you were, trying to convince you to talk to him about it since he was clearly into you too. 

Unfortunately, that was where you largely drew the line. 

Being friends with Satoru was one thing, easily concealed from your parents. But dating him? That was something else entirely. It wasn’t like any relationship between the two of you could go anywhere, both of your families would exile you. Perhaps in the case of the Gojo clan, they’d even seek to kill you if Satoru didn’t comply with their desires. 

While you didn’t agree with the feud, you didn’t wish to be estranged from the family that had so lovingly raised you, and for that reason it was better that you and Satoru remained nothing more than friends. 

There were, of course, complications that quickly arose on that front. 

The thought of soulmates had largely fled your mind as you entered your third year of school. Again, if you’d been attentive, maybe you would’ve seen reality much faster. There was evidence in the way that you seemed to be the only person capable of bypassing Satoru’s infinity during training - a feat that you both brushed off too easily as a feature of your own technique rather than something deeper. 

But true, unquestionable evidence came round soon enough. 

Satoru and Suguru had been sent off on some mission, and had been gone for a couple of days. You’d been passing your time as normal, studying and enjoying the warm summer air. You’d been out having a picnic with Utahime when it happened. One moment the two of you were chatting away happily, the next your eyes were widening in sheer horror at the feeling of a knife jamming into your throat. 

In that moment, you’d fully believed that it was real, that there was a person behind you who had decided to put an end to your short life. You didn’t think about the why or how of the matter, hands raising to your neck desperately in an attempt to find the blade, only to discover nothing but thin air until your fingers brushed against your neck. 

There, you discovered a gaping hole, gushing with blood. There was just enough time for terror to course through you before you blacked out, dropping down onto the picnic mat before you, likely leaving Utahime traumatised for a significant portion of her life. 

You came to a few days later, with the physical evidence of the event shockingly absent. If you didn’t know better, it would almost feel like nothing had ever happened at all, but your heart certainly remembered, a deep anxiety sitting within you at the memory of the extreme injury, of the excruciating pain that you never wanted to experience again. 

Sitting at your bedside in a plastic chair, was Satoru. 

His hand was clutching yours tightly, and his head was resting on the side of your bed, white hair splayed out across the soft sheets. You wondered how long he’d been at your side, how he’d reacted when he’d found out what had happened to you. Your heart fluttered at the feeling of his warm fingers intertwined with yours, taking your mind off the horrors of your injury for a few minutes at least. 

The second that you shifted, he was sitting up, suddenly all attentive. There was something wild behind his blue eyes, a sort of panic that you weren’t accustomed to him wearing. “You’re awake- I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “This is my fault, I shouldn’t have let my guard down. I’m sorry.” 

“Huh?” your head was swimming, your body not quite caught up to the fact that you were awake, unable to understand the guilt written all over your friend’s face. 

“We- we were within the barriers, I’d thought that we were safe. That assassin, he came out of nowhere and I couldn’t defend myself. You must’ve been so scared, I’m sorry, I’ll never let that happen again.” 

Satoru’s words were going in one ear and out the other with no coherency. Why was he apologising for not being able to defend himself? What did that have to do with you? You could hardly remember what had happened for you to end up here, aware of the searing pain in your neck and then nothing. 

Had a curse user snuck in and attacked you? Had they attacked Satoru and then come for you? Was that why he was apologising? Had they been caught? 

“It looks like my RCT worked on you too though, I’m glad.” 

All the thoughts in your head dissipated as Satoru reached out for you, brushing his fingers softly against your neck. There was a flash of phantom pain quickly replaced by a soft tingling beneath his touch. You were surprised to find his hand skimming over your skin, no bandages in sight, as if there had been no wound at all. 

“What- what happened, Satoru?” You asked, figuring that trying to piece things together was a fool’s game when your head was pounding so hard.

Surprise flickered in his blue eyes for a moment, as if he thought that you were already with him in his explanation. “What do you remember?” He asked, slowly. 

“I was having lunch, and then there was this blinding pain in my neck, like someone stabbed me, and now I’m here.” That was genuinely all that you could recall, a wry smile drawing across your lips at the panic on Satoru’s face, as though he’d gotten thoroughly ahead of himself. 

“You- you don’t know?” 

“Know what?” 

“You weren’t stabbed. I was.” 

That statement didn’t quite sink in for the first few seconds, with your brain far too foggy to really understand what relevance it had to you. You were moments away from once again asking what the hell he was talking about when it clicked. 

He was stabbed and the wound replicated on you. 

The boy who’d had your heart beating erratically from the first moment you’d met, the same one who somehow found his way into every single one of your dreams. There was a reason that you thought of him in the way that you always had. 

A reason that you always yearned so deeply to be around him. 

He was your soulmate. Proven through your shared misery. Any wound of his was a wound of yours and vice versa. You had to count your lucky stars that Satoru was one of the strongest sorcerers around, that he was capable enough to learn to heal on the fly. Else you’d both be dead. 

“We’re…” You trailed off, mouth going dry before you could say the words.

“Soulmates,” he finished, with a giddy grin.

The first feeling that overcame you was pure elation, an unbelievable sense of happiness at the idea of being with Satoru like that, at the thought that the two of you were actually destined for each other. For a moment, you almost forgot yourself entirely, every inch of your body urging you to lean forward and kiss him. 

You’d dreamt about it enough times. 

But reason held you back. 

Satoru had always been somewhat forbidden fruit to you. Your family despised his, and had always given you strict instructions not to associate with him in any form. You’d ignored them, because why should they dictate your friendships, but when it came to the matter of something more you could see many potential issues. 

There was still a grin on Satoru’s face, but it had faltered ever so slightly. Bright blue eyes were darting around your face with a hint of anxiety, clearly trying to understand what was going through your head. 

“It's good, right? I mean, I like you, and I hope…” He trailed off uncertainly, taking a deep breath, as if he was scared that you were about to come out and call him repulsive or something of the like. 

“I like you too,” you said hastily, not wanting to leave him hanging. 

“But?” 

“But our families are going to kill us.” 

He laughed, shrugging his shoulders easily. “Remember, what they don’t know won’t hurt them!”

His lips crashed against yours, stealing the air from your lungs. It was your first kiss, the first of many that you’d share with Satoru. Kissing someone, kissing him was something that you’d imagined for a long time, fretting over your inexperience, terrified about the idea of being a bad kisser. 

