daisy.

The scent of burning flesh still clung to your nostrils—not yours, never yours—as you blinked awake, your wrists strapped to cold metal rails beneath Touya’s fireproof futon.

White walls, sterile and suffocating, pressed in from all sides.

Where the hell were you?

The last thing you remembered was Stain’s blade glinting in the alley’s dim light, his voice dripping with venom: "You’re no hero. You’re the weapon they’re too scared to admit they built." Then—nothing.

Your throat burned like you’d swallowed a lit match, and your limbs felt leaden, as if your quirks had raged unchecked for hours. The futon’s heat-resistant fabric stuck to your sweat-slicked skin.

A monitor beeped steadily beside you, its green line spiking as your pulse quickened. They’d restrained you. Like the orphanage. Like you were something to be caged.

It looked like a hospital room—white tiles, antiseptic stench, IV lines snaking into your arm—but what if you’d been captured? Stain’s words slithered through your mind: weapon, mistake, monster.

The straps weren’t standard medical restraints; they were reinforced, quirk-suppressant alloy, the kind heroes used on high-risk villains. Your fire quirk sparked in your veins, useless against the cuffs, and you bit back a scream.

The door hissed open. A tall, lean figure with the unmistakable muzzle and fur of a dog stepped in, followed by a younger man whose sharp eyes scanned you like a specimen.

"Chief Kenji Tsuragamae," the dog-man said, his voice measured but edged with something wary. The investigator beside him flipped open a notepad without looking up. "We need to discuss Stain’s allegations."

Your stomach dropped. "Specifically," Tsuragamae continued, ears twitching, "his claim that you’re affiliated with the League of Villains."

You barked out a laugh—hoarse, disbelieving. "Because a serial killer said so?"

The investigator’s pen paused. "Because," he said quietly, "Stain doesn’t lie about villains."

Your fingers twitched against the restraints, nails scraping metal. The room smelled like iodine and something sour—fear, maybe yours. The investigator leaned in, close enough for you to see the faint scar under his left eye.

"You burned down your family home at six," he murmured. "Triggered by the same creature Stain says works for All For One." The monitor’s beeping spiked again.

You swallowed. "I was a kid."

Tsuragamae’s tail stiffened. "And now?" His gaze flicked to the IV bag—sedatives, probably. "You lost control in Hosu. Witnesses say your flames turned black."

The investigator’s pen tapped the notepad. Slow. Deliberate. "Tell us," he said, "about the iron cage at the orphanage."

Your breath hitched. They’d dug that up. The straps bit into your wrists as you jerked against them.

"I sleepwalk," you ground out. "My quirks—they act up."

The investigator’s eyes narrowed. "Act up," he repeated. Like he didn’t believe you. Like he knew about the times you’d woken with dirt in your nails or frost on your sheets, no memory of how they got there.

Tsuragamae’s claws clicked against the tile floor as he circled the bed. His scent—wet fur and gunpowder—clogged your throat. "Stain called you a weapon," he said, each word measured. "Do you know why?"

Your pulse thudded in your ears. The truth tasted like ash: "No."

The younger man’s scar twitched when he smiled. It wasn’t kind. "Your fire," he said, "matched Dabi’s thermal signature in Kamino."

The monitor shrieked—your heart rate spiking off the charts. They thought you were working with him. With the League. With the monster who’d smiled as your parents screamed.

Your vision blurred at the edges. The restraints groaned as your fire quirk surged against the suppressants, heat licking up your arms despite the cuffs.

You wanted to scream that you weren’t one of them. That you just wanted to go back to the orphanage’s iron-barred cot, where the nuns would bolt the door and let you sleep without fearing what you’d wake up to.

"Please," you whispered, voice cracking like dry kindling. The investigator’s pen hovered over his notepad. "I don’t—I don’t remember anything after Stain."

Tsuragamae’s ears flattened. "Convenient."

The investigator flipped a page. His fingers were deliberate, unhurried. "There’s also been a case where the League of Villains tried to capture you twice during the UA invasion," he said, watching your pupils dilate.

Your breath hitched—Kurogiri’s warp gate yanking you backward mid-air. The investigator’s voice was ice. "They don’t chase strays unless they’re valuable."

The IV line tugged as you recoiled. Something in your chest cracked—memories seeping through the fissures. The orphanage’s matron hissing "Demon child," as she bolted your cage. Stain’s blade hovering over your jugular. The monitor wailed. Your skin burned where the suppressant cuffs dug in.

"You’re stalling," the investigator said. His pen tapped—tap, tap, tap—against his notepad.

Tsuragamae’s claws flexed. "Your parents’ quirks," he pressed, slow, deliberate. "One manipulated earth. The other commanded water." Your ribs constricted. "Where did fire and air come from?" The room tilted.

You remembered your mother’s hands—calloused from shaping stone—cupping your cheeks. The way your father’s laughter rippled like creek water.

Then the monster’s teeth, glinting in the dark. Your fire had answered before you’d even known its name.

You didn’t know—your breath came in jagged bursts. The investigator’s scar twisted as he leaned closer. "No records of quirks manifesting like yours," he murmured. "Not naturally."

The IV line tugged at your skin. Your pulse pounded in your throat. Stain’s voice hissed in your skull: weapon, weapon, weapon. The orphanage’s iron bars flashed behind your eyelids.

"I—" The word dissolved into static. Your wrists burned where the cuffs ground bone.

You wanted to run. To bolt through the door, down the sterile halls, anywhere but here—but the restraints held firm. "Please," you begged, voice raw as scorched earth.

Your fire quirk writhed beneath your skin, frantic, trapped. Tsuragamae’s tail flicked once. The investigator’s pen hovered. For a heartbeat, the room held its breath.

Tsuragamae exhaled through his muzzle, ears flattening. "We’ll come back later," he said, claws retracting. The investigator snapped his notepad shut with a final click.

His scar stretched as he smirked. "You better have answers then." The door groaned shut behind them, leaving you alone—and the ghost of Stain’s blade at your throat.

Your chest heaved—too fast, too shallow. Oxygen scorched your lungs like you’d inhaled embers. The monitor screamed in protest, its jagged green line mirroring your spiraling thoughts. Weapon. Mistake. Monster.

The words hammered against your skull, each syllable syncing with the frantic staccato of your pulse. Your fingers spasmed against the restraints, nails drawing blood where they scraped metal.

Black spots danced at the edges of your vision. You were drowning on dry land.

The IV bag swayed—a mocking pendulum—as you twisted against the straps. Something wet dripped onto your collarbone. Sweat? Tears?

The sour tang of panic filled your mouth. You remembered the orphanage matron’s hissed prayers as she triple-locked your cage, the way your fire quirk had licked hungrily at the bars until they glowed red-hot. Now, those same flames writhed impotently beneath your skin, choked by suppressants and cold steel.

Your vision tunneled. The monitor’s shrill alarm warped into a distant echo as your lungs seized. Stain’s voice slithered through the static—weapon, weapon—but the words dissolved into meaningless noise.

Your skull cracked against the pillow as darkness swallowed you whole, the restraints the last thing you registered before the world tipped sideways.

You woke to fingers clamped around your forearm—cold, clinical—and jerked upright with a snarl. The nurse recoiled, her clipboard clattering to the floor as she backpedaled into the doorframe.

"S-sorry!" she stammered, her eyes wide and white-rimmed like a spooked horse. You barely had time to process her panic before she bolted, the door hissing shut behind her.

A dry, wheezing cough cut through the silence. You turned—too fast, your vision swimming—and froze. Beside you, propped up on a chair, a gaunt man with yellow hair stared back through fever-bright eyes. His lips peeled into a grin.

"Hello," he said simply, fingers steepled under his chin. His sleeves rode up, revealing wrists mottled with old burns and fresh IV bruises. Your pulse spiked.

The man’s grin widened as if he could hear them too. "Who are you?" you asked, your voice scraping raw. The monitors beeped faster. "You’re not from the League of Villains?"

"Oh god no," he scoffed, rolling his shoulders with a wince. His grin faltered for a moment—pain flashing behind his eyes—before snapping back into place.

"I’m a hero," he said, like it was a joke only he understood. "Well. Sort of. And they said to keep an eye on you." His fingers drummed against his knee, restless. "What did you do?"

You flinched. The cuffs rattled against the bed rails. "Nothing," you whispered, but the word tasted like ash.

The man’s grin slipped. His eyes—too sharp, too knowing—raked over your restraints, the IV lines, the way your breath hitched when he leaned closer.

"Bullshit," he murmured, so low you almost missed it. His fingers twitched toward your wrist, stopping just shy of the metal. "They don’t strap down kids for nothing."

You thought about it—the matron’s whispered curses, the investigator’s cold smirk, the way even Endeavor had looked at you after Hosu. No one believed you. So you might as well tell him.

"I…" Your throat closed around the words. His eyebrows lifted. "I was told that I was a weapon for All For One," you choked out, the admission tearing through you like shrapnel. "They think I’m a spy or something. I’m not—I swear!" Your voice broke on the last word, raw as an open wound.

The man went very still. His grin evaporated. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the monitor’s erratic beeping. His eyes never leaving yours.

"Yeah," he said at last, voice rough. "They told me that too."

Your breath hitched. He knew. Somehow, this stranger understood the weight of those words—the way they carved you hollow. His fingers twitched toward his own wrists, where faint scars ringed the flesh like shackle marks.

"Why do you want to be a hero?" he asked suddenly, tilting his head. The question knocked the air from your lungs. No one had ever asked—not like this. Not like it mattered.

You'd never told anyone this. The confession spilled out before you could stop it: "A monster killed my parents," you whispered, the words brittle as charred bone. "I heard someone at UA had encountered it. I wanted to… to kill him for what he did."

Your throat closed. The memory of his bones flashed behind your eyelids. "But even when I got the chance, he won."

The man's reply was a slow exhale, his breath sour with hospital antiseptic and something deeper—pain. "That," he said, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose, "is the stupidest reason I've ever heard."

You stiffened, but his grin returned, sharper now. "Good. Heroes should be stupid." His fingers tapped a staccato rhythm against his knee—nervous energy or suppressed rage, you couldn't tell.

"Stain was right about one thing: we're all weapons. Difference is who's holding the trigger."

He just stretched—languid, deliberate—until his joints popped. "I believe you," he said before he left, his voice dropping to a whisper that raised the hairs on your neck. "Don't make me regret it."

You didn't know when you were crying. The tears came silently, slipping down your cheeks and soaking into the pillowcase before you even registered the wetness.

Your fingers twitched against the restraints—helpless, aching—as the weight of his words settled into your ribs like shrapnel.

Don't make me regret it. How many people had said that before locking the iron door behind them?

The heart monitor stuttered as your breath hitched. Outside the window, dusk painted the sky in bruise-purple hues, the same color as the shadows that had swallowed your childhood home.

You wondered if Endeavor knew you were here—if Shoto had been told about Stain’s accusations. The thought twisted in your gut like a blade. Would they look at you the same way the orphanage nuns had? Like you were something volatile, something other?

You didn’t want that. You finally made friends—real ones, not just the wary glances from kids who’d heard about the iron cage. Shoto’s quiet solidarity, the way he’d wordlessly handed you his thermos after training sessions when your throat was raw from suppressing flames.

Even Bakugo’s snarled "Stop fucking flinching" when you’d instinctively dodged his explosions like they were the monster’s claws. They’d looked at you and seen a person, not a threat.

Now Stain had ripped that away with three hissed words.

The door groaned open again—no knock, no warning—and your pulse jackhammered against your ribs. A silhouette filled the threshold, broad-shouldered and haloed by the hallway’s fluorescent glare.

You didn’t need to see his face to recognize the way fire curled in his presence, the air thickening with latent heat. Endeavor. His footsteps were deliberate, each one echoing like a gavel strike. The heart monitor’s beeping turned frantic.

"You get one chance to prove your innocence," he said, voice low enough to sear. His shadow stretched across your bed, swallowing you whole.

His eyes—blue as a gas flame’s heart—raked over your restraints, your IV lines, the sweat-slicked panic on your skin. His jaw tightened. "Toshinori vouched for you. But I don’t trust sentiment." His fingers flexed, knuckles cracking. "Tell me why Stain would lie."

Your breath hitched. The truth coiled in your throat, jagged and raw: "He wasn’t lying." Endeavor’s glare sharpened. You forced the next words out before you could choke on them. "I am a weapon. But not for them."

Your wrists burned where the cuffs bit in. "I was made to kill the monster that murdered my parents." The admission hung between you, trembling like a struck match. Endeavor’s flames flickered—just once—before hardening again.

His scarred hand twitched toward your file on the bedside table. "Made by who?" The question came out rough, like gravel grinding underfoot.

You remembered the orphanage matron’s hissed prayers, the way she’d crossed herself when your fire quirk first erupted. How the other children’s whispers had followed you like shadows: demon child, cursed, unnatural.

Your pulse thrummed against the restraints. "I don’t know," you whispered.

Endeavor’s flames flickered again—hotter this time. "This monster…" His voice dipped, low and dangerous. "Was it the monster I spoke about at the dinner table? The one I defeated?"

You nodded, but you couldn’t tell him the rest—that it had smiled at you with your mother’s blood between its teeth before vanishing into the smoke. He wouldn’t believe you. No one ever would.

The silence stretched taut between you, broken only by the heart monitor’s erratic staccato. Endeavor exhaled through his nose, a thin tendril of smoke curling from his nostrils.

"You told Toshinori more than you told me," he said, his voice flat. His fingers flexed again—not quite a fist, but close. "Why?"

Your pulse hammered against the cuffs. The truth slithered up your throat like bile: "Because he didn’t look at me like I was guilty."

Endeavor’s jaw twitched. The overhead light caught the scar tissue webbing across his face, turning the ridges silver.

The door creaked open again—Chief Tsuragamae’s wet-dog scent preceding him. "It has been decided that you are not a threat," he said, ears flattening as Endeavor’s flames flared. "For now, you will rest and go to school again."

The investigator behind him didn’t meet your eyes as he unfastened your restraints. The metal groaned open, leaving behind raw, bracelet-shaped burns.

Endeavor’s glare could’ve melted steel. "On whose authority?" Tsuragamae’s tail stiffened. "Nezu’s. And All Might’s."

The use of his hero name hung pointedly in the air. You rubbed your wrists, the skin there blistered and tender. The investigator cleared his throat. "UA’s security has been… augmented. Specifically for your case."

Your fingers stilled. They were putting you under surveillance. The investigator finally looked at you, his scar pulling taut as he smirked.

"Welcome back to class." His tone made it sound like a death sentence. . . .

·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!  ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!  ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!  ݁ ˖ ·

Three days passed in the hospital with whispers slithering under your door—villain, unstable, dangerous.

The nurses left your meals just inside the threshold like you were rabid, their footsteps retreating too fast. Even the doctors' hands trembled when they changed your IV, their eyes darting to the reinforced quirk suppressors bolted to your bedframe.

By the time the discharge papers came, the rumor mill had churned out a monster: the UA student who'd matched Dabi's flames, who'd whispered with Stain in that alley, who slept in a cage because their quirks couldn't be trusted.

You walked back into UA with your uniform too loose from missed meals and your wrists still bandaged from the cuffs.

The teachers looked at you the same way the nurses had—like you might combust at any second.

You wanted to go home, but you weren’t sure where that was anymore.

You stood outside Class 1-A’s door for ten minutes, forehead pressed to the cool metal, listening to the muffled chatter inside.

Kirishima’s boisterous laugh, Ashido’s teasing shriek, the steady hum of conversation you’d once been part of.

Your fingers curled into fists. You didn’t want to see their pity. Didn’t want to watch their smiles freeze when you walked in, their gazes darting to your wrists where the bandages peeked out from your sleeves.

You knew what they’d been told. Knew the rumors had spread faster than your flames ever could.

The door opened out of nowhere—you stumbled forward, catching yourself just as Ashido’s pink face filled your vision. She gasped, eyes widening comically before she flung her arms around your neck with enough force to knock the air from your lungs.

"You’re alive!" she shrieked, her voice cracking mid-sentence. The classroom went dead silent. You looked past her wild pink curls to see every head turned your way, expressions shifting from shock to something softer—relief.

Shoto sat rigid at his desk, his mismatched eyes locked on yours, guilt flickering across his face like a shadow. Then Deku’s chair scraped back so fast it toppled over, and suddenly green curls filled your vision as he crashed into you, his hug tight enough to bruise.

"We thought—" His voice hitched, fingers digging into your shoulders. "Gran Torino said—"

Ashido pulled back just enough to punch your arm, her usual grin wobbly at the edges. "Don’t you ever disappear like that again, you jerk!" Her voice was too loud, too bright, like she was fighting back tears.

Behind her, Kirishima’s sharp teeth glinted in a relieved grin, and even Bakugo scowled instead of exploding for once. The weight of their gazes—warm, worried, yours—pressed against your ribs like a living thing.

You didn’t realize you were shaking until Shoto’s hand landed on your shoulder, his palm cool through your uniform. "We tried to visit," he said quietly, his thumb brushing the edge of your bandage. "They wouldn’t let us."

His jaw tightened, the ghost of Endeavor’s fury in the set of his shoulders. Deku finally loosened his death grip, stepping back to scan your face with those too-bright eyes.

"You’re okay now," he said, like he was convincing himself.

The classroom buzzed back to life around you, voices overlapping—welcome back, missed you, tell us everything—but all you could focus on was the way Shoto’s fingers lingered, anchoring you to the present.

The whispers would still follow you. The suspicion wouldn’t vanish overnight. But right now, surrounded by their chaos, their certainty that you belonged here, the cage inside your chest creaked open—just a little.

"Final exams are next week," Kaminari groaned, slumping across his desk like a corpse. The classroom erupted into groans, pencils clattering as if the mere mention of tests had sapped their will to live.

Kirishima punched his shoulder—half-hearted, distracted—but his eyes kept darting to your bandages. "Dude, we gotta cram. Aizawa’s gonna murder us if we flunk and not go to the training camp."

You flexed your fingers under the desk, the ghost of flames licking at your palms. They were talking around it—around you—like if they pretended hard enough, nothing had changed. Deku’s muttering spiraled into tactical analysis, his notes a frantic spiderweb of strategies.

Shoto exhaled through his nose, frost curling from his left fingertips. His gaze flicked to you, then away. "You’ve missed a lot of training."

The words settled like ash between you. Not an accusation—just fact. You swallowed against the dryness in your throat. "Yeah."

Your voice came out rougher than you meant it to. The whispers in the hospital corridors echoed in your skull: villain, unstable, dangerous. Your fingers twitched toward your bandaged wrists.

Shoto noticed—of course he did. His scarred eyelid lowered slightly, a tell you'd learned meant he was measuring his next words.

End exams. You were so screwed. Usually, you'd use your air quirk to eavesdrop on Bakugou's snarled equations or Iida's methodical mutters during tests—hell, even Kirishima's frantic whispers to Kaminari—but now your quirks didn't want to work.

The suppressant cuffs had left your veins feeling hollowed out, like someone had scraped your marrow clean. You flexed your fingers under the desk again. Nothing.

Just the ghost of heat beneath your skin and the taste of ozone at the back of your throat.

"Y/N! You always get top marks!" Mina's voice cut through your spiraling thoughts like a knife, her pink fingers drumming against your desk. Her grin was too wide, her eyes too bright—the kind of desperate cheer people used to paper over cracks.

"Can you tutor me?" The classroom went quiet again. Too quiet. You could feel the weight of their gazes pressing against your spine, waiting to see if you'd snap.

Your throat closed around the words. "I—" The lie came out rough, brittle. "I need to rest right now."

Momo's ponytail swished as she leaned over, her dark eyes scanning your face with clinical precision. "Actually, Mina could join me for study sessions," she offered smoothly, her fingers already flipping open a notebook filled with color-coded notes. The relief in Mina's smile made your ribs ache.

You slumped lower in your seat, fingers twisting the edge of your bandages. The whispers started up again—quieter now, laced with something sharper than pity.

Then Ochako slid into the desk beside you, her pink cheeks flushed as she leaned close enough for her bangs to brush your temple. "I think you should speak to Bakugou," she whispered, her breath warm against your ear.

The words hit like a spark to dry tinder—your shoulders tensed, nails biting into your palms.

Why did everyone keep saying that? As if Bakugou held some secret key to fixing you, like your fraying edges could be cauterized by his particular brand of fury.

You glared at the back of his spiky blond head, where he sat rigid as a live wire, his usual explosions suspiciously absent.

The classroom blurred at the edges—Ochako's worried gaze, Shoto's tense shoulders, the way even Deku kept glancing between you and Bakugou like he was waiting for something to snap. Your fire quirk writhed beneath your skin, restless and raw.

They didn't get it. Bakugou wasn't some redemption arc waiting to happen. He was just another person who'd look at your wrists and see restraints instead of scars.

You stood abruptly, chair screeching against the floor. Every head turned—even Aizawa's, his capture weapon twitching. "I need air," you muttered, and bolted before anyone could stop you.

The hallway stretched empty, fluorescent lights flickering like faulty stars. Behind you, the classroom door creaked open again—heavy footsteps, the scent of nitroglycerin sharp as a warning shot.

You didn't need to turn to know whose shadow now swallowed yours whole.

Bakugou's voice was a low growl, barely contained: "The fuck's your problem?" You whirled to face him, your bandages unraveling where you'd picked at them.

His crimson eyes dropped to your exposed wrists—the raw skin, the fingerprint-shaped burns from where the cuffs had seared you. Something in his expression flickered, too fast to name.

"You think I don't know what they're saying about me?" Your voice cracked like kindling. Bakugou's jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to explode something—or someone.

"Who gives a shit what extras think?" he snarled, stepping closer until his shadow swallowed yours. The hallway lights buzzed overhead, casting his scars in sharp relief.

"You all think the same," you said, the words scraping raw against your throat. "That I'm a monster. A villain. A weapon." Bakugou's breath hitched—just once—before his expression twisted into something furious.

"I'm not," you whispered. His fingers flexed, sparks popping harmlessly against his palms. "I don't," he growled, so low it vibrated through your ribs.

The confession hung between you—fragile, combustible. Bakugou's nostrils flared as he scanned your bandages, the way your shoulders hunched like you expected a strike. His next words came out jagged:

"You're just a shitty hero who can't control their quirk." It shouldn't have felt like absolution.

You lunged before you could stop yourself, fingers fisting in his collar. "I don't want to control it!" The words tore free, raw as a fresh burn.

Bakugou didn't shove you off. His palms sparked once—a warning, not an attack—as your fire quirk seethed beneath your skin, singing the edges of your bandages.

"Then you're worse than Deku," he spat, voice cracking like a whip. His breath smelled like nitroglycerin and burnt sugar.

You could feel his pulse hammering against your knuckles where they pressed into his throat. "At least that nerd tries to be a hero instead of whining about it."

The overhead lights flickered, casting his sneer in stark relief. Your fire roared in response, licking up your forearms despite the suppressants still dulling your veins.

"You think I asked for this?" You shook him once, hard. His teeth clacked together. "To wake up with burns or fucking earthquakes because my quirks don't give a shit what I want?"

Bakugou's pupils dilated—shocked, but he rallied fast. His palms sizzled against your ribs where you'd pinned him to the wall. "You're weak," he snarled, but the insult lacked its usual bite.

His fingers twitched against your sides—not pushing you away, not quite. "Pathetic extras flinch at sparks, and you're out here whining about being a goddamn powerhouse?"

The fire in your veins stuttered. His breath was ragged against your cheek, his heartbeat jackhammering under your fists. You'd seen Bakugou rage at Deku, at Kirishima, at the whole damn world—but this? His fury smelled like desperation.

"You don't get it," you hissed. The words tumbled out before you could stop them—ugly, raw, true: "The monster that killed my parents? It smiled at me. Like it knew I'd never be strong enough to stop it."

