I Love Fictional Men

And yet, seated beside you at supper in the smaller hall reserved for the royal household, Valarr discovered that his attention had wandered once again.

The table glowed with the warm reflection of candlelight. Servants moved quietly between courses, setting down platters of roasted quail and bowls of stewed apples. Conversation flowed easily along the length of the table—his father discussing the day’s petitions, a cousin recounting some minor absurdity from the city below.

Valarr heard none of it.

He was thinking about the way your hand felt inside his.

Your fingers rested in his grasp beneath the tablecloth, warm and soft against his palm. He had taken your hand absentmindedly at the beginning of the meal, intending nothing more than idle affection, yet some quiet instinct had tightened his hold and refused to release it.

You shifted slightly beside him.

“Husband,” you murmured pleasantly, “as much as I enjoy the touch of your hand, I should also like to enjoy my dinner.”

Your fingers wiggled in a patient attempt to loosen his grip.

Valarr blinked, drawn abruptly back to the present.

“Ah—sorry,” he said at once.

The apology was sincere.

His hand did not move.

You glanced sideways at him, brows lifting in amused disbelief. “Your words and your actions appear to disagree.”

He cleared his throat, finally loosening his hold by perhaps half an inch. “I did not realize I was holding so tightly.”

“You have imprisoned my hand for the better part of a course.”

“I was distracted.”

“So I have gathered.” The corner of your mouth curved as you reached for your spoon with your free hand, attempting to resume your meal. The attempt lasted all of three seconds before Valarr, still watching you with quiet concentration, lifted his own spoon instead.

“Allow me,” he said.

You stared at him.

“What?”

“You said you wished to eat,” he replied, as though the matter were self-evident. “If your hand is otherwise occupied, it seems proper that I assist.”

His logic was delivered in perfect seriousness.

You looked from the spoon to Valarr’s utterly composed expression, clearly attempting to determine whether he was teasing.

He was not.

“Valarr,” you said carefully, “I am quite capable of feeding myself.”

“Ordinarily, yes,” Valarr agreed.

“And also presently.”

“You are presently missing one hand,” he tuts.

“Because you refuse to release it!”

“Oh, but that does not negate the inconvenience.”

You stared at him for another moment before a soft laugh escaped you despite your efforts.

“You cannot be serious.”

He raised the spoon slightly closer to your mouth.

“You will grow hungry otherwise.”

A faint murmur of poorly concealed amusement rippled along the table. Valarr ignored it with princely indifference, his attention fixed entirely upon you as though this exchange were the most reasonable arrangement in the world.

Your eyes narrowed with playful suspicion.

“I do not like how much you are enjoying this.”

Your husband looks at you innocently, “I am merely solving a problem.”

“You created the problem.”

“And so I am addressing it efficiently.”

The spoon remained suspended patiently between you. 

For a moment you seemed inclined to refuse on principle. Then your gaze flicked toward the observing relatives who had suddenly developed a deep interest in their goblets.

Your shoulders lifted in a small, conceding sigh.

“Very well,” you said.

Valarr’s expression did not change, but the faintest flicker of satisfaction touched his eyes as you leaned forward and accepted the offered bite.

“There,” he said calmly. “Problem solved.”

You chewed thoughtfully.

“Have you considered,” you said after swallowing, “that you might simply release my hand?”

He looked down at your fingers still resting securely within his.

“The thought has yet to cross my mind.”

The answer arrived without hesitation.

“And why not?”

Valarr regarded you with mild surprise, as though the reason were obvious.

“Because I prefer it where it is.”

The simplicity of the admission caught you off guard. A faint warmth crept into your expression, though you quickly disguised it by reaching for your goblet.

Across the table, Baelor finally gave up any pretense of ignoring the exchange.

“Valarr,” his father said dryly, “your wife does possess two perfectly functional hands.”

“Yes,” Valarr agreed.

He offered you another spoonful.

“She is choosing not to use one of them.”

You covered your face briefly with your free hand, laughter escaping despite your best efforts.

“Your Highness,” you said between breaths, “I fear I may have married a madman.”

Valarr tilted his head slightly, considering.

“If that were true,” he said, lowering his voice just enough that the others could not easily hear, “you would not look quite so pleased about it.”

You turned toward him again then, meeting his gaze directly, and for a brief moment the playful noise of the hall faded around you.

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around yours beneath the table. Nothing else explained why something as simple as holding your hand across a supper table felt more satisfying than any victory he had ever claimed in the yard.

Valarr lifted the spoon once more.

“Another bite,” he said.

You studied him for a moment, amusement lingering in your eyes.

Then you leaned forward obediently.

The court that morning had assembled in the long audience chamber where tall windows admitted pale light, spreading across the polished stone floor in long bands of gold. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon stirred faintly in the draft from the galleries above, and the chamber hummed with the low murmur of noble voices.

The formal petitions had concluded not long before, leaving the court in that softer hour where conversation replaced ceremony and the true work of politics continued.

Valarr stood among them with the patience expected of a prince who had been raised within such rooms all his life. His posture remained relaxed, his expression attentive, though he had long ago learned to hear the direction of a conversation before it first began.

The lord presently speaking to him possessed the unfortunate confidence of a man who believed himself very clever.

Lord Harwyn was not an important man, though he behaved as though he might become one if he spoke often enough in the right company. His beard had gone mostly silver, and he held his wine cup with the thoughtful air of someone preparing to deliver an observation of significance.

“Your Grace,” he said warmly, inclining his head. “It seems scarcely a moment since the realm celebrated your wedding. Time passes more quickly every year, does it not?”

Valarr acknowledged the remark with a polite inclination of his own.

“So I am told.”

“Two moons already, I believe?” the lord continued. “Perhaps three?”

“Two,” Valarr said.

“Ah.” Lord Harwyn nodded, swirling the wine in his goblet. “A young marriage still, then. The realm, of course, watches such unions with great hope.”

Several courtiers within earshot grew subtly attentive.

Valarr recognized the turn of the conversation at once. It was not an unfamiliar path.

“Hope,” the lord repeated thoughtfully, “for the continuation of so distinguished a line. Naturally one understands these things take time. Still, one cannot help but wonder when the gods might see fit to bless the union with… news.”

The remark hovered politely in the air.

It was delivered as sympathy.

It carried the unmistakable shape of a provocation.

Valarr regarded Lord Harwyn for a moment with mild consideration, as though the man had asked an unexpectedly practical question about taxation.

“You are quite right,” he said calmly. “The realm is very interested in such matters.”

The lord smiled, satisfied that his point had landed.

Valarr lifted his goblet and took an unhurried sip of wine before continuing.

“I can assure you, however,” he said, “that there is no lack of enthusiasm in the royal apartments.”

The silence that followed arrived with impressive speed.

Lord Harwyn blinked.

“I—Your Grace?”

Valarr seemed faintly surprised by the confusion.

“You appeared concerned that the marriage lacked… progress,” he explained with perfect courtesy. “I wished to reassure you that my wife and I are very diligent.”

Several listeners abruptly found the far wall fascinating.

The lord attempted a laugh that emerged somewhat thinner than intended. “Oh, I would never presume—”

“Quite right,” Valarr agreed pleasantly.

He tilted his head slightly, as though recalling something important.

“Although,” he added, with the faintest suggestion of amusement touching the corner of his mouth, “I should mention that two moons is hardly an extended campaign. Even the most determined efforts require a reasonable span of time.”

Lord Harwyn’s goblet hovered halfway to his mouth, forgotten entirely.

“I see,” he said weakly.

Valarr regarded him with polite interest.

“Do you require further clarification, my lord?”

“No!” the man said quickly. “None whatsoever.”

“Good.”

Valarr inclined his head once more, entirely satisfied that the matter had been addressed.

Across the chamber, several courtiers exchanged looks that balanced precariously between admiration and disbelief.

Because the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, ordinarily the most composed man in any room, had just spoken of his marriage with scandalous candor.

The murmurs began almost immediately after he excused himself and crossed the chamber.

A lady from the Stormlands leaned toward her companion with quiet amusement.

“Well,” she whispered, “one cannot accuse the prince of neglecting his duties.”

Her companion’s smile was thoughtful.

“Indeed not.”

She glanced toward the far side of the hall, where you stood speaking with one of the ladies of the court, sunlight catching the pale silk at your shoulders.

“It seems,” she added softly, “that the princess has discovered how to coax a very disciplined man into honesty.”

Across the chamber, Valarr approached you with his usual composed stride.

You glanced up at him as he reached your side, your expression brightening immediately.

“My husband,” you said lightly, “why does Lord Harwyn looking at us as though he has swallowed a lemon?”

Valarr followed your gaze briefly before returning his attention to you.

“I believe,” he said mildly, “that he asked a question and received a thorough answer.”

You studied him for a moment.

The faint, suspicious curve of your smile suggested you did not entirely believe that explanation.

Nevertheless, your hand slipped easily through his arm, and as you leaned closer to murmur something that drew a rare, quiet laugh from him, several observers arrived at the same conclusion at once.

Whatever enchantment lay upon the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdom was not subtle.

And he did not appear to mind it in the least.

The chamber reserved for your afternoon preparations overlooked one of the inner gardens of the Red Keep, where roses climbed the stone walls and the early light filtered softly through tall lattice windows. Within the room, however, the atmosphere remained pleasantly unhurried.

Your handmaiden stood behind you, drawing a brush through your hair while you examined your reflection in the tall mirror set beside the dressing table. A tray of pins and ribbons lay neatly arranged nearby, and the gown selected for the evening. It is something dark and elegant, appropriate for court—waiting across the room where it had been carefully laid out.

For the moment, however, you remained comfortably seated in a simple shift of soft linen, your hair half-brushed and loose about your shoulders.

“Your Grace,” your handmaiden said after a moment, her tone careful.

The brush slowed slightly as though she were debating whether to continue.

“Yes?”

She hesitated, watching your reflection through the mirror as though deciding whether the question might cost her position.

“I do not mean to overstep my post,” she said finally, “but I have wondered something for some time.”

You lifted one brow with polite curiosity, tilting your head just enough that a loose strand of hair slid across your shoulder.

“Oh?”