And yet, it felt so easy with him. It was as if you’d been made for this very moment. You knew exactly what to do, moving your lips in tandem with his, letting him wrap his arms around you and pull you closer. 

Your life hadn’t been unhappy by any stretch of the imagination, but there’d always been a hollow feeling that you carried with you, like something was missing. With him, it felt like that gap was finally filled. 

Like you were meant to be. 

The remainder of your third year was spent in total bliss. Of course, you both had the sense to keep your relationship as secret as it could be, fully away of the attempts to divide you that would no doubt come from your families, but it didn’t make things any less fun by any means. 

If anything, the thrill of your union being secret just spurred both of you on more. 

Hands brushing beneath tables, eyes meeting for a fleeting moment across a busy room, secret rendezvous in your dorm room night after night, in which Satoru would climb in through the window with a goofy smile on his face, barely offering a greeting before kissing you silly. 

The two of you became each other’s first everything, placing complete trust in the other, which just felt so easy because even if you weren’t soulmates, your friendship over the last few years had been unrivalled. A gap that felt like it had always existed in your heart had been filled thoroughly by Satoru’s presence. 

No doubt existed in your mind that this was how things were meant to be, Satoru’s lips against yours, his hands brushing against your waist tenderly as he pulled you closer. Your ancestors were almost certainly rolling in their graves, but what did that matter when your heart yearned so deeply for the man that the universe had decided you were destined for?

Some dusty feud meant nothing in the face of true love. 

That was what you had believed for a time, at least. Until the illusion of what you had was well and truly shattered. 

Your graduation was mere days away, and everyone was busy with various responsibilities in the lead up to the ceremony. Both yours and Satoru’s clans would be coming to attend, and subsequently the two of you were doing your best to act like you didn’t know each other at all, save for soft little smiles you’d share when you thought that no one was looking. 

Oh, and except for the secret moments in which Satoru would pull you into an empty classroom, pressing you up against the wall and kissing you like his life depended on it, all amped up from the thrill of someone discovering you all tangled together with no explanation but the truth. 

The reality of discovery turned out to be less alluring than either of you had expected though, the two of you freezing as Yaga entered the room during one such moment, sweeping his gaze over you both before letting out a heavy sigh. “Satoru, your family are looking for you.” 

Confusion was written across both of your faces, expecting some level of comment regarding your condition, but finding none. 

“I’m…busy?” Satoru offered cautiously, not sure what to make of Yaga’s reaction. You had to hold back a snort at the bewilderment in his pretty blue eyes. 

“Clearly. But if you don’t want them to discover…this…” Yaga waved his hand in your general direction, as if unwilling to address it. “I’d suggest you appease them.” 

Satoru let out a heavy sigh, shooting you an apologetic smile before heading to the door. You moved to follow behind him, only for Yaga to step in your way. It was hard to make sense of his expression behind the sunglasses he’d always wear, but there seemed to be something akin to pity lining his face. 

“Just a moment. I think there’s something we should discuss.” 

Satoru shot a frown over his shoulder, clearly displeased with the development. Any protest that he might form was cut short by Yaga pushing the door to the classroom closed, shutting you off from your disgruntled boyfriend on the other side. 

“What?” You asked, rather defensively. You didn’t know how many moments together you and Satoru had left before the pressures of life would start to drag you apart, you didn’t particularly want to waste any of that time talking to your teacher. 

“You understand that it has to stop, don’t you?” 

For a second it felt like your heart had ceased its beating. You knew what he was referring to, of course you did, but you weren’t going to acknowledge that fact for even a second. You’d play dumb and force him to spell it out for you, because you weren’t going to concede to his statement without some element of a fight. 

“What has to-”

“You’re smarter than that,” he said, interrupting you swiftly. “This thing with Satoru, it was all fine while you were young but now…if you take this seriously it will only end in tragedy.” 

“What does it matter to you?” Once again, your tone was rude. You were pretty confident that if you were a teacher you wouldn’t be snooping around on the relationships of your students, that was just plain weird. 

“Do you value your life? Do you value Satoru’s?” 

You blinked at him. “Obviously.” 

“Then you need to stop.” 

Staring at him haplessly, you tried to understand what he could possibly mean by that. Satoru was quite possibly the strongest sorcerer alive, if your families were to find out and be displeased then that was their problem, there was nothing that they could do if it was Gojo Satoru they were up against - they’d just have to accept it. 

Even if the idea of being disowned wasn’t ideal to you, it would be worth it for Satoru. 

Sensing your confusion, Yaga let out another long sigh. “You’re soulmates, aren’t you?” 

Hesitating for a moment, you bit down on your lip. That wasn’t information that you’d shared with anyone outside of Shoko and Suguru. Even if others like Utahime were aware that the two of you were dating, you didn’t want everyone to know about the depth of the bond that you shared - it felt like it would be almost less sacred that way. 

“I’ve known since the incident with Fushiguro Toji,” He continued at your lack of response. “Others have had their suspicions too, but I’ve done my best to quell them. It does you no good for people to know.” 

“I don’t think it really matters, Satoru’s so strong he can-” 

“And you, are you strong?” 

“Huh?” 

“Tell me,” Yaga said, lowering his voice ever so slightly. “What has your clan done with previous bearers of Satoru’s technique?” 

“They’ve killed them, but, like I said, Satoru is too strong so-” 

Much to your annoyance, he cut you off once more. 

“Right. What do you think your clan will do, when they find out that you have a soul binding connection with him? What do you think they’ll do when they find out that through your sacrifice, they can kill Satoru?” 

Your lips parted ever so slightly, trying to formulate an argument that just wouldn’t come, because you’d been so swept up in your new love for Satoru that any issues that may arise seemed to just slip from your mind entirely. 

“In fact,” Yaga continued, “forget your clan. What do you think will happen when the world at large finds out about this connection? You’re right, Satoru can protect himself, but it won’t matter if he can be killed through you.” 

“I wouldn’t…” Your voice quivered ever so slightly, mind racing with the picture that Yaga was painting, the realisation of the weight that sat upon your shoulders truly starting to settle. He was right, you didn’t have something like Satoru’s infinity to protect you, and even if your soulmate would look after you most of the time, he couldn’t be at your side at all moments. 

You’d be responsible for both of your deaths. 

“If you love him, you need to put an end to this before anyone of import finds out about it. If you don’t, neither of you will even make it to twenty-five.”