Bakugou froze. Your pulse roared in your ears. You hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't told anyone that. The memory surged—teeth glinting in the dark, your mother's scream cut short—and suddenly your hands were shaking too hard to hold him.

Bakugou's fingers dug into your wrists—not to push you away, but to steady you. His palms were blistering hot against your skin, the scent of burning bandages sharp in your nose.

"Tch." His scoff was rough, but his grip tightened when you swayed. "That's why you fight like a cornered animal," he muttered, like it explained everything.

His crimson eyes burned brighter than any flame you'd ever conjured. "Stop running from it. Use that fucking rage."

The hallway lights flickered again—or maybe it was your vision blurring. The old wound in your chest split wide, memories oozing like pus: the monster's claws glinting, your father's choked gasp, the way your fire quirk had erupted before the creature even touched you.

You'd always assumed it was fear that triggered it. Now, staring into Bakugou's seething glare, you wondered if it had been fury all along.

"I never wanted to be a hero," you admitted, the words scraping your throat raw. Bakugou's grip on your wrists didn't loosen. "I just wanted to kill that monster."

His nostrils flared—not in judgment, but recognition. The kind only warriors shared. His palms burned hotter against your skin, not scorching but anchoring.

"Did you?" he asked flatly, jerking his chin toward your bandages. The question wasn't mocking—it was tactical.

You blinked. Your fire quirk sputtered beneath his touch, flickering like a dying match. "No," you whispered. The confession tasted like ash. "He won. Again."

"Should have trained with me," he muttered, fingers tightening around your wrists. His palms burned hotter—not punishing, but promising.

The hallway lights buzzed overhead, casting his scars in sharp relief. The scent of burning bandages filled your nose—cotton charring where his fingers pressed into your skin.

"Listen," Bakugou growled, leaning in until his forehead nearly bumped yours. His breath smelled like caramelized sugar and gunpowder. "This is what's going to happen. I'm going to tutor you, and you're going to train with me. With all your quirks."

Your pulse stuttered—not just from the heat of his palms, but the certainty in his voice. "I can't—" you started to protest, but he cut you off with a sharp exhale through his nose.

"I know you eavesdrop on my answers during exams," he snarled, fingers tightening just shy of painful. "You wouldn't be able to use your quirk in the final exams if you tried—not with those suppressant cuffs still fucking up your system."

His crimson eyes flicked to your singed bandages, the way your fire still licked weakly at your wrists despite the medication dulling your veins. "So stop whining and learn how to fight without them."

The overhead lights flickered again—this time from the storm rolling in outside. Shadows danced across Bakugou's face, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the way his jaw clenched like he was chewing glass.

"You're not weak," he spat, as if the word offended him personally. "You're just untrained." His grip shifted—one hand sliding down to clamp over your wrist, right where the quirk suppressant cuff had bitten deepest.

"And you think you can train me?" The laugh tore from your throat—bitter, jagged. Your fire quirk writhed beneath your skin, responding to the challenge in his voice despite the suppressants still dulling your veins.

Bakugou's answering grin was all teeth. "I'll beat that shitty attitude out of you if I have to."

"But first you're going to the infirmary," he growled, dragging you down the hall by your scorched wrist. His grip was ironclad, his palms blistering hot against your skin. The scent of burning bandages filled the air—cotton charring where his fingers pressed too hard.

You dug your heels in, pulse jackhammering as Recovery Girl's door loomed ahead. "I don't need—"

The world tilted violently. Dizziness crashed over you like a rogue wave, your vision swimming with black spots. Your knees buckled—Bakugou's grip the only thing keeping you upright as your fire quirk flickered out like a dying match.

His scoff was rough, but his arm snaked around your waist, hauling you upright with a grunt. "Idiot," he muttered, his breath hot against your temple. "You're running on fumes."

The hallway walls blurred into streaks of gray as he half-carried, half-dragged you forward. Your skull throbbed in time with your pulse, each heartbeat sending fresh waves of nausea rolling through you.

Bakugou's fingers dug into your side—not painful, just present—anchoring you as the floor seemed to ripple beneath your feet. "Don't fucking faint," he growled, but his voice sounded distant, warped, like you were underwater.

You blinked—once, twice—and suddenly you were slumped against the infirmary doorframe, Bakugou's knee digging into your thigh as he kept you upright. His pulse hammered against your temple where your head lolled against his shoulder, rapid-fire and furious.

Recovery Girl's voice cut through the fog—sharp, concerned—but all you could focus on was the way Bakugou's fingers trembled ever so slightly where they gripped your wrist.

"Use your quirk on me," you muttered into the fabric of his uniform. Bakugou stiffened, his breath hitching audibly. "The hell?" he snarled, but you clawed at his sleeve, nails scraping sweat-slick skin.

"I can't be unconscious, please," you rasped, the words slurring together. The nightmares always came when you blacked out—your quirks running rampant, the monster's laughter echoing through the void.

Bakugou's palm cradled your jaw, forcing your chin up. His pupils were blown wide, the usual crimson swallowed by black. "Tch. You're not passing out on my watch," he growled, but his thumb brushed your cheekbone—once, fleeting—before he jerked his hand away like you'd burned him.

The scent of nitroglycerin spiked as his quirk activated, tiny explosions popping against his palm.

You expected pain. Instead, warmth bloomed across your skin—not searing, just steady, like a campfire warding off the dark. Your fire quirk stirred in response, flickering weakly beneath the suppressants still dulling your veins.

Bakugou's scoff was rough, but his grip on your wrist gentled just enough to feel deliberate. "Breathe, dumbass," he ordered, and for once, you did.

Recovery Girl's cane cracked against Bakugou's shin before he could react. "What did I say about unauthorized quirk usage in my infirmary?" she scolded, though her glare softened as she took in your trembling form.

Her wrinkled fingers pressed against your forehead, cool as river stones. "Dehydration, quirk exhaustion, and—good heavens—are those suppressant burns?" Her lips pursed. "Who authorized this barbarism?"

Bakugou's jaw worked silently. His palms still hovered near your shoulders, sparks popping faintly—not threatening, just restless. The scent of burnt sugar and gunpowder clung to him as he shifted his weight, boots scuffing the tile.

"They strapped her down like a fucking villain," he muttered, voice low enough that only you and Recovery Girl could hear. His crimson eyes flicked to your bandages, then away.

The old heroine's sigh rattled through her like dry leaves. Her gnarled hands moved with practiced efficiency, unwrapping your bandages to reveal the raw, weeping burns beneath.

"Child," she murmured, and the word landed like a stone in your gut, "you cannot keep treating your body as the enemy."

Her lips thinned as she dabbed salve onto your wrists—the sting sharp enough to make you flinch. Bakugou's fingers twitched toward yours, then curled into fists at his sides.

"Tell that to Endeavor and every teacher in this school," you said dryly, watching the ointment sink into ruined skin. The words tasted like scorched earth.

Recovery Girl paused, her rheumy eyes flicking to Bakugou's rigid stance. He didn't deny it—just set his jaw harder, sparks popping in his clenched palms. The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid: the iron cages, the suppressor cuffs, the way even teacher's gaze lingered on you these days like you were a lit fuse.

"I'm calling Aizawa," Recovery Girl said suddenly, hobbling toward her desk phone. Your spine stiffened—Bakugou's did too, a mirror reaction neither of you acknowledged.

"Why?" you asked, fingers curling into the stiff infirmary sheets. Recovery Girl didn't look back as she dialed. "Because there's no way I'm letting you walk out of here while hurting like this," she replied, voice steelier than her frail frame suggested.

Bakugou scoffed—too loud, too sharp—but you saw the way his Adam's apple bobbed when Aizawa's tired voice crackled through the receiver. Recovery Girl's next words made your stomach drop: "Yes, the suppressant burns. And the dehydration—no, she hasn't slept properly in weeks."

Bakugou's sneer faltered. His fingers twitched toward your wrist again before aborting the motion, shoving both hands deep into his pockets instead. The scent of nitroglycerin spiked—nervous habit.

The door creaked open before Recovery Girl could hang up. Aizawa stood there, capture weapon askew, dark circles darker than usual. His tired gaze swept over you—the burns, the bandages, the way Bakugou hovered like an overgrown guard dog—before landing on Recovery Girl.

"You were right to call," he said simply. Something in his voice made your fire quirk flicker weakly beneath your skin, a caged thing recognizing its keeper. Bakugou's fingers flexed at his sides. The air smelled like antiseptic and impending detonation.

Aizawa didn't ask questions. He never did. Just crouched beside your cot, elbows resting on his knees, and looked at you—really looked—for the first time since before Hosu. His knuckles brushed your wrist where the burns were deepest, feather-light.

"They overdid the suppressants," he murmured, more to himself than anyone. His thumb traced the edge of a blister, calloused but careful. The touch shouldn't have felt like absolution. Bakugou shifted—boots scraping tile—but didn't interrupt.

Aizawa's fingers lingered, warm against your fevered skin. "You're not a weapon," he said quietly. The words landed like stones in still water. "You're my problem student."

Recovery Girl's cane tapped against Bakugou's shin—gentler this time—as she shuffled toward her medicine cabinet. "She needs rest," she muttered, rummaging through vials. "Proper rest, not whatever prison they've been forcing on her."

Aizawa's jaw tightened. His fingers curled around your wrist—not restraining, just present—as he exhaled through his nose. "No more cages," he said, so low you almost missed it.

You expected Aizawa to leave then—to vanish into the hallway shadows like he always did—but he didn't. Just slumped further into his crouch, knees popping audibly, and tugged your blanket higher over your shoulders. His fingers lingered at the edge, adjusting the fabric with a precision usually reserved for his capture weapon.

"Sleep," he ordered, but his voice lacked its usual bite. The command landed somewhere between instruction and plea. Bakugou scoffed—half-hearted—but didn't argue. Just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, as if standing guard.

"I can't," you whispered, fingers twisting in the stiff infirmary sheets. The admission tasted like iron—like the orphanage matron's hissed warnings about your nighttime fits. Your pulse thudded against your ribs, erratic as a trapped bird.

"When I sleep, my quirks take over my body." The words slithered out before you could stop them—ugly, raw, true. Recovery Girl's shuffling paused. Bakugou's breath hitched, barely audible. Aizawa's fingers stilled on the blanket's edge.

"My quirk will erase them," Aizawa said simply, eyes flashing red as his hair lifted. His irises burned brighter than any flame you'd conjured—not fire, but negation. "Go to sleep."

The command was absolute, brooking no argument. His capture scarf rustled as he shifted, settling against your cot like a sentinel. His fingers brushed your wrist again—not restraining, but grounding—and suddenly the weight pressing against your ribs eased.

For the first time in years, your fire quirk didn't lash out in protest. It just… stilled.

Recovery Girl's cane tapped against the floor—once, twice—before she hobbled forward with a vial of something amber-colored. Her gnarled fingers brushed your temple as she tipped the liquid down your throat. It tasted like honey and oblivion.

"There now," she murmured, her breath smelling of peppermint and old paper. The last thing you registered was Aizawa's quirk humming against your skin—a steady, thrumming absence—and Bakugou's fingers brushing yours, fleeting as a match struck in the dark.

The ceiling tiles swam overhead—white, sterile, endless—before dissolving into nothingness. No nightmares came. No flames licking at iron bars. Just silence, thick and sweet as syrup, pressing against your eyelids until they grew too heavy to lift.

Somewhere beyond the void, Bakugou's voice rasped something unintelligible—his usual vitriol softened at the edges—but the words melted before they reached you.

You woke to fingers carding through your hair—gentle, methodical—and for one disorienting second, thought it was your mother. Then the scent of burnt sugar registered, acrid and familiar, and your eyes flew open.

Bakugou's face loomed inches above yours, his scowl softer than you'd ever seen it. His palm stilled mid-stroke when you gasped.

"Don't fucking scream," he muttered, jerking his hand back like your hair had burned him. His ears were pink.

Aizawa's capture weapon rustled from the corner. He didn't close his eyes, just sighed—long-suffering—and adjusted the scarf over his nose. "He's been doing that for an hour," Aizawa deadpanned. Bakugou's explosion popped before he could stop it—tiny, contained—singeing the blanket near your knee.

"Shut up," he snarled, but his fingers twitched toward your wrist again, lingering just shy of contact. The monitor beeped steadily. No spikes. No panicked crescendos. Just a rhythm as even as Bakugou's pulse under your fingertips when you dared to brush them against his.

"We have to discuss your circumstances," Recovery Girl interrupted, hobbling forward with a clipboard thicker than her forearm. Her cane tapped against Bakugou's boot—gentle but firm—until he grudgingly shuffled aside.

The mattress dipped under her weight as she perched on the edge of your cot. Her gnarled fingers flipped through pages—incident reports, medical charts, something stamped CONFIDENTIAL in angry red ink.

"Specifically," she murmured, tapping a photo of your orphanage's iron-barred cot, "why no one noticed you were sleeping in a damn cage until now."

You recoiled—denial already bitter on your tongue. His fingers twitched toward your wrist again—not restraining, just present—as Recovery Girl's rheumy eyes narrowed.

"Don't," she said softly. "I've seen the files. The suppressants. The burns." Her cane tapped the photo again—harder this time—until the metal frame rattled. "This isn't protocol. This is cruelty."

Aizawa's eyes were red-veined and exhausted when you glanced up, his quirk still active even now, the faint glow casting shadows under his cheekbones.

He blinked—once, painfully slow—before pressing eye drops into each lid with mechanical precision. The liquid traced down his stubble like tears he'd never shed.

"UA failed you," he said simply, and the admission landed like a grenade in the silence.

The clipboard trembled in Recovery Girl's grip as she turned another page—this one stamped with Endeavor's jagged signature. "He recommended the suppressants after Hosu," she murmured, her voice cracking like dry parchment.

Your fire quirk flared in response—not at the words, but at the memory of Endeavor's grip on your shoulder after Stain, his flames licking too close to your throat.

Bakugou scoffed—too loud, too sharp—but his fingers flexed like he wanted to punch something. "Bullshit," he snarled, leaning forward until his shadow swallowed yours. "That flaming bastard doesn't get to—"

Aizawa's capture weapon snapped taut around Bakugou's waist before he could finish, yanking him backward with a grunt. "Out," Aizawa ordered, jerking his chin toward the door.

Bakugou's palms sparked—once, twice—before he wrenched free with a snarl. "Fine," he spat, stomping toward the exit. The door slammed behind him hard enough to rattle the IV stand.

Your fingers twisted in the sheets. The truth coiled in your throat like a live wire—how Endeavor had pressed his badge into your palm after Hosu, how his flames had matched yours too perfectly. Recovery Girl's cane tapped impatiently.

"Speak, child," she urged, but your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

You felt uncomfortable. Your pulse hammered where Bakugou's fingers had lingered, his absence suddenly louder than any explosion. The monitor's steady beep morphed into a countdown.

"The suppressants," Recovery Girl repeated, her voice dropping the brittle crackle in favor of pure, hardened physician's steel. "They were never logged into your official student medical file, were they? Enji Todoroki handed them to you directly."

Her cane cracked against the tile as she leaned closer, the scent of peppermint and iodine turning cloying. "And I imagine he told you it was for 'discretion'—to keep your quirk from flaring while the Hero Public Safety Commission smoothed over the jagged edges of that alleyway."

Aizawa's fingers twitched toward his capture weapon—instinctive, protective—but his eyes never left yours. "They dosed you enough to suppress a high-end villain," he muttered, and the words landed like lead weights. His fingers curled into fists against his knees, knuckles blanching white.

"Not a student. Not someone who—" His jaw snapped shut with an audible click. The unspoken not someone who's been through what you have hung thick in the air.

Recovery Girl's clipboard clattered to the floor, scattering pages stamped with Endeavor's jagged signature. Her wrinkled hands trembled as she reached for your wrist, pressing two fingers to the pulse point where the suppressant burns were deepest.

"Child," she whispered, and for the first time, her voice wavered—not with pity, but with rage. The antiseptic scent sharpened as she dabbed salve onto your blisters, her touch feather-light. "You were never meant to withstand this dosage." Her cane tapped once—sharp—against the IV stand. "This is poison masked as protocol."

You wanted to scream that you didn't care—that you'd swallow battery acid if it meant your flames wouldn't wake you to another orphanage wall scorched black. Normalcy. That's all you'd ever wanted: to sleep without restraints, to walk without handlers, to breathe without someone tallying the cost of your existence.

"I'm dangerous," you whispered instead, staring at the IV line snaking into your arm. The words tasted like hospital antiseptic and old blood. "It's expected." Recovery Girl's breath hitched—just once—before her cane cracked against the floor hard enough to splinter tile.

"Expected?" she hissed, her voice raw as the burns circling your wrists. "Child, they bred this into you." Aizawa's quirk flared brighter, his irises burning through the shadows clinging to his face.

The IV bag swayed—a grotesque pendulum—as you recoiled. Your ribs ached where Endeavor's fist had landed during "training," his flames licking too close to your jugular. The scent of charred skin bloomed in your memory, acrid and familiar.

Aizawa's fingers twitched toward his capture weapon, his knuckles white-knuckled around the fabric. His voice, when it came, was flatter than the heart monitor's dying line: "They conditioned you to believe you're a liability." The shadows under his eyes deepened into bruises. "You're not."

Recovery Girl's cane skittered across the floor as she surged forward, her gnarled hands gripping your shoulders hard enough to bruise. Her breath smelled of peppermint and iron.

"Listen to me," she hissed, shaking you once—sharp—like you were a faulty grenade. "They made you this way." Her rheumy eyes flicked to Aizawa's glowing ones, then back to yours. "But you don't have to stay their weapon."

You nodded, just wanting them to stop talking and leave you alone. You hated this attention, pity. You were fine.

The lie tasted like ash on your tongue, but the alternative—letting them see how your hands trembled against the sheets—was worse. The monitor's steady beep mocked you, each chirp a reminder that your body was betraying you again.

Recovery Girl sighed, her grip loosening as she exchanged a glance with Aizawa. "We're not letting you go back to that cage," she said, softer now, but firm. "But you're not leaving this bed until your vitals stabilize."

Your fingers curled into the sheets, nails biting fabric. "I don't want to leave there," you blurted, then froze. The confession slipped out—raw and stupid—but it was too late to take it back. The orphanage's iron bars were familiar. Predictable. This—this tentative kindness—was terrifying in its uncertainty.

Aizawa exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound dangerously close to a scoff. His capture weapon rustled as he leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees.

"Of course you don't," he muttered, voice rough with something you couldn't name. "They trained you to crave your own cage." His fingers twitched toward his scarred forearm—almost absently—before stilling.

"I would rather stay in that cage than scare more people," you whispered, staring at the cracks in the tile where Recovery Girl's cane had struck. The words tasted like copper and burnt sugar—too honest, too raw. Your fire quirk flickered weakly beneath your skin, as if protesting the admission.

Before Aizawa could reply, "I don't want to move," you blurted, fingers clutching the blanket so hard the fabric ripped. The admission clawed its way out of your throat—ugly, desperate. "Not when my body isn't mine when I sleep." The monitor's beep spiked as your pulse rabbited. Recovery Girl's cane clattered to the floor.

Aizawa's fingers twitched toward his capture weapon—protective, reflexive—but stopped mid-air when Recovery Girl held up a gnarled hand. Her rheumy eyes bored into yours, unflinching.

"If that's what you want," she said slowly, each word weighted with decades of triage decisions, "then we cannot go against it." The resignation in her voice tasted like antiseptic and old wounds.

You nodded. Aizawa stood up, his knees popping audibly as he straightened. "I need to speak to someone," he muttered, already halfway to the door. His capture scarf rustled with restrained violence.

"Call me if there are any issues." The door clicked shut behind him with finality, leaving the scent of burnt coffee and exhaustion in his wake.

Recovery Girl sighed, shuffling toward her medicine cabinet. "He'll be back," she said, more to herself than anyone. Her fingers lingered over a vial of amber liquid before selecting another—something clearer, thicker.

"He always comes back for his problem students." The IV line hissed as she swapped the bags, the new solution cloudy like sediment stirred from riverbeds.

You stayed quiet when she dismissed you—when she pressed a slip of paper into your palm (medical leave, three days minimum) and shooed you toward the exit with her cane.

The scent of antiseptic clung to your scrubs as you stepped into the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped insects. Your footsteps echoed—too loud, too deliberate—as you turned left instead of right, toward your next class. The paper crumpled in your fist. . . .

·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!  ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!  ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!  ݁ ˖ ·

The front door of the Bakugou household didn't slam this time. It clicked shut, a muted sound that felt entirely wrong for the storm brewing in Katsuki’s chest.

He kicked off his boots, shoving them into the entryway cubby with a force that was purely muscle memory, not real heat.

His palms weren’t even sweating. They were dry. Cold, almost.

He stomped up the stairs to his room, threw his yellow backpack onto the floor, and collapsed backward onto his bed. The ceiling stared back at him, blank and unhelpful.

“I would rather stay in that cage than scare more people.”

The words had been floating around the UA corridors all afternoon like toxic smoke. He’d overheard the old recovery hag talking to Aizawa near the nurse's office.

He wasn't trying to eavesdrop—he was just walking by—but he’d caught enough. Your fire quirk had flickered weakly under your skin, they said. Like a dying ember.

Katsuki rolled over, slamming his face into his pillow. It ticked him off. It made a weird, hollow ache twist right behind his ribs, and he hated it.

You weren't supposed to look like that. You were supposed to be a UA student, for God's sake. Even if you were a damn extra, you weren't supposed to want a cage.

He sat up abruptly, his hair wild. His chest felt too tight. He grabbed his phone off the desk, staring at the screen. He needed to talk to someone who wasn't an idiot, but his usual circle of dumbasses—Kirishima, Kaminari—would just get emotional and useless.

Before he could overthink it, his thumb scrolled to a contact he rarely called unless he was forced to.

He hit dial.

It rang twice. “Katsuki? What the hell do you want? Did you forget your keys again?” Mitsuki’s voice blasted through the speaker, loud and abrasive as always.

Katsuki didn't fire back with his usual shout. He cleared his throat, staring down at his own calloused hands. "No," he muttered.

There was a brief pause on the other end. Mitsuki’s tone shifted slightly, picking up on the lack of bite in his voice. “…Okay. Then why are you calling? You sound weird.”

"I don't sound weird," he snapped, but the volume wasn't there. He paced the length of his room, his fingers twitching. He aggressively rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find the words, trying to force them past the sudden lump in his throat.

"Look. If… if someone is just… broken. Like, totally weak. And they're so damn terrified of themselves that they want to lock themselves away."

He swallowed hard, the admission tasting like ash. "If they need help, but they're too stupid to ask for it… what the hell do you even do?"

Silence.

Absolute, deafening silence stretched across the line. Katsuki held the phone tighter, his knuckles turning white. He could practically hear his mother blinking on the other end.

Mitsuki Bakugou was never quiet. She always had a sharp comeback, a reprimand, or a loud laugh.

“Katsuki…” her voice came through, completely stripped of its usual harshness. She sounded genuinely shocked, a rare note of vulnerability trembling in her words. “Who… who are you talking about? Are you okay?”

"I'm fine!" he barked, his face flushing hot with frustration. "I'm not talking about me, old hag! Just… answer the damn question."

Mitsuki exhaled slowly—too slow, too measured—and when she spoke again, her voice had dropped into something Katsuki hadn't heard since he was six and woke screaming from nightmares of sludge monsters.

"You listen to me, brat," she said, the words quiet but searing. "You grab them by the collar and you don't let go. Not until they stop seeing themselves as the goddamn villain."