“I was wondering,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “what charms you used on Prince Valarr.”

You blinked, the surprise entirely genuine.

“What?”

“He is just so…” She searched for a word. “…enamored.”

Your smile appeared almost immediately, slow and amused.

“Is he?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said with the earnest of someone who had spent weeks observing the evidence. “Everyone sees it.”

You leaned back slightly in the chair, the linen of your shift rustling softly as you shifted.

“Everyone?”

The brush paused briefly in your hair.

“You always know how to parry with him,” she continued. “In words, I mean. And he looks at you as though he has just remembered something important.”

You laughed softly, the sound light in the quiet room.

“That sounds awfully dramatic.”

“It is true,” the girl insisted. “You could wear a sack and he would still want to jump your—”

The door opened.

Your handmaiden stopped speaking so abruptly the brush nearly slipped from her hand.

Valarr entered mid-stride, clearly intending to finish whatever thought had occupied him before crossing the threshold.

“I wanted to speak with you about the arrangements for the evening audience because I believe the steward has misunderstood my—”

He stopped.

Entirely.

The remainder of the sentence dissolved somewhere between his mind and his mouth.

You turned slightly in your chair, the movement causing the loose fabric of your shift to shift along your shoulder.

“Good afternoon, husband.”

Valarr did not answer at once.

His gaze had fixed upon you with the kind of stunned look that suggested whatever he had come to say had completely abandoned him the moment he saw you.

Your shift, light and unadorned, slipped loosely over your shoulders, the linen catching the afternoon sun where it gathered at your collarbone. Your hair, only half-brushed, fell freely down your back in waves that had not yet been arranged into the composed elegance usually seen at court.

It was, by all reasonable standards, a perfectly innocent sight. However, your husband looked as though he had been struck by something invisible.

Your handmaiden, sensing with sudden clarity that she had wandered into dangerous territory, lowered her eyes and very quietly pretended to rearrange the ribbons on the dressing table.

Valarr cleared his throat.

“You cannot wear that.”

You stared at him through the mirror.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That,” he repeated, gesturing vaguely in your direction as though the concept required no further elaboration.

You looked down at the shift, pinching the linen lightly between your fingers.

Then back at him.

“It is a linen shift,” you said patiently.

“Yes.”

“You are aware that it is worn beneath clothing.”

“I am very aware,” Valarr said stiffly.

“And I am presently getting dressed.”

“Yes.”

“Then why,” you asked sweetly, “is my undergarment suddenly a matter of royal concern?”

Valarr opened his mouth. Closed it, gaze flickering briefly toward your handmaiden before returning to you with visible restraint.

“Because,” he said carefully, “the door was open.”

“And?”

“And anyone could walk in.”

Your handmaiden coughed softly, still facing the table, her shoulders rising slightly as she tried to remain invisible.

You tilted your head, studying him with growing amusement.

“Anyone did walk in.”

Valarr’s jaw tightened slightly.

“That is precisely the issue.”

You studied him for a moment before your smile widened with unmistakable mischief.

“Husband,” you said, “are you jealous of my shift?”

“I am not jealous of a piece of garment.”

“Then what has got you so worked up?”

Valarr did not answer immediately. Instead, he stepped farther into the room and shut the door, the latch settling firmly into place.

Your handmaiden froze where she stood.

Valarr returned his attention to you.

“I am objecting,” he said calmly, “to the possibility that anyone else might see what I am presently seeing.”

Your brows lifted.

“Which is?”

He gestured again.

“You!”

You spread your hands lightly, the gesture causing the loose sleeves of the shift to fall farther along your arms.

“I should hope so.”

“In that,” he continued dryly, “there lies the problem.”

You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room.

“Valarr, if you wish me to remain unseen by the world, you will find court life very inconvenient.”

“Believe me, I am already finding it inconvenient,” he mutters angrily.

Your handmaiden’s shoulders trembled slightly as she attempted to remain silent.

You caught the movement in the mirror and raised one brow.

“Am I amusing you?”

“No, Your Grace,” she said quickly.

Valarr folded his arms.

“You encourage this.”

“Encourage what?”

“The habit of speaking freely in your presence.”

“Would you prefer I frighten the servants?”

“That might simplify matters.”

You turned in your chair to face him fully now, your eyes bright with teasing.

“My prince,” you said, “I am really having a hard time imagining how you survived before marrying me.”

“I was calmer,” he said at once. “And lonelier.” He paused.

Your handmaiden watched the exchange with growing fascination.

Because what she had said earlier was true: you did parry with him, effortlessly, and the Crown Prince—who intimidated half the court into respectful silence—appeared strangely content to be challenged.

Valarr exhaled quietly.

“You should at least have closed the door.”

“Might I remind you that you were the one who opened it.”

“Well, you should have anticipated that.”

“You are suggesting I should predict your movements now?”

“Precisely.”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, one finger absently tracing the edge of the mirror frame.

“That seems like a great deal of responsibility.”

“It would spare me unnecessary distress.”

“Distress?” you echoed, delighted. “Over a shift?”

“Yes,” your husband affirms, exasperated.

You leaned forward slightly.

“Husband,” you said softly, “if this distresses you, I dread to think what will happen when I put the gown on.”

Valarr looked genuinely uncertain.

Your handmaiden’s eyes widened slightly at the exact moment the formidable Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms realized he had walked into a battle he might not win.

“You do this deliberately,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Why?”

Your smile softened just a fraction.

“Because you look very handsome when you lose your composure.”

He stared at you.

Your handmaiden stared at both of you.

And slowly Valarr’s expression shifted. “Well,” he said quietly, “that is an unfortunate habit.”

Valarr stopped beside your chair, looking down at you with an intensity that made your handmaiden suddenly very interested in the arrangement of hairpins again.

“Then,” he said softly, “you should take care.”

“Why?”

His mouth curved very slightly.

“Because I will return the favor.”

You studied him for a moment. Then your smile returned, brighter than before.

“I look forward to the attempt.”

Behind you, your handmaiden finally understood. It was not charms that bewitched the prince. It was the simple  truth that you spoke to the Crown Prince as though he were merely a man. And Valarr  seemed to adore you for it.

That midnight, the heavy curtains around the bed stirred faintly with the breeze from the open window, carrying with it the cool salt smell of Blackwater Bay.

You had been asleep. Very soundly, in fact.

Until you woke with the distinct and increasingly urgent realization that you were terribly thirsty.

For a moment, you lay still beneath the blankets, blinking into the dimness as you gathered your senses, your mind slow with sleep. Your throat felt dry, and somewhere on the small table across the chamber sat the pitcher of water that suddenly seemed impossibly far away.

You sighed softly.

It would only take a moment.

Carefully you attempted to sit up.

You did not get far.

An arm tightened around your waist with immediate precision, dragging you firmly back against the warm solid weight behind you before you had even lifted your head from the pillow.

Valarr.

His bare chest was pressed along your back beneath the blankets, warm and solid, his skin still heated from sleep, and his face was buried somewhere near the curve of your neck, his breath slow and warm against your skin. One arm was wrapped so securely around your middle that it felt less like an embrace and more like a restraint devised by a particularly affectionate gaoler, his hand splayed across the soft fabric of your shift as though even in sleep he required the reassurance that you were still there.

You attempted again, gently shifting your weight.

The arm tightened further, his body instinctively following yours so that your back pressed even more firmly into him.

You sighed again, though this time it came out quieter, more resigned.

“Valarr,” you murmured softly.

No response.

You nudged his forearm where it lay across your stomach.

“Valarr.”

Still nothing.

He made a vague sound that might have been a hum or a protest and pulled you a fraction closer, if such a thing were even possible, his face pressing more firmly against the warm hollow beneath your ear.

You stared at the canopy above the bed.

This was going to be difficult.

You reached back, patting lightly at his arm.

“My prince,” you tried again, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

A long moment passed.

Then, at last, he stirred—only enough that his brow shifted against your shoulder and his grip tightened once more, subconsciously ensuring that something precious had not wandered off in the night. His fingers flexed faintly against your waist, brushing the fabric of your shift as though seeking skin beneath it.

“Mm.”

You waited for his reply, but nothing else followed.

“Valarr,” you said again, a little more insistently now, though still quiet enough not to shatter the fragile peace of the room.

He inhaled slowly, the breath warm against the back of your neck, and muttered something into your skin that was decidedly not a word.

“I need to get up.”

Another pause.

His hand slid lazily over your waist as though attempting to soothe you back into stillness, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded line along your side.

“No,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

You blinked.

“Stay.”

You turned your head slightly, peering back at him over your shoulder.

His eyes were still closed, lashes resting against his cheeks, his hair a dark and thoroughly disordered halo against the pillow. For a prince who spent his waking hours composed and precise to the point of severity, he looked thoroughly rumpled now—bare-chested beneath the blankets, hair mussed, his arm stubbornly locked around you like a man who had no intention of surrendering his hold.

And entirely unmovable.

“Valarr,” you said patiently, “I cannot stay.”

A faint frown appeared between his brows, though his eyes remained stubbornly shut.

“Why.”

“I am thirsty.”

Another long pause followed as your husband processed this grievous piece of information.

Then his arm tightened again, pulling you back against the steady heat of him.

“There is water,” he said vaguely.

“Yes,” you replied, glancing toward the table across the room. “Over there.”

Silence.

Then, very slowly, his eyes opened.

He stared at the dark canopy above the bed for several seconds as if deeply reconsidering the existence of thirst itself, before his gaze drifted downward toward you, lingering with slow reluctance.

You waited.

He blinked once, heavily.

“Drink it in the morning.”

You let out a quiet laugh.

“I would if I could survive that long.”

Valarr made a soft, dissatisfied sound and buried his face back into the hollow of your neck, his nose brushing the sensitive skin there as though the argument might simply end if he held you closer.

“No.”

“Valarr.”

“No.”

“Valarr,” you repeated, this time gently prying at his arm. “I truly must go.”

He groaned softly, the sound low and entirely put-upon, but after a moment his hold loosened just enough for you to slip free, though his hand lingered stubbornly at your waist as though reluctant to let you escape entirely.

You barely managed to sit up before a hand closed lazily around your wrist.

You turned.