In the days following your conversation with Yaga, you avoided Satoru as much as you could. It was easier than it would usually be with everything surrounding graduation and the fact that your families were constantly nearby. But one evening Satoru snuck into your room just like he always would, effectively cornering you. 

“You’ve been weird lately,” he said, straightforwardly. He’d flopped down on your bed, hand supporting his chin as he stared up at you. Your posture was riddled with anxiety, knees drawn up to your chest, nails digging into the palm of your hands in an attempt to calm yourself. 

You hadn’t slept well in days. 

“Just tired.” You responded on reflex, and he instantly pulled a face. 

“Liar.” 

“Satoru-” 

“What did Yaga say to you?” He asked, sitting up and stopping any spiel that you were about to summon in an attempt to placate him. 

“Nothing, I’m just-” 

“He said we needed to break up, didn’t he?” 

You nibbled on your lower lip, offering a small nod. There was a burning fire in his blue eyes that sparkled with the same resistance you’d initially shown Yaga, one that said he couldn’t care less what the consequences were, he wasn’t about to be torn from his soulmate, no matter what the world wanted to throw at him. 

“Fuck him. What does he know?” Satoru reached out for you gently, his hand cupping your face, a thumb gently swiping along the curve of your cheek. Goosebumps raised up on your skin at the action, a desperate electricity tingling through your veins at his mere touch. How Yaga expected you to live without that was beyond you. 

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips gently against yours, his tongue flicking against your lips tenderly, practically begging you for entrance. You parted your lips for him easily, letting him push you down onto the bed, the weight of his warm body on top of yours. It would be so easy to just sink into that lovely feeling of bliss that overtook you whenever you were at his side. 

But the little voice in the back of your head prevailed on this occasion. 

“I’ll get you killed.” Your voice was small as you pulled away, eyes a little watery as you stared up at him. He was so handsome that you almost wanted to take the words back, wanted to wipe that look of disbelief off his face. 

You would’ve done it if not for the fact that Yaga was right - if you loved him, and you did, you both had to stop. 

“You won’t.” His tone was dismissive, as if the mere insinuation was ridiculous. 

“I will. I’m not strong like you. If people find out about this they’ll start trying to kill me for the sake of killing you. It’ll all be my fault.” 

Satoru’s brows furrowed, his expression angrier than you’d ever seen it. “Don’t be dumb! I won’t let anything happen to you, you’re just letting Yaga fearmonger you.” 

“Satoru.” Your voice was quiet. “You can’t protect me all the time. All it takes is just one instant-” 

“What are you trying to say right now?” He pulled back from you, frustration and hurt straining his voice, blue eyes wide with anxiety. 

“I’m saying this has to end.” 

It was hard to not let your voice waver, an ache growing in your heart at the mess of emotions that flickered across your boyfriend’s handsome face. You could take it back, you could kiss him and pretend that the conversation never happened, that none of that stuff that Yaga said mattered. 

The problem was, it did matter. 

You loved Satoru, you loved him more than anything on this earth. He was your other half, the person who truly completed you. And for that reason you couldn’t give in, couldn’t spend every day at his side. 

Because you wanted him to live a long life, not one cut short because of your weakness. 

That wasn’t fair. 

“You don’t mean that.” Satoru said, his tone clipped. 

“I have to mean it. There’s no future for us but tragedy.” 

—

Over the next few years, you did everything you could to try to get over Satoru. You failed miserably - a reality that you’d largely been anticipating. You couldn’t simply forget a soulmate, the universe had dictated that you were made for one another, destined no matter what you tried to do. 

That meant that you spent half of your nights sobbing into your pillow, desperate for the warmth of Satoru’s body at your side. The thought of reaching for your phone and just calling him had crossed your mind on many an occasion, thwarted only by the rational side of you sternly refusing to give in to your desires. 

Satoru had become the head of the Gojo clan in the time that you were apart, which ultimately meant that he was the arbiter concerning the feud with your family. It didn’t make much difference, even if Satoru played nice with them, they still regarded him with the same hatred as usual. 

You imagined that Satoru’s attempts at offering an olive branch were for your sake, a dwindling hope that maybe you could be together if your families weren’t at odds. Such rifts were, unfortunately, too deep to mend. 

The next time that you and Satoru actually crossed paths, you were both twenty-three. You’d been assigned a mission involving the elimination of some curse-users, which had grown infinitely more complex the more intel you’d gathered on the matter. Subsequently, a special grade sorcerer was put on the case.

Both Yuki and Suguru were preoccupied with other matters, and that meant that the only person left was Satoru. 

It was how the two of you ended up awkwardly sitting in the living room of a tiny apartment, trying to figure out what to say to each other while you staked out some curse users that you couldn’t care less about when the man you loved was sitting right across from you. 

Time had treated Satoru well. He was a little bulkier than he’d been at high school, his hair slightly more respectable than the unkept look he’d had at eighteen. The look in his blue eyes was a little sharper, more controlled than the wild edge that they’d previously held. But he was still unquestionably himself, his mere presence wrapping around you like a warm blanket. 

You were grateful that you hadn’t had to cross paths with him much over the last five years, because there wasn’t a chance in hell that you’d be able to resist him forever, not when his mere scent was intoxicating to you, despite him being sat several metres away. 

“So…uh…I wonder how long this will take.” You cleared your throat awkwardly, and Satoru stared at you incredulously. 

“Really?” He asked, in disbelief. “That’s the line you’re going with?” 

Rolling your eyes, you shrugged. “I don’t- what would you have started with?” 

His lips curved up into a smile at your reaction. “Maybe a: hey, how have you been? Have you missed me? Something to that effect, I don’t know.” 

“Feels redundant,” you mumbled. Of course you’d missed each other, you’d been practically engineered to feel that way. 

“Still figured you’d want to hear me say it.” 

“If I hear you say it, all of the work that I put into coping without you for the last five years would go to waste.” There was no point in being anything but honest with him, your heart was battering against your ribs, the sound of his voice even more lovely than you’d remembered it. If he were to kiss you right now, there was a certainty in your mind that you wouldn’t be able to push him away. 

It was true that distance made the heart grow fonder, and your skin was practically itching for his hands to hold you once more. Consequences be damned. 

That outlook was foolish, dangerous even, and you both knew it. Even if Satoru had been disgruntled at your break up, you knew that he was smart enough to understand why, even if he’d disagreed with you. It was why he’d stayed far away from you over the last few years, eager to grant you your wish.