Katsuki's breath hitched. The phone creaked in his grip. His mother's next words came softer, laced with memories he knew she rarely touched: "And if they fight you? You fight harder. Because the ones who need help most are always the ones too stupid to ask."

The line went dead before he could reply. . . .

·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!  ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!  ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!  ݁ ˖ ·

It was the weekend, and you spent your time resting and trying to learn for the final exam. You couldn’t understand it at all.

The textbook pages blurred under your exhausted gaze, equations dissolving into meaningless scribbles. The iron-barred room felt smaller than usual, the scent of ozone and charred metal clinging to the sheets.

You traced the burns on your wrists absently, fingertips skating over raised flesh. Outside, rain pattered against the reinforced glass, the sound muffled and distant.

The orphanage matron had bolted the door hours ago, her usual muttered prayers drifting through the vents. You curled tighter beneath the thin blanket, your fire quirk simmering just beneath your skin—restless, impatient.

The exam didn’t matter. Nothing did. Not when sleep meant losing control, when every night was a gamble between waking up in your bed or in a crater of your own making.

Momo’s text buzzed again—third one today—her offer to study together still glowing on your cracked screen. You’d typed and deleted a dozen replies, fingers hovering over the keyboard before finally settling on a terse

Can’t. Sorry. The lie tasted bitter.

They’d planned a sleepover after, Jirou’s name popping up in the group chat with a string of excited emojis.

Your thumb hovered over the screen before you chucked the phone across the room. It skidded into the corner where the wallpaper peeled away in damp curls.

The knock came just as you were rewriting Present Mic’s English notes for the fifth time—too sharp, too insistent. You barely had time to look up before the door swung open, revealing Sister Akane’s pinched face.

She didn’t bother stepping inside, just jerked her thumb over her shoulder with a grimace. "Visitor," she spat, like the word itself was distasteful.

Before you could ask who, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind Bakugou’s explosive silhouette.

He stood there—shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets—looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Rainwater dripped from his spikes onto the linoleum, the rhythmic plink plink plink the only sound in the sudden silence. His eyes—too sharp, too knowing—scanned the iron bars first, then the singed edges of your blanket, before finally landing on your face.

"The fuck," he said, voice rough as gravel, "is this?"

"What—how did you know where I live?" you asked, your fingers tightening around the textbook’s spine until the pages crumpled.

The scent of damp leather and gunpowder clung to him, cutting through the room’s stale air. His nostrils flared when he spotted the IV bruises circling your wrists—the ones Recovery Girl hadn’t been able to fully heal.

"That’s not the problem here," Bakugou said, kicking the door shut behind him with a crack that made the iron bars hum. His palms sparked once—controlled, deliberate—before he crossed the room in three strides.

He loomed over your cot, close enough for you to see the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow. "Why are you actually caged?" The question landed like a grenade, shattering the careful silence you’d built around yourself.

You hunched your shoulders, fingers digging into your knees. "I'm dangerous, remember?" you tried to joke, forcing a grin that felt more like a grimace.

The words tasted like ash—Stain’s words, Endeavor’s words, the orphanage matron’s hissed warnings.

Bakugou’s nostrils flared. He didn’t laugh. His hand shot out, gripping your wrist hard enough to make the bones creak. Your pulse hammered against his fingers—rabbit-quick, terrified.

"Bullshit," he snarled, shaking you once—hard—like he could rattle the lie loose. His breath smelled of burnt sugar and nitroglycerin, too close, too real. "Dangerous people don’t beg for cages."

Your fire quirk writhed beneath your skin, responding to his heat, his proximity. The iron bars groaned as you jerked backward, but Bakugou didn’t let go. His grip tightened, forcing you to meet his eyes—red, furious, alive.

"We're going to study with Kirishima." His voice brooked no argument. "Get dressed."

Your breath hitched—Kirishima didn’t know about the cage, the burns, the way your quirks slithered through your veins like living things. "I can't—"

Bakugou cut you off with a sharp jerk of his chin toward the door. "The fuck you can't." His palm sparked against your wrist, not enough to burn, just enough to sting. "Or are you gonna let some crusty-ass villain's words define you?"

The rain lashed against the window harder, the sound like a thousand nails scraping glass. Bakugou's jaw worked silently for a moment before he released you with a scoff. He turned toward the door, shoulders rigid beneath his bomber jacket.

"Five minutes," he bit out, not looking back. "Or I'm dragging you out in your damn pajamas." The threat hung in the air between you—real, tangible, unlike Stain’s ghostly whispers.

Your fingers trembled as you grabbed the nearest hoodie—charred at the cuffs from last week’s incident—and yanked it over your head. The fabric smelled like smoke and salt, clinging to your skin like a second layer of armor.

Outside, Bakugou’s foot tapped an impatient rhythm against the linoleum, each tap a detonator counting down.

The orphanage’s front door groaned when you finally stepped through it, the rain immediately soaking through your sneakers. Bakugou didn’t wait, already striding ahead with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

His silhouette blurred through the downpour—a smudge of red and black against the gray—but you could still see the way his shoulders tensed when you hesitated at the gate.

"Move your ass," he snapped over his shoulder, sparks dancing across his knuckles. The words were sharp, but his pace slowed just enough for you to catch up.

The iron bars of your cage faded behind you with each step, replaced by the acrid scent of Bakugou’s quirk and the distant promise of Kirishima’s too-bright grin.

The restaurant was tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, its neon sign flickering like a dying firefly. Kirishima was already there—slouched in a booth near the back, red hair glowing under the fluorescent lights like a beacon.

His smile faltered when he saw you trailing behind Bakugou, eyes darting to your damp sleeves and the way your fingers twitched at your sides.

"Hey," he said, too soft, too careful. The menu in his hands crinkled under his grip.

Bakugou shoved you into the booth with a grunt, sliding in beside you like a human barricade. The vinyl squeaked under your weight, sticky with decades of spilled soda and grease. Kirishima’s knee knocked against yours under the table—warm, solid, alive.

"Order whatever," Bakugou muttered, tossing a menu at your chest. "But if you pick the damn salad, I’m disowning you." His tone was rough, but his palm pressed briefly against your wrist, checking for tremors.

The waitress arrived with a pad of paper, her smile strained as she took in Bakugou’s scowl and Kirishima’s forced cheer. You opened your mouth to order—to play along, to pretend—but the words died when Kirishima’s hand found yours under the table.

His fingers were calloused from training, his grip unshakable. "Extra spicy," he told the waitress for you, grinning like he hadn’t just anchored you to the present.

Bakugou’s smirk was all teeth. "Atta boy." The monitor in your head flatlined—just for a second—as Stain’s voice drowned beneath the sizzle of the grill.

Three hours later, the table was littered with crumpled napkins and half-finished worksheets. Bakugou had commandeered the booth’s entire bench, his knee pressed against yours as he circled a problem in red ink—hard enough to tear the paper.

"No, dumbass," he snapped, smacking Kirishima’s head with the textbook when he botched the equation again.

Kirishima yelped, rubbing his skull with a pout. "Dude! Warn a guy!"

Bakugou ignored him, tossing the pencil at you instead. "Your turn." His crimson eyes tracked your shaky attempt, lingering when your fingers twitched mid-calculation.

"Close," he muttered, nudging your wrist—just enough to correct the angle.

Kirishima’s chair squeaked as he leaned closer. "Hey, why does she get a do-over?"

Bakugou didn’t look up. "Because she’s actually trying, Shitty Hair."

The lie tasted like sugar on your tongue—sweet, cloying, impossible. Bakugou had seen you flinch at your own shadow in the training yard, had watched you freeze when Kirishima’s quirk activated too close.

Yet here he was, elbow-deep in your wreckage, treating your broken pieces like they could still fit together. Kirishima’s grin slipped when Bakugou reached over you to grab the salt, his forearm brushing your shoulder.

The motion was casual, careless, but Kirishima’s knuckles whitened around his pen. "You good?" you asked, voice low. He blinked, forcing a laugh. "Yeah! Just—math, y’know?" His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Bakugou’s pen snapped mid-sentence, ink splattering across the worksheet like blood. His glare swiveled from the ruined paper to Kirishima’s stiff posture, then back to your white-knuckled grip on the table’s edge.

Something in his expression darkened—a storm brewing behind those sharp red eyes. "Oi," he growled, kicking Kirishima’s shin under the table. "Spit it out."

Kirishima flinched, his jaw working silently before he exhaled through his nose. "It’s just…" His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his thigh. "That internship report. Endeavor’s agency submitted it today."

The air between you crackled—charged, dangerous. Bakugou’s palm flattened against the table, his quirk sparking in warning. "And?"

Kirishima’s throat bobbed. "They listed you as ‘high-risk.’ Said your fire quirk’s unstable. That you—" His voice cracked. "That you might be compromised."

The restaurant’s chatter faded into white noise. Your fingers twitched—a spasm of heat licking up your wrist before you crushed it back down.

Bakugou’s knee pressed harder against yours, anchoring you to the booth’s cracked vinyl as Kirishima's words slithered through your skull: unstable, compromised, risk.

The monitor in your head flatlined again, replaced by Endeavor’s cold stare the day he made you get strapped to that medical table.

Bakugou’s palm slammed down beside your forgotten worksheet, scattering pencils like shrapnel. "The hell they did," he snarled, voice raw enough to flay skin.

Kirishima flinched but didn’t look away, his fingers curling into fists on the tabletop. "They’re wrong," he said, softer now, eyes darting to your clenched jaw. "But it’s in your file. They’re—they’re recommending quirk suppressants."

Kirishima pulled up his phone, his thumb swiping too fast across the screen before turning it toward you.

The brightness seared your retinas—an official-looking document with Endeavor’s agency seal glaring at the top. Your name jumped out in bold, followed by a paragraph of clinical jargon: Subject exhibits erratic quirk manifestation… potential League sympathizer… recommend immediate evaluation.

The words blurred. Your fire quirk writhed beneath your ribs, begging to burn the phone—the lies—to cinders.

Bakugou’s hand shot out, snatching the device before you could react. His thumb hovered over the screen, trembling with suppressed explosions. "This is bullshit," he spat, but his voice lacked its usual venom.

Kirishima’s fingers twitched toward yours under the table—hesitant, unsure—before curling back into his lap. The neon sign outside flickered, casting jagged red shadows across his face.

"We’re gonna fix this," he muttered, more to himself than to you.

Bakugou scoffed, shoving the phone back at him hard enough to make Kirishima flinch. "Damn right we are," he growled, leaning in until his breath ghosted over your knuckles.

His next words were low, meant only for you: "First, we find out who the hell wrote that report." His pupils dilated—black swallowing crimson—as your fire flickered in response. "Then we make them eat it."

"It's all right," you tried to say, but the words dissolved into static. Your throat burned—not from your quirk, but from the way Kirishima's eyes darted to your wrists, where the suppressant cuffs had left ring-shaped bruises.

The restaurant's hum of conversation faded beneath the rush of blood in your ears. Stain's voice slithered through the cracks in your composure: weapon, mistake, monster.

You swallowed hard, forcing your fingers to unclench from the crumpled worksheet. "Let's just… study."

Kirishima's grin faltered. His fingers twitched toward the scattered notes—Present Mic's English verbs, Midnight's ethics diagrams—before hesitating.

"You sure?" he asked, too gentle, like you were glass about to shatter.

Bakugou answered for you, snatching a pencil and slamming it onto the table hard enough to make the salt shaker jump. "Focus, shitheads," he growled, but his glare lacked its usual heat when it landed on you.

The worksheet trembled in your grip as you bent over it, the equations blurring into meaningless shapes. Kirishima's elbow bumped yours—deliberate, grounding—as he leaned in to point out a miscalculation.

"You dropped a negative here," he murmured, his breath warm against your temple.

Bakugou's fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against the tabletop, each tap syncopated with the restaurant's flickering neon sign. His other hand remained braced against the back of the booth, inches from your shoulder—close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, but not quite touching.

"Tch. Even Deku could solve this," he muttered, but when you flinched at the jab, his foot hooked around your ankle under the table, anchoring you to the moment.

Kirishima's laugh was too loud, too forced, as he erased your mistake with more force than necessary. "Yeah, well, Deku's not here," he said, shooting you a wink that didn't reach his eyes. "Lucky us."

The worksheet tore where Bakugou's grip tightened, his knuckles whitening around the pencil. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the sizzle of the grill and the faint hiss of his quirk sparking beneath his skin.

Then he exhaled through his nose—slow, controlled—and shoved the ruined paper aside. "Again," he ordered, sliding a fresh sheet toward you.

His fingers brushed yours—just barely—as he let go, lingering long enough for you to feel the callouses earned from years of detonations.

Kirishima's knee knocked against yours again, his smile brittle at the edges but unwavering. "Third time's the charm," he said, and for a moment, you almost believed him. . . .

·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!  ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!  ݁ ˖ · ·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!  ݁ ˖ ·

Bakugou stared at the exam results in his hand—perfect scores across the board—and felt nothing.

His eyes scanned the classroom before he could stop them, searching for you instinctively. When he found you across the room, your face was flushed with triumph, unshed tears glinting in the fluorescent light as you flashed him a shaky thumbs-up.

His chest tightened inexplicably, and he sighed—just a quiet exhale through his nose—before he even realized he'd been holding his breath.

You grinned wider, like his relief was contagious, and something in his ribs shifted uncomfortably at the sight. He scowled and looked away, but the ghost of your smile lingered in his periphery like a stubborn afterimage.

Kirishima's elbow dug into Bakugou's side as he leaned over to peer at his own results, his grin faltering when he saw the red marks. "Damn, dude," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Bakugou snatched the paper from him with a snarl, scanning the mistakes with a critic's eye. "Idiot," he growled, stabbing a finger at a botched calculation. "You forgot to carry the fucking two."

Kirishima winced but didn't pull away, his shoulder pressing into Bakugou's like a silent plea for help. Bakugou exhaled sharply through his nose—long-suffering, familiar—before dragging Kirishima's notebook closer with more force than necessary.

"Pay attention this time," he grumbled, already scribbling corrections in the margins with violent precision.

The classroom buzzed around you—cheers, groans, the rustle of paper—but all you could focus on was the way Bakugou's scowl softened minutely when Kirishima finally nodded in understanding.

His fingers twitched toward his own perfect scores again, hesitating before shoving them into his pocket with a huff.

You caught his eye across the room and mouthed "thank you"—for the study session, for the anchor, for pretending not to notice when your flames flickered black at the edges.

His nostrils flared, but he didn't look away this time. Just tilted his chin up in silent acknowledgment, the ghost of something too vulnerable to name flickering behind his sharp red eyes before it vanished behind his usual glare. . . .

·.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 💥 💣 💢 .𖥔 ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!  ݁ ˖ ·

You shrank in on yourself, finding it impossible to not encroach on the creatures space. You took careful steps closer, not wanting to scare it. You spoke softly.

"Where did you find it?"

Suguru leaned forward in his chair onto his knees, "Oh, just on our mission." The statement fell flat at the end, deliberately unimpressed.

You studied the creature a moment and turned to look at Suguru. "No collar? But the coat is so clean? Surely not a stray..." You turned your attention back on the pair of them. Suguru and Shoko leaned into each other, echoing in turn, "Surely not."

You squinted. "What is it?"

Something was off. You could feel it in the way Suguru's withheld laughter kept threatening to escape, in how Shoko's gaze slid away from yours like it never had before. You should've known better; Suguru would have never just brought back a random animal he had found on a mission.

You slowed yourself, "Why did you bring me here?"

Suguru shook his head, waving a finger in the cat's direction. "What? You don't recognize him?" Shoko smacked his shoulder, and you whipped your head around.

The cat was stretched out all pretty within the sink basin, fur catching the lab light in an almost pearlescent, bluish tinge. A paw was repeatedly reaching out to attempt purchase on the counter's edge, only until it seemed to wobble a bit on uncertain legs. Each time those fuzzy toes found the rim, they would slide on the slick epoxy exterior. A resounding bonk ensued from the effort.

"Oh dear..." You drew nearer.

Cats were typically quite agile; this poor thing certainly seemed to be out of its element. As you came close, you were taken aback by just how luminescent his eyes appeared. You'd never seen anything with eyes that blue...except maybe for one man...

You shudder and whip around. Suguru’s teasing tone stuck in your mind.

What? You don't recognize him?

"No..."

"Oh, yes." Suguru finally allowed himself to laugh.

"You're kidding?" You took a step back, "That's... Satoru?" A loud wail followed from the sink. "Oh my gosh!" Your head bolted to look again, and you staggered back some more.

"Oh, come on, Gojo, you can get out of there." Shoko took a cigarette from her bag and ushered you to sit down.

"What is happening? How did this happen? What...What?" You kept looking around the room in hopes of something making sense, but you were granted no reprieve. You wanted to believe this was some kind of joke, but Shoko looked too serious then, and Suguru never thought himself this funny.

The cat continued to howl from the sink. "I can't answer your questions, not really, at least." Shoko put her face in her palm and looked at you. "Curse. You know that much. I really can't tell if this will last, but I called you here for a reason." She was offering you a cigarette, which you politely declined.

"I... hope that reason was to gawk at him because there's nothing I can do to help...you know that, right?"

"Would you shut up?" Suguru dragged himself up to his feet now to get Gojo to stop with his cries. When he attempted to extricate the furry body from the sink, however, Suguru jerked back with a hiss.

"Ouch... cut that out."

Gojo's newly acquired claws sank into Suguru's knit sweater, puncturing the flesh beneath. Suguru promptly yanked the feline away and dropped him to the floor. The angry red marks on his forearms served as proof of the attack.

If Gojo had been talkative before, that was only exacerbated tenfold in his new form.

"No, no, actually, there is a way you can help." Shoko was then tugging on your sleeve to draw your attention back to her again. "Listen, this is bigger than we realize."

"You think?" Your eyes roll. The strongest sorcerer the world had got had been reduced to a mewling cub, unable to even get himself out of a sink. "What exactly am I supposed to do?"

Suguru had taken the liberty of dragging a chair over to sit with you both. "I'm glad you asked." He grinned, waggling his foot to get Gojo to stop trying to crawl up him.

This was all just a little too much to wrap your head around. You sat, uncomfortably waiting to hear what their plan was.

“Yeah... so, we're gonna need you to take him in."

There was a pause when you huffed a little chuckle in response. That moment of silence passed before you sank into your chair. "Wait....are you serious?"

Shoko waggled the cigarette in your face once more. "I can't do that! I don't know the first thing about turning cursed humans back into sorcerers!"

"Yeah, me neither. And that's my job right now. We just need you to keep an eye on him... you know...while he's... like that." It was a bit comical how you all leaned over to catch a glimpse of the man in question.

Those huge, round eyes were hard to read; he had taken a collection of moments without making any noise, something that had already started to concern you all.

As it would turn out, Gojo didn't like you all talking about him while he was right there with you. In a moment, those tufts of ears were pulled back, his tail swooshing aggressively before he pounced onto the counter you were all seated at.

"Why couldn't you have done that while you were in the sink, huh?" Suguru glared at the cat before he could go back to that ungodly sound.

You all paused to watch him for a moment. Gojo seemed like he just couldn't take up enough space, calling out loudly to anything that would listen, every so often falling onto his side and rolling about for a moment before flipping back up and circling the table's edge again.

"Why...why is this my responsibility?" You didn't want to sound like a pouty child, but seriously, could nobody else cat-sit for a little while? How did this task land on you? You weren't even close with the man.

"Who else comes to your mind? Seriously, if you have somebody you know who would keep him, shoot them a text." Shoko nudged Gojo's face away from her when he started to headbutt her arm before continuing, "I'd ask someone in Kyoto, but you know that's too close to the higher-ups. I don't think I have to explain why nobody can know about this."

You shook your head, imagining what would happen if it got out that Gojo Satoru was incapacitated like this.

"No." You twiddled your thumbs for a moment. Shoko didn’t even look desperate; she looked like it had been settled. No argument passed your lips; none of it had even felt real. "So... what exactly is this going to look like?"

And so they laid out the plan while you wondered quietly how much planning they had done without you, knowing you would say yes.

-Shoko was going to research homo transformation, its effects, and potential reversal with the hope of figuring everything out before she was tasked with her annual report in Kyoto these coming weeks -Suguru was going to continue as usual, taking on the missions Gojo couldn’t while trying to find the curse that was able to cause this and get away -Yaga would be spinning the idea that Satoru was out of the country, a believable alibi for when the higher-ups came knocking -And you, your responsibility would be having the strongest sorcerer locked away in your one-bedroom apartment as you desperately attempted to keep him alive

--

And that is how you found yourself here, sat awkwardly next to Satoru Gojo on your couch, something you would have never guessed could happen, especially not given the current circumstances.

It had taken a lot of coaxing to get Gojo into the cat carrier earlier today. How the two of you wound up at your doorstep awaiting a delivery of cat food, toys, and litter was beyond you.

It was fair to say that the day had not shaped up as you had anticipated at all.

By the time you had dragged everything into your place and unzipped the carrier, it was clear that your guest was not exactly pleased with the situation. Gojo had initially skittered forward, gnawing loosely at your ankles to force your attention down to him.

You two had never been super close, you and Gojo. Not for lack of trying on your end.

Gojo Satoru had always been so friendly and outgoing with others, and it's not that he wasn't polite with you, just that he never seemed to put in the same amount of time into your friendship.

Where he would tease Nanami, he would send you a slight smile, where he would relentlessly bother Shoko, he would spare you a few quick glances, and where he laughed loudly with Suguru, he would occasionally include you in awkward conversation.

It was evident from the start that he didn't think you were important enough for his time.

He wouldn't say that, of course not, he might not even think it, but by the way he became uncharacteristically avoidant around you, it was clear he preferred the company of those stronger, even if they would never be on his level.

You had always been resigned to the knowledge that he just...didn't like you very much.

It wouldn't be wrong to claim you were the weakest among your close circle. Sometimes, you even felt as though you didn't belong in the grade one rank. Gojo would pester Utahime about being semi-grade one, but still turn away when you met his gaze. It seemed you were just that unimpressive to him.

But here he was. Gnawing at your ankle.

He must be terribly upset about all of this. Needing to be in your care, the protection of someone he deemed so beneath him.

"Gojo.." You tried to shake him off. Unsure of how to even begin assessing the situation and handling the new dynamic.

--

Satoru had no idea what was going on. Not really. It was hard to pay any real attention to the words people were saying when he was too consumed with the fact that they were ignoring him.

There was something humiliating about being dragged to and fro without any care for his thoughts. He was sure that if Suguru had just tried hard enough, he would've been able to understand what he wanted to get across.

He was bordering on desperation, trapped within the confines of your living room. You, someone he had known from childhood but hardly knew anything about. Of course, his two closest friends would put you up to the task of being his live-in human, would it have taken that much begging to get Nanami to agree to it?.... Maybe so, but you?!

His neck was hurting, already strained from having to look up so much. He felt practically blind right now, what with his range being 10 inches off the ground. And worst of all, he couldn't even complain about it!

Satoru found himself racing around your apartment. Doing what he could to just get you away from him. Damn Suguru. Of course, he would send him here, to live with you.

The last thing he wanted was for you to feel burdened by his presence, especially considering he had spent the better half of his acquaintance with you in avoidance and the fact that he wasn't even himself at the moment.

"Gojo? Are you...okay? Where did you go?" You shuffled into the room he had escaped to, slowly, perhaps thinking you had startled him or something.

He was hidden beneath a large slab of furniture, pawing at himself embarrassingly, trying to get a feel for this new body he was trapped in.

He looked down, but all he could see were his back legs stretched out. He pawed at the ceiling above him, turning his "hands" before his face, watching as he stroked them down his furry front.

"Umm.." Satoru heard you crouch, "Do you maybe wanna come out? I can show you... around... or like, show you a mirror? Have you seen yourself yet? Do you... even understand me right now?"