Valarr was watching you now, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused with sleep, his expression the particular kind of weary irritation reserved for inconveniences occurring in the middle of the night.

“Where,” he asked slowly, “do you think you are going.”

You gestured toward the table.

“Water.”

His gaze followed your hand.

He squinted at the distant pitcher as though it had personally offended him.

Then he sighed—long and dramatic—and pushed himself up onto one elbow, the blankets sliding slightly down his torso.

“Wait.”

“I am already halfway there.”

“Wait.”

Before you could argue further, he dragged a hand through his already unruly hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed, still blinking like a man who had been dragged unwillingly from the deepest sleep.

You blinked.

“Valarr, you do not need to—”

“I am coming with you.”

You stared at him.

“To fetch water?”

He gave you a look that suggested this was an extraordinarily foolish question.

“You are wandering across the chamber in the middle of the night,” he said hoarsely. “I am not letting you do it alone.”

You could not help the smile that tugged at your mouth.

“It is merely three steps.”

“It is still across the room.”

“Goodness, you are being absurd.”

“And you are terribly demanding for someone who woke me,” he muttered, pushing himself fully to his feet and immediately reaching for you again.

You laughed quietly as he guided you toward the table with a hand resting at the small of your back, his palm warm even through the thin fabric of your shift, his movements slow with lingering sleep.

The floor was cool beneath your feet, the chamber peaceful in the dim glow of the dying fire.

He poured the water himself, blinking down into the cup like a man performing a complex diplomatic task.

Then he handed it to you.

You drank gratefully, the cool water easing the dryness in your throat.

Valarr watched you the entire time, his expression softening slightly as the last of your sleepiness faded, his gaze lingering with quiet attentiveness as though ensuring the crisis had truly passed.

When you finished, he took the cup from your hand and set it back beside the pitcher.

“Well?” he asked quietly.

“Well what?”

“Better?”

You nodded.

“Much.”

He seemed satisfied with this answer.

Without another word, he took your hand again and guided you back to the bed, pulling the blankets aside with sleepy determination.

The moment you settled beneath them, Valarr followed immediately, drawing you back against him with quiet urgency as though reclaiming something temporarily misplaced.

This time he pulled you closer still, one arm sliding firmly around your waist while the other slipped beneath the blanket to rest against the bare skin of your side, clearly dissatisfied with the barrier of fabric. His palm settled there, warm and possessive, his chest pressed along your back once more as he tucked you securely against him.

You smiled faintly into the pillow.

“You realize,” you murmured, “I could have fetched the water myself.”

Valarr’s voice came low and drowsy beside your ear.

“I am aware.” His grip tightened slightly, his fingers brushing slowly along your skin now that they had found it, the touch absentminded and deeply content.

“But,” he said after a moment, his voice softening with that rare warmth he saved only for you, “if you are awake, I would rather be awake with you.”

You felt the faint press of his lips against your temple before his face settled once more into the curve of your neck, his breathing gradually slowing again as sleep reclaimed him.

And though the pitcher now sat only a few steps away, you found that you no longer minded being held quite so tightly by the same man who, in the daylight, unhorsed knights before roaring crowds yet seemed entirely incapable of sleeping without his wife firmly within reach.

Chapters:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Finale coming on October 28th!

Fic Tag: Fic: Rotes Madchen

Bonus

Blood Moon (18+)

Claimed (18+)

Mating Bite

Taglist:

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You suck in air desperately, chest compressing in dangerous hyperventilation as you flee. You can’t stop it, you don’t even try, knowing every single moment could be your last. Legs pumping, you try to remember which way you came, trying to remember the dips of brooks and stream, of crags to hide yourself in, the way back in the direction of town in a vain bid to lure the beast into the swords of the hunters there.

Yet in your chest a single word echoes out in a deafening prayer, a scream for rescue towards the one who vowed to protect you.

“KÖNIG!!”

The beast follows behind you, and you feel the ground shaking under your feet as it closes the distance, tearing trees like branches as it carves a path forward towards your fleeing form. You hear the crack of wood the the sound of an ax hammering through trunks, felling ancient oaks just to taste the warm drip of your blood against its fangs. Each step it takes trembles the earth like a war drum, every beat within your chest feels like the moments ticking until the jaws seize about form, crushing you in half as your scream fills with scarlet-

PLEASE!! You shriek vainly towards the gods, tears filling your eyes with the futility of this chase, knowing it only ends one way. ONCE MORE. LET ME SEE HIM JUST ONCE MORE.

The moon stares balefully down upon your crimson clad form. Silent, imminent, unavoidable since before the day this story began.

Your cape snags against a bramble of thorns, and at the speed you launch yourself with the tie around your neck chokes the air from your lungs. You tug frantically as the fabric, hearing it tear as you rip yourself free, casting a single glance over your shoulder at the thing behind you.

It’s several long strides away, once more on all fours, steam streaming from its dripping maw as it pants and gives chase. Paws the size of your head impact the earth, drumming a rhythm there that screams higher with the pulse between your ribs. The golden eyes trace you as you stumble in your terror, promising a fatal bite that grows closer with every passing second.

It washes over your form as you turn your face to the sky, look to the moon which hangs as a deathly omen to all that gaze upon it. You wait for the towering figure of a wolf to rise far above the branches, to open its jaw and take the moon between its dripping fangs. Ink dark clouds roil before it, and in them you see the eyes of the beast threatening to stare back at you. They pin you where you stand, stare down through the trees and echo a growl to the rising wind.

The forest once felt like an ally to you. Now, it sets to betray you.

Konig is here, somewhere, amidst the trees. Feverish and dazed as he is, he couldn’t have gotten far from the village. Yet in the darkness, where you can scarcely see a few steps ahead of you, it’s impossible to find any tracks to lead you forward. Instead, your voice rises high to the heavens in a desperate bid to summon him to you.

“Konig!!”

It feels like it hardly carries above the wind that rakes through the trees, rustling leaves across the darkened path before awash in malevolent scarlet from the light of the moon. Your voice cries out through the trees as a wailing call, a tearful attempt to find the man who had held you in his arms and whispered endless devotions.

You don’t understand. Why did he leave, when you begged him not to? When he swore he’d stay, when he had asked you if you’d ever walk out of the woods beside him?

Was it all just a lie?

The forest holds all secrets. Now, it holds him away from you as well.

You make your way forward quietly, knowing you are far from alone in these woods. The threat of the beast within remains, and inside your thoughts the sonorous echo of his ominous howl reverberates in an endless omen. The memory of the towering, monstrous thing from the first night the witchers had come upon these woods has haunted you all this time.

Taller than any man, a huge, lumbering thing. Its arms too long, ears standing atop its furry head, huge spine hunched forward as a pair of gleaming, yellow eyes gaze at you from the trees. Fangs snarl at you in the confines of your mind, and you feel yourself caught between yellowed teeth as the thing crunches down in a killing blow. You think for a moment you hear the sounds of it giving chase above the rapid echo of your own terror, and despite yourself you venture a gaze behind you as Price’s horse thunders down the misty midnight path towards the safety of the village.

You see just a glimpse of it from beyond your fluttering red cape, a shadow that dwarfs your thoughts, a gaze that fixates on you from afar, seeming to promise ‘Soon, little maiden. Soon.’

Soon. You knew this entire time you would come to face the beast. A premonition lurked within you like a fawn disguised amongst the brambles, concealed and fragile, waiting for a thing you could not see. Trembling, it hid from shadows, blinked at the moving figures above, listening to the growl that prowled in search of your quivering form.

You thought you’d have more time.

Now, with the blood moon rising, the wind carrying the sound of your voice in a desperate cry, the darkness swallowing you whole, you fling yourself towards that violent fate. You run forward as panic mounts within you, feet thudding against the cold earth as you search for the soul of your beloved.

He’s here, you can feel it. You know you’ll find him, throw yourself into his arms and dry your face against his shirt as his arms close protectively around you. Somehow, you’ll find yourself facing the wolf together, finding a way forward as you both have vowed. Escape, or death, as long as he holds his hand in yours.

A howl splits the sky.

It begins as a low note and rises to full pitch just as goosebumps erupt across your skin in terror. The sound is deafening. It feels like it’s all around you with no discernible source, calling out your name as a herald of your demise. The howl shakes the ground below your feet, feels like it cracks the earth so you fall down into the endless forest, the branches closing above you as an inescapable prison.

You feel your chest rising unevenly, limbs shaking and breath curling away from you in a gasping billow of air. Terror roots you to where you stand, stifles your voice so the utterance of his name is a mere whisper.

“Konig.”

He said he’d protect you. He said he’d stay.

You knew you tasted lies on his tongue when you kissed him.

Yet you refuse to release him without giving chase.

You run forward once more, the apocalyptic red of the moon radiating off your scarlet cape, dyeing your figure the color of blood. The color of your inescapable fate.

Please. You beg the gods who do not listen. Let me see him. One more time. Let me kiss him and whisper words there even as I’m devoured.

Once more into the woods you run.

Shadows dance at the edge of your vision, and you spin towards them, eyes wild as you try to find Konig, the creature amongst them.

“Konig!!” You call again, listening for his answering call. You flee deeper into the woods, praying that with your next step you don’t find a mangled corpse at your feet.

Yet in the light of the moon, what you find instead is just as horrifying.

Fabric waves in the wind from a sapling that bends to the breeze, and as you near you catch it between your hands.

A dark, poorly sewn covering. The hood he used to cover his face.

Yet there’s no bloodstains, no indication of injury. Almost as if he had torn it from his figure himself. You gaze down at it, fingers tracing the seams, eyes not understanding. Had he shed it in his fevered state, full of delusions?

It doesn’t matter. He’s close, you can tell. Once more, you raise your voice to the rising wind in a cry for him.

“Konig!!”

Yet in the echo of your call, the woods fall ominously silent. The whisper of winter on the wind stills to a quiet hush, tickling the edge of your cape before it falls into stillness. The sway of the trees gently wavers to a halt, and even the clouds above seem to pause in their journey across the sky. The forest holds its breath, allowing the drum of your heartbeat to pulse too loud in your ears.