He’d worked just as hard as you had to keep temptation from even brushing your periphery. 

Rightfully so, considering that mere minutes alone in a room with him already had you unravelling. Your desire for him was more palpable than it had been back at school, as if your love had matured along with you. The space between your thighs was growing wetter with each passing second, skin prickling with electricity.

He gave you a bright smile, blue eyes narrowing deviously. “I missed you,” he stated, matter-of-factly, seemingly conscious of the way that his words seemed to grip your heart, squeezing it desperately. “I missed you more than you can imagine.” 

“I think I can imagine it.” 

“I don’t think so.” He leant forward, resting his chin on his hand in that lazy way that was characteristically him. “You have no idea how many nights I pictured you, imagining you on top of me, looking all angelic like you do. I wanted you to be the one stroking my-” 

“Stop,” you interrupted him quickly with a groan, not needing to hear the end of that sentence. His cock was the last thing that you needed to be thinking about right now, even if you did desperately want to feel it inside you again. 

The two of you had only made love a couple of times in your life, despite dating throughout most of your third year at high school. It was because you hadn’t felt ready until fairly far into your relationship, and relatively soon after you had started having sex, the whole thing with Yaga happened and everything stopped. 

It had made you wish that you’d agreed to make love earlier on in the span of your relationship, that way you could’ve done it more times. It would’ve given you more a reference point to pine over on the days when you really missed him. 

You hadn’t had sex with anyone since him. You probably never would. The idea that anyone could replace Satoru in your mind was laughable. It would always be him, even if you couldn’t actually be together. There was a jealous side of you that questioned whether he’d slept with anyone else in the time you’d been apart. You really hoped not. 

“Do you really want me to stop?” Satoru asked, rising from his chair and walking slowly across the room before stopping right before you. “Because you sure are blushing.” 

What did he really want you to say to that? Of course you didn’t want him to stop, you needed him to. But that wasn’t the question he was asking. 

“Satoru-” 

“I think about that day a lot, you know,” he interjected, “the day that you told me this needed to end. Back then all I could do was get upset, couldn’t think of a way to reason with you that what you were doing was wrong.” 

“Do you have one now?” You asked, your question coming out as a whisper, barely daring to hope that there was some glimmer of light at the end of this tunnel, a way that you could ease your heartache without tragedy for you both. 

“I think so.” 

You tilted your head, waiting for him to continue. 

“We’re literally soulmates,” he said, as if that cleared things up. 

“Yeah?” You prompted, assuming there was more to that statement. 

“The universe destined us for each other, who are we to go against the universe? That’s just ridiculous.” 

You laughed softly, shaking your head at his optimism. “Be that as it may, nothing has changed Satoru. If we give in, we’ll be met with tragedy.”

“Then we’ll just keep it a secret,” he said, easily. 

You rolled your eyes, infuriated that you’d believed he had any actual plan. Keeping things a secret was the first solution you’d thought of, far from a revolutionary concept. It wasn’t a sustainable option. 

“That won’t work.” 

“We’ll make it work.” 

“Satoru, that’s not-” 

“Are you happy?” His words cut through you like a knife, his blue gaze unwavering as he met your wide eyes. 

He’d struck his target with excellent precision, your mind swimming with hurt at the effectiveness of his comment. You weren’t happy, you hadn’t been happy in years. Without him, it was like the world around you was sucked of its colour, his absence leaving a deep ache in your chest right where your heart should be. 

“It doesn’t matter.” You said carefully, and he shook his head with a snort. 

“So that’s a no then.” 

“Please, stop-” 

“I’d take the risk of dying early if my life, however short, was spent with you.” 

His words stunned you into silence, your lips parted in shock, incapable of coming up with any sort of rebuttal for a statement like that. As much as you wanted to stand your ground, to point out that there was more to life than your romance alone, you knew that your words would be unconvincing. You didn’t even believe that yourself. 

Having Satoru at your side was all that you wanted out of life, you’d be lying if you said otherwise. 

Satoru was studying your face carefully, eyes darting around your features in an attempt to read your reaction amongst the silence you were currently offering him. Clearly, he found something that emboldened him, reaching out slowly and caressing your face before closing the gap, lips brushing tentatively against yours. 

There was a moment of hesitation, a desperate fight in your head where your conscience screamed at you to pull away, only for the voice to be drowned out by a static of pure devotion for the man before you. 

Forget the sensible option. Why deny yourself everything you’d ever desired? 

Satoru pulled you closer to him at the feeling of you kissing him back with fervour, sighing softly into the kiss as he mapped out your lips once more, eager to relearn the feeling of you in the same way that he once had. 

In the heat of the entanglement, the two of you entirely forgot the reason that you were in this situation in the first place, any attempts at staking out the curse users completely forgotten in favor of giving in to five years of absence. Failing your mission was the least of your worries, certain that Satoru would take the fall and make some excuse on your behalf anyway. 

Dealing with that could wait. 

Your soulmate had you on the bed, kissing and worshipping every bare inch of your skin as he peeled off each layer of clothing you donned, leaving endless love bites in his wake, marking you as indisputably his. 

He held you still as he moved between your thighs, lips moving to your pussy and eating you out like a man starved, refusing to let up even as you were wriggling beneath him from the overstimulation, tugging desperately at his soft hair as you unravelled on his tongue with such ease. 

When he finally pushed into you, he tugged you as close as physically possible, his arms wrapping snugly around your torso, your chests pressed flush together as he sank as deep as he could into your warmth. The movement of his hips was slow and languid, fucking you with a passion that had you swooning. 

All the while you clung to him, nails raking down his back with each deep thrust, soft little whimpers of his name falling from your lips. It felt better than any time you’d done this before, laced with a level of intimacy that could only be created through years of yearning. 

“I love you.” He mumbled against the crook of your neck, peppering your skin with gentle kisses, his voice a little raspy. “You’re mine.” 

You were his, for better or for worse. 

The two of you came together, bodies shuddering with pleasure at the euphoric feeling of release. Satoru kept you tucked snugly in his arms, kissing your hair lovingly for a long time afterwards, until you came to the realisation that you were in the middle of a mission and couldn’t afford to fall asleep together. 

Even if that was your desire in the moment. 

There was nothing more lovely than being tucked up at Satoru’s side. 