You rambled on, squating down to try and see him, but for some reason, that made the whole situation worse. Eventually, by some force he could not control, Satoru scuttled out, something primal calling him to attack your sock.

The moment he took the first nibble, he froze, eyes wide, back feet in the air, attempting to kick you frantically.

What was wrong with him?

"Are you okay? Gojo...what are you doing?"

Your hands tentatively reached out. He was still, in shock, it would seem, but your soft touch lit something in him. You pulled him up into your arms, holding him at an awkward distance.

Never before in his life could Satoru Gojo recall being held. Never before had he allowed it.

Yes, he found himself repeating, yes, I know what you're saying.

"Okay, okay, I'm putting you down, I'm sorry." You retracted yourself quickly, plopping his body on what must have been a mattress. Satoru realized immediately that he must have just been hiding beneath your bed just a moment ago.

"Sorry...sorry, okay." He watched you spin around in your room, mumbling to yourself. He wasn't sure why you were apologizing. You slid yourself to your knees, crouching at his level, resting your chin on your duvet. "Gojo...I'm gonna test this, okay?"

Satoru sighed, paused for a moment to think, and wiggled himself nearer to you, lying flat so your faces were close to each other.

You speak in a hush, "If you know what I'm saying, nod your head."

He sits up. Nods.

"Oh... God, okay, now raise your hand- er..paw..." He follows.

"Gojo... this isn't a prank. You're really in there?"

Yes!! He tried to tell you, but, frustratingly, you didn't seem to hear him.

You leaped up from the ground suddenly, "Oh my gosh... you're talking to me!" You pointed at him, as if it were the strangest thing ever.

He meowed in what you assumed was a very exasperated tone

You really were not sure what to do. At least you knew now that the curse had not erased Gojo's ability to understand human language.

After a short period of trying to communicate, you ushered Gojo to leap up onto your vanity, allowing him to take a good look in the mirror. The yowl that followed was both pitiful and indignant. If you hadn't known this was embarrassing for him, you would have found it more amusing.

--

By evening, you were starting to grow restless with the idea of keeping him. You had yet to be provided with a bed for Gojo, something you weren't sure how to handle. Every time you tried to get him to settle down on your own bed, he would race up again, seemingly upset you couldn't understand whatever he was trying to communicate. His tail would lash, those impossibly blue eyes would narrow, and another series of frustrated meows soon followed.

It had already been late afternoon when you were tasked with his care; now, it was fully dark outside.

Strange as it seemed, you would have never thought to touch Satoru Gojo so comfortably, but in this new body of his, it seemed only natural.

So, in the same way a parent coaxes a fussy toddler to lie down for an afternoon nap by lying down beside them, you eventually wooed Satoru to rest by allowing yourself to doze right next to him.

You did keep a respectful distance, of course, but your presence seemed to calm him. That fear of not being understood eventually subsided with the crickets chirping. And within minutes, his agitated movements slowed, then stopped altogether.

--

When you awoke some time later, there was a dull ache in your side from having fallen asleep sitting up. Your duvet was ruffled cutely around your new visitor, his white fur catching the amber glow of your bedside lamp filtering through the shade. His little furry chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

You stopped to study him for a moment, this mighty sorcerer reduced to something so small and vulnerable. It felt wrong, somehow, to see him like this. Wrong, but also oddly precious in a way you didn't want to examine too closely.

--

You had known Gojo in high school; he hadn't changed too much since, but you could still recall a time when the boy would complain about his endless duties, and even then, you knew he hadn't just been dramatic for the fun of it.

"Yeah, they keep getting on my case about mastering Domain Expansion before I'm seventeen," he'd groaned to Suguru one evening. "As if I'm not already the strongest," he rolled his eyes behind those silly circular glasses, "like, I'm some kind of machine they could just program."

The six of you had settled beside each other on the grass the night before winter break. You can recall how cold it had been, the harsh wind freezing you, but you had wanted to come out and see everyone before the new year.

You had been close enough to each other that your knee had almost brushed against his, and everything had been very still. You didn't want to break the spell that was keeping him in your proximity.

"True that it's not fair," Suguru had sighed, leaning back onto his palms, "I doubt the elders see any of us as people," he continued, his voice carrying that particular edge it got when he was trying to console someone without embarrassing them. "So... that's why it's our job to do it for them-" Satoru cut him off with a groan, fingers tangling messily in the grass between you.

When you'd looked over to see your upperclassman rolling his eyes, remnants of the conversation you were missing fading out, he had met your gaze. His eyes, impossibly bright in the dark then, had finally not slid from your own

"At least you guys don't look at me like that," he'd said quietly, almost accusingly, as if the kindness he had been afforded by coming to Jujutsu Tech was somehow more dangerous than all the pressure the clan elders placed on his shoulders.

You had lingered perhaps a moment too long looking at him, missing the context.

"Like what?" you'd asked, and almost immediately felt bad for it. Why would you speak? You barely knew him at all, surely he didn't actually want to talk to you...But you wouldn't be seeing him until the next term started, and you so desperately wanted to be closer.

"Like I'm just... Satoru," he'd sighed, and then immediately looked away to Shoko, who was rubbing his hair and assuring him he was nothing special.

That was the first time you had felt like he really had been speaking to you, and by the next term, those moments between you had remained just as rare.

--

You sat up a bit, you didn't have a guest room, and it felt highly inappropriate to share a bed with Gojo, even in his...current state. The decision was easy, really. You would take the couch. After all, he needed rest to recover, and you really didn't mind taking up less space; if anything, it was your preference.

You slipped off the bed as quietly as you could, tiptoeing toward the door. Just before you left, you glanced back one more time.

He looked so peaceful like this, without that wall of superiority and humor he usually wore.

The living room was cool and dim, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen stove light. You grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the couch and settled in, your eyes tracing the familiar patterns on your ceiling.

Your mind wouldn't quiet. Today had been impossible, completely, utterly impossible. And yet here you were, with Satoru Gojo sleeping in your bed, trapped in the body of a cat because of some curse neither Shoko nor Suguru knew the origin of.

By the time your eyes finally slid closed, your brain was whispering that all of it had been no more than a dream.

--

Satoru woke to darkness and disorientation.

For a blessed half-second, he thought maybe it had all been some bizarre nightmare. Then he tried to stretch and felt the unfamiliar pull of four legs instead of two, felt whiskers twitch against fabric that was far too close to his face. Felt an extra appendage pulling his lower back...

Right. Of course, still a cat. Still cursed.

He blinked a few times, though his eyes seemed to fail him; his night vision was surprisingly sharp in this form. What he recalled to be your room was quiet, bathed in the purple-grey of late evening. The spot next to him on the bed was empty, the covers barely disturbed where he'd remembered you being.

Well, that couldn't be right....

Satoru stood, his body moving with an unsettling grace he hadn't quite adjusted to yet. He padded across the duvet, hopped down to the floor with a soft thump, and made his way toward the door you'd left cracked open.

The moment he entered the living room and turned the corner, he saw you.

Curled up on that ridiculous excuse for a couch, far too small for comfortable sleeping, with one arm tucked under your head and a thin throw blanket that had already slipped halfway off. You were still wearing your uniform pants and shirt, like you'd been too tired, or too considerate of not disturbing him, to even change.

Something hot and uncomfortable twisted in his chest.

Of course. Of course, you would give up your own bed for a responsibility a fraction of your size. Of course, you would make yourself less important, less deserving of basic comfort. It was so perfectly, frustratingly you that Satoru felt his tail lash in agitation before he could stop it.

He couldn't help but feel the disappointments he always felt, did you really think so little of yourself? Did you really believe that he, even like this, especially like this, deserved your bed more than you did? Or was it that you were just too embarrassed to share?

The thought made him want to yell in frustration, but he bit it back, knowing some unusual sound would replace his normally steady voice. You needed sleep, even if you'd chosen the worst possible place to get it.

Satoru approached the couch with careful steps, his paws silent on the floor. Up close, he could see the slight furrow between your brows, the way your shoulder was already angled awkwardly against the couch cushion. You'd be sore in the morning. You were probably already sore now.

This was absolutely unacceptable.

He gathered himself and jumped up onto the couch, landing near your hip. You stirred slightly but didn't wake. Your couch was narrow, barely enough space for you, let alone you both, but Satoru didn't really care that much.

He toed his way carefully over your side, circled once, twice, and then settled himself firmly in the space between your bent knees and the back of the couch. He pressed his small furry body against you.

This close, he could hear your breathing, steady and soft. Could feel the rise and fall of your form against his head. Could hear, even from his position on your calves, the constant thump of your heart.

It was quite hard for him to not fantasize about it all.

This was so typical, seeing you rearrange your life for what really was the perfect inconvenience. And you were doing it for him. He couldn't even call the two of you close.

You see, to Gojo, after years of not really knowing what to say, it became hard to say anything at all around you. Easier to keep his distance, to stay silent, than to risk revealing just how much attention he actually paid to you.

And now he couldn't say anything even if he had the words, unable to do anything except press himself against you and hope you understood even a fraction of what he couldn't say. Even if it was just,

Thanks for not leaving me to Shoko's smoky apartment...

He knows she wouldn't have shared her comfy bed with him.

Your breathing shifted, and slowly you began to turn in your sleep, moving to face the back of the couch. Satoru unfurled and slowly snuck up to come rest nearer to you. Not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the warmth of you more.

Satoru tucked his head down and closed his eyes.

If you woke up and tried to move him, he'd make himself as heavy and immovable as possible. You'd taken care of him today, multiple times now, actually. The least he could do was make sure you didn't spend the whole night cramped on this awful couch alone.

Even if he couldn't say thank you.

Even if you'd never know why.

--

Three days into this arrangement, you were...all respect to the honored one, potentially starting to lose your mind.

Shoko had called twice with updates that amounted to quite literally nothing. Suguru had stopped by once with supplies and absolutely zero leads on the curse responsible and had a good laugh. And you had been running yourself ragged trying to maintain normalcy while also keeping the world's strongest sorcerer alive.

On a large scale, it wasn't all that hard, but what had been a successful first night of keeping Gojo asleep ended up being a huge bout of luck because that man. Did not sleep through the night. Ever.

As it would turn out, Gojo was a terrible patient. He refused to eat the cat food you'd bought (you'd resorted to giving him plain chicken, rice, and fish). It was as if he couldn't help himself but knock things off your counters with what seemed like deliberate intent, followed by genuine remorse, and he had this annoying habit of sitting directly in your field of vision whenever you pulled out your laptop, or book, or knitting, or God knows what else.

Do not even mention the 3 AM zoomies.

Worse than all of this, however, was the way he watched you. Those unnervingly blue eyes tracked your every movement, and you couldn't shake the feeling that he was judging you. Cataloguing every mistake, every inadequacy, storing them up for when he got his body back so he could finally tell everyone what a disaster you were.

A bit dramatic, yes, but he had always been so observant of everyone for that very reason.

You hoped he was just deathly bored.

You knew it must be hard. It's not as though you could stay home and entertain him all day; you still had a job to do. Suguru had bought him all kinds of kitty sensory toys, but let's just say, Gojo was not fond of them.

Maybe it was because of how Suguru teased him when he came over to drop them off, maybe it was because he just enjoyed tipping stuff off the counters more then he liked chasing electronic mice. Who is to say?

You knew he needed engagement, some stimulation; you were trying your best.

This day in particular had been especially brutal. A mission that should have taken two hours had stretched into six. The two students who had come with you had quite a bit of trouble and you felt badly enough to buy them dinner. By the end of it all, it was fair to say you were drained.

Finally home, you stumbled through your apartment door well after dark, your body moving on autopilot. Keys on the hook. Shoes kicked off. Bag dropped by the door.

Your uniform wasn't actually that uncomfortable, but after such a long day, all you wanted were your pajamas.

You pulled your shirt over your head as you walked toward your bedroom, already mentally checked out, your fingers working through your hair.

"...Ow," you muttered, almost tripping over yourself to put your socks in the laundry basket, fingers fumbling with your skirt. You were halfway to your dresser, in just your underwear, by the way, when you heard it.

A very pointed, very loud meow.

You froze.

Your head whipped to the side, and there he was, Satoru, perched on your dresser, his white tail swishing in slow, deliberate arcs. Those blue eyes were wider than you'd ever seen them, his stance wide as well, and if a cat could look scandalized, he absolutely did.

"Oh my gosh!" You grabbed the nearest piece of clothing, yesterday's shirt, and held it against yourself, after a moment of realizing it covered little to nothing, you instead decided to throw it at him.

The t-shirt landed, effectively covering him, he spun beneath it, somewhat caught off guard. After a quick escape, he turned his head away sharply, and you could swear his ears were pressed back in what might have been mortification.

Your face was burning as you scrambled to pull on clean clothes, your hands shaking slightly.

How could you have possibly forgotten? "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...just" you heaved, pulling on a long t-shirt, "wasn't thinking and...I just came home and—" You rambled on, "gosh I'm an idiot, I have no idea what—"

Another meow, this one somehow conveying both forgiveness as well as a, "please stop talking."

You pressed your hands to your face, wanting the floor to swallow you whole. Of all the people to accidentally flash, it had to be him. The one person whose opinion of you was already so low that you couldn't afford to sink any further.

At least he got some form of entertainment.

When you finally dared to peek through your fingers, Gojo had turned back around. He spun around a bit on the floor beside the dresser and padded over to you, sitting at your feet. He looked up at you and made a small, questioning sound, his head tilted.

Are you like...good?

The question, unspoken but somehow clear, made your head throb. Wishing you could somehow erase the past ten minutes of your life.

"That was awful," you managed to get out. "I'm...just tired. And mortified. Mostly mortified."

He bumped his head against your shin, once, twice. Then, promptly rolled his eyes at you. Maybe it was only fair for you to shame yourself so, considering he was perpetually on display.

"Jesus, you must be starved..." You realized, shaking your head, and led him to the kitchen.

You hoped and prayed this would be the last of the public humiliation Satoru Gojo got to witness.

--

Satoru had learned many things in the past week of being a cat. Aside from the realization that he had a complete inability to control his impulses, he also learned:

His sense of smell was overwhelming and occasionally nauseating.

The urge to chase anything that moved was both instinctual and deeply humiliating, especially when it caused you to wake up and become concerned for him.

And lastly, you were terrible at taking care of yourself.

It wasn't that he hadn't noticed before, oh, of course he had. He'd always noticed everything about you, filed away every detail like he couldn't help himself. But living with you, watching your routines up close, made it impossible to ignore.

You worked yourself to exhaustion all the time. You apologized for things that weren't your fault. You ate irregularly at best, and sometimes not at all. And you didn't seem to find any issue with these behaviors, which made him want to chew on something. A habit the both of you were trying to get him to break.

This morning was a perfect example.

You'd woken up late (still getting used to sharing a bed, he supposes, though it had come very naturally to him). He'd watched from his spot on the couch as you'd rushed around your apartment in record speed, pulled on your uniform, slipped on your shoes, and grabbed your bag.

You were halfway to the door when he realized you were about to leave without breakfast or a packed lunch.

Again.

Satoru launched himself from the couch and ran directly into your path, planting himself between you and the door. Calling loudly at you.

"Excuse me?" He was straightening his back quite defiantly, he could tell.

Stumbling to a stop, you nearly tripped over his moving figure.

"Gojo! I- I left something out for you- sorry, I don't have time to play, I'm already late—"

He didn't move. Instead, he sat down and looked up at you with the most pathetic expression he could muster. He even added a small, pitiful mew for effect.

"I" You turned back to check, "you've got food and water, you can't be going outside, you know that, I'm sor-"

He clawed at his own head in irritation, turned and walked deliberately toward the kitchen, then looked back at you. When you didn't follow, he did it again. Kitchen. You. Kitchen. You.

"Are you... feeling sick? What is it?"

Finally. He meowed, leaped onto the counter, and pawed at a cabinet.

Are you blind? He wanted to sass.

"You want... food?" You looked confused. "But your bowls are full?"

He resisted the urge to bite his tail in frustration. Instead, he jumped onto the counter (something you'd told him not to do at least a dozen times) and headbutted the cabinet door that contained your cereal.

"That's...mine, Gojo, I think it would probably make you sick."

Yes! Exactly! That's the entire point!

He meowed again, more insistently this time, and pawed at the cabinet.

You stood there for a long moment, and he could see the exact second it clicked. Your expression shifted from confusion to slight indignation.

"Are you... telling me to eat breakfast?"

He hopped down from the counter and wound himself around your legs in what he hoped was an encouraging figure-eight pattern.

"Gojo..." Your voice was disbelieving. "I really don't have time, trust me, I'm not like you, I can go a day—"

He couldn't help it...he didn't mean to... okay, he did.

He bit your ankle.

It had been a while since he had done that, spurred into action, you yelp, "Okay!" and reached down to scoop him up without thinking, holding him against your chest as you grabbed a protein bar from the cabinet with your other hand. "Happy now? This counts as breakfast."

See, this was the hard part; he couldn't "cheek" you into listening to him in this form, because a bar absolutely did not count, and he'd definitely need someone to address it when he turned back, but it was better than nothing. He allowed himself to relax slightly in your arms, rolling those big eyes once more.

"I don't understand you," you murmured, almost to yourself. You were scratching behind his ears now, absently, like you'd forgotten you were holding him. "I thought you couldn't stand me, but now you're just like my mother."

That stopped him short. His ear twitched.

Instead, he just pushed his head more firmly into your palm and purred.

You couldn't stop an almost-laugh. "You're very weird, you know that?"

Oh, you had no idea.

"Okay, I really do have to go now." You set him down gently, and he watched as you shoved the protein bar in your pocket and headed for the door. But just before you left, you turned back to look at him.

This was the hard part. Before, it had consisted of lazing around, waiting for Suguru to kill the damn curse that had caused this and turn him back. Somewhere along the way, it became sitting around all day and awaiting your return.

The door closed behind you, and Satoru sat in the silence of your apartment, tail swishing in agitation.

In all honesty, it had started to get good, living with you. There was a comfortable normalcy to it all; Satoru had even allowed himself to enjoy his new life.

Decent and consistent meals, more sleep than he had ever gotten, a companion to watch movies with, and a chance to be with you. What was there to complain about?

For the first time ever, in this new form, it was easy to be around you, to not be held back by the ever-present thudding in his chest, by the voice that told him he was going to stutter and lose his chill-flirty-guy look simply by attempting to hold your gaze.

When he had first met you, he was still trying to discover himself; he didn't know what kind of a person he was or wanted to be. He liked being the guy people wanted him to be (as much as he would deny it) but he never quite figured out what kind of a person you liked, and so, he found himself delaying your conversations until his confidence came to him.

That day just never really came. He had psyched himself into heart-stilling muteness whenever you were around.

Although now, some days, you would come home late, and that would mean he got to complain loudly while following you around, never truly upset.

It actually felt good to tease you; he had never let himself do it before.

Satoru slid near the window, listening to the mumble of the TV you had left on for him, and impatiently waited for the noise of your car.

--

When your head was clear, you were always worried about how others saw you and how they perceived your weakness. But in moments of desperation like these, you couldn't even seem to bring yourself to care about tripping down the hallway of your apartment complex.

Saliva flooded your mouth as you became frustrated with your door handle. Shaking it with irate need until it finally swung open.

Your whole body should be in pain right now, or at least giving you something, any feeling at all. You feared its impending arrival, knowing the adrenaline could only last so long, but all you could focus on now was how you were getting copious amounts of blood across your carpet.

Wide births of it seem to sink into the flooring below your shaky feet as you toss your bag to the floor along with the rag you had been holding to your head.

You shouldn't have left it at the entrance, but you had dropped it with everything else in your hands, and the front door was too far to go back to now.

Your brain was focused on how you were beginning to come alarmingly close to puking on top of the filth as well, and how your eyes kept getting blurry from the blood.

Clearly, you were not in a headspace of decent awareness because you had not even thought about how your cat might respond to your mess. Of Satoru seeing you in this state.

Wow, this was embarrassing. It shook you for a moment as Satoru circled your ankles.

You know he probably meant well, but in your current state, you could hardly walk without stumbling. Tears of frustration at the whole event prick your eyes. At the blood you know stained your car, your home, your uniform. You couldn't tell if it was blood or sweat that made your jacket stick to your flesh, but you hated how it felt.

You wanted this to stop, to push it away and bother with it in the morning, and you would've, only now, the pain was starting to arise in scarily strong waves.

You would feel bad looking back on it, the force you used. In those moments, it had almost been as though Satoru was trying to trip you with the way he kept blocking your path, his head tilted straight up. In a moment of frustration at everything, the pain, your stupid mistake, at the damn blood slicking your hair to your scalp, you shoved Satoru back rather aggressively with your foot, kicking him so he couldn’t follow you into the bathroom, where you slid behind the door.

Weak, a poor excuse for a sorcerer, and also now mean.

Satoru heard you slump to the floor. He heard your heart pumping. Smelled the festering of your flesh.

And he was useless through it all.

You felt yourself slip a bit, swallowing your own spit repeatedly, attempting to keep the bile down. The tiles of your bathroom floor were cold on your exposed flesh. A distant part of your brain reminded you how gross it was to just be lying here on the floor of your bathroom, but it was such a minute call amongst the alarm bells that were your pain receptors.

You tried to take an assessment of your body. It wasn't actually as bad as you thought, nor as bad as it looked. The long, jerky drive home likely exacerbated the issue. You would have called Shoko, only you knew she was in Kyoto right now.

Today was her report with the higher-ups.

And besides, there were only so many sorcerers who were able to heal others, and with Satoru "on vacation," her jobs were only becoming more frequent.

The one time when you needed to be strong, to stand up for yourself and not fall back on the help of others, you couldn't do it without making a fool of yourself. You really were pathetic.

Gojo's shouts would have been funny had they not been so incessant.

"It’s okay, Satoru..." You wheeze, "I’m alright, buddy." You weren't that convincing, even you knew that. But the torn-up noises he was making on the other side of the door were starting to become somewhat concerning.

Your words, however, did not have a comforting effect on him; had he been able to speak properly, you would have heard his, "You’re not. You’re really not."

On the other side of the bathroom door, Satoru was in a state of complete panic, unable to gauge what exactly was going on. Why the hell were you here, alone on your bathroom floor when you could be in Shoko’s lab? In a hospital, for Christ's sake? Why were you wasting your energy trying to comfort him?

He hated himself. He hated this stupid body. He hated how weak he was. But most of all, he hated those painful gasps of breath you were making. It caused him to wince.

He couldn't even enjoy the fact that for the very first time, you were calling him by his first name.

He needed to get in there.

Eventually, you were able to pull yourself up against the sink cupboard with a sopping cloth pressed messily to your head while your free hand worked on opening a first aid kit you kept handy.

A painful chuckle escaped you when a wild paw slid itself under the bathroom door, swiping at nothing.

Silly boy.

“It’s alright…it all looks worse than it is.”

You were really just talking to yourself at this point, little murmurs of ‘you can do it…’ as you hyped yourself up to using hydrogen peroxide with shaky hands, a great way to blind yourself.

As your blood started seeping into the hand towel beside your skull more and more, you realized you might actually be right.

The wound itself wasn’t that bad. There were just a lot of blood vessels in the scalp...at least that’s what you told yourself as the cap for the antiseptic came undone.

The cloying bile arose in your throat once more, your eyes blurred, and without allowing yourself the chance to change your mind, you slipped across the linoleum tile, leaned back over the shower-bath, and doused yourself.

It was pitiful, the noises you made. It was a sickening cry, the type of pain that made you angry. You had to repeatedly swallow down your gags.

You could barely hear the mewls over the sound of your own hiccups now.

“Almost done. It’s almost done.” You stroked your own neck to self-soothe.