In the soundless woods around you, you feel an awareness prickle sharp across your neck, racing down your spine in acute realization.

You’re being watched.

Then, a growl.

Fear pulses in tandem with the icy rush of blood in your veins, chest compression the air in your chest into a silent, trembling breath. The low, grinding sound of the growl reverberates ceaselessly in your thoughts, echoing there with the sound you heard so long ago, on the day you began to be plagued by nightmares of the hulking, towering figure that haunts the woods.

You turn in slow motion, limbs shaking, eyes wild and unblinking. You feel as if you move through water, and even as something pulses inside you to run, RUN! you can’t seem to make yourself flee. You remain grounded to the spot, the roots of your feet extended deep into the earth and planting you where you stand. Instead you’re forced to turn to gaze upon the thing that you know will be your destiny.

You expect a shadow, a hulking mass the same as the one you saw in the woods that night. Yet instead the first thing you see is the eyes, the pair of glowing, golden orbs that stare at you from the trees that arch above your trembling form.

Yet then the thing rises, its front paws leaving the earth as it grows taller, taller. With every heartbeat you watch as the beast ascends to its full height, the golden eyes rising through the branches, seemingly past the canopy. An ancient, primordial terror seizes inside you as the monster dwarfs you with its massive size, centuries of instinct bred into your veins by your ancestors to fear the thing before you, to regard it with such terror it urges you to flee to the end of the earth just to avoid its killing bite.

The werewolf raises its muzzle up into the sky just as the clouds part, reddened light streaming through and alighting the creature in the blood red drip of the sky above. It parts its jaws in a snarl, claws extended outwards to reveal the muscle in its arms and torso, fangs gleaming in the ruby glow that makes scarlet ooze from its mouth as it parts-

and howls a catastrophic omen to the heavens.

You will yourself to cover your ears, but your fists remain at your side, one hand still gripping the fabric of the man you may never see again. Instead, your eyes remain locked on the werewolf that towers far above you, with such monstrous height and size you think it may devour you whole.

He can swallow the moon. You think with such stomach-turning dread that every other thought within you sucks into petrified silence.

I’m going to die.

It’s that thought that finally releases you.

You’re sprinting away before you can process the ground moving under your feet, boots thudding against the earth as you fling yourself further into the trees. The long note of the beast’s howl trails after you, dimming to nothingness as the wind rises once more, as your own heaving breaths muffle every other sound in the world around you.

RUN.

You weave deftly between the branches and trunks of the trees around you, your smaller size an advantage to the monster’s lumbering stature. The forest reveals itself to you at last, seems to part before you as you hurl yourself in an unknown direction, a bloodied path with a fatal end. The trees swallow you, try vainly to hide you within their depths as you feel the earth thud, and the monster finally gives chase.

You suck in air desperately, chest compressing in dangerous hyperventilation as you flee. You can’t stop it, you don’t even try, knowing every single moment could be your last. Legs pumping, you try to remember which way you came, trying to remember the dips of brooks and streams, of crags to hide yourself in, the way back in the direction of town in a vain bid to lure the beast into the swords of the hunters there.

Yet in your chest a single word echoes out in a deafening prayer, a scream for rescue towards the one who vowed to protect you.

“KONIG!!”

The beast follows behind you, and you feel the ground shaking under your feet as it closes the distance, tearing trees like branches as it carves a path forward towards your fleeing form. You hear the crack of wood- the sound of an ax hammering through trunks, felling ancient oaks just to taste the warm drip of your blood against its fangs. Each step it takes trembles the earth like a war drum, every beat within your chest feels like the moments ticking until the jaws seize about form, crushing you in half as your scream fills with scarlet-

PLEASE!! You shriek vainly towards the gods, tears filling your eyes with the futility of this chase, knowing it only ends one way. ONCE MORE. LET ME SEE HIM JUST ONCE MORE.

The moon stares balefully down upon your crimson clad form. Silent, imminent, unavoidable since before the day this story began.

Your cape snags against a bramble of thorns, and at the speed you launch yourself with the tie around your neck chokes the air from your lungs. You tug frantically at the fabric, hearing it tear as you rip yourself free, casting a single glance over your shoulder at the thing behind you.

It’s several long strides away, once more on all fours, steam streaming from its dripping maw as it pants and gives chase. Paws the size of your head impact the earth, drumming a rhythm there that screams higher with the pulse between your ribs. The golden eyes trace you as you stumble in your terror, promising a fatal bite that grows closer with every passing second.

You’ll never outrun it.

You try desperately to think past the veil of all consuming fear within, trying to find a solution, a way out, a path forward further into the woods so deep it cannot find you.

The solution comes before you can fully consider it. In the darkness, you don’t see the dip of the stream bank ahead of you. You yelp as you fall forward, unintentionally launching yourself into the water below. It’s not so deep it covers you fully, but the sudden shock of the cold brook manages to steal the air from your lungs as you raise yourself up with shaking limbs. The deafening huff of the beast is just beyond you, and in blind terror you lurch forward once more.

Yet the forest, in all its secrets, offers you a hidden enclave, a shelter. Your hand finds the deep swell of a space between the rocks, damp and shadowed, a space just large enough to fit yourself into. Your chest heaves in gasping breaths as you cram yourself into it, allowing the rocks to swallow you. It’s in his memory, you think, remembering the way you found Konig curled into the same hollow between the trees and rocks, eyes terrified and somehow hopeful as he once reached for you.

He could be already dead. Devoured by the wolf, and with you never having the chance to say goodbye.

Yet you stifle your tears as the werewolf pounces into the stream with a throat tearing snarl, snuffling along the bank’s edge in an effort to trace your scent. You pray that your fall into the water has erased the smell of your fear it uses to follow you, that the shadows of your small enclave conceal you enough to avoid the gaze of its glowing, golden eyes.

You can hear the monster splashing in the stream, growling in frustration as it tries and fails to detect you, nose lifting to the wind to catch your scent. It barks in growing anger, the sound full of ire, grinding deep in its throat. You shiver in the darkness, frigid, wet, shaking from head to toe in your fear. You force yourself to try and not even breathe, for fear the monster will somehow hear that too. You wish in a futile prayer for the moon to set, for the sun to rise and the monster once more to fade into the trees, away from your terrified form huddled into the embankment.

Please. Please. Please. Go away. Just go. Please.

The monster howls towards the sky once more in an angered cry, and the sound shakes the earth under you, seems to echo off the rocks that ensconce your form. The whimper that bubbles up your throat is muffled by the roar, and you shift to gather your cape tighter around you as if it somehow offers a shield of protection.

Then, the world goes silent.

You’re clenched so tight you almost don’t notice at first, eyes scrunched shut and figure curling in on itself as much as the space will allow. A sob clings to the back of your throat, and you will it through sheer force into silence unless it betrays you. Yet the huff and growl of the monster beyond you has vanished. The stream babbles gently in its absence, a soft, almost soothing sound paired with the rustle of trees far above.

You wait a long breath, wait longer for your heart to begin to still before you allow your shoulders to drop, your eyes to open.

Only to stare into the golden gaze of the werewolf.

You scream, and scream louder as a claw snags the edge of your cape, allowing the monster to drag you from your shelter.

“NO. NO!!” You shriek, struggling as the thing parts its jaws in a sinister snarl. Your hands work frantically at the tie around your collar, fingers fumbling as you fall onto your side, the impact rattling the air from your heaving chest.

Somehow, you manage to free yourself, and as the monster plucks the red fabric of your cape between its fangs, you miraculously manage to dart under one of its massive legs and fling yourself up the slope of the embankment. You claw at branches and roots, fingers digging at dirt as you somehow haul yourself up onto solid ground once more. Yet you have not a moment of relief, not as the monster quickly realizes your ruse and gives chase once more.

You cry as you flee, trying to remember the sacraments for the dead as the warm breath of the monster falls upon your nape, quickly closing the distance behind you. A sob tears from your throat, and the memory of your beloved’s gentle embrace, his kisses and devotions provide no shelter from the monster that pursues you.

A swipe to your legs is all it takes to send you tumbling, ground rushing up to greet you harshly. Yet even then you try to struggle away, crawling forward, your eyes streaming with tears. The monster looms above you, uses a mere ounce of strength to flip you onto your back, pin you beneath a single, massive paw.

“Konig.” You sob, vainly trying to dislodge the weight above you, a futile effort as the wolf lowers its maw towards your weak and prone form. A growl reverberates all the way from its chest down into the marrow of your being, and it once more forces a wordless cry as you’re pressed helplessly into the earth.

The werewolf stares down at you, muzzle bunched in a snarl as it lowers its muzzle closer towards the soft, tender arch of your throat. The bite from Konig remains there, and you sob as you remember the words he whispered as he engraved a claiming mark into your flesh.

"Rotty." He growls again, voice deeper, somehow feral. "My Rotty."

Wild, somehow, as he’d held you, barely able to restrain the savageness inside him that seemed more creature than man.

You blink, lips parting, breath caught in your throat as somehow the forest reveals all things kept secret within its depths, at last allowing you to glimpse upon the truth held within the both of you all this time.

The bite mark on his leg. The trap that had been laid by the witchers that had caught the hock of the wolf. The strange disappearance of the monster as you’d sheltered a stranger in your home. His disgust with the scent of wolfsbane on your palms. The interest in his stare that offered a silent watchfulness, an unwavering focus like the lurking gaze of a predator from the woods. The glint of his golden yellow eyes is the same color as the stare above you.

“The wolf won’t hurt you, Rotty. I promise. I’ll protect you.”

“Konig.” You whisper in awed realization, watching as the monster opens its jaws to descend ever so slowly towards your throat.

He left you. He was trying to protect you. Protect you from himself.

He is the wolf from your nightmares.

and somehow, the man from your daydreams.

“It was you.” You whisper, tears still streaming but somehow not afraid, breath released in a sigh as you grow limp under the grasp of the beast above you. “It was always you.”

The pale light of the moon falls upon your open, tender gaze even as warm breath huffs across your skin in the promise of a killing bite.

The words of Laswell, the words you didn’t understand, now unwind themselves in the prophecy of which she spoke.

Laswell holds you, hands clinging tightly to the cape she once bestowed upon you as a gift of her affection towards you.