—

Your next few months weren’t unlike those that you’d spent at Satoru’s side in high school. Secret rendezvous and stolen kisses, pretending to hardly know each other in public whilst being all over each other in private. 

It was fortunate that you’d moved away from your family home once you’d entered adulthood, eager for a little bit of space and independence from your clan. It meant that you didn’t have to justify where you were going all the time, or figure out a place where you and Satoru could be together without prying eyes. 

For the most part, Satoru practically lived in your apartment, spending each night snuggled up with you in your bed, the two of you finding enjoyment in the most mundane things. It felt like a blessing to be able to spend time alone together doing anything, you didn’t need fancy meals or outings, all you really wanted was to be with him. 

In the time that you got to spend at his side, your cheeks were in constant pain from smiling so much, the world lit up with a bright array of colours only visible when he was with you. There was nothing in the world that you were more grateful for than waking up with him there beside you each morning, golden light illuminating his drool-laden face. 

The peace that the two of you had found lulled you both into a false sense of security, believing that it would be easier than you’d ever imagined to keep your union secret. This unintentional arrogance, the inability to see anything beyond how happy you both made each other, ultimately became your undoing. 

Satoru wasn’t a man without enemies, and as he approached twenty-five he’d already reached an insane level of notoriety among jujutsu society. He was hailed as the strongest sorcerer of your generation, and subsequently, had a major target painted on his back. There had been plenty of attempts on his life, from curse users and other sorcerers, including your family. 

For the most part, no such attempts meant anything to him. There wasn’t anyone alive who could compare to his skill. No one could touch him. 

It was just unfortunate that one day a particularly skilled assassin witnessed him entering your apartment. Elated that Satoru might have someone he was attached to, someone that they could hold hostage in exchange for certain conditions, the assassin and his partner took advantage of their knowledge and broke into your home one night.

Stealth was their specialty, and they’d grabbed you before Satoru could do anything, holding a knife to your throat. You were never in any mortal danger, not with your soulmate’s quick realisation of your stress, leaping to action immediately. 

The real issue arose from the light line that the man drew with his blade across your throat. 

Blood beaded up on your skin immediately at the shallow cut, a small whimper leaving your lips, and panic gripping your body at the sight of the mirrored mark manifesting on Satoru’s neck. You prayed your attacker wouldn’t see it, but it was wishful thinking. The assassin’s eyes gleamed at the sight, the realisation stark on their face. 

They were dead before they could act on it, blown apart by Satoru’s technique. 

You’d relaxed then, covered in the man’s blood as Satoru cradled you, his forehead resting against yours as he mumbled apologies. You were both too shaken to notice that the assassin hadn’t been alone, that he had an accomplice waiting outside your window, watching the whole scene unfold. 

He’d been ready to assist his friend, but it was a fool’s game as long as Satoru was awake and aware. Besides, what he’d learned from the scene was worth far more to him than making an attempt on your soulmate’s life. 

Because he knew something that would shake his employer’s whole world. 

It wasn’t unusual for you to visit your clan every now and then, and it was a pleasant afternoon in spring when you stopped by to have lunch with your parents, who had been pestering you about coming to visit for a while. 

There was something uncomfortable about seeing them knowing that you spent your nights tangled up with Satoru, but you did your best to separate your thoughts from the sin that you were committing in your family’s eyes. It was important that you acted normally with them - they were your flesh and blood after all, not everything had to revolve around the feud. 

Who you were dating shouldn’t be of importance. 

That afternoon in particular felt uniquely awkward. Conversation was stilted, and there was a tremble to your mother’s hand every time she passed you a plate. Your father’s questions seemed oddly formal and impersonal, and it struck you as strange that halfway through lunch, a handful of your extended family popped in to join. 

You brushed it off at first, assuming that perhaps your absence over the last few months had made things awkward, or that they maybe had some bad news to share that they were struggling to articulate. Perhaps someone had died or something and they didn’t want to say it outright for fear of upsetting you. 

There were a million explanations for a strange vibe. It wasn’t something to stress over. 

An explanation for the atmosphere only came at the very end of your lunch, once plates had been cleared and there was nothing to distract from addressing the matter that they’d invited you home to discuss. 

“Gojo Satoru.” Your father said out of the blue, catching you off guard. His face was sickly pale, sweat dripping down his brow, clearly agonising over what would come next. 

You tilted your head dumbly. “What about him?” 

“We tried to kill him a few weeks ago.” 

“Any success?” You immediately winced at your instinctive response - that was playing it a little too dumb. Because even if you weren’t seeing Satoru at your apartment each night, the whole of jujutsu society would be aware if he’d died - it would be the most prominent piece of gossip for months.  

“No. Of course not.” Your grandfather interjected, clearly disgruntled with the pace of the conversation. “We did uncover something rather interesting though.” 

He made a gesture in the direction of your mother, as if giving her the grounds to speak, and you sucked in an anxious breath. Your mother shot you a sympathetic look before rummaging in her bag and sliding an envelope across the table. Everyone’s eyes were on you, waiting for you to open it up. 

You didn’t know exactly what would be waiting for you inside, but you had a pretty good guess. 

With shaky hands, you opened up the envelope, trying not to react at the sight of an image taken from outside your bedroom window, peering into your ground-floor apartment. You and Satoru were locked in an embrace, the assassin that your soulmate had killed was dead on the floor beside you. 

Clearly visible in the image were the matching trails of blood that lined both yours and Satoru’s necks.

Your brain was already working as fast as it could, trying to come up with some explanation for this, some lie that would disarm your family. If you couldn’t come up with something believable, then the bliss that you’d found with Satoru would crumble, and that was the last thing you wanted. 

“You’re soulmates,” your grandfather stated matter-of-factly, after a long stretch of silence. 

“No,” you said on reflex, as if that would be enough to overturn the evidence laid out in front of you. “They’re photoshopped.” 

One of your uncles let out a laugh, earning him a strict glare from your grandfather, clearly unamused by your attempts to lie. “We’d hoped there was an explanation, so we had you followed for a few weeks. We have evidence of him entering your apartment on numerous occasions.” 

You bit down on your lip, thinking carefully for a moment before speaking once more. “Okay, so we are dating, but we’re not soulmates. I just didn’t want you guys to know because…you know…” 

“It would do you good to stop lying, sweetheart.” Your father’s voice was even, his brows drawn together in concern. “One of the assassins saw the whole thing. No one has seen him bleed in years, and yet there was blood on him, plain as day, after you were attacked.” 