The shocking sting subsided blissfully and slowly dulled into a casual ache. You had a sudden and childish desire to just hold your kitty. To forget all of this and just fall asleep. But you knew you would have to bandage yourself, even if it sucked all of your energy to do so.

Your legs shook as you stood, dropping the sodden and useless towel to the floor, and gripped the sink, looking at yourself.

It was almost scary to see. You flipped the sink on and washed your hands, and after looking for something dry to wipe them (and your sticky face) on, you leaned over and pulled the door open a crack.

Just like everything else, it seemed like Satoru wanted to take part. He was in the bathroom before you could say a word. Those big eyes kept scaling the length of you. His ears were pulled to the sides slightly, and his tail dragged the floor. His limbs appeared to be squatted low, and he just kept pacing around you silently.

“Sorry you had to see this.” You chuckle. Everything was making you a bit delirious, but knowing the worst of it was gone made it strangely easy to laugh.

Satoru did not seem to find it funny, an angry moan resounding from between your legs.

He hopped up onto the toilet seat and, from there, leaped to the sink, likely trying to get a better look at you. With a slightly damp and soapy hand, you stroked his tiny head, a feeling he usually would have disliked, but let slide this time, probably given the circumstances.

You attempted to shush him gently, but that only seemed to fan his anger.

"Shhh, I'm sorry, Satoru, I don't understand you."

You grabbed the towel from before and reached behind him to turn the sink on, allowing it to soak before ringing it out a few times. Satorus's nose scrunched up, probably at the coppary smell of your blood.

Once a bit cleaner, you took the wet rag and started blotting the stains on your uniform, small slashes here and there, nothing as serious as the head wound, but still dripping.

You made an attempt at salvaging your clothes but decided rather quickly to forego the whole endeavor in favor of a sloppy bandaging job and lying down, an idea much more appealing to your weak and dizzy mind.

Satoru cried, mewling a single note every so often when he had to shift to see your face. He jumped from the sink when you gave up with your uniform, the rag left in the sink for when you had a little more energy.

You laughed, something short and sweet, when you tried to lean over to pull your shoes off. His head almost bonked yours, you carefully responded by lifting him up and placing him on the bed. Even the simple movement seemed to hurt, you were usure of the current state of your injuries, but your bandages did not seem to be leaking sticky fluid, so that was a great start.

Your face scrunching up as you sucked in another breath. Slowly removing your clothes, discarding them into your laundry basket, even though you knew they would need to be thrown out in the morning.

When you turned to look for something easy and comfortable to change into, you saw the cat stoutly facing away from you, a large nightshirt having suddenly appeared on the mattress.

"Thanks, Satoru," You sighed, leaning into the bed before pulling it slowly over your head. You took stock of what was of imminent need, and highest on the list before anything else was sleep.

Before you lifted your worn body into bed, you bent over to his hiding form and pressed a kiss to Satoru's forehead.

When he turned to look, you were already trying to get comfortable. There was no use in forcing you to call for help, in keeping you from rest, he knew that. But that didn't mean he wasn't sick to his stomach.

He also knew with startling clarity that he needed you to kiss him again, the real him.

--

You could tell something was different before you were really even awake. It wasn't because you were so painfully sore that you couldn't bare the thought of waking up, or because your head throbbed with the beat of your heart either.

It’s not exactly like you had worlds of experience sharing a bed with someone, but even you could tell in this state that a human arm was heavily wrapped around your upper waist. The warm skin, the corded muscle, and those fingers that were unconsciously curled into your flesh.

Your face was pressed against something firm, your own warm breath ricocheting back in a calming cycle. In your half-asleep daze, you mapped your hands across the smooth expanse of skin and hard muscle that was weighing against you and definitely had not been there when you had fallen asleep.

The duvet was tucked tightly around your legs, along with some other tangled limbs you weren’t accustomed to, far too long to belong to the small creature you had grown accustomed to. Your norm had become a gentler...say, eight pounds of purring fluff on your back or calves, not whatever this was.

You rarely awoke before your alarm, so it was with blinking surprise that you found yourself trying to squirm free, just for Satoru, because of course it had to be him, to grumble something incoherent in his sleep and hold your hip tighter. "Sato, shit, Gojo," You groaned as you corrected yourself, managing to pull your arms free to start pushing him back.

Your sides and lower back still hurt from yesterday; the pain lingered with every movement. In response to your pushes, he simply readjusted instead, moving down to nuzzle his head back into your neck, long white hair splayed out and tickling your cheeks, still too asleep to realize he wasn't the same small kitty anymore.

He groaned a sigh, fully unaware, not able to take note of his body that could no longer simply curl up on you. You wheeze a bit, "You're...heavy-"

And finally, he stirred, his body going completely rigid, the moment of understanding hitting him.

"Fuck." His voice was hoarse and raw, scratching its way out of his throat as though it was a pain to use. Almost like he hadn't used it in weeks...which, technically, he hadn't.

It took him a second to start moving, every motion slow, sluggish, while he untangled himself from you and the blanket.

You tried not to stare, really you did, but as you sat up in your bed, you watched as he jolted, your eyes having a mind of their own, raking over his body, betraying you.

You traced the movement of his shoulders, the line of his spine, and--

He was naked. Completely and utterly nude.

You made a startled-strangled noise, immediately looking away and throwing a blanket in his general direction to cover up. A feeling of deja vu followed.

Both of you were speaking over each other, neither really making sense. You had slipped off your mattress and were pointing him in the direction of your closet when he finally stopped muttering.

"Um, okay, well, I'm, uh, gonna call Suguru so he can get you some clothes," You rambled, covering your eyes with one hand and fumbling for your phone where you could've sworn you left it on the nightstand before you fell asleep. Quickly and without your notice, a warm hand brushed against yours, goosebumps going up your arm as sturdy fingers unintentionally skimmed over your skin. It took you a painfully long second to realize he was holding your phone out for you to take.

"Thanks," You choked out, grabbing it and crawling back to the other side of the room so you wouldn't accidentally bump into him. "You can just, uh, use my closet to sit...or relax or whatever." You were scurrying out before he could reply, clutching your phone like a shield to save you from the sheer awkwardness.

In your hurry, you hadn't realized you'd loosened your pathetic excuse for bandages until you felt something dry and scratchy itching at your forehead as you slammed the door behind you and started frantically thumbing through your contacts for Suguru. "Shit," You muttered, hitting the call button and tucking it between your ear and shoulder, right after you had hurried to the bathroom to clean yourself up, choking down a few more painkillers dry as the phone rang.

"Good morning, I assume you are calling to share some good news?" Suguru's voice sounded annoyingly chipper for once; you could only guess he knew your predicament. He had answered right as you had perched yourself on the edge of the bathroom counter.

Your back and side hurt way more now than they did last night. You ground your molars just replaying the memory of that stupid curse catching you off guard after you thought you had finished it.

There was a sharp knock on the bathroom door, and you forced yourself back on your feet, politely blocking out Suguru's explanation of his evening.

You checked yourself in the mirror, and your soul dropped at the sight of yourself. There was, unfortunately, nothing left for you to hide from your roommate at this point, though, and you eventually pulled open the door.

You couldn't find the words when your eyes met his. Satoru's face was pulled tight, jaw clenched as his intense blue eyes assessed you. He was looking at you in a way he never had before...not to say you often caught him staring, because you really didn't.

Your heart sank. He almost looked angry. Disappointment flooded your mind and drowned you for a moment before the man gently took your wrist, and with a tenderness that did not match his expression, requested your phone.

There was blood all over the bathroom.

You just nodded.

To think, this towering man had been living with you for over a week now, and you had somehow found normalcy in it. When Satoru stepped into the bathroom, you suddenly found the space to be impossibly small. Forced to look up at him now, you wondered where that small, soft creature you'd gotten used to had gone.

"She's hurt," Satoru spoke slowly, interrupting his friend's rehashing of how he had found the curse. "You should be here to help her."

Suguru had not expected that to be a response, but he was put into action quickly by the unusual sternness in Satoru's voice.

Before Suguru had the chance to come and pick you up, Satoru spent the time fussing. You had expected his first day back to be more celebratory, a happier conversation perhaps, not,

"And why didn't you go to Shoko?",

"Do you have any idea how worried I was?",

"You lost practically a liter of blood!",

"And you weren't even listening to me..."

All this was followed by a rustling of a hand through his hair, which proceeded with,

"You're still shaking, Christ, I can see how hurt you are.",

"I have good eyes, you know this, but they were really bad back there, which was really just all the more scary when you literally kicked me from this bathroom!",

"Kicked me!!"

"And then you just went to sleep? There was nothing I could even do to- are you even listening?"

You had made several attempts at breaking his frantic sentences but finally, you put out a shaky hand, motioning for him, "Satoru..."

He paced forward, seemingly concerned.

"You're...in a towel..."

--

When Suguru arrived, you were forced to endure the removal of all his softness, replaced by harsh instructions. You didn't know what sort of face you were making, didn't want to when you were sure it was probably tinged with hurt or worse, something as embarrassing as a blush.

Satoru coming back to himself had always been the plan, but you hadn't considered what that would look like. How might it change the unfamiliar dynamic you had shared?

You were now caught somewhere between devastation and desire when you couldn't tell what new box he'd fit you into now, or if he'd just returned you to the one you'd been stuck in before, barely more than coworkers.

That was what you promised him, all those nights ago, right? That things would go back to normal once Suguru could find and destroy the curse.

But now that it had happened, you wished you had spent more time planning on how to respond. You had kidded yourself into thinking this wouldn't be hard, no matter how much you liked his presence, how much you convinced yourself there was some silent connection you shared, he had always been the same person, too far out of reach.

You couldn't read his face anymore, not now that he was a man.

--

The shoebox was waiting on your desk when you arrived at the school three days later, that Monday.

Plain, unmarked, sitting there like it had always belonged. You approached it cautiously, glancing around the empty classroom as if someone might jump out and explain. When you lifted the lid, you stopped short and turned to find the person who had left them.

Shoes. New ones. The same style as the pair that you had been wearing for years now. The ones that had been destroyed several nights ago by a certain ferocious feline. You can recall sighing at his regretful face, murmuring something like "...those were expensive".

There was no note. No explanation. But you didn't need one.

You had the sudden steam of guilt brewing in your mind. The notion that Gojo might have gone out of his way because he believed he had upset you just made you all the more uncomfortable. Not to mention the two of you hadn't said a word to each other since the day Suguru took him home.

You picked up one of the shoes, running your thumb over the pristine material, and something warm and painful bloomed in your chest. The souls were all nice and clean; it had been a while since your pair had looked anything like that.

You put the lid back on the box and tried very hard not to cry.

It wasn't because he had spent far too much money on you. Well, maybe that played a small part, but more likely, it was because he hadn't said anything at all.

Everything was falling right back into the routine you were accustomed to. You might see each other here and there, maybe at a work event, he might catch your gaze, in a few months, he might even include you in a conversation, and you could allow yourself to pretend it meant something more, but at the end of the day, you belonged in your world, and he in his.

Why was it that you were doomed to care so much for someone who you knew would never feel the same way?

--

You managed to avoid him for a week.

It wasn't difficult in the slightest. Satoru had been swarmed with assignments and meetings the moment he'd returned, the higher-ups were eager to deploy their strongest asset after his mysterious "overseas assignment."

You'd heard about it through Suguru, who seemed more than ever to be involved in your friendship with the man. He was far too amused by your sudden aversion to rooms he was in, especially since he knew you had once tried to look for them.

That being said, you couldn't avoid everyone forever, and certainly not Shoko, especially not when you'd torn your stitches again on a mission in Osaka.

"You're an idiot," she said flatly the afternoon you returned with some dried blood in your hairline, threading the needle with practiced efficiency. "These were almost healed."

"I know."

"You're going to scar worse if you keep this up."

"I know."

It felt like just yesterday you had thrown her into a coughing fit when she found out you had used hydrogen peroxide to clean the wound. Now, she was sighing, and you heard the distinctive click of her lighter. It hardly felt like it, but a month ago, now you had been in this very office, with this very woman, being granted an opportunity that at the time had felt like a joke.

"He's been asking about you, ya know."

Your stomach twisted. "Sho-"

"I'm just saying. Whatever weird thing you two have going on, maybe talk about it? Instead of running away from him?"

You didn't answer, and she didn't push. You had asked about it before, long ago whispers in your childhood dorm of, "do you think I did something to make him not like me?" resurfaceing. Even she couldn't explain why you were different to him.

She finished the stitches in silence, then left you sitting on the examination table with instructions to rest that you both knew you wouldn't follow.

You were pulling your hand back down from your head when the door opened once more.

Satoru stood in the doorway, Suguru just behind him. They both froze when they saw you, but it was Satoru's expression that made your heart stutter, something real and unguarded crossing his face before he schooled it away.

"Hey," he spoke first, silent, Suguru still behind him. His brows were knitted together, searching your face.

"Hi," you echoed back, avoiding his sharp gaze in favor of the desk, Shoko's abandoned coffee cup, the floor...the new shoes adorning your feet...

"You're hurt?" His voice was still rough around the edges, too low, not quite as smooth as it used to be. Like it was still remembering how to flow properly.

"Not really...not anymore," you shook your head, forcing your tone to stay light. "Shoko fixed me up."

"You shouldn't push yourself so hard," he frowned, taking a step closer.

The concern in his voice felt like a hand around your throat. You're pathetic. You've never seen him need help from Shoko, he could do it himself if he ever got hurt, which, of course, never happened.

You hopped off the table quickly, brushing past his broad chest to get to the door. "Thanks."

His hand shot out, catching your wrist. Not hard, not restraining, just... holding. "Hey..."

You stopped, a chill flew up your spine. When had he last touched you? You immediately turn around. Sick to your stomach with some shameful excitement that he may have wanted to speak with you.

"I haven't really seen you at all." His voice was quiet. Suguru looked like a very large fly on the wall, witnessing it all.

"Oh, I guess our schedules ... aren't matching up?"

"You're avoiding me, huh?" His grip slumped, and he put on that boyish grin you always craved to be directed your way, "Ever since I changed back, you won't even look at me. Are you just missing my old form?"

"No, I'm glad you're back," You shrug, "everyone was missing you."

There weren't any words exchanged for a painfully awkward time. Suguru refused to help.

"Thank you...for the shoes, by the way." You force out through the silence.

"It's nothing. I owe you much more..." Gojo stilled, looked around the lab, and then over to his friend, "Isn't Shoko here? I guess not... I figured she would be, though..."

Nobody replied until you pointed over your shoulder, "She had...just left when you stopped by..."

Satoru released his grip, nodded at Suguru, and quickly spurted out, "Did I make you uncomfortable?"

"What?" You still.

"Sorry if I did, it's just that I haven't seen you and I figured maybe I did something, and well.. you took such good care of me, it wouldn't be very nice of me to not pay you back properly."

You doubt you had ever heard so many words from Satoru directed your way, "Uhh, I don't think you owe me at all, you already got me the shoes, and it's not like you have to pretend things are different now that you're back."

You wished Suguru would leave, or better, you wished you could leave, becase Satoru is looking at you with those adorable, confused eyes.

"I'm not pretending, you know, we used to share a bed, we can be friends still, right?"

You gape like a fish, and Geto smacks a hand to his forehead. Friends? Were you ever friends?

"Satoru, you didn't do anything wrong. I think I would prefer if we could just be normal, I don't want you to force yourself because you feel guilty about something you can't control."

"I don't think I follow"

You try and grin, "You've made-" You stop, trying again, "Our relationship is pretty clear."

"It is?" He's got this cute scrunch in his eyebrows.

You finally turned to face him again. "I wasn't really worth your time before." It's embarrassing to say it so boldly to his face, especially because you know he's about to deny it.

Suguru, the slick man, takes that as his cue to depart, shaking his head. The words came out sharper than you had meant; maybe something more like, 'we're we close before?' would have sufficed.

Instead, there were months or maybe years of hidden offense spilling over. "I get it, okay? You were stuck with me because of the curse, and you probably feel embarrassed about having to stay with me, I mean, you were probably counting down the seconds until you could get back to your real life and forget about it, but-"

"Are you insane?" He stops you short.

You blinked. Satoru was staring at you like you'd just spoken a different language, his mouth actually hanging open. "What?"

"Not worth my time?" He repeated, his voice climbing. "Are you-do you actually think-" He turned around for the imaginary audience, gesturing wildly. "Oh my-are you serious right now?"

Suguru, who had apparently only been just around the corner, answered his call, "Don't ask her that! She has no idea, you're the one who's been silently pining for years."

"Suguru!" Satoru's face was turning red, his six eyes had known his friend was listening, but he didn't appreciate the commentary. None of this was going according to plan, he had practiced his confident and cool lines for moments like these, but just like every other time he was before you, the words wouldn't come.

Your brain had stopped processing. "I'm sorry, what?"

Satoru dragged a hand down his face, and when he looked at you again, his expression was almost pained. "I don't... I can't do this." He took a breath. "But you need to know that you've got it completely backwards."

"I don't understand."

"You've never...not been worth my time," he said, and the words came out rushed, clumsy. "I've never thought that. I just, I liked you since-god, I don't even know. Since you asked me for my name on your first day at school? Since you stayed up all night helping your upperclassman study, even though you were exhausted. Since you-" He gestured helplessly. "Since the beginning, okay? Since always."

You felt like the ground had disappeared beneath your feet. "But you never... you barely talked to me."

"Because!" He flung his arms around. Suguru came out from around the corner and mimicked wringing his neck with both hands.

"I couldn't! I can't even do it now!" Satoru stepped closer, and you were too stunned to back away. "Because every time I tried to talk to you like a normal person, I'd remember how much of a better person you were, and I'd just freeze, or say something stupid, or complain, because that's all I know how to do. So I stayed away because I thought that was better than being an idiot."

"You stayed away," you repeated slowly, "because you liked me?"

"Are you kidding? Of course, I liked you, who else would I like!"

"So when I thought you couldn't stand me..."

"No! I was just trying not to embarrass myself in front of you." He laughed, but it sounded a little broken. "Clearly failed at that, considering you witnessed me trying to figure out how to use a litter box for a week."

Despite everything, you felt a small laugh bubble up. His hand came up slowly, carefully, giving you time to pull away. When you didn't, his fingers brushed along your jaw. "And just like with everyone else, you took care of me, even though you thought so lowly of me."

You pulled back at that, "I never thought lowly of you..."

"If you thought for even a second that I was better than you, you did, I can't imagine anything lower than that."

"This is just...so stupid," you managed, covering your face, unable to wrap your mind around the idea of Satoru Gojo liking you.

"Yeah, well." He smiled, soft and genuine and so unlike his usual smirk that it made your heart ache. "You make me stupid."

"Satoru..."

"I'm sorry," he said seriously. "For making you think you didn't matter. For not being brave enough to tell you sooner. For-"

You grabbed his shirt and pulled him in, a particular fantasy you had been dreaming about for ages. You wrapped your arms around his waist and knocked his chest with your forehead. He made a surprised choking noise, his arms coming around you carefully, a gentle pet on your head every so often, mindful of your stitches.

When you finally pulled back, you were both looking at one another as if it were the first time. His eyes were impossibly bright, a smile playing at his lips.

He took a few deep breaths, "I promise to not be so stupid in the future."

"I seriously doubt that." Suguru's voice cut through the moment.

"Yeah, Satoru, let's not go making promises we can't keep." Shoko ran a tired hand through her hair, evidently, just around the other hallway.

"I'm serious, though, guys! I feel like a weight has come off my shoulders and I can be free!" Satoru said without fully unlatching himself from you.

"Thank god nobody is dying of emotional constipation anymore." Suguru came forward and knocked Shoko on the shoulder.

"Only took...I'm not sure, twelve years and a week as a cat." You hear Shoko's footsteaps retreat, then pause. "For the record, I'm charging a therapy fee for the last month of watching you both be idiots."

When they were both gone, and it was just the two of you. Satoru's hand found yours, not firm or loud like he typically was with his friends, but gentle, threading your fingers together.

"Thank you," he said softly. "For keeping me."

You looked at your joined hands, then up at his face.

"How could I not?" you reply.

He rolled his eyes, leaning down to kiss your hand, and when he pulled back, he was grinning like you'd just given him the world.

"Though for the record," you said, unable to help yourself, "you were a very needy companion."

His laugh was bright and genuine, the sound filling Shoko's office like sunlight.

"Yeah," he agreed, pulling you closer. "It's like...for the first time I could freely beg for your attention."

You look away, nodding, but he continued, "And you gave it to me, god, what a thrill." His eyes sparkled, "Are you gonna continue to keep me, now that I'm not as cute?"

At this point, you should've known better, but you just wanted to hear him say it, "Is that what you want?"

Satoru scoffed, reaching for your other hand, “Don’t you know I’m yours? Besides, who else is going to remind you to eat your breakfast, hmm?”

--

Sometimes you could still see his mischievous tail whipping back and forth when he teased Nanami or Suguru, his pointy ears flicking when Utahime or Shoko got mad, but the one thing that never changed was those big pupils that would spot you at a moment's notice. Only now, he was a lot less shy about asking for what he wanted, leaving to go right where he belonged.

Right into your cozy arms. There really was no better place for a lovesick pet like him.

There was nothing left for him to hide - the cat's out of the bag.

--

Now Kyoya was sure that mortification was the strongest emotion he felt today.

“Kyoya-senpai, you know this person?” Haruhi tried to figure out what kind of person would be shopping for groceries at a commoner’s mall but also be acquainted with the shadow prince of the host club. Related to the owner of the mall? No, that was too small scale for the level of high society that Ouran students dealt with. Them being related to the CEO that owns every mall chain across Japan was more likely.

He hesitated to answer, gaze lingering on the person in front of them. Kyoya carefully put down his burger before pushing up his glasses and stating matter-o-factly, “yes. Haruhi, this is my partner, (Name). (Name), this is the Haruhi Fujioka I told you about.”

Haruhi blinked. Partner? She went through her known information about Kyoya, which admittedly wasn’t a lot, but nothing pointed to him having a partner. Especially not a commoner! But the living proof was standing right next to their table and Haruhi was miffed, to say the least. “Partner?! Kyoya-senpai, you have a partner?!”

“Must you sound so shocked?” Kyoya retorted, and there was some earnesty in his otherwise sarcastic remark. It wasn’t like she ever asked him if he had a partner. Everyone just assumed he didn’t.

(Name) bowed following the introduction. “Fujioka-san,” they smiled. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s nice to meet you.”

They really were a normal person. Dressed in plain clothes and unassuming. And polite. Haruhi realized early on at her transfer to Ouran that polite was rarely a word to describe the children of the wealthy and elite. Haruhi stood up to bow in return. “It’s nice to meet you too, (Name)-san. Sorry, I hope my reaction wasn’t rude. I had no idea Kyoya-senpai had a partner. Do you want to sit with us?”

Before (Name) had a chance to respond, Kyoya already grabbed a chair from an empty table and pulled it over. One exchanged glance with Kyoya was all it took to get (Name) to sit down. “Don’t worry about it, Fujioka-san. Kyoya doesn’t really tell people about me.”

“Please clarify that it is a mutual decision to keep our relationship private,” Kyoya sighed.

(Name) laughed. “Sorry, I was teasing.”

“No one knows? Also, you can call me Haruhi. Please don’t feel the need to be formal!” Haruhi was trying to figure out how to phrase questions that wouldn’t immediately get shut down by Kyoya. How did you meet, how long have you been together, how is your partner a commoner?

“Well, Tamaki-san knows. He found out after—“

Again, Kyoya was quick to interrupt. “Please don’t explain that story. It’s embarrassing.”