“There’s one more thing.” She tells you, and in her voice you hear prophecy, the magic she keeps in careful concealment. It winds around you like brambles, a protection for the soul inside you striving towards something you’ve desired all your life, something which remains so close and just out of reach, residing in the woods you’ve always called home.

Laswell gathers you to her, and whispers words in your ear you don’t yet understand, holds you tight like she would a daughter.

“The only way to stop a werewolf.” She speaks to you in a voice that speaks of prophecy. “Is for his name to be echoed thrice by the voice of his beloved.”

Teeth scrape against the flesh of your throat. Your arms raise around the neck of the monster, embracing him so you nuzzle your cheek into his pelt. You drink in the scent of him- familiar, earthy, a touch of smoke from the warm billow of your hearth, and within it the breath of something forever wild and untamed. There, you whisper the final sacrament to this story of yours in a beloved sigh of complete and total surrender.

“Konig.”

The werewolf above you freezes, teeth closed gently around your neck, not yet drawing blood.

You close your eyes, turning your head ever go gently, and press a kiss into his fur.

“Let’s walk out of these woods, together.”

It’s still for a moment, the whisper of the wind through the trees hushing unspoken words onto both your forms, the forest waiting, holding its breath for what comes next.

The creature above you makes a sound, something caught between a growl and a voice, and in it you hear the name he has bestowed upon you.

“Rotty.”

His fangs relinquish their hold on you, drawing back at the same time the paw that pins you withdraws, his form shifting, changing. You watch in awe as the monster before you transforms, fur growing inwards, the bulk of his massive frame folding. His animalistic features retreat from snarling fangs and outstretched claws to human features, shoulders shortening, limbs thinning, until at last the form of a man appears underneath. Konig bows under the transformation, body wracking with a deep shudder as his bones fold themselves back into place, skin knitting so his wolfish features disappear.

At last the pale flesh of his form is revealed, and Konig gasps hoarsely as he falls forward, arms buckling under him so he flops onto your form.

You reach out and catch him, feel the air rush from your lungs as the exhausted weight of him presses down on you. Your hands wrap around his neck, shoulders, and you bury your nose into the crook of his neck, whispering comforts there as he shivers.

“Rotty.” He manages again, voice now absent of the feral growl. Instead he whimpers, broken and desperately relieved, forcing strength into his arms so they wrap around you in turn. “Rotty...I-”

“Shh.” You hush him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “You’re safe. I’m alright. We’re okay.”

Konig shivers again, hiccups a small, sorrowful sound into your shoulder.

“I tried to save you.” He rasps. “I knew if I stayed that-”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “I...nearly killed you.”

“I know.” You tell him, a hand reaching up to pet at his hair. “I saved you.”

Konig nuzzles deeper into you with a trembling sigh, hauls you closer to him. “How did you...?”

You smile, staring up at the moon. For the first time, you notice that the red haze of smoke from the village is dissipating, leaving behind a gentle, pale yellow that bathes you both.

“A friend.” You confess. “Someone who had faith in me.”

Konig is still for a moment, before he at last rises off you, bracing himself on his elbows so her hovers just above your face. Without his hood, you see his features for the first time. A strong jaw, a tickling of a beard, a slightly crooked nose, long dark hair that drapes across his forehead and neck, and...

You blink, fingers coming up to trace the corner of his mouth.

Sharp canines that speak of something other than human.

“What sharp teeth you have.” You murmur softly, expression softening, and you watch in awe as Konig’s face pinches, tears welling into his eyes.

“Rotty.” He sobs, ducking his head. “Rotty, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean, I never-”

You watch him, transfixed by this new myriad of expressions you’re witnessing for the first time, lips parting in wonder. The words inside you escape before you can stop them.

“You’re so...beautiful.” You whisper, watching as his eyes shoot up towards yours, shocked. You can only offer a tender smile, a sweet and beloved reassurance as your hand traces his cheek in a loving gesture.

“I love you.” He tells you, barely audible, as if he’s almost scared to say it, scared of his devotion towards you. It clenches something tight in your chest, and you feel your own expression finally crumple, warmth flooding your eyes once more.

You stretch up, press your lips to him in a chaste contact, and whisper there the words you’ve wished so desperately to say this entire time.

“I love you, Konig.”

He shudders at the sound of your breathless confession, and gently grazes his lips against yours, as if he can taste the words there.

“Beloved Rotty.” He murmurs, and bends at last to kiss you.

You press into him eagerly, head falling back onto the earth as he chases you, mouth slanting against yours with a sigh. Your hand raises to tangle in his hair, and it solicits a groan from him, deep and cavernous like the wolf he is inside. You feel his teeth bite at your lip, fangs scraping across the plush skin. You shudder at the pure possessiveness with which he kisses you, as if to remind himself that you’re whole, his, only ever his. His Rotty. His beloved. His mate.

You whisper his name once more and allow him to devour you whole.

---

The sun rises gently over the village.

In Laswell’s quiet cottage, pale morning light seeps through the windows, and washes over her in a soft, dove gray that catches the color of her eyes. She gathers her things, collects her belongings and prepares herself for the long journey that is about to come.

In her hands, a letter.

Dearest Kate,

I’m safe, but you probably knew that when you saw this.

I’ve decided to leave the village, and my guess is so have you.

I have someone to go with, but I think you knew that too.

We’ll be fine, don’t you worry. I’ll find a way to visit soon.

Just not yet. I hope you can explain to Price and the others

what has happened. I hope they’ll understand, and that

someday I can see them again. Give them my love.

Tell them I understand why they did what they did in

hiding the truth from me. I know they were trying to

protect me, and I don’t hold it against them.

I have someone to protect as well, and he’s going to

protect me too. We have each other, and I’m more

happy than I can write here.

You had faith in me. You always have. You knew

that only I could break this curse, and even at the

risk of my own life you believed in me. Without you,

I would have lived a life of heartache. Thank you for

saving me from that. Know that I will find a way to

see you soon, and until then I hope you are happy,

and well, and safe.

With all my love,

Red...and Konig

Laswell stares down at the paper with sad, fond eyes. There’s a bitter sweetness to her smile, a happiness that is stifled only by your absence. She comforts herself with your words, with your promise to come see her once more. Yet she’s glad to watch you leave, as if observing a fledgling lark take flight for the first time and ascend far above the trees, into the blue sky. There will be a time when you come back to nest into her arms, and she trusts for the day to come soon when she can embrace you as the daughter you are to her.

A knock on the door. She turns, taking in the weary, grieving form of Price as he stands on the threshold.

“It’s time.” He tells her, voice mournful, muted. Laswell tilts her head, smiles at him before gesturing to him inside. He stands at her side, brow bunched in dismay, and she turns to him, cups his face in fond familiarity.

“John.” She murmurs. “I have something to tell you.”

---

The wind rushes past your ears as you fly across the earth, hands gripped tight to the beast that moves under you. Fur tangles between your fingers, and you use it to brace yourself with every powerful roll of shoulders that carries you forward. Warm, panting breaths huff into the growing winter air, steam billowing from the creature’s mouth as his paws thunder against the ground. You cling to him as he runs, the crimson of your cape streaming out behind you like a bloodstain.

You look to the sky, where the sun rises above a clear, pale blue, and the moon nestles softly beyond the horizon- waiting, silent, until it rises once more. The vast expanse of azure you were never able to fully see extends endlessly out before you as you’re carried far above the tree line, into the mountains, and away from the village you once called home. Instead, your eyes take in the never-ending forest below, and gaze further up into the misty slopes wherein you will plant new roots for you and him.

The beast under you slowly trots to a halt amidst a fern lined grove, glances at you over a single massive shoulder with golden eyes. You stroke through his dark fur before sliding from his back onto solid earth once more. As you do, the wolf rises and shifts, bones shifting inwards until Konig is at last revealed with a soft sigh. He stands bare beside you as you toe the edge of the cliff to take in the view below. The smoke from the village can no longer be seen, well behind you now as you travel towards the future. The changing colors of fall have begun to fade, and you shiver at the thought of the long winter that’s yet to come.

Konig loops his arms around you from behind, drags you to him so the warmth of his frame bleeds into you. You go easily, lifting a hand to gently grasp at his arm as you two stare down at the valley below.

“We’ve a long ways to go, Schatz.” He murmurs, propping his head above yours and swaying gently on his feet. “We’ll need to find a den before winter comes.”

You hum a low note in response and allow yourself to imagine it- a new home. One with furs lining the floors, plush beneath your bare feet. A fire blazes brightly, smoke lifting upwards with the scent of cedar. You feel the warmth of it cast golden across your bare form as you pad over towards the nest you share with him. Both of you, strange, mysterious creatures of the woods- once alone, now together. He embraces you, gathers you to him and descends towards your waiting lips. You taste devotions on his tongue.

“My mate.” He purrs from behind you, as if imagining the same vision. He leans down to nuzzle at your cheek affectionately, drinking in your scent with a pleased, rumbling growl. You crane your head to offer him a kiss and feel the smile there as you do.

“My wolf.” You murmur in return with a breathy sigh, cup his face in tender affection. A sound rumbles low in his chest- possessive, protective, and utterly devoted.

He tilts his head, noses along the bruise he left on your neck with a displeased little whine.

“It’s fading.” He remarks quietly, noting the waning colors. “My claiming bite.”

You arch your neck so he has better access to it, sighing languidly in response. “Is that what makes me yours?” You ask softly.

Konig pauses then, and soon you find yourself facing him, caught in his arms as your hands brace themselves on his bare chest.

“No.” He tells you, staring down with his beautiful eyes, the color of a damp, green forest. “I can bite you, claim you forever, but you’re mine no matter what, Rotty.”

You offer him a smile of pure adoration, eyes full of a love so deep not even the endless forest has room to contain it. You stroke his face, your beloved wolf, and whisper the words that are your destiny.

“Then claim me.” You tell him softly, feeling prophecy unfurl once more. “Forever. I’m yours.”

Gold swallows green in his gaze, eyes glimmering brightly as he gathers you to him once more. You sigh into his lips as his arms close around you, unspooling your crimson cape so it sprawls on the earth below.