Gulping, you glanced around the room, hoping to find someone who would take pity on your circumstance and help you escape the pit that you’d fallen into. You were met with only judgement and disappointment, turning over the idea in your head that you should make a run for it instead. 

The concept wasn’t all that appealing, because you were far from the strongest sorcerer in the room, and if they wanted to subdue you, they could do so with little effort. 

“How long have you known?” Your grandfather asked. 

Should you lie? You weren’t sure how much angrier they’d be if they were aware that you’d known since you were in high school and had refused to tell them. It was probably better if they assumed that you’d only found out recently. 

“Just for a few months.” 

“Sweetheart, tell the truth.” Your father seemed greatly exasperated. “We all know about the time he almost died thanks to that Zenin boy. It was an attack that lined up suspiciously well with your own injury.” 

Yaga had covered up the situation well at the time, claiming that you’d been sent out on a solo mission in which you’d received a non-fatal wound. He’d made sure to dismiss any association between your circumstances and what had happened to Satoru. But evidently with this latest information, your family had spent some time connecting the dots. 

“Have you been sneaking around since then?” Your mother asked. “Is that why you always refuse the marriage prospects we present to you?” 

“No. Only for the last few months.” This time it genuinely wasn’t a lie, and you hoped that they could understand that. 

The skepticism in your grandfather’s eyes said otherwise. 

“Do you understand what an embarrassment this is?” He asked. “A granddaughter of mine, choosing to lie with someone from that clan? It's disgusting. Thank god your union is yet to bring forth any offspring - what an abomination they’d be.”

You had to bite down on your tongue to avoid snapping back at him. Any children that you had with Satoru would likely be as lovely as their father, but your clan would hear nothing of the sort. Any attempt to point out that the feud was archaic and meaningless would do nothing but harm to you. 

It seemed like the silence that followed your grandfather’s statement was a prompt for you to apologise, but you’d do no such thing. To you, there was no embarrassment. Satoru had been nothing but good to you, and you wouldn’t forsake your love for him because of some external pressure. 

“Its not like she can help it,” your father said quietly. “Soulmates are a divine thing, she had no choice in loving him.” 

Your heart picked up ever so slightly, grateful for the smallest hint of a defence, only for your hopes to be thoroughly dashed at his following sentence. 

“Besides, remember what we discussed? The connection is a blessing in disguise.” 

Reeling back in your chair, you glanced nervously around the room once more, the implication of his statement hanging heavy. This had been what Yaga had warned you of all those years ago, but a part of you had always believed that your clan held too much affection for you to really act in the way he’d suggested. 

Perhaps you’d misjudged them. 

“Indeed.” Your grandfather’s voice boomed across the room. “You’ve had a lapse in judgement, but you can still do what’s right. This is an opportunity that we haven’t had in decades. We can finally gain a significant foothold of power over their clan.” 

“How?” You weren’t sure why you were asking, you knew what the answer was going to be. Perhaps it was that naive hope that there was some other, less lethal solution than the one that had immediately come to mind. 

Unfortunately, no such alternative was offered. 

“Though your sacrifice,” he said plainly. “Go peacefully into the afterlife and make this family proud after all the dishonor you’ve brought upon us. Become legend within our clan, for you’d be one of few to put a six-eyes to death.” 

There was no point in arguing, no point in wasting a single second more in this room. It wasn’t your own life that concerned you, but Satoru’s. You weren’t about to bow in the manner that they wanted.

You were on your feet in an instant, making a bolt for the door. You’d barely made it five steps before you were tackled by one of your cousins, a hard blow to the head knocking you out cold. 

In retrospect, you supposed they could’ve killed you right there and then. It would’ve been the quickest and easiest option, the most-straightforward way to assure that Satoru perished in the manner that they desired. For some reason, most likely due to a level of sentimentality, they locked you up in a room instead.

It was likely that your parents had something to do with that. You could picture them begging your grandfather not to put you down immediately, to ensure that there was some level of ceremony to go along with your sacrifice, an opportunity for them to properly say goodbye to you. 

They didn’t see it as fair or befitting for you to be killed on some random afternoon in a poxy little room following a mediocre lunch. Even if you were a disappointment to their clan, you deserved more than that. 

So it was decided. Two weeks from now, on the full moon, there would be a great feast and celebration amongst your clan. And once midnight struck, you would be beheaded for the sake of eliminating Gojo Satoru. It would be painless and respectable, the type of death that any proud clan member should be proud to experience if it was for the sake of their family. 

One that you dreaded. 

You spent two weeks chained up to a waterpipe in a poxy little room that your family seldom used, anxiety swirling in your chest as you thought about Satoru, wondering where he was, wishing above all else that there was a way that he could be saved from the fate that you were about to receive. 

Yaga was right, you would only bring tragedy upon both of you. 

If you were strong like Satoru you’d both be safe, you’d be free to live out life in whichever way you pleased. It was your weakness that was failing both of you. 

How unfair. 

The night of your execution came around, and you were dragged into the hall that your clan used for large events. Food was forced down your throat, despite the fact that the urge to vomit was growing within you with each passing second. Family members approached you, gushing about how what you were doing was just so great as if you had any choice in the matter. 

Meanwhile, it felt like your heart was splitting in two, desperately calling out for Satoru. You hadn’t told him where you were going the day you’d gone to have lunch with your family, in his mind you could be anywhere. There was no doubt in your mind that your clan had kept matters quiet, unwilling to alert Satoru of your location. 

Perhaps he might’ve gotten something of a clue by the blunt force trauma that you’d received when trying to escape. You could only assume that he’d been knocked out for a time too. Hopefully he’d been somewhere safe when that happened. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Your mother had come to sit next to you, pulling you from your thoughts. “I know this feels unfair, but it's best for everyone.” 

“Is it?” You asked. 

“It is. We need to rid the world of those devils. You know that.” 

You shook your head with a scoff, trying not to laugh in her face. 

“Satoru is kind. Did you know that? He’s just a man, and he’d never do anything to hurt this clan. The feud is meaningless to him.” 

“You just don’t get it, honey. You’re too young and lovestruck to realise what he is.” 

“And you’re too blinded by hatred.” You snapped back. There was no point in hiding behind a mask of politeness anymore. They were going to execute you whether you were kind or not, apparently that was your duty. 