“I didn’t know you were worried about shame. Could’ve fooled me with that outfit of yours and your peculiar new hangout spot!” (Name) grinned, and Haruhi found herself in awe for the second time that day. She was used to Kyoya always having a witty remark ready for when one of the club members decided to yell at him, but (Name) might be his equal in that regard. Not only could they banter with Kyoya— Kyoya seemed to enjoy it. He had an unbeatable poker face but Haruhi definitely noticed the corners of his lips curling upwards as he looked at (Name). There was a softness in place of his usual cunning.

Haruhi leaned back in her chair, pleasantly entertained by the pair in front of her. “I guess it makes plenty of sense for Kyoya-senpai to have a private relationship. But, doesn’t that mean you don’t have a lot of time to spend with each other?”

“Oh, sure. I wouldn’t call it ideal. But, Kyoya is married to his job, y’know? I couldn’t take that away from him.”

That time, Kyoya pinched (Name)’s cheek in retaliation. “You’re making me sound like a bad partner. Yes, we don’t spend as much time together as the average couple, but we always make time for each other.”

“Have I ever told you that you look uncomfortable when you explain our relationship to other people?” Kyoya pulled on their cheek. “Agh! Let go!”

Kyoya complied with the request, but not before pressing a light kiss to the cheek he just bullied. He was a host, after all. He knew how to treat someone right. His regular customers would probably be furious to know that he was so chaste on physical affection because it was reserved for his dear partner.

(Name) wasn’t wrong about Kyoya being uncomfortable. He knew how to play the role of a host, but having to be honest about something real, in public, was a different ballpark entirely. But the fact that he was in a space where no one knew who he was or what his status was served to be quite freeing. The usual pressure on his shoulders of being an Ootori was alleviated for once, so he locked hands with (Name) over the table.

It was Haruhi’s turn to be cunning since she would never be afforded this opportunity against Kyoya again. “Kyoya-senpai has been so grumpy today,” Haruhi started. “But he relaxed as soon as you arrived, (Name)-san. He’s really fond of you.”

If (Name) wasn’t here, Kyoya would’ve probably found a way to twist Haruhi’s comment into more debt for her to pay off. But (Name)’s eyes lit up, so Kyoya let Haruhi get away with it this time.

“You’re really good at reading him, Haruhi-san! I may be teasing a lot, but he’s really a great guy. I couldn’t ask for a better partner.” (Name) talked about Kyoya like he was the most precious thing on the planet. For (Name), Kyoya wasn’t just the third Ootori son. He wasn’t burdened with the harshest expectations. All he had to do was be good to them and sometimes Kyoya wished he lived in a world where that was the only thing he ever had to be worried about in his life.

But, right then, in a commoner mall Kyoya had no familiarity with, it was like living that alternate life. So Kyoya allowed himself to smile at (Name) and take in the praise.

“Neither could I.”

The third-floor chemistry lab always smelled of isopropyl alcohol and the faint, lingering sulfur of someone’s failed experiment. It was a clean, unforgiving environment, which was exactly why you liked it. In biochemistry, things followed a sequence. So, if you followed the protocol, you got the result. There were usually no surprises.

Until Gojo Satoru started showing up.

He didn't belong in this wing of the building. He was a physics major; his world was made of whiteboards, Greek symbols, and the kind of math that made people’s heads spin. But for the past month, he has become a recurring element in your space. You were currently peering through a microscope, adjusting the fine focus on a slide of S. aureus, when the stool next to you scraped against the linoleum.

"You know, from a physics perspective, you’re just looking at a very organized collection of energy," his voice drawled.

You didn't look up. "From a biochemistry perspective, I’m looking at a lab practical worth 40 percent of my grade,” you huffed out, “why are you here, Satoru? Don’t you have a black hole to simulate?"

"Finished it early," he said, and you could hear the smirk in his tone. He leaned his elbows on the black laminate of the lab bench, his long legs tangled awkwardly in the narrow space. "Besides, I’m on a mission. Shoko mentioned she was having trouble with her organic chemistry synthesis. I thought I’d bring her some high-quality notes I- you know, acquired." He dropped a thick, light blue campus notebook against the edge of your microscope.

"Shoko isn't in this section," you said, finally pulling back from the eyepiece. You blinked, trying to clear the spots from your vision. Satoru was sitting there, looking entirely too bright for a windowless basement lab. The fluorescent lights of the lab were usually unforgiving, emitting that school air, but they seemed to treat Gojo Satoru like a curated exhibit; the harsh glow caught the white silk of his hair and the sharp, elegant slope of his jawline. It made him look less like a tired student and more like something sculpted out of moonlight and expensive glass. You shake those thoughts away before you get too lightheaded. "She’s in the Tuesday-Thursday section. It’s Wednesday."

Satoru paused. He blinked slowly, his blue eyes tracking the movement of your hand as you reached for a pipette. "Wednesday. Right. The day after Tuesday."

"Brilliant," you deadpanned. "Physics is really lucky to have you."

"Hey, time is relative," he countered, spinning his stool in a half-circle. He didn't leave, though; he kept watching you work. Usually, having someone watch you pipette microliters of reagent was nerve-wracking, but Satoru had a heavy presence that felt less like scrutiny.

"If you're going to stay and ruin my experiment, at least be useful," you muttered, sliding a box of tips toward him. "Refill them."

-

For the next hour, the most gifted mind in the physics department spent his time meticulously clicking plastic pipette tips into a tray. It was a mindless task, far below his pay grade, yet he did it with a purposeful focus.

"She likes you, you know," Satoru said suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Shoko? Of course she does. We’ve been friends since like freshman year."

"No," Satoru hummed, his voice dropping an octave. He stopped his movements. "I mean, she likes that you’re the only person who doesn't treat me like a trophy. Or a freak."

You paused, your heart giving a strange, rhythmic thump that had nothing to do with the caffeine in your system. "She thinks it’s funny that you’re so bad at hiding your intentions, Satoru. Everyone knows you’re trying to find a way in with her."

"Is that what everyone knows?" he asked. The rhythmic click of the pipette tips resumed, but it was faster now, a restless sound that mirrored the sudden tension in the air. Satoru didn't look at you; he kept his head down, his white hair falling forward like a curtain, shielding his expression. "Is it really that obvious?" he muttered, sounding more genuinely bothered than you’d ever heard him. "I thought I was being charming. The whole mysterious-genius-from-the-physics-department take."

"You’re about as subtle as a supernova," you said, turning back to your beaker, though your hands felt a little less steady than they had five minutes ago. "You hang around the biochem labs looking like a lost runway model. I am pretty sure people have noticed."

He let out a deep huff, finally looking up. He looked unfairly infuriatingly pretty in the cold white light, the kind of beauty that felt like a physical force in the room. His blue eyes were narrowed in thought, tracking the way you moved with a clinical, almost hungry curiosity.

"Then I’m doing it wrong," he concluded, dropping the last pipette tip into the tray with a definitive snap. "I don't know the language. I talk about entropy and quantum tunneling, and she talks about cellular degeneration and metabolic pathways. It’s like we’re on two different wavelengths and I’m the outsider." His chin is resting on his hand, currently invading your personal space with that effortless and casual arrogance that only someone like him could pull off.

"I need a translator," he said, his voice dropping to that resonant hum again. "Someone who knows how she thinks. Someone who can tell me why she’d rather spend Friday night looking at a petri dish than getting sweet lattes at that new cafe."

"She’s a scientist, and… We scientists, like definitive results. Dinner is a variable, a petri dish is a controlled environment."

Gojo groaned, tilting his head back so he was looking at the ceiling tiles. "You’re all the same. You need to help me. Map it out for me. If I’m going to get her to actually look at me as someone worth her time, what do I do?"

You felt a sharp, localized ache in your chest, one you immediately diagnosed as exhaustion. It had to be exhaustion. "You want me to coach you? On how to date my best friend?"

"Not just coach," he said, bringing his gaze back down to yours. The intensity in his eyes was staggering. "I want you to analyze it like one of your experiments. Tell me what I’m doing wrong.” He reached out, his long, pale fingers briefly brushing against your sleeve. It was a small and simple gesture, but it felt like a jolt of static electricity.

"I’ll pay you in whatever currency you want," he added, a crooked, boyish smirk playing on his lips. "Coffee, dark chocolate, silence... or I could even help you with that thermodynamics problem set I saw peeking out of your bag. I promise my physics is better than my flirting."

You looked at him, really looked at him. He was so sure that Shoko was the prize at the end of the hall, but your heart was practically screaming for his attention, and his attention only. He was a genius who couldn't see the most obvious variable in the room.

"Fine," you whispered, the word feeling heavier than it should. "I’ll help you, but don't blame me if the chemistry doesn't work out."

Satoru’s grin widened, bright and blinding. "Yes. Deal. So, Professor... where do we wanna start?"

“My consulting fees are steep. You pay me in iced matcha lattes, those weirdly specific limited-edition keychains from the station, and good bread. Not the supermarket stuff, the actual bakery loaves."

Satoru let out a bark of laughter, the sound echoing off the tiled walls of the lab and making a nearby student jump. "Matcha, keychains, and carbs. You’re surprisingly easy to bribe for someone with such a high GPA." He reached out, his thumb catching a stray lock of your hair that had escaped your hairstyle, tucking it behind your ear with a casualness that made your breath hitch. “Consider me your most dedicated patron.”

So, there you were, sitting cross-legged in the overgrown grass of the quad, the late afternoon sun casting long amber shadows over the graph paper balanced on your knees while Satoru hovered over you, dictating terms like he was drafting a peace treaty between warring nations. He looked almost ethereal in the golden hour light, the soft breeze catching the loose strands of his hair with a serious expression on his face as he debated what good bread is actually composed of. The whole scene reminded you that he was, despite his looks, a complete dork.

"Wait," Satoru said, his hand shooting up as if he were in a lecture. "If we’re doing this, we’re gonna do it right. I don't operate on vibes and maybes; I’m going to need a protocol. A legally binding, or- well- at least socially binding document."

You rolled your eyes, but you were already ripping out a fresh sheet of paper. "You want a contract? For a crush? You are so dramatic."

"I am a man of precision," he declared, snatching a couple of pens from your pencil case. Satoru leaned over, his white hair falling into his eyes as he scribbled with the intense focus usually reserved for calculating the curvature of spacetime. When he slid the paper back to you, it was titled in large, loopy letters that were far too elegant for a man who spent his life in a basement physics lab.

You stared at the paper. It was ridiculous, even with the amendments you added. It was a waste of your expensive graph paper. It was exactly something Gojo would do.

"There," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a satisfied hum. He reached out and tapped the corner of the paper. "It's official! You’re stuck with me until I get the girl."

"Or until you run out of matcha," you countered, though the playful bite in your voice was getting harder to maintain.

"Please," he smirked, leaning back and crossing his arms, looking infuriatingly handsome in the dim light. "I have a lot of matcha. We’re going to be here a while."

The first win for the agreement didn't happen in a lab or a lecture hall; it happened at 2:14 AM via a notification that lit up your phone like a flare. You had spent three hours the night before reviewing a specific Instagram reel for him, something niche enough to satisfy Shoko’s dark medical humor but mainstream enough not to make him look like he was trying too hard. You’d practically ghostwritten the text.

When Shoko finally replied with a "lol mood," followed by a link to a weird surgical fail YouTube video, Satoru had lost his mind.

True to the contract, the first payment arrived the following afternoon. You were leaning against a brick pillar outside the sciences building, blinking against the harsh sunlight after a grueling four-hour block of organic chemistry, when a condensation-slicked iced cup was pressed against your cheek.

"One iced matcha latte. Whisked by hand by a very grumpy barista who didn’t appreciate my notes on the water-to-powder ratio," Satoru announced, appearing out of the glare like a white-haired specter of high-fructose energy. He looked infuriatingly pretty today, wearing a simple black hoodie that made his hair look even whiter, and his jawline look like it had been sharpened for the sole purpose of causing heart failure. He’s wearing his glasses, but his blue eyes are clear as ever, crinkled at the corners with a triumphant glow.

"She replied," he said, leaning his shoulder against the pillar next to you. He’s acting like he didn’t spend at least 3 minutes sending you keyboard smashes after. "She actually engaged in a digital exchange of ideas. Or- well, she sent me a video of a guy getting a cyst removed, but in Shoko-speak, that’s basically a love letter."

"It’s progress," you agreed, taking a long, blissful sip of the matcha. It was perfect, earthy, sweet, and exactly what you needed to survive the rest of the day.

"It’s thriving," Satoru said. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a crinkly brown paper bag. "And because the response included a video, I decided to add a carb subsidy." He pulled out a thick slice of shokupan slathered in honey butter and sea salt. It was still warm, the scent of it cutting through the chemical smell that always clung to you.

"Satoru," you whispered, reaching for it like a drowning person reaching for a life raft. If you were Jack on the Titanic, you would’ve had no problem staying afloat. "I might actually cry."

"Don't cry," he said, his voice softening into something surprisingly gentle. He watched you take a bite, his gaze fixed on your face with an intensity that felt far too focused for a man who was supposed to be celebrating a win about another girl. "I can't have my lead scientist breaking down in the quad. It would be bad for morale."

You chewed slowly, the warmth of the bread and the sweetness of the honey hitting your system. "So, what's the next move? Now that you've breached the DM barrier?"

Gojo didn't answer immediately. He reached out, his thumb brushing a stray grain of sea salt from the corner of your lip. His touch was light, but it lingered, a slow and deliberate movement that made the air in your lungs feel very thin. He didn't pull his hand away. Instead, he let his fingers trail down to your chin, tilting your head just a fraction of an inch closer to him.

"I was going to ask about that," he murmured, his blue eyes searching for yours. He drops his hand. "But honestly? I’ve spent the last three hours thinking about which bread to get and how much I think you’d like it. I think I’ve earned a break from more planning today."

"The contract doesn't mention breaks, Satoru," you managed to say, though your heart was currently doing a very high-speed physics calculation of its own.

He let out a dissatisfied hum, watching you take another sip of the matcha. "I’ve been staring at wave-particle duality equations since 8 AM. My brain is basically mush. I need a palate cleanser."

"I'm a palate cleanser now?"

"The best one on the STEM side of campus," he grinned, nudging his shoulder against yours. It was a solid, grounding weight. "So, enjoy your bread. I'll be back tomorrow for the next briefing. I’m thinking we need to tackle her favorite coffee order next. I need to know the exact ratio of espresso to leave-me-alone she requires."

You watched him walk away, his white hair catching the light as he waved a hand over his shoulder without looking back. You stood there, a warm piece of honey-butter bread in one hand and a perfect matcha in the other, feeling the heavy force he always left in his wake.

Two nights later, you were in the library, surrounded by open textbooks and empty snack wrappers. You were supposed to be reviewing the mechanism of ATP synthase, but instead, you were looking at your phone.

satoru: I saw Shoko at the cafeteria tonight. I asked her about the sequencing error rates, like you said I should.

Satoru then sends you a photo of a keychain. It was a tiny, plush baguette with a little face.

satoru: Found this at the station. It reminded me of your carb subsidy. Is this ugly-cute enough for the payment? you: it’s hideous. I love it satoru: Perfect. Payment secured. 

You felt a small, sharp pinch of something in your chest. You’d forgotten, for a brief moment, that the bread and the matcha were only part of the plan.

you: did Shoko look impressed?

There was a long pause. The little typing bubbles appeared, disappeared, and appeared again.

satoru: She looked confused but laughed anyway. She said, why are you talking like a textbook? Then she asked if you were the one who told me to say it.

You winced, burying your face in your hand.

you: shit sorry. I'm a bad mentor ( `ε´ ) satoru: Nah. She said she appreciated it. She said I was trying too hard, but it was almost endearing. But honestly? I didn't catch her whole response. I was too excited to go back to my desk, so I could tell you she laughed. Oops.

You stared at the screen. The text felt heavier than it should. He was supposed to be chasing her, but he was spending his victory lap talking to you. You felt selfish tonight, so for once, you let yourself bookmark this moment and keep it locked away in your memories for when Satoru ultimately stops talking to you when he ends up with his dream girl.

"Here," Gojo said, stopping under a streetlamp. He handed you a small bag. Inside wasn't another ugly-cute accessory, but a high-quality keychain of a stylized DNA helix made of blue glass. It was beautiful, expensive, and definitely not ugly-cute.

"This isn't part of the tax, Satoru," you said, holding the glass up to the light. "This is actually nice. And you already gave me the baguette keychain last week."

"Yeah- well," he muttered, kicking a loose pebble across the pavement. He was looking at the streetlamp instead of you, the light catching the silver of his lashes. "I saw it in the window of that boutique near the station. It was- I- I don't know, scientifically accurate? I figured a biochem major wouldn't want some cheap plastic thing that had the wrong number of base pairs."

"Satoru," you said, rotating the blue glass helix between your fingers. It was heavy and cool to the touch. "This is way over the budget we discussed in the quad."

"Consider it a bonus for the successes so far," he countered, finally looking back at you with a smirk that was a little too practiced, a little too much like his usual arrogant self. But his hands were shoved deep into his pockets, he wasn't leaning in, he was keeping an uncharacteristic distance. "I can’t have my lead scientist carrying around subpar equipment. It reflects poorly on the client."

"Right. The client's reputation," you repeated, your heart doing a strange, fluttering thing that you tried to suppress.

"Exactly," he said, turning to walk again, his pace slightly slower than usual, so you didn't have to hustle to keep up. "Besides, it’s blue. It'll match your bag. Shoko mentioned she liked your bag once, so if she sees the keychain, she might ask about it, and then I or- you- can tell her I bought it, and-"

He cut himself off, letting out a short airy laugh. "See? Everything is a vector. I’m just thinking five steps ahead, it’s all part of the plan."

You looked down at the blue glass and the way it caught the moonlight. He was still talking about Shoko, using her name like a shield, but he actually had spent twenty minutes in a boutique picking out a specific, accurate DNA model just to match your bag.

"A very detailed plan," you murmured.

"The best," he agreed, though he was unusually quiet for the rest of the walk. When you reached your dorm, he stayed at the edge of the light, half-hidden by the shadows of the trees. He didn't try to linger; he just nodded toward your bag.

"Don't lose it," he said. "Those things are fragile. Just like my chances if you don't help me with my next Instagram DM to her."

"I won't lose it, Satoru."

"Goodnight, sweets."

You watched him disappear into the darkness of the campus, the blue glass helix clinking softly against your keys. He was still convinced he was headed in one direction, but as you infiltrated, you couldn't help but think that for a genius physicist, Satoru Gojo was remarkably bad at calculating his own center of gravity.

The cool night air usually helped Satoru think, but tonight it felt like it was just stripping away his defenses. As he walked away from your dorm, the sound of his own footsteps on the pavement felt too loud, too rhythmic, echoing the frantic pace his heart had settled into the moment he saw you hold that blue glass up to the light. It was just a bonus, he told himself, shoving his hands so deep into his pockets his knuckles brushed his phone. It was a performance incentive. He doesn't want his best source of intel to get burnt out. Yeah. Definitely that.

But the coping tasted like ash. He was a physicist; he knew that energy couldn't be created or destroyed, only transformed. And the energy he had been funneling into the whole Shoko plan had shifted; it had completely warped. It had been pulled into a black hole entirely, a force too strong that his heart couldn’t ignore. He thought about the way you had looked at the DNA helix, not with the polite "thanks" he got from most people, but with a genuine wonder that made him feel like he’d just discovered a new element. He’d spent so much time in that boutique, dismissing three different necklaces and a designer pen because they weren't right. They weren't biochem enough. They weren't you.

Why did he mention her name? He cursed internally, his jaw tightening. Why did he bring up Shoko liking the bag? It had been a reflex, a safety net of some sort. Every time the air between you and him got too thick, every time the silence lasted a second too long, and he found himself staring at your lips, he threw Shoko’s name out like a flashbang to blind and distract you both.

It was the only way to maintain the experiment. Because if he really spent time thinking about it, if he stopped being the client, then he was just a guy who was buying expensive lattes and artisanal bread for a friend who saw him as a chaotic project. He reached the fountain in the center of the quad and stopped, looking at his reflection in the dark water. He looked the same, pretty, untouchable, the other half of the contract. But he felt off-balance.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages. There was a text from Shoko from three hours ago asking if he’d finished the notes he promised her. He hadn't even replied. But he had spent the last two hours tracking down a specific type of honey-butter bread because he knew you had a midterm on Thursday.

The math isn't adding up, he thought, a frustrated laugh bubbling up in his chest. He’s a genius. He’s literally the best at this. So why is he more excited to see another ugly-cute keychain than he is to actually go on a date with Shoko?

He looked back toward your dorm, the blue glass helix in his mind's eye. He’d told you it was to make sure you didn't forget who was paying the bills. Liars don't get Nobel prizes, he thought, turning back toward the direction of his dorm. And with terrifying clarity, Satoru realized he didn't want you to remember the payments. He wanted you to remember him. And as he walked into the night, he realized he wasn't looking for an in with Shoko anymore. He was just looking for the next excuse to buy you a latte or a silly keychain.

It happened in the back of a lecture hall during a joint-department seminar on Molecular Dynamics. The room was dark, the only light coming from the projector screen showing a complex simulation of protein folding. Satoru was sitting next to you, not because he had to, but because he claimed your seat had the optimal viewing angle. In reality, he was barely looking at the screen. He was slumped in the cramped lecture hall chair, his long legs encroaching on your space, his shoulder a warm weight against yours.

You were frantically taking notes, the scratch of your pen the only sound between you.

"You're doing that thing again," he whispered, his voice vibrating right against your ear.

"What thing?" you murmured, not looking up.

"That focused frown. Your eyebrows are solving a very complicated calculation." He reached out, you thought he was going to annoy you and poke your forehead. Instead, his hand landed on yours, the one holding the notebook steady. He didn't just tap you, though. He covered your hand with his, his palm large and warm, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles. It wasn't a mentor pat. It wasn't a professional handshake. It was intimate. It was heavy.

Your heart rate spiked so hard you were sure he could feel it through your skin. You stopped writing. The entire room seemed to go silent, the lecturer's voice fading into white noise.

Then, Satoru seemed to snap out of it.

He pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned, shoving it into the pocket of his hoodie. "Anyway," he said, his voice suddenly louder, returning to that forced casual pitch. "Shoko mentioned she likes people who are observant. Do you think that if I complimented her new lab coat, it would count as a significant breakthrough?"

The transition was so violent it gave you whiplash. You stared at your hand, where the ghost of his warmth still lingered. He just touched you like that? ... and then he asked you about her lab coat?

"Yeah," you said, your voice sounding thin and hollow to your own ears. "Sure, Satoru. Write it down in your little notebook."

That night, you sat at your desk, the blue glass DNA helix he gave you sitting next to your lamp. You stared at it, trying to reconcile the feeling of his thumb on your knuckles with the way he’d immediately pivoted back to Shoko. You’re imagining it, you told yourself, tapping your pen against your chin. He’s a touchy person. He’s chaotic. He’s high-energy; he probably does that to everyone.

You went back over the evidence. The matcha. The bread. The keychains. On paper, it looked like a courtship. But every single time, he’d attached a label to it. Payment. Tax. Subsidy. Shoko.

He’s literally paying you to help him get with your best friend, you thought, a bitter laugh escaping your throat. If you think he likes you, you’re the one who's being delusional. You’re projecting your own feelings onto a guy who is explicitly telling me he wants someone else. You picked up the glass keychain and tucked it into a drawer, out of sight, out of mind. You were a biochem major; you always dealt in facts. And the fact was, Satoru Gojo was a genius who knew exactly what he was doing. If he liked you, he’d say it. He wouldn't be paying you in fancy bread loaves to talk about another girl.

Stop being a loser, you whispered to the empty room. It’s just a contract. Get the matcha, get the bread, and stop looking for feelings that aren't even there. But as you closed your eyes, all you could feel was the weight of his hand on yours, and the terrifying suspicion that you were failing the most important test of your life.