“Beloved Rotty.” He murmurs with the low intonation of a wild thing now tamed by your hands. “My Rotty.”

He lays you down amongst the ferns, presses his teeth to the soft flesh of your neck...

and you allow red to seal your fate.

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he had ridden into town a year earlier as the new sheriff, tall and broad-shouldered, his golden hair always neatly combed beneath his black stetson, his dark eyes carrying the quiet weight of a man who had seen too much of the frontier’s cruelty and still chose kindness.

kento had courted you the proper way: sunday walks after services, a basket of wild strawberries left on your father’s porch, handwritten letters sealed with wax that spoke of respect, protection, and a future built on solid ground. never once had he pressed for more than a chaste kiss on the cheek. never once had he looked at you with anything but worship.

now he is your husband.

the reception spills out into the street—barbecue smoke curling into the night sky and children chasing fireflies. but kento only has eyes for you. when the last toast is raised, he sweeps you up into his arms as if you weigh nothing at all as your laughter mingles with the crowd’s whoops.

“time to take my wife home, folks,” kento calls, voice carrying that measured timbre that can quiet a saloon or soothe a spooked horse. his strong arms cradle you against his chest, the dark wool of his frock coat warm from the day’s sun.

you tuck your face into the crook of his neck while breathing in cedar soap, gun oil and the faint sweetness of the cinnamon candy he’d chewed. your heart hammers so hard you are sure he can feel it through his vest.

kento carries you the few steps to the waiting buckboard, helps you onto the padded seat, then climbs up beside you. the horse tosses her head and starts forward at a gentle trot.

behind you, the town lights fade into the prairie darkness, the he stars thick as spilled sugar overhead. the night air is cool and scented with sage and distant rain. kento keeps one hand on the reins and the other laced with yours, thumb stroking slow circles over your knuckles.

“ye’re trembling, darling,” he murmurs after a mile of quiet road, “nervous?”

“a little,” you admit with a soft voice, “it’s all so… real now.”

kento lifts your hand and presses a kiss to the new ring. “i’ve waited six months to call ye mine. i’m not about to rush a single second of our first night together. y’ll tell me if anything feels wrong, won’t you? promise me that, honey.”

“i promise, kento.”

the cabin comes into view just beyond the creek bend. it’ms a snug, freshly built place with a wide porch and a stone chimney already smoking. kento had spent every spare hour these past weeks hammering boards and hauling furniture so you would have a proper home.

he reins the mare to a stop, jumps down, and lifts you again. he carries you straight over the threshold like the old tradition demands.

inside, the air smells of pine resin and fresh linens. a fire crackles low in the hearth, throwing dancing shadows across the room. on the rough-hewn table sits a bottle of sweet blackberry wine he’d traded two pelts for and a bouquet of late-blooming prairie roses he must have ridden out at dawn to pick.

the big four-poster bed in the corner was turned down; the quilt his mother had sent from back east folded neatly at the foot. an oil lamp glows on the nightstand.

kento sets you down gently on the edge of the bed. he then kneels to unlace your dusty boots with the same care he might show loading a rifle—slow, precise and reverent. when both boots are set aside, he rises and pours the wine, handing you a glass before taking his own.

“to my wife,” he says and clinks the rims, “to the life we’re going to build here. to keepin’ you safe, cherished, and happy every day the lord gives us.”

you sip and the blackberry sweetness blooms on your tongue, warmth spreading through your chest. kento watches you over the rim of his glass, eyes dark and steady. when the glasses are empty, he sets them aside and cups your face in both hands.

for a moment, you both just stare at each other. your eyes meet and the entire world seems like it’s stopped. your gaze, slowly trails down to his lips. kento notices and he takes his chance to hit it off.

“may i kiss you properly now, angel?” his voice has gone rough at the edges, but still so gentle it makes your stomach flutter.

you nod and your lips are already parting.

he bends his head down slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind. the first touch is feather-light. a brush of warmth. then his mouth settles fully on yours, and the kiss deepens—slow, thorough, tasting of wine and cinnamon and the promise of forever.

one of his hands slide to the small of your back to draw you closer. the other cradles the nape of your neck like you are something infinitely precious.

you sigh into him, fingers curling into the lapels of his coat and the world narrows to the heat of his tongue sliding against yours. the steady thump of his heart under your palm, the faint scrape of his stubble against your chin. . .

when kento finally pulls back, both of you are breathing harder. his forehead rests against yours.

“god above, ye’re beautiful,” he whispers. “i’ve thought so since the first time i saw you behind the counter at the mercantile, but seeing you walk down that aisle today… it nearly undid me, darling.”

his calloused fingers move to the row of tiny buttons at the back of your gown. each one slips free with patient care, the fabric whispering down your shoulders like a sigh. the dress pools at your feet in a silken puddle which leaves you in only your thin cotton chemise and drawers.

cool night air kisses your skin and you shiver. kento catches the shiver immediately, running warm palms down your arms and back up again.

“eaasy, honey. i’ve got you,” his eyes never leave your face, even as his hands work, “may i take the rest off? i want to see all of you—every beautiful inch my wife is trusting me with tonight.”

“of course,” you nod breathlessly.

kento smiles slightly before easing the chemise over your head. it joins the dress on the floor in a soft heap of white cotton. then he hooks his thumbs into the waist of your drawrs and gently tugs them down your legs with the same unhurried reverence.

you step free, standing bare before him for the first time in the golden lamplight. your cheeks are burning hot as prairie sun. instinctively your arms half-lift to cover yourself—old habit from a lifetime of modest upbringing—but kento catches your wrists gently before lowering them to your sides.

“no hidin’ from me, angel,” your husband whispers, voice low and rough with awe. his eyes trace over you slowly, drinking in every curve and shadow as if committing you to memory, “lord help me, ye’re the most beautiful thing i’ve ever laid eyes on.”

kento sinks to his knees right there on the worn rag rug, large hands sliding up the backs of your thighs to steady you. his breath ghosts warm across your skin as he presses a lingering kiss just below your navel, then another higher between your breasts.

“look at these,” he murmurs while cupping the soft weight of them in his palms, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble tight, “so pretty and sensitive already… made to fit my hands perfectly.”

kento leans in and takes one into his mouth, slow and warm, tongue circling with tender devotion while his other hand kneads the other breast. the wet heat of his mouth pulls a soft whimper from your throat.

“mnngh, ken—yes,” your fingers thread into his golden hair rto hold him close as sparks of pleasure dance down your spine.

he switches sides with the same patient worship, sucking gently, then harder when your knees tremble. “that’s it, honey,” kento praises against your skin, deep voice vibrating through you. “let me hear how good it feels. ye’re shaking for me already… my sweet, perfect wife.”

only when your breathing has turned ragged does he trail lower, kissing a slow path down your ribs, over the gentle curve of your belly, until his mouth hovers at the apex of your thighs. he glances up at you, gaze dark with hunger and something deeper. it’s reverence, love and the quiet realization that this is forever.

“lie back on the bed for me, darling,” kento murmurs, helping you settle against the cool quilt. “let me love ye the way you deserve. let me show you how much i’ve been achin’ to make you mine in every way.”

you sink into the mattress with your heart pounding as he settles between your parted thighs on his knees. his warm hands stroke up your calves, over your knees, gently spreading you wider with the lightest pressure.

he kisses the inside of one plush thigh, slow and open-mouthed, then the other, working higher until his breath fans hot over your cunt. you are already slick andaching, and the sight of him there—your handsome husband on his knees like a man at prayer—makes fresh heat bloom across your chest.

“so wet for me already,” kento breathes, voice thick with wonder, “all this sweetness just for yer husband.”

the first slow lick drags from your entrance to your clit and your hips jerk with a broken gasp. kento hums in approval, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure straight through you. he takes his time, lavishing you with long, deliberate strokes of his tongue. he circles your clit with the tip, then dips lower to taste you properly and savors every drop as if you were the finest wine.

two thick fingers join soon after, sliding in with careful, gentle pressure. they curl just right against that sweet spot inside you while his mouth never stops its worship.

“ah! wait—mmh. right therenngh,”you writhe beneath him and your fingers tighten in his hair, but his free hand presses lightly on your lower belly, holding you steady.

“easy, angel. stay right here with me. i’ve got you. feel how beautifully ye’re opening for me? so tight and warm… my good little wife, taking my fingers like you were made for this.”

kento adds a third finger after a while. he stretches you ever so slowly, scissoring his digits with tender patience while his wet tongue flicks faster over your swollen clit. the coil of pleasure winds tighter and tighter in your tummy, your thighs trembling around his broad shoulders.

“nnngh! k-ken—it’s happenin’—“ you breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut as your entire body tenses up.

when it finally snaps, you come with a soft cry of his name. your back arches off the bed and waves of ecstasy crash through you as he licks you through every pulsing aftershock.

he murmurs praises against your slick cunt—“that’s my girl. so perfect—coming so sweetly for me on our wedding night.”

only when you are limp and trembling does kento rise. his lips are shiny with your juices, eyes blazing with love and raw need. he stands at the edge of the bed and begins to undress for you, each movement slow so you can watch.

the dark frock coat slides from his shoulders and is folded neatly over the chair. his vest follows, then the crisp white shirt, revealing the broad, golden expanse of his chest. faint scars from old gunfights trace silver lines across his ribs and the hard planes of muscle shift in the lamplight.

his trousers come next, pushed down strong thighs until he stands bare before you. his cock is thick and heavy, flushed dark at the tip and already glistening with pre-cum.

you sit up slowly. your gaze is fixated on his crotch. you’ve never seen anything like it. like a cock.

you reach for him with trembling fingers, “kento… may i?”

your husband’s breath hitches, but he steps closer, letting you wrap your hand around his hardened dick. “only if you want to, honey. tonight is yours as much as mine.”

the skin is velvet-soft over steel, hot and pulsing in your palm. you stroke him experimentally—with slow and curious pulls—learning the weight of him, the way he twitches when your thumb sweeps over the sensitive head and spreads the bead of moisture.

kento groans low, head tipping back, one large hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

“just like that. slow and sweet, angel. ye’re gonna feel like heaven wrapped around me. i’ve dreamed of this every night since i first kissed you—making you my wife in every possible way.”

kento’s hips rock gently into your fist. he can’t help the praises falling from his lips in a steady murmur: “my beautiful wife, so soft and eager—look at how well you’re learning me already.”

you feel him throb and actually grow even harder under your touch. and the power of it—the way this strong gentlemanly man trembles for you—makes fresh desire pool low in your belly.

after long minutes of you making him twitch and moan, kento gently catches your wrist. he brings your hand to his mouth to kiss your palm. “enough, darling, or i won’t last. i need to be inside of ye now… need to make us one, yeah?”

he climbs onto the bed and settles between your thighs, bracing himself on his forearms so he cages you in warmth and safety without crushing you. his cock rests heavy and hot against your soaked folds, the blunt head nudging your entrance and grazing against your pretty slit. his eyes lock on yours, filled with so much love it steals your breath.