“He could kill us all with no effort.” Your grandfather, who had been watching from a couple of seats away, interjected. “Do you understand what he's capable of? He might be enamoured enough with you to treat you with kindness, but that same offer will not extend to us. It never does with that family.” 

You kept your mouth shut after that. 

There was no merit to pointing out that most scuffles had been caused by your clan and not theirs, or the fact that the Gojo clan had been dwindling in numbers so significantly over the years that they didn’t pose a threat at all outside of Satoru - who couldn’t care less about the feud. 

Everyone was too caught up in their own old ways of thinking, and too convinced that you’d brought dishonor upon their household. There was no chance of changing anyone's mind, so why waste your breath? 

As the banquet drew to a close, and they led you out into the courtyard, the night sky alight with stars, you wondered if you were the first person in your clan to fall in love with a Gojo. Were there soulmates transcending the rift before the two of you? Did they face the same fate that you were about to meet? 

Somehow the thought offered you a certain amount of comfort as you were shoved down onto your knees atop a white sheet. It was there to make the clean up easier, you supposed. God forbid they stain the garden with your blood. 

You wondered what Satoru was doing. Was he out there desperately searching for you, aware that you had to be alive but fearful of how long it would stay that way? Was his fear born out of worry for you, or was he more terrified at the idea that his own life was in total peril and he had no control over it at all? 

Even if your death was inevitable, even if this was fate playing out in the way that it was supposed to, you wished that you could apologise to him. You loved him, loved being his soulmate, but if you could make one wish in that moment, it would be for that bond to sever. 

He deserved to live a long and happy life, one unhampered by your weakness and your clan's inane hatred of his very existence. 

He deserved better than the fate you were providing him. 

Your grandfather stood over you, drawing his sword from its scabbard with practiced precision. You weren’t surprised that he was the one taking on the task. As the oldest member of the family, he held the strongest views on upholding tradition and the duty that everyone should be displaying where family were involved. 

It was likely that he also just had the strongest stomach for something like this. Killing a member of the clan, traitor or otherwise, would weigh heavy on many others in your family. Your grandfather had always been good at doing the hard things in life. 

Whether he considered this one of them, you weren’t particularly sure. Perhaps he was overjoyed to put down such an immense disappointment. 

“Any last words?” He asked, staring down at you. You’d already bowed your head in anticipation. This was going to happen whether you liked it or not, any attempt to struggle would ultimately make the death more painful for you. 

Perhaps you should’ve stayed silent, given them nothing, but that didn’t feel quite right. If you had a moment to speak, then you’d at least give them something that might haunt their actions. 

“You shouldn’t hold hatred in your hearts. It has turned you ugly.” You kept your voice as even as possible, eyes fixed on the floor. 

“You know little of the world.” Your grandfather stated, unphased. “But we thank you for your sacrifice all the same.” 

Drawing in a steadying breath, you squeezed your eyes shut. Thoughts of Satoru flooded your mind, comforting visions of him at your side, holding you tight, whispering sweet nothings in your ear as you fell asleep in his arms. Perhaps there was life after death, and you would go there together. 

There might be a world better than this one, a place where you could be his with no barriers to your union. Even if you wished you could’ve had it in this life instead. 

A rush of air brushed against the nape of your neck as your grandfather swung his sword, your mind peacefully drifting off somewhere else, in total acceptance of your circumstances. 

But a second passed, and then another, and another. Your head was still firmly attached to your body. Experimentally, you cracked on eye open, finding yourself in the same position as before, knelt down on that white sheet. The difference this time was that it wasn’t your grandfather who was standing over you. 

Satoru’s face was splattered with blood, breathing heavily as he stared down at you, paying little mind to the old man crumpled on the floor beside you, his bones bent unnaturally and his sword shattered into pieces. 

“Satoru…” You breathed softly, eyes wide. You’d never seen him like this before, the look on his face completely serious. There was a flicker of soft affection in his eyes as he glanced over at you, but it was clear that he had no intention of breaking his facade as long as you weren’t safe from this situation. 

“Do you want me to kill them?” Satoru asked flatly, gaze sweeping over the remainder of your clan, most of whom looked terrified. You couldn’t really blame them, he was the strongest sorcerer out there, not a single one of them stood a chance against him.

Their only option would be to use you, and right now, Satoru was standing protectively in front of your shaking form. 

“I- I don’t know.” You stumbled over your words. 

Despite the attempt to execute you, there was a hesitance where it came to letting Satoru wreak havoc upon them. They were still your family, still the people who had raised you with so much care. All of this insanity was a result of years of conditioning to hate Satoru and everyone else like him. 

You genuinely believed that they didn’t know better. 

Did that mean they deserved to live though? None of them hesitated when it came to killing you. There was no guarantee, if you let them live, that they wouldn’t try something like this again in the future. 

Besides, Satoru had killed your grandfather already. You were sure that alone would stoke their flames of hatred even further. 

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his white hair, brows creasing as he seemed to give it some thought. Your family found their words first, with your father taking a shaky step forward and pointing an accusatory finger at your soulmate. “See, he comes in here and instantly kills one of us! Threatens to kill us all! This is why we need him dead!” 

Satoru rolled his eyes. “Really? You were about to kill my soulmate. What else did you want me to do? Let it happen?” 

He took a few steps towards the crowd, putting himself firmly between you and them. They flinched back in fear as he approached, but he seemed unbothered, moving until he was towering over your father. 

“I’d never have come here, I’d never have laid a hand on any of you. Until you tried to take her from me. I don’t care if you want to live some ugly, bitter life because of some distant feud, I don’t care if you want to send assassins after me. But you don’t lay a single hand on her - that, I won’t abide by.” Satoru’s tone was uncharacteristically cold, and it had you shivering despite not being the intended recipient. 

You could only imagine how your father must feel. 

“And we’re just supposed to believe you?” Your mother asked, her tone shrill. 

Satoru tilted his head to look at her, disbelief in his expression. “I don’t care about some dusty old feud, and you shouldn’t either.”

“I told you, mother.” You called out shakily. “Satoru isn’t interested in causing us harm.” 

“The words of a traitor mean little.” Your mother responded harshly. You took in a sharp breath, trying not to let the words wound you. You didn’t want to be seen as a traitor to your family, and had never considered yourself one. 

It was no crime to fall in love. 

Satoru laughed, earning a few confused glances from your family. “Forget it.” He turned back to you, eyes a little wild. “What do you wanna do, baby?” 