But in actuality, Satoru Gojo was a fool who didn't know what he was doing. For all his talk of vectors and trajectories, he was currently flying blind through a storm of his own making. He sat in his dorm room, staring at a half-eaten bag of expensive pretzels he’d bought for you, wondering why the hell he’d pulled his hand away in that lecture hall.

The heat of your skin had felt like a physical constant that grounded every frantic thought in his head. And then, like a coward, he’d hidden behind Shoko’s name again. He was beginning to hate the sound of it on his own tongue, not because he didn't like Shoko, but because using her name as a shield was starting to feel like a lie that was becoming too heavy to carry.

The next Tuesday, the rain was relentless, turning the campus into a blurred watercolor of grey and navy. You were packed into the corner of the crowded bus, your bag on your lap, trying to ignore the way your heart dipped every time the doors opened at a new stop.

When the bus pulled up to the science quad, a flash of white hair appeared through the steam-fogged windows. Satoru boarded, dripping wet, his expensive jacket soaked through. He didn't even look for an empty seat; his eyes scanned the crowd until they locked onto yours, like always, he shouldered his way through the standing students with a singular intent.

"I forgot an umbrella," he said by way of greeting, hovering over your seat. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, crumpled paper bag from the bakery. "But you look like you were going to skip lunch. Contractually, I can't allow my favorite scientist to faint from hypoglycemia."

"Satoru, there's a monsoon," you said, looking at his damp hair and the way a single droplet of rain was trekking down the side of his neck. "You walked three blocks in this for a croissant?"

"It’s a pain au chocolat," he corrected, though he wasn't smirking. He looked frustrated, agitated in a way that didn't fit his usual breezy persona. "And the contract is the contract. I don't break legally binding documents."

You took the bag, your fingers brushing his damp ones. "Thank you. Now go sit down before you drip on someone."

"I'll stay here," he muttered, gripping the overhead handrail. He was standing so close that you were practically tucked into the crook of his arm. The bus lurched forward, sending a jolt through the passengers. To keep his balance, Satoru braced his other hand on the back of your seat, effectively boxing you in. For a long moment, he didn't say anything about Shoko. He didn't mention a DM or a new interaction. He just looked down at you, his blue eyes darkened by the shadows of the bus, looking for all the world like a man who wanted to say something entirely different.

"Is the- is the glass keychain still on your bag?" he asked, his voice low, barely audible over the hum of the engine.

"I put it in my desk," you said, your voice tight. "I didn't want it to get scratched. It's too nice for a daily commute."

He flinched. It was subtle, a tiny tightening of his jaw, but you saw it. "Right," he said, pulling back just an inch. "Safe storage. You’re always so smart. Wouldn't want the bonus to break before the job is done."

You watched him turn his head to look out the window, his expression unreadable. You felt a wave of coldness wash over you that had nothing to do with the rain. See? You thought, clutching the bag of bread like a shield. He’s disappointed because he thinks you’re not valuing the bribe. He’s just worried about the contract, you convince yourself.

You convinced yourself that the look in his eyes wasn't longing, it was just the reflection of the streetlights. You convinced yourself that his hand on your seat wasn't a protective gesture; it was just physics, so he doesn’t topple over. And Satoru, standing there with his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, watched your reflection in the glass and wondered how he was supposed to tell you that he had brought an umbrella, a sturdy black one actually. He had forgotten it in his locker, and if he had gone back for it, the bakery would’ve closed before he got the chance to buy you your bread. He was a fool. A genius, a physicist, and the most sought-after guy on campus, and he was currently losing a war against his own pride.

Next stop, science quad, the automated voice called out.

"That's me," you said, standing up.

"Yeah," Satoru said, stepping aside to let you pass. He didn't follow you this time. He just stood there, wet and beautiful and hopelessly lost, watching you walk off into the rain. "See you at the next briefing."

"See you, ‘Toru."

As the bus pulled away, you opened the bag. Inside, tucked next to the chocolate bread, was a hand-drawn note on a scrap of graph paper. It was just a small, carefully sketched heart with a lightning bolt through it, and the words

Don't get cold. -S

You crumpled the paper in your fist. He's just being nice, you told yourself, even as your eyes filled with tears. He's just a really, really good client.

Shoko was many things: a brilliant pre-med student, a world-class cynic, and someone whose bullshit detector was calibrated to a molecular level. She had been watching the two of you play this elaborate game of science and contracts for weeks, and she had finally reached her limit.

It happened in the student lounge of the biotech wing. You were staring at the little hand-drawn heart Satoru had left in your bread bag, trying to convince yourself it was just a friendly gesture of appreciation, when a shadow fell over your table. Shoko sat down across from you, dropped her heavy anatomy textbook with a resounding thud, and leaned her chin on her palm.

"How much longer are you going to do this?" she asked, her voice flat and exhausted.

"Do what?" you asked, quickly shoving the scrap of graph paper into your pocket.

"This thing," she said, gesturing vaguely to the empty chair next to you, the one Satoru usually occupied. "The I’m-helping-Gojo-Satoru-get-a-date thing. It’s getting embarrassing,” she mutters, “for everyone involved. Especially for the guy who thinks he’s being subtle."

"He is trying to get a date, Shoko. With you. He’s very committed to the... You know… contract."

Shoko let out a dry, short laugh. "Is that what he told you? Because in the weeks since he started stalking this building, do you know how many times he’s actually asked me out? Zero. Do you know how many times he’s asked me for my number? Zero. Do you know what he does talk about when you aren't around?"

You paused, your heart doing a slow, painful somersault. "His- I don’t know- physics theories?"

"No," Shoko deadpanned. "He talks about you. He tells me about the brilliant way you organized your lab station. He tells me about the specific way you like your matcha. I already knew that, though. He even tried to explain to me, for forty-five minutes, why the blue glass in some keychain he bought was the exact shade of your favorite reagent." She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "He’s not using you to get to me- well, now he isn’t. Now, he’s using me as an excuse to be near you without having to admit he’s terrified of you saying no, you idiot."

She stood up, grabbing her bag. "Look, I’m done being the third wheel in a relationship that hasn't even started yet. The next time he brings you bread or a keychain, ask yourself why a guy who supposedly wants me is spending all his money and time making sure you don't skip lunch."

"And for the record," Shoko added, pausing at the door with a cigarette tucked behind her ear, "I have absolutely zero interest in a man who needs a literal flowchart and a bribe of pastries just to hold a conversation with someone he likes; I’d rather date a centrifuge than deal with his level of emotional incompetence."

Twenty minutes later, the door to the lounge creaked open. You didn't even have to look up to know it was him. The air seemed to vibrate, pulling toward the doorway as Satoru slid inside, looking characteristically chaotic. He was carrying a small cardboard carrier with two drinks and a white bakery bag between his teeth. He looked ridiculous. He looked beautiful. He looked like the man Shoko said was terrified of you.

"Found the best limited-edition station keychain so far," he said indistinctly, dropping the bag on the table before pulling the drink carrier close. "It’s a prawn wearing a tiny graduation cap. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. You’re going to love it." He sat down, sliding your iced matcha toward you. He was grinning, that blinding, effortless Satoru Gojo grin, but as he looked at you, he paused. His smile didn't disappear, but it shifted, turning into something more questioning.

"You're staring," he murmured, leaning his chin on his hand. "Is there something on my face, or is my favorite scientist going mad?"

"Satoru," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "Why are you here?"

He blinked, his blue eyes wide behind his glasses. "The briefing? We have to discuss Shoko’s favorite flower before the weekend. I was thinking peonies, but then I thought-"

"Shoko isn't interested in you," you interrupted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "She just told me, actually. She has zero interest, Satoru. None."

The silence that followed was absolute. Satoru didn't move. He didn't joke. He didn't pivot. He just sat there, the prawn keychain sitting on the table between you like a tiny, ridiculous witness to the end of the world. His hand, which had been reaching for his own drink, stopped mid-air. For the first time, you saw him without the client persona, just a boy who had spent all his genius-level intellect trying to solve a problem that didn't exist, only to realize he’d been found out.

"Oh- huh," he said, a small, hollow sound. "She told you that, didn't she?"

"She did." You leaned forward, your heart racing. "So, if you knew that, why did you bring the prawn, Satoru? Why did you bring the matcha?"

Satoru Gojo, the fool who didn't know what he was doing, looked down at the table. His ears were turning a betraying pink. "I think," he whispered, his voice cracking just a little, "that the contract might need some serious revisions."

The usual deflective armor, the smirk, the leaning back, the effortless persona all crumbled. He shifts his eyes at the iced matcha he’d meticulously ordered for you, then back at your face, and for the first time, his blue eyes looked entirely human.

"She’s right," he said, his voice quiet and devoid of its usual theatricality. "She’s right about all of it." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the contract, the one that had started this whole mess on a sheet of graph paper. He rolled it between his long, pale fingers, staring at the ink.

"I’m a genius. I can calculate the probability of an electron's position in a vacuum. I can explain the curvature of the universe. But I spent like three hours last night staring at a picture of a plush keychain because I couldn't figure out if it would make you laugh or if you’d think I was being too much." He let out a short, breathy laugh that sounded more like a sigh.

"I don’t need a scientist anymore. Shoko is great, but I realized that she’s not the problem I’m trying to solve for anymore. She just became the only way I knew how to get you to look at me without me having to risk everything." He leaned forward, crossing the six-inch gap between your chairs that had felt like a mile for the last couple of days. He didn't touch you, but he was close enough that you could see the nervous tremor in his hands.

"I was terrified that if I asked you to hang out just ‘cause, at random times, you’d say no. But if I paid you in matcha to talk to me? Then I at least got to stay and I was sure of that. I got to sit in the grass with you. I got to watch you frown at your notes. I got to be the person who brought you bread when you were tired." He reached out, his hand hovering over yours on the table. This time, when he touched you, he didn't pull away. He slid his palm over yours, lacing his fingers through yours with a firm, grounding pressure.

"The contract is void," he whispered. "There is no operation-date-Shoko anymore. There’s just you. And I’ve been embarrassingly stuck on you since the that day I walked into that lab and you told me to get out of your way."

You looked down at your joined hands. The insecurity that had been shouting in your ear for weeks went silent. You couldn't gaslight yourself anymore, not when he was looking at you like you were the only constant in a chaotic universe.

"’Toru," you said softly, your own fingers tightening around his. "You could have just asked to hangout."

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, not the arrogant one, but the one that reached his eyes and made the blue of them look like a clear sky. "Yeah, well," he murmured, leaning in until his forehead rested against yours. "I’ve always been bad at the simple stuff." He reached out with his free hand and picked up the graduation-cap prawn keychain, sliding it toward you.

"But for the record? No more payments. No more subsidies. From now on, the matcha is just because I want to see you smile. Can you not go mad with that, my favorite scientist?"

You laughed, a small, relieved sound, and pulled him closer. "I think I can work with that."

Your breath hitches, and you’re not entirely sure why. Perhaps it was the rich baritone of his voice, the way it pierced your ears even above the wind, wetness, and anger of the storm. Perhaps it was his classically handsome face - slicked-back hair, high cheekbones, a pert mouth that was somehow knowing - like in one of those historical paintings, a Prince Charming. 

You wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint him in any century.

Or perhaps it was the way that when you stepped back, on instinct, he leaned down to loop a strong arm around your waist in a single, fluid motion. So fast that you muse he might’ve teleported.

Whoosh–! 

You startle at the noise above you, and look up to find that the strange man had unfolded an umbrella over the two of you - one that you hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

He lets the berth of it cover your frame, like the dark wings of a bat stretched taut. Uncaring of whether he himself gets wet, the man shields you against the icy billows of rain that blew through the portico. His warm grin stretches, urging. “My lady?”

“O-oh.” It registers that he was speaking to you. You’re unsure where to place your palms, and they lay flatly open against the man’s toned chest. Still. “My apologies for- for the intrusion so late. But I…”

You were getting distracted by his kind, molten eyes is what. But he finishes for you with a slight huff of amusement, “Happened to get caught in this monstrosity of a storm, am I right in guessing?” At your nod. “Well, it’s no wonder then, my lady. I’m only glad you made it here safe.”

“I-” You were right in feeling like you weren’t able to pinpoint which century he was from. Because his tone of speaking wasn’t reminiscent of any dialect you’ve ever heard before - something melodic yet stiff, something understandable yet…dated. 

And despite your incessant pondering, he stands as patiently as ever. Holds you as patiently as ever.

Even though the wind ruffled that neat hair of his, and the rain pelted his sides without the cover of the umbrella. You hasten to explain yourself, “I was actually on my way from a work function, a bit far away. When this storm suddenly hit and my car broke down in the middle of it- actually, I think it ended up in some ditch with no power, which is why I ended up- well- here.” You finish, lamely.

He looks thoughtful, nodding empathetically.

“And I really do apologize for the intrusion, really, but if I could stay just until the storm blows over and I can call for help-”

“Do forgive me for interrupting you, my lady.” The man’s precise tone speaks once more, “But you may stay here as long as you like.”

Relief washes down your spine like a bucket of heat, melting you instantly. “Oh, thank you- thank you.” And before you know it, you’re falling deeper into his arms. 

“A lady must not thank a mere worker.” He hums with a tut, and you wonder whether that means he was one of the staff at this large building - what little you could see of the silhouette seemed larger than a normal house, and you’d assumed that it was some hotel at first.

He steps soundlessly to help you steady yourself. And you’re soon being warmly gestured inside, the umbrella being held over your head with each step, even as he stepped aside into the rain to let you through. “Come now, we must dry you off at once. Being in the cold for this long won’t be good for your constitution, my lady.”

You step inside as he directs, and it feels like stepping into a warm bath - just right.

And what you’d seen in the distance - that yolky, blinking light that led you here, your body moving as if on instinct - wasn’t actually a lightbulb, as you’d thought. In actuality, it was about a dozen, flaring chandeliers.

Illuminating a fresco of gardens and flowers and spring. Lined along the sprawling ceiling like fruits that were overripe, fit to burst. They danced ever-so-slightly in the draught that the open door brought, yet not a single candle extinguished from what you could make out.

You felt so tiny in the house- mansion, as you were quickly coming to learn. 

Greeted by an imperial staircase made of marble, and accents of gold that fought with the chandeliers over which one of them shined brighter. You don’t think you could possibly count how many hallways holed themselves into the mansion just from here. Hidden caverns filled with antiques, and ever-green chrysanthemums, and paintings that you could just see the corners of. Upon either side of the entrance were large Clerestory windows that provided snapshots of the flared lightning outside; so high up, so large, that it made the front door feel dwarfed. 

You think it looks strangely familiar - perhaps something reminiscent of those illustrations you’d seen in classic stories.

Curiously, along the winding corridors, you note that there were many mirrors. Some small and bejeweled, some tall from ceiling to floor.

In intervals unknown to you, they stood out - the brightest of them all.

You jump at the feeling of something touching your elbow-

“My apologies for startling you, my lady.” Comes your host’s deep voice, and you whirl around to find him bowed. With a warm, citrus-scented towel presented to you (when did he even have the time to get that?) “Please, do make use of this towel to rinse off the water on your body. If you would like, I may do it for you?”

“No no, I can do it.” You insist, feeling your heart race. His stern lips quirk up ever-so-slightly when you reach for it. “Thank you.”

“It is my pleasure. I wouldn’t want my lady getting sick.”

My lady…

You shake your head, trying to get it free of that giggling lil’ voice that kept repeating those two words. Instead, you take the towel from the beautiful man and—oh.

Underneath your breath, you gasp through your nose. Because the very second that your fingers had grazed his own when taking the towel, a chill wafted down your spine. So cold. So…unnatural. You weren’t sure whether it was the sheer temperature, or the fact that it was the sheer temperature of his hand.

Why was he so cold?

Almost as if he sensed your thoughts, the man swiftly pulls his hand away. And it’s only then that you realize that he was dressed so smartly.

Shoes polished till they reflected your bewildered stare. Well-fitted black pants. A three-piece suit filled out by his broad shoulders. Black tailcoat. High collar. Steely buttons. And an emblem on his coat pocket that you couldn’t read from here. Gloves. Ah—so that was why he was so cold, you guessed.

Surely there was no other reason, right?

Lightning flashes.

The rooms lights up in ice-white.

“Oh dear, it seems the storm won’t be getting any better tonight.” He announces, clapping his hands twice. And then, previously unseen curtains start closing in on the windows so high above. Effectively shutting out the storm, the night, and with it, the world.

You wondered what automatic mechanism that was.

“We best get you to bed immediately, my lady.” The blond-haired man says, his hair gleaming in the candlelight - and you could’ve sworn that it’d been all ruffled and messy by the storm just prior. Now, it was untouched, as if he’d never stepped outside. 

He rounds the entrance, politely gesturing at you to follow. 

“Such a lovely place.” You observe, as you’re led up the staircase and into the East wing. The hallways were tall and ancient, humming with centuries of stories untold. And, as you’d expected, the antiques, the chrysanthemums, the paintings.

Blurs of faces that you were walking too quickly by to properly make out.

“Why thank you, my lady.” He looks back briefly, holding a golden candelabra to light your pathway. Still walking, he doesn’t need to stop to speak. “This is an old home, with old bones, old secrets.” The man cracks a grin, “I should know, I have been lucky to call myself a worker of this fine home for a long time.”

So he did work here - a butler, all signs were pointing to. You hum, butlers had always seemed like something out of a soap opera, or those regency novels.

Having him in front of you like this made you feel somewhat dizzy.

And you were entranced by the noiseless way he moved, “And how long is a long time?”

“Oh, one could say it feels like…centuries.” He chuckles to himself.

You make a few turns, heading deeper into the mansion. And you can’t help but notice that you’ve yet to see a single other person here except the two of you-

“The masters of this home are more in name.” The butler says, in his smooth tone. Like he could sense the question forming. “This house has been passed down through generations, and I fear that I have yet to officially meet whoever owns this grand establishment now.”

“Oh?” Your brows raise, “They seriously don’t come to visit a house this beautiful? Not even as a vacation home?”

“I’m afraid so. It is all but abandoned.” He nods, “But alas, I do not complain. They employ me here to clean and take care of this home, and that’s all I can ask. To preserve a piece of history so magnificent, no matter how much they try to forget…it shall always haunt you.”

“So you’re alone here?”

He stops then. And turns back to you with an unreadable expression- oh, something about the way the candelabra outlined the hollows of his face made you feel cold all over again. “I’m afraid so.” Voice quiet. “Would you prefer otherwise, my lady?”

In the distance, the growl of thunder trundles.

“No no, nothing like that.” You rush to answer, not wishing to offend the kind soul helping you for the night (and honestly, even despite that, you didn’t feel a speck of discomfort with him- in fact, you felt…at ease). “Honestly, you’ve been more than a delight- I was just wondering whether you don’t get lonely in such a big house, all by yourself. I certainly would visit.”

He observes you for a moment. Before his warm expression is back again- “Do not worry yourself over my wellbeing, my lady, of course, as all good workers do, I have gotten used to it. Yet…I must admit that there is the occasional night in which I, too, crave humanity—”

You listen, enraptured.

Before he then gestures to the door in front of which you’d stopped at - you hadn’t even noticed. It was an unassuming mahogany door, polished and pristine like all the rest.

His gloved hands gently twist the doorknob and lead you inside. “Your room, my lady.” He leaves the candelabra on top of a cabinet by the doorway. “I have arranged for a warm bath to be prepared for you, with a fine selection of body washes and shampoos from around the world. After which I ask you to allow me to treat you to a light supper in bed, as you must be hungry after such an exciting night. Kindly ring the bell-” He gestures at a slim handbell on the cabinet beside the candelabra that you hadn’t seen before. “-and I shall be here for you before the second ring.”

“This is…” You look around the room- chamber, more like. 

The candles on the chandelier inside had lit up as soon as you stepped inside (you had to figure out that mechanism, somehow!) Bathing the expansive bedroom in a soft glow, like this, it almost looked like a piece of heaven itself.

An antique chamber. A four-poster king-sized bed in the middle. A plethora of sweet-scented flower pots. A few paintings of landscapes. A floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the balcony, the garden. Though now, you could only see the storm outside. On one side of the room, you could see a shelf of thick tomes, impeccably dusted, and next to it was a fireplace. Roaring. 

You wondered how he had the time to light it.

On the other side it opened up to what you imagined must be an equally as luxurious bathroom. The polished tile squeaked as you made your way inside, reflecting your wind-torn coat that felt more than out-of-place in such a room. It almost felt like you were wading across a ballroom. 

You whirl, and you note that one of the walls adjacent to the bed wasn’t taken up by some painting or mural or wallpaper- it was nearly covered by a gleaming mirror. How interesting.

“-this is amazing.” You breathe.

“I am glad that it is to your liking, my lady.” He bows, “If you need anything, or wish to ask anything, simply ring the bell.”

And as the blond-haired man moves to exit with a final bow, you reach your hand out- “Wait-”

He turns. “My lady?”

“Ah, I didn’t ring the bell but- your name.” You fiddle with the drenched fabric of your coat as you ask, wondering whether it was salvageable anymore. You tell him your own name, before questioning, “Can I ask your name?”

He smiles. “Nanami Kento, my lady.” And there’s a zip of excitement that runs through your body at finally putting a name to a handsome face. Nodding, you expect that that would be the end of your small pleasantries, and you turn back-

But before he leaves for good tonight, Nanami speaks over his shoulder. “And worry not, I am one hell of a butler.”

You snap your head back to listen to him speak, and find that he was already gone.

The hallway was dark outside, and there was a slight wind coming in. You hasten to shut the door and find that you can’t even hear Nanami’s footsteps disappearing, can’t even hear his shadow—well, you always had the bell, right?

You shook off the slight prickling at your skin, and welcomed yourself into the clouds of warmth spiffing from the bathroom.

.

.

.

That night may have been the best sleep of your life, you had to admit. Like you’d been home, and doubled by the luxury of the place.

It might have something to do with the fact that the massive bed was amongst the comfiest things you’ve ever felt, or it might have something to do with the easy cotton fabric of the pyjamas that Nanami had left while you were bathing.

You’d come out of the bathroom, refreshed (the bathroom ceiling was blanketed with the most beautiful mosaics, and the bathtub was accented with gold), only to find that he’d left out nightwear of your liking.

Of your exact size.

You’d stopped then, wondering how he managed to find something that fit you so perfectly. 

Perhaps it was a lucky guess, and a previous owner of the mansion happened to be your exact size? Then again, it did feel so new in your hands…

Without wearing yourself out even further, you’d rung the bell and partaken in a quick dinner (you’d been famished, having only scoffed down a protein bar during the conference). And then chosen to ignore the shivers that ran down your spine to tuck yourself in. Soon oblivious to the storm, and the mansion’s creaking, and the eyes that seemed to watch you at night.

It all felt like part of a dream.

In the morning, you’d awoken to the twittering of birds, and a slab of golden sunlight, like butter, filtering in through the window. Nanami had already laid out a gorgeous princess-line dress of emerald green for you, with a deep v-cut collar that showed just a coy bit of skin, and a silhouette that flattered your frame perfectly.

That, too, was the perfect fit.

You adjusted your sleeves and couldn’t help but titter to yourself as you felt like a princess. In no time after you got ready, there was a knock at the door.

“Oh, come in.”

It couldn’t be anyone but Nanami. And he looked as handsome as the last time you’d seen him (earlier, in the late hours of the night you’d almost wondered whether it was the dimness that made him look so extraordinarily handsome).

But no, he was as beautiful as ever. His golden hair glinting in the sun, like a halo, and his smile beaming as he walks closer to you. “Good morning, my lady.” Nanami bows, “I see you have already prepared yourself for the day. How exquisite you look, should my eyes fall upon such a sight every morning then I should be blessed. Am I correct in assuming that the dress is adequate to your tastes?”