“look at me, honey,” kento whispers softly, his voice rough with restraint. “i need you to know something before we go any further. this first time, it may hurt a little. i’ll go as slow as you need. every inch at yer pace. if it’s too much, you tell me and we stop. y’r comfort, y’r pleasure, y’r trust… those matter more to me than anything in this world. you’re not just my wife tonight. you’re my heart. understand?”

you cup his face and your thumbs brush the sharp lines of his cheekbones, tears of overwhelming emotion pricking at your eyes. you love this man. you trust him so much.

“i trust you, kento. i want this. i want you—all of you. i’m falling in love with you all over again right now.”

his smile is soft and slightly crooked, the one he saves only for you. “then let me love ya the way a husband should.”

kento then kisses you deeply—soul-deep—before reaching down to notch his heavy cock at your entrance. the stretch is immediate and insistent as he gently bucks his hips forward. inch by careful inch he sinks in, gaze never leaving yours, whispering praises between kisses: “breathe for me, angel, that’s it. ye’re doing so well… so tight and perfect around me.”

when he realises you’re bleeding just a bit, a drop trickling down his veiny shaft, he pauses and brushes damp strands of hair from your face, forehead pressed to yours.

“almost there. i’ve got ya. i love you more than i ever thought a man could love.”

you exhale on a shaky breath. kento pushes the rest of the way through in one smooth, steady motion.

a sharp sting blooms deep inside you. it’s bright and fleeting, like a match struck in the dark. you gasp and your nails dig into his bare shoulders.

kento freezes instantly once he’s buried to the hilt, murmuring praise against your ear in that soothing voice: “good girl. . . such a good wife. . . takin’ all of me on our wedding night—i’m so proud of ye. the pain will pass, i promise. just breathe with me, honey. i’m right here.”

he stays perfectly still. he kisses your temple, your cheeks, your lips until the burn ebbs into a deep and full ache that feels strangely right. when your body finally softens beneath him, melting into the mattress, he begins to move. he starts off with slow rolls of his hips, drawing almost all the way out before sliding back in, letting you feel every thick inch.

“mmmh,” you bite your lip, eyes teary from the delicious stretch and the fact you’re so deeply connected with the one man you love.

each thrust of his hips drags his cock perfectly against that sweet spot inside you until pleasure overtakes everything else and turns the ache into liquid heat.

“feel that?” kento whispers, “that’s us becoming one, my love. my wife, my home… the mother of our children someday, if the lord blesses us.”

his pace stays measured and deep, every stroke being deliberate and worshipful. one of his hands slips between your bodies so his thumb can circle your still-sensitive clit in perfect time.

“going to fill ye up tonight. put a baby in this pretty belly while i keep you safe in our home. would you like that? carryin’ our future while i ride out each day knowing i get to come back to ye—my little housewife, round and glowing and loved beyond measure?”

“oh, lorddd. yes,” you breathe out in a whorish moan and your legs wrap tighter around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. “yes! kento—pleaseee. i want everything with you. i want your baby… i want forever.”

kento groans, the sound raw and masculine, hips snapping a fraction harder as his control frays at the edges. the wet, rhythmic sound of your bodies meeting fills the quiet cabin and is mingled with your soft cries and his steady praises;

“so tight… so perfect… come for me again, darling. let me feel ye squeeze me like ye never want to let go.”

that’s all you needed to hear. the second orgasm crashes over you harder than the first. it’s white-hot and endless, your walls fluttering and clenching around him in pulsing waves.

“kento! mmmh!” you sob his name as your back arches off the bed, nails raking down the strong lines of his back, leaving red trails on his skin.

kento follows moments later with a guttural sound, hips stuttering as he spills inside you in warm, endless pulses that leave you both trembling. he stays buried deep inside your throbbing cunt, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard while the aftershocks ripple through you both.

after a long minute he eases out carefully, a soft sound of loss escaping you both. his cum mixes with yours as it trickles down your ass. kento quickly scoops what escaped up and pushes it back in your cunt with the tip of his softening cock.

once that’s done, he gently gathers you against his chest, pulling the quilt over your joined bodies. one large hand rests protectively over your lower belly as if already dreaming of the life you might have made tonight.

his fingers trace lazy, soothing patterns along your spine, and he presses kiss after kiss to your hair, your temple and the corner of your mouth.

“how do you feel, mrs. nanami?” kentk asks, tone soft with wonder and a touch of awe that makes your heart swell all over again.

you smile against his skin, pressing a kiss right over his steady heartbeat. you feel so connected to him. so in love. “happy. full. like i finally understand what home really means… and i’m falling in love with my husband all over again, right here in our bed.”

kento chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “you are my home now. my wife, my partner. i’m going to spend every day proving i’m worthy of that trust—keeping you safe, making ye laugh, filling our house with love and maybe a few little ones who look like you.”

he tilts your chin up and kisses you slow and sweet, no urgency left, only the deep, quiet certainty of forever.

outside, the prairie wind whispers through the tall grass and the creek murmurs its endless lullaby. inside the little cabin, the fire has burned down to glowing embers, but the warmth between you burns brighter than any flame.

kento pulls you closer while tucking your head beneath his chin. one arm wrasps securely around your waist as if he never plans to let go.

“sleep, my angel,” kento murmurs, lips brushing your hair. “tomorrow we start our real life together.”

asshole!sukuna can’t help but crack a smile. he’d had about ten girls come and slap the fuck outta him today. they were all old flings desperate to get their get-back, but that was hardly the point. you were this new thing entirely, a soft thing that seemed sweet regardless of if he was notorious for being a cunt or not. 

“what’s y’ name, sweetheart?” 

asshole!sukuna decided he wanted to see you again after that. you’d caught his interest, which doesn’t happen often. he asks for your number. your instagram, your snapchat, everything. it was kinda pathetic how eager he was to get to know you, but you handed them all over anyway. your friends warn you after the fact that he’s definitely not good news, but you can’t help but want to see where this goes after only dating squares for most of your life. 

asshole!sukuna takes you on a date the very next day, and you were pleasantly surprised at how chivalrous he was. he pulled out your chair at the small hole-in-the-wall restaurant he took you to, he paid for everything, and even more surprisingly, made you feel comfortable. you talked for hours about everything and anything. 

you learned that asshole!sukuna had a lot of hobbies. he played guitar, drums, did a fair few building sketches in the art room with his friend geto when he had time, and had a real connection to film. all of which were things you found extremely attractive, and he could tell, because the next time you two went out he took you to his dorm and showed you his musical endeavors. 

“you’re like... super talented, it’s really attractive.” you smile gently, sitting at the foot of his bed, watching as he finishes up a love song he’d been learning for you. 

“yeah, y’ think so? gonna come to all my gigs when i’m a famous musician?” 

“will i get a backstage pass?” 

“oh, absolutely.” 

asshole!sukuna had officially swooned you after about five dates. he'd mustered up the courage to ask you to be his at that same restaurant he’d taken you to on that first date, and the rest was history. you and sukuna, the couple everyone of his mates envied due to how perfectly you two fit together. 

“how the hell did a guy like you bag a girl like her. yr' gonna destroy the poor thing.” geto teased while they were smoking up one night. 

asshole!sukuna could only reply with, “god, don’t you just hate jealous, hating ass motherfuckers?” 

asshole!sukuna loved to not so subtly brag about you to literally anyone he talked to. (which wasn’t many, but still.) 

“eugh, you’re buying lunch? my girlfriend made me food today, fucking loser.” he’d laugh at the dining hall when gojo and geto sat next to him with a greasy burger and fries. they just gave each other a look, smiled, and rolled their eyes. 

“hm? nah, can’t tonight. me and my girl are getting hot pot. have fun drinking your problems, tho.” he’d turn toji down, turning his nose up at the idea of bar hopping like he wasn’t the most frequent man along the strip a few months back. 

“a two man? i’m not bringing my girl around your little one and done situation, don’t ask me that shit again.” he’d laugh in jogo’s face, hating the idea of his precious baby being around a sleaze bag like him. 

asshole!sukuna always puts you first. his frat’s planning something big, another fundraising night where they really care about attendance, and he’s meant to be there early to help set up. but out of the blue, you’ll send him a text just to say that you've had a slightly shitty day, and boom, he’s suddenly nowhere to be found. his phone’s off, car’s out of the driveway, and he’s at your door with your favorite food and that pissed look, how dare the world have the nerve to bother you. 

asshole!sukuna likes to keep you very close to him when you’re out and about, with either an arm at your waist or his fingers intertwined with yours, he’s most comfortable when you’re right there where he can see you. that way, if anything were to happen, you’d be there for him to protect.

asshole!sukuna lets you get away with absolutely everything. 

“ryo, can i draw on you? like, draw on your back while we watch a show or something?” 

“sure, baby.” 

“ryooo, can i braid your hair?” 

“of course, love.” 

“hey, ryomen? could you drive me to my friend’s house? she lives on the other side of town, though.. it’s okay if you don’t want—” 

“no, no. let’s go, sweetness.” 

“ryo, you smell.” 