The insinuation hung in the air once more, and you turned it over in your mind for a few seconds before standing up on shaky feet. Seeing your grandfather on the floor was more than enough bloodshed for you. What was the point in massacring the rest of your family? It might feel good in the moment, but the guilt would haunt you forever. 

You’d be the bigger person. 

“Consider me an outcast.” You said, eyes flicking between your mother and father. “I no longer want anything to do with this clan. Come after either of us again, and I’ll send him here to do the very thing that you live in fear of.” 

A giddy grin made its way onto Satoru’s face, one that was sufficiently insane to get your message across. “I’ll do it, I’ll kill all of you. If you so much as touch her ever again.” 

There was no response to that, no bold quip from your father. They’d wanted Satoru dead because they knew that he was capable of that and more. Up to this point, they’d drawn none of his ire, they were free to live in peace. But now the threat was desperately real, the consequences of their actions finally catching up with them. 

Content with their compliance, Satoru approached you. He crouched down for a moment, hands tenderly brushing your face, studying you, as if checking for injury. It was almost an amusing exchange, and you had to bite your tongue to keep yourself from pointing out that if you were injured, he’d know about it already. 

But the action was tender and loving all the same, and you revelled in the feeling of his hands on you. 

“Are you okay?” He whispered softly, quiet enough for the words to remain between the two of you, safe from the prying ears of your family.

“Better now you’re here.” 

He smiled, letting out a deep breath. “Good. Let's get out of here.” 

Pulling his hands away from your face, he slid his arms beneath you and picked you up like you weighed nothing. He held you close to his chest, blue eyes surveying your family once more as he turned to face them. 

“You guys going to let me through, or are we going to have a problem?” 

There were a few awkward looks exchanged, before the crowd finally parted. They wouldn’t do anything to provoke him now, they knew better than that. Even if their hatred was burning stronger than ever in their hearts, vindicated by your soulmate's actions today, they understood that Satoru could slaughter all of them with little issue if he chose to. 

It just wasn’t worth it. 

“Thank you,” he said in a sing-song tone as he stepped past them. You buried your face into his chest, eager to avoid seeing the disappointed looks on the faces of your family. Despite his outwardly easy demeanor, you could feel Satoru’s heartbeat racing in his chest. You wondered if his anxiety was just as high as yours was. 

You almost couldn’t believe it when the two of you stepped out of the compound, swiftly making it to Satoru’s car which was parked down the road. He placed you gently into the passenger seat, strapping you in before speeding away as fast as he was willing to go on the country roads leading to your family home. 

His hand was resting on your thigh, squeezing ever so slightly. It was if the contact was reassuring him that you were actually there, that you weren’t going to slip from his grasp as long as he was touching you. 

“I wanted to kill them.” He said, blue eyes fixed on the road. “I know you didn’t want me to, but…”

“It would haunt me,” you said honestly. “Besides, unless you were planning on killing all my baby cousins, the stupid feud and cycle of hatred would just continue. I don’t want any part of that.” 

He hummed. You weren’t sure what to make of it, weren’t clear whether he’d have wiped out your whole clan there and then, innocent or not. Not that there was any point lingering on it - he’d always put your desires first, had gone against his own wants to make sure that you were happy. 

“I think they’ll continue the feud anyway. I’m sure there’ll be no forgiveness for what I did to that old man.” He seemed unbothered by that fact, unsurprising considering that your family had been trying to kill him his whole life anyway. “I think we need to move you out of your apartment, I need a way of keeping you safe.” 

You nodded in agreement, even if your mind was racing with worries surrounding how you were supposed to do that. The cat was out of the bag, and Satoru couldn’t hover at your side for every second of every day. 

“We can move you to my estate.”

Recoiling, you shot him an incredulous look. “Are you joking?” 

“No?” 

“How would that be any different than where I just came from? I’m from the clan that you guys despise.” 

Satoru rolled his eyes. “Firstly, I’m literally the head of my clan so what I say goes. Secondly, I don’t have a big clan like you do, most of my family were old when I was a kid and now there’s hardly anyone left to uphold tradition. Thirdly, you don’t belong to your clan anymore in any capacity, you’re mine, so for all intents and purposes, let's just say you’re a Gojo.” 

You stared at him for a while as you tried to take all of that in. “I can’t just take your name.” 

“Then we’ll get married and it can be official.” He batted back your protest with a simple shrug of his shoulders, like proposing marriage was no big deal, something that the two of you would obviously do together. 

“Are- are you asking me to marry you?” 

“Baby, I would’ve married you at seventeen, the moment I found out we were soulmates.” 

You giggled incredulously. “That would’ve been poorly thought out.” 

“Would it?” He glanced over at you seriously. You watched the way his hands tightened on the steering wheel, pulling over to the side of the road and shutting off the engine so that he could give you his full attention. “You’re my soulmate, I know that I’ll never want anyone but you.” 

“O-oh.” You flushed a deep shade of red, caught off guard by the deep sincerity in his voice. After weeks of stress and anxiety, it felt strange to be treated with such tenderness. You could hardly believe that he was really here, back at your side once more. 

“I can get you a ring or something and do this properly, but what I’m trying to say is: it doesn’t matter if your own family has forsaken you, because you can be part of mine.”

Your heart was hammering against your ribcage, beating so fast that it risked outright escape, making an attempt to jump straight out of your throat. You’d loved Satoru since you were seven years old, even if you hadn’t known it then. Looking at him now, in all his beauty, you could hardly believe that he was yours. Even through all the tragedy, against all odds, you were here together. 

“I’d like that.” Your voice came out as a whisper, but Satoru heard it all the same. 

“I’m glad.” His breath was hot against your lips as he leant over the centre console, his nose brushing tenderly against yours for just a moment before rewarding you with a slow and passionate kiss, one that had your whole world spinning - not unlike the first time you’d done this many years ago. 

“I’m yours,” you asserted as he pulled away, lashes fluttering. 

He beamed, cerulean eyes filled with a deep affection. “You are. Now and forever.”

if you'd like to cause yourself emotional pain, I've now written an angsty follow up to this fic here!!

a/n: I've been focussing on this fic for agessss because writing gojo does not come naturally to me!! I promise I'll go back to what I know and give you more sukuna soon (I swear I will have a new sweet tooth chapter imminently)

thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated as always <3