“shower with me then, baby.” 

with anyone else, asshole!sukuna would have either yelled or broken their jaw for even thinking they could ask him such questions. but with you? the princess gets what the princess wants or whatever the saying he made up in his head was.

asshole!sukuna fucking hates when people talk over you. it’s a common occurrence due to your soft-spoken nature, you’ll be in the middle of saying something, and someone’ll cut in with whatever thing they think is funnier or more worth listening to. sukuna never lets it slide. “she was talking, dickhead.” he’d scoff, shutting them up and earning a shy, thankful smile from you, as you continued with what you were saying, far more important than whatever that clown had to yap on about anyways. (in sukuna’s mind, at least.) 

asshole!sukuna spends a shit ton of money on you. you almost always go against the idea, but he just can’t help it... when he sees your eyes light up when you see something you like at the mall, he physically can’t resist. he’ll bookmark the product, then order it online to come to your apartment the next day. 

“ryo... why do i have another package?” you whine over the phone, earning nothing but a chuckle from the other end. 

“could tell you wanted it, so just enjoy it, sweet thing. you deserve all the fruits of my labour.” 

“you don’t work? isn’t it your parents’ mon—” 

“semantics. just enjoy, baby.” and he hangs up the phone, grabbing his keys to drive to your place and see how you like the new gift. he thinks it was a new dress? couldn’t be sure, it was hard keeping up with the millions of notifications from the post office. 

asshole!sukuna remembers everything about his girl and makes sure you’re always getting exactly what you want. if he’s out getting dinner before driving to your place, he’ll stop at five different places if that meant getting your order perfectly correct. local maccas has a broken ice cream machine? he’s driving to the next location to try his luck there. one place doesn’t have the kind of noodles you like? he’s making his way to the closest chinese place to see if they do. he is the embodiment of “if he wanted to, he would,” and it’s all worth it seeing your face light up when he holds up the paper bag with a smile. 

“your favourite.” 

“oh my god? this is the place out of the city? how did you—” 

“don’t worry about it, angel.” 

and that was another thing, ashole!sukuna  didn’t let you worry about anything. your place felt too messy? he was over there turning on mlp equestria girls and helping you clean. you wanted a home cooked meal? he’s at the store buying the ingredients. you needed help with an assignment? he’s pushed back his own work to sit down and help you smash them out. 

asshole!sukuna is so overly territorial when it comes to functions. he doesn’t know, there’s just something about people drunk and horny all around you that ticks him off. he’ll always have you either sat next to or on his lap at frat parties. you stick to him regardless, but he has to make it obvious to all the fuckwits blatantly staring at you that you are indeed, his. 

if they don’t get the hint the first time and are still gawking after his mild pda, asshole!sukuna would up the ante. he’ll take you off to some hallway or, if the guys are being particularly sleazy, he’ll kiss you right there. his lips trailling up and down your neck while he stares them dead in the eye, challenging them to look away. 

“ryo... people are looking!” you whisper nervously. 

“let them, sweetheart. you’re too pretty not to stare at.” he grins against your neck, sucking and biting at your soft skin. 

by that point, they always look off. whether that be due to his death glare or the realisation that you’re not going anywhere anytime soon was beside the point. 

asshole!sukuna gets embarrassingly hard at the smallest little things with you. you’ll just be sitting on the couch together and you’ll start scratching his back or head, boom, hard. when you’re sitting next to him in the library and you’re biting your pen, boom, hard. even when you’re just laying in bed, tired from the day, he’ll lay next to you and just sigh. 

“how the fuck do you just look like that. you make it so hard to keep my shit to myself.” he groans as his arms snake around your waist. 

“jeez, i can feel that thing poking into my back... what did i do now?” you smile sleepily. 

“i wish i knew. seems like one look at you and i pop a boner.” he admits, a little embarrassed. 

“can i help you out?” 

asshole!sukuna loved how willing you were to service him, but preferred it the opposite way round. sukuna would spend hours between your pretty thighs if he could, sloppily kissing and sucking at your cunt with dazed eyes, loving nothing more than the pretty moans and groans he could pull from your throat. 

“fuck yeah, y’ like that, baby? you like my tongue, hm?” he’d tease with his mouth full, pumping two fingers in and out of your soaked pussy as he dragged you closer and closer to your orgasm. 

asshole!sukuna knew how wet his filthy words could get you, and he abused that knowledge each and every time he needed you prepped and ready for him. 

“y’ think you can take me, baby, yeah? think you can take this fat cock?” he’d taunt, slapping the thick head against your cunt as your slick coated the pink, glossy skin. “fuckkkk, pretty pussy’s beggin’ t’ get drilled.” 

“what’s that? you need me? well, isn’t that fuckin’ cute. beg a little more and maybe i’ll give you what you want.” 

“be a good girl n’ say please and it’s all yours, angel.” 

asshole!sukuna was massive, but you always took him so well. “you can do it, baby. i know you can.” he’d coo in your ear, lining up the monster of a thing. 

“one, two, fuckkk.” 

asshole!sukuna saw stars every time he’d push in, letting go of a long, pornographic moan as he began to thrust slowly in and out of your tight entrance. the look on your face as your eyes rolled back in pleasure made coming in less than a minute extremely hard, but the intense need to make you finish first overrode any sort of selfish desire to fill you up to the brim in the first few minutes. 

asshole!sukuna loved missionary the most because he could see your pretty face. he enjoyed a bunch of freaked-out positions, but nothing could beat watching your pupils dilate and your lips quiver the second you finally came, his name on your tongue as you let go of the tension building in your tummy. 

“y’ gonna come, baby? y’ gonna come on this cock?” he’d grunt, slamming his member deeper and deeper the louder your cries got, faster and faster until— “fuck, ryo! m’ cumming!” you’d stutter, your insides spasming on his cock, drawing out his own orgasm with one final pound, filling you up with hot ropes of his seed. 

asshole!sukuna was the king of aftercare. words that were filthy before, now soft and caring. 

“you okay, baby? did i go too hard on ya?” he’d ask through tired pants, standing to grab the wet wipes in the side drawer to wash your messy parts off. 

“you want me to order something? anything you want, love. i’ll get you anything and everything.” 

“c’mon, sweetheart. drink some water.” 

asshole!sukuna never made you feel small after intimacy, in fact, sometimes you enjoyed the aftermath more than the mindblowing sex. 

“m’ okay, ryo. just wanna cuddle.” you’d admit shyly, reaching for him to come back to bed. 

his eyes would soften and he’d plop down next to you, pulling you into his lap. “anything for you, angel.” 

sure, sukuna was an asshole, but he couldn't even dream of mistreating you, his biggest exception.

“love you, baby.” 

“love you too, ryo.” 

a/n: i wrote this semi off my face so excuse any bad word or structural choices 💘

He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things? 

One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark. 

That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way. 

“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery. 

He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this. 

“Oh hey, you’re home.” 

Home? 

He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.

You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago. 

You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”

First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?

Second, who even are you?

Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger. 

Fuck.

“Honey–”

Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again. 

“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”

Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth. 

There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru. 

Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.

“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”

He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”

“You also liked to argue, too.”

“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?” 

“No.” 

“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“

You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?” 

“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you. 

“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.” 

– 

“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”

The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere. 

“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”

Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”

“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”

“31.”

Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.” 

Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.  

“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”

“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody. 

Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude. 

“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion. 

He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”

Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?” 

“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”

“I tried my best! I swear!”

“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”

“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”

“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”

The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.

“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.

The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed. 

—

You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand. 

“Is the food good?”

“Sure.”

“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement. 

“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.” 

Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”

“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?” 

Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.

“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being. 

A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.

“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”

It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital. 

“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.

“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake. 

“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”

Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.

“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”

Sai wasn’t having that. 

Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite. 

But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.

“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”

“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself. 

You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous. 

“What?” 

There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”

“She’s weird.”

“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”

“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid. 

He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind. 

“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious. 

He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad. 

For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear. 

—

It’s been over a month. 

Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.

But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort. 

Over his dead body. 

Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.

So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.

Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising. 

Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married. 

Satoru looks over your body once. 

Twice. 

He totally understands his future self. 

He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks. 

It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you. 

You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure. 

“Hey… any good news?”

“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.” 

“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“

“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”

You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.

After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.

“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”

“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”

The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine. 

But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him. 

You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?” 

“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.” 

It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here. 

“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered. 

He’s always had a thing for milfs.

Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now. 

“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”  

You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you. 

“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you. 

And you fucking miss that. 

He opens his mouth to respond. 

Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you. 

Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid. 

His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”

Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”

It’s starting to sound more natural.

“Y-yeah,” she sniffles. 

Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried. 

His little girl was a dream. 

—

Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.

It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world. 

He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does. 

It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.

With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table. 

The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions. 

You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off. 

“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”

He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?” 

“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.” 

You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact. 

Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.

It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake. 

Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”

Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now. 

“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone. 

Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”

“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”

“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“

“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”

“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“

“Kay’ good night.” 

Click.

Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head. 

He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning. 

“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?” 

“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.” 

“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him. 

“So is waking me up.” 

“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”

“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?” 

“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.” 

Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.” 

“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden. 

And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.

You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?” 

“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.

“I can take care of that, you know.” 

“What?” 

“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.

“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?” 

“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?” 

“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.” 

“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief. 

“Is that a problem?” 

“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.” 

Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock. 

“Feel good?” 

His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”

You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.

“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask. 

“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient. 

His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”

“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”

You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are. 

His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all. 

"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.” 

“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.

It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that—  lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him. 

"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."

You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out. 

You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort. 

"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."

You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder. 

He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”

“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”

“You want me to fuck you harder?”

“Yeah.” 

Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper. 

“Better?”

He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”

“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.” 

He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life. 

Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”

“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”

He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch. 

Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you. 

“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself. 

When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him. 

You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.

And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.

—

It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back. 

What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?

He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.  

Acceptance. 

He likes his life here. 

You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.

No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second. 

With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life. 

You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache. 

He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start. 

You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.

“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.

There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”

He’s back.

“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”

—

Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.

Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers. 

Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly. 

Satoru was fucking devastated. 

Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo. 

God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point. 

One Year Later

“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone. 

It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job. 

“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”

“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.” 

The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable. 

He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit. 

It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him. 

The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time. 

“And what can I get started for you today?”

His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.

“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”

“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”

“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie. 

“Name for the order?”

“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”

He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”

“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind: 

He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number.