“It’s just beautiful, Nanami.” You run your hands down the sides, admiring. “I don’t know how you managed to get my perfect size.”

He brings a gloved index up to his lips, with a wink. “A butler always had his secrets.” Before he straightens up, “Now, if you would allow me, may I help you with your hair and make-up?”

“Oh-” You’d just thought about rifling through the vanity’s drawers, with the slight hope that you might find the products you use. And as if he could read your mind, he was offering. “Are you…sure?”

“It would be my honor, my lady.” Nanami sits you down on the chair before the vanity mirror. His broad frame behind you- from here, you could see just how snugly that tailcoat fit his slender waist. “You may keep your eyes on me, or on yourself- please tilt your chin up—”

Soft, cold hands get to work.

And you really did feel like a princess.

.

.

.

By the time you’re walking downstairs for breakfast, you find yourself all dolled up just the way you like it - and you didn’t even have to give Nanami too many directions. You thoroughly considered taking him back once you leave.

With the crook of his elbow stuck out for you to hold onto, his biceps flexed, you made your way to sit at the head of a long table. Narrow and at least as lengthy as two of your bedrooms back home.

Him trailing behind you at the entrance, you excitedly walk forwards to sit down- and have your chair pushed in by…Nanami?

You look towards the entrance once more, you could’ve sworn that he was still there the last time you looked.

He swiftly placed a steaming silver dish of breakfast in front of you, and then filled the table up with so many fruit platters upon toast upon sneaky puddings. Your eyes took in the kaleidoscope of food, feeling slightly dizzy at the sheer amount. “Did you—did you make all of this just this morning, Nanami?”

“What, this?” He looked in slight surprise at the table, as if wondering whether that was really an incredible amount. “Just part of my duties, my lady. Along with the cleaning, the baking, and the watering, a few to name.”

You look behind you - the dining room overlooked part of the garden that you hadn’t noticed last night during the storm.

Plush plants that somehow seemed unaffected by the torrents of water that had poured down: roses, chrysanthemums, marigolds, and weeping willows that all swayed idly in the wind. Like they were welcoming you. Welcoming you back. They were planted in a maze-like pattern. From here you think you could see flower-filled archways, and a lake that glittered underneath the sun.

You wondered how you missed it all last night - surely you would have stumbled across a few of the hedge growth? It all seemed so barren as you’d wound your way up to the portico, so acrid. But now…

“And if you don’t mind me being so brazen, I hope you do forgive me for this.” Nanami says, and you whip your head back to him- him and a very familiar set of car keys he was holding. “I took the freedom to move your car into our driveway.”

Your eyes nearly pop out of their skull, “You mean you pushed it all the way here?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Nanami smiles that secret smile, “Would you like to take a look at it after breakfast, my lady?”

You nod fervently, gulping down the rest of your breakfast. 

In a few minutes, you’d already finished and was being tutted by Nanami into drinking enough water and putting on the outside slippers (procured by him, also your exact size) before you went outside. As expected, your car was a wreck.

There was one wheel missing and the engine seemed to be completely busted.

“I have already summoned the town’s mechanic.” He’s telling you, as you looked on at the car in gloom - that thing had taken up a lot of savings to acquire, and above all you hated to see it in such a sorry state. How would you get home?

“And?” You ask, eagerly. “Did they say when they would get here?”

“I’m afraid he won’t be here for at least a few days, my lady.” Nanami frowns empathetically, mirroring you. “The storm last night was quite vicious, you see. It has most of the roads blocked with trees, and until those get cleared up, he won’t be able to make it up here.”

You swear underneath your breath.

“But the good news is you can stay here as long as you like!” He attempts to lighten the mood, with a smile. “In fact, I might just keep you even longer.”

“Oh, but I really couldn’t impose…”

“I insist.”

And that was that, it seems you’d be staying here for a little longer than you’d originally planned. Though, with Nanami’s hospitality, you doubted you’d feel anything but at home.

Right?

.

.

.

The rest of your day and the next was spent simply reading the fantasy novels in your bedroom, lounging in the gardens and corners of the mansion. 

By your second day there you’d explored every inch of the mansion that there was to explore (except for, perhaps the basement. A strangely nostalgic door outside. Which you had reached the very foot of, before Nanami had gently nudged you back inside with some comment about wines being mulled there that cannot see the light of day until the time was right). It’d taken you five entire days to get yourself properly acquainted with the place.  

And with your profanities.

Spewing them out, you don’t think you’ve ever used before as you attempted to get even a single bar of signal for your phone.

“Goddammit-” You grit your teeth, for the nth time in the past hour. It’s your second day in the mansion, and you’re leaning over the balcony of your bedroom, so far outwards that you think you might just fall off. 

With your hand outstretched, phone fisted in the air and searching for a signal. You couldn’t call anyone like this, let alone the mechanic to confirm. None of your messages or emails went through, either. “How are we this far up and yet I can’t get a single bar- oh, when I get home I’m cancelling this stupid subscription mark my words.”

“Might I suggest, my lady–” Nanami says from behind you. He stood beside your bed, changing the blankets and fluffing the pillows. “-that in the meantime you perhaps take a look at our library? I think you’ll find that we have certain books that are quite riveting.”

“Maybe…” You respond, still stung by the uselessness of your phone. “I don’t suppose that in the meantime you could also arrange a messenger pigeon for me, could you?”

He perks up, “I shall tame a pigeon immediately-”

“No no, it’s alright.” You wave off, with a stifled laugh. Ah- he always did manage to put you in a better mood, despite your circumstances. “Maybe I’ll take a look at the library tonight, it beats trying not to smash my phone to bits.”

“Quite.” Nanami quips.

And before you can say anything more, he’s walking over to you. Placing his hand on top of the phone - effectively on top of yours—“After all, it is a beautiful day outside. Would you fancy a walk in the garden, my lady?”

“Y-yes please-” You whisper, at his proximity. Cold to the touch. 

“Then, I shall get your slippers ready.” He smiles, and leaves. You can only look from afar as he exits, letting a breath leave your chest that you didn’t know you’d been holding in for the moment.

Your head drops down without thinking to look at your phone. Only—

NOT FOUND ERROR 404.

You furrow your brows, trying to press on a few buttons- but the error message doesn’t leave. It glitches. Different from the meager ‘no signal’ symbol that’d been there earlier. And the crashed page is all you can see once more.

NOT FOUND ERROR 404.

NOT FOUND ERROR 404.

NOT FOUND ERROR 404.

.

.

.

The error message lasts until your walk in the gardens.

The error message lasts all the way until after lunch. After dinner.

It was in the dead of your third night here, under the veil of darkness, when you finally manage to find a signal. 

Despite your phone having crashed, and despite your feet aching from your productive day, you found yourself leaning over the edge of your bedroom balcony once more. The edge of your phone reaching outwards—one bar of signal obtained.

You breathe out in relief, falling back onto the heels of your feet. The wind was whipping in spirals around you, creating a cloud of your nightdress to billow. Soft silk. Feeling like the touch of a hand.

You look at the phone screen that had finally stopped flashing that error sign, and eagerly tap towards the phone app. Only—

Your phone vibrates with a call.

Confused at the Unknown number, you wonder whether this might be someone from home that’s been worried about your whereabouts. And so you don’t question it much when you slide the blaring bar and answer the call. “Hello?”

No one answers.

You repeat, “Hello? Can you hear me?” 

No one answers.

Perhaps it was the wind that was making you hard to hear? You turn away from the gales slightly, careful not to lose the humble signal that you have. And you press your phone harder against your face. “Hello? Who’s this-”

No one answers.

But that’s when you hear it: heavy breathing. 

Low and labored. Like someone had just run a mile and immediately picked up the phone, somehow dialing your number.

“Is this some sort of prank?” You hiss, “Because it isn’t funny. Who is this?”

No one answers.

Heavy breathing.

“Answer me-”

No one answers.

Heavy breathing.

“Hello?”

No one answers.

Heavy breathing.

“Answer me-”

There’s a sharp tone as the phone ends, whether by you or whoever was on the other end of the line you’re not quite sure.

Heavy breathing.

This time, not from the phone.

You whirl around with a gasp—the curtains gust out at a sudden wind. And there’s no one behind you - there’s no sound of breathing behind you, either. But you’re sure you’d heard it before. You’re sure.

Lightning flashes in the distance. 

There’s the rumble of thunder that almost sounds like laughter- in fact, you’re sure that if you let your ears keenly listen in, it was laughter. Masculine and deep. Echoing into the distance, like it was someone surrounding you.

With your phone clutched to your thundering chest, you’re quickly walking to the safety of your bedroom inside. And you decide to lock every window that night.

You couldn’t sleep.

.

.

.

The day after that - your third day in the mansion now, your fourth night - there was still no sign of the car mechanic. You’d taken to sleeping during the day, lounged upon an intricately woven love seat that was inside your chambers.

Of course, Nanami hadn’t questioned a thing.

He was as warm and welcoming as ever, of course. Always so efficient getting you the things you needed, helping you get ready, and cooking your favorite foods - almost too efficient. Any time you looked at him, he never seemed to have a hair out of place, despite being embroiled in the toughest of domestic tasks (he took offense any time you offered to pull your own weight until the mechanic arrived).

Practically perfect.

Almost unnatural. 

You wondered how he had the time to do it all…

And that foggy night, you tossed and turned amongst the sea of expensive silken blankets. Ultimately, as the clock struck 2AM and you still found yourself unable to sleep, you got off the side of the mattress and walked. To the candelabra on the cabinet. And then outside.

With no fixed aim nor destination, your feet took you down one of the paths you’d explored during your days here. Though, you had the faintest feeling that even if you hadn’t explored- you’d have known your way around here. Past unwilted flowers and paintings that seemed to stare you down as you passed. And soon enough, you were standing in front of the great double doors of the library.

One of them, at least.

Nanami had told you that the mansion boasted about five massive libraries, filled to the brim with books across all ages and authors. And the smell of pages and put-out fires greet your senses when you enter, your slippers thudding across the cold stone floor.

The ceiling was high, almost never-ending.

And from above peered severe gargoyles, their wings outstretched, and their mouths mid-scream as if to warn you not to take a step closer. You wrapped your arms around your body and shivered, looking up at the high shelves.

With one hand craned out, you trace your fingers down their thick spines. Not a speck of dust on them.

Until, finally, the hairs at the back of your neck seem to raise–

You look behind you.

Nothing.

It was dark in the library, the sole source of light being the paper-thin moonlight that filtered in through the windows. Casting an almost eerie glow on everything it’s spindly fingers touched. 

Though, you still don’t think you would be able to sleep if you headed back to your bedroom right now. And you curiously read the book spines where you stopped walking (it was too dark to make them out properly, yet you still take a few of them with you, in hopes of a distraction).

You sit down at the nearest wooden table, and the singular candle holder in the middle of it flickers to life. As if awakened by your presence.

You really wondered what this mechanism must be - you made a mental note to ask Nanami tomorrow. And in the glow, you could now see what books you’d actually picked up.

Baker’s Book (1901)

Sebastian’s Book on How to Keep the House Warm

Pride and Prejudice

A Historical Analysis of the Nanami Mansions

That one was struck through, its scabrous leather cover torn as if someone had ripped through it with a knife. You squinted as you tried to read through the title, to no avail.

Of Demons and Servitude: The Hellish Agelong Contracts That Surpass Love

That last one seemed a little out of place amongst the rest- well. You took a look around. Perhaps it wasn’t that out of place.

And in the dancing candlelight, you open the first book and begin to read.

.

.

.

You’d fallen asleep there.

Somewhere midway through a paragraph about how this very mansion had no official founder, and how it had been handed to the first owner by chance; thus, resulting in its descent into discourse over ownership (with masters who, surprisingly, rather than fighting for it had been fighting not to have it), and how the whereabouts of the last master was unknown.

You dreamt of contracts and haggling masters and packed bags and demons. The red, red eyes of a demon that watched from the shadows.

As much a part of the mansion as the mansion was part of him.

And you swear that in the depths of your slumber, you felt cold, cold hands graze your skin. Your cheek. Your arms. With his pointed fingernails that were meant to kill.

A candle snuffs out.

You woke up and it was morning, and someone had draped a blanket over you.

.

.

.

Nanami had noticed that you were becoming more and more engulfed in your books. After several more tries to reach a phone signal had failed, you’d resigned yourself to merely waiting for the mechanic to get to you.

He informed you that the road clean up seemed to have been taking longer than usual, given the constant downpour the land was experiencing. And you understood.

After all, you weren’t lacking for anything here at all. Nanami made sure of that.

You’d moved on from the mysterious, and half-recorded, history of the mansion. Somehow more interesting than you might have imagined. On towards the baking book, the novel, even the domestic book.

Until the only thing left out of the book you’d picked was the eerie one about demons. Though you could easily go back and choose another, you weren’t a quitter!

And so you found yourself flipping through its pages, all the while watched over by a silent Nanami.

You begrudgingly admitted that the book had you enraptured. And soon enough, you were drinking in all there was to drink about the rituals it took to summon said demons, the way they could take on the most exquisite appearances, and even a few ‘real life’ recounts of people who’ve encountered them.

“Look at this one, Nanami.” You pointed somewhere on the page, and he leaned over your shoulder kindly to follow your finger. “The person saying they saw a demon here is from this very town, hah! What a coincidence.”

He smiles, “What a coincidence indeed, my lady.”

“Just imagine- meeting a demon. I wonder what it would be like- I’d probably get my soul stolen in an instant.”

“Demons steal souls only after they’ve bound a human in a contract, my lady. Though other methods of payments for a demon’s services can manifest themselves in the form of blood, flesh, sex. They thirst for those things, demons. Going without is almost worse than death- of course, a demon can’t die.” At your slightly stunned silence, Nanami cocks his head. “Chapter sixteen, the ways of the body.”

“R-right.” You start, “Sorry, I just didn’t think you’d be the type to be into such things.”

He bears a secret smile. A secret, secret smile. “There is much that you don’t know of me, my lady.” Nanami spreads butter on a piece of toast without you even asking to, and places it gently down on your plate. “But of course, there is much time to find out.”

.

.

.

It’s by your sixth day that Nanami finally knocks at your bedroom door, deep into the evening. And he informs you that-

“The mechanic shall be here in a few hours, my lady.” You look outside through your window, at the blue and gold night. And of course he notices that little action - he notices everything. “I may have had a hand in the somewhat ah- untimely manner of things. You see, I had pressured him into coming as soon as possible, and it seems that the roads have only just cleared.”

“Oh, I see.” You reply, “I expect I should go down to wait for him in a bit, then.”

“If you so wish, my lady.”

After dinner, you took your demon book with you and paced the halls of the mansion. Just waiting. It was a few hours past when the mechanic was supposed to come, and you could feel yourself getting antsy. No matter how many times Nanami told you the mechanic would be here soon, and that he would take care of it all.

Nonetheless, when you found the corridors thoroughly trodden, you stepped outside. It was a clear night out, and you sat on the porch with your book in your lap.

Reading through the passages in the dim twilight as you waited.

You were on the final chapter now.

“Chapter 22: Fables From the Shadows - Nanami Mansion.

Hearken, o’ mortal. In another story from the deep, the darkness, I entrust your ears with the legend of the Nanami mansion.

Hundred of years old. It stands still, braving the storms and the times, a relic of a past that never changes. And shall never change. Not as long as the mansion is haunted by the ghosts of its past, they say that the very walls of the house are infused with a force unknown.

Or so they say.

No mortal soul can say with utmost certainty when the mansion was built, nor by who, nor for what purpose. Only that the line of its masters has been both gruesome and bloody; history claims that what had once been impassioned family feuds over ownership quickly turned into a family heirloom that no pawn shop would accept.

No soul wished to be the master of a demon.”

A twig snaps.

And you gasp, looking up- though there was no one there. The light that flooded in from the mansion revealed no one outside, and so, shaking, you kept on reading.

The mechanic still wasn’t here.

“Yes, o’ mortal. It is true.

Though one cannot say for certain the dark forces that envelop the house, it is what resides inside that is sure to catch the interest of a demonologist such as you and I.

A demon.

They say that he - or, at least, he who takes the shape of a man - runs the household as if its masters still occupy its decadent bones. As if its masters weren’t taken by the very force that now cleans the windows, and grows pretty flowers in the mansion’s garden. As if its masters still live.

Still linger.

But do not be fooled, dear reader, the only thing that lingers in this household is the demon himself. His smile gentle. His face kindly. It would not be out of the realm of possibility that those of mortal desires, like us, are disarmed by the handsome face he uses to mask his bloodthirst. And he has snuffed the mansion of anything that makes this house a home.”

Someone was watching you.

Somehow, it didn’t feel human.

“One by one, it started with the other servants, centuries ago. Those who were lucky to flee their posts and tell the tale spoke of a shadow that haunted their every waking moment, of a fleeting presence that produced nail marks in the morning, or items in their chambers suddenly unravelled.

He was the model worker, unsusceptible.

And by the time the masters of the household realized, it was far too late for their mortal souls. The servants had disappeared, the livestock had fallen to plague, and the only residents of the mansion were them. And him.”

Someone was waiting.

You knew it didn’t feel human.

“There need not be much speculation on the fates of the owners in the house at the time, after which there was a scramble to pawn the mansion by living relatives.

Though, by that point, rumors of the mansion’s more supernatural occurrences were already beginning to fester, and the effort was futile. 

And though the mansion stands lonely now, never think that it is abandoned, o’ mortal. Perhaps you shall find that the chandeliers are always lit, and the beds are made. Dinners at the mansion are lavish and a-plenty. All of this can be given credit to the demon that runs it, of course.”

You stand up.

The mechanic was countless hours past when he was supposed to come, and you guessed he wouldn’t be making it today, either. Perhaps something more urgent had come up. Your feet step backwards- but something stops you, as if an invisible force. And without taking your eyes away from the page, you step forwards.

“Why this ancient creature torments the mortals that reside in the mansion, yet takes such meticulous care of it is a question unanswered to us. Perhaps we may never know.

Though some whispers claim that the rightful owner isn’t any lord or ladyship or bastard heir. No, not at all. It is - and brace yourselves for this, dear reader - none other than the demon himself.”

Forwards.

“Of course, this is only one theory put forth by demonologists. But as the rightful heir to the estate, the demon takes his time finishing off the foolish mortals that believe that it is theirs to claim. When, in actuality, you are stepping into the very abode of the creature. And no one - no one - has lasted longer than six days in its abode.

A creature that cannot ache. A creature that cannot love.”

Forwards. 

“And he will always have his door open to the ignorant that walk in. Into what one may think is a heaven named after his very self.”

You stop.

“Nanami Kento, of the Nanami Mansions.”

The book drops from your hands.

A scream in your throat, you’re realizing that you’d walked yourself - almost in a trance - right up to the shrub-covered door to the basement. The very same one that Nanami had nudged you away from last time.

Nanami…a shiver runs down your spine. You don’t know what to think.

Almost as if it will provide you the answers, you reach out and twist the basement door handle. It creaks out in agony as it opens, and you almost have half the mind to run away right then, right now.

But you’re no quitter. 

In nothing but the pale moonlight, you step inside the basement and make your way down its narrow stairway. They were made of metal, biting through the soles of your slips with each step. You’re squinting your eyes in the darkness, hands reached out in front of you like you’d find something.

And then—

And then, right as you reach the landing of the staircase, you step in something wet.

It almost felt like a puddle after rain. Though the liquid stuck to your slippers, thicker than that. And as you raised your feet, it created a hollow squelch; the viscous sap looked much darker than water was supposed to be.

You gasp. It can’t be-

Lightning strikes.

Just a snapshot of light. Like someone had taken a photograph and burned it into your retinas.

In that split-second, you saw that what you’d thought was a puddle of water wasn’t really water at all. It was red. It was thick.

And it was leading a pathway all the way down to a body in the middle of the basement.

Two-toned hair bled red. Eyes pure white.

The mechanic lay dead on the basement floor. For how long, you weren’t quite sure.

With a scream, you almost slip on the blood as you sprint upstairs. Running out into the pouring rain outside - if you’d been guided in a daze to the massacre, then your brain was working in overdrive to guide you out. 

Slippers squelching. Eyes stinging with rain. You couldn’t even see where you were going, and it reminded you of the night you arrived here.

Yet, you’ll always find the mansion - always. And in almost no time (though it felt like eons to your poor, shivering body), you’re running inside the mansion and slamming! the front door shut.

Body pushed against the door. Lungs heaving. You gulp.

With your eyes downturned, your watch the rich carpet beneath your feet drench with beads of water. Rusted water. Blood.

Fuck. 

You had to get out of here right now. 

Just as soon as the thought has struck your brain, the candles go out. Every. Single. One of them. Startled, you’re whipping around and trying to open the door- bang! bang! bang! It only rattles underneath your hands, firmly shut with unseen bolts and padlocks that you wouldn’t have been able to open no matter what.

And it’s only with the thin glow of the moonlight that you can move your urgent body, one step after the other. Jerky, as if you have to force yourself to do it.

As if you have to fight against some outside force to do so.

You knew that no matter where you went inside the mansion, Nanami would be able to find you. What if you—the balcony.

You gasp, and try to tamper the thought down as swiftly as it had formed. 

Without a second of lingering any further, your feet dart you up the sprawling staircase. Spirals. Heart thundering, feet thudding, and your gasps laborious as you ran towards the bedroom that he had oh-so-graciously given to you.

Footsteps.

Slow.

Steady.

The complete opposite of your own, follow you the closer you get to it. Seeing that gleaming wooden door wink at you from the end of the hallway, like an old friend.

Until, finally, you’re throwing open the door and running inside-

“My lady.”

You howl in terror and it’s swallowed up by the sudden crashing of the storm outside. You hadn’t just raced into your room- you’d ended up bumping into none other than Nanami Kento’s firm, toned chest.

Carefully looping his arms around you.

“You’re-” You hiss, stepping backwards. “You’re a-”

“Yes.”

And then suddenly he’s behind you. Caging you inside the room, with no possibility of running back where you’d come from. 

He looms, larger than life. His shadow walking inside- “I can’t believe you’re a-” You stagger backwards, “So all this time-”

“All this time.” Nanami breathes out, even though you knew that his lungs didn’t need to work. Then he grins and oh- it’s the one thing that you could see completely clearly in the dimness of the night: his stark-white fangs, those crimson eyes, pupils like a snake’s. 

They bore down at you, especially when your limp legs stumble- and Nanami’s right there to steady you. With his inhumanly strong arms capturing your waist, and his chest pressed to yours. 

Oh. 

That low voice of his buries deep within your eardrums, sensual. “And I’ve been waiting…” He practically purrs, and your thighs clench. “-so, so long for you, my lady.”

You feel shivers go down your spine when Nanami nuzzles his nose against your throat, “A- a long time- so you mean that-”

“Yes.”

“Am I an descendant to the owner of this house-”

“Yes.” He sighs out his answers, like it took everything in him. Like he was breathing life into you. And you can’t help but notice that the two of you have edged towards the bed now, and you slightly turn your head to look at the mirror on the wall. “And you don’t know how starved I have been, my lady.”

Only to find that Nanami’s reflection didn’t show up on it.

It looked as if you were standing by yourself, and the blond-haired man (demon, more like) only holds you tighter in response. He murmurs in your ear, “Though enlightening, that book of yours doesn’t hold much truth.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Well-” His fangs glint, “-it does.”

You shiver. Not only with coldness, not only with fear.

Something more akin to a carnal need, with him pressed up against you like this.

“Though, it was wrong about two things-” Nanami’s plump lips graze down the column of your throat, and you wonder whether he can sense the way you grow…wet. “-a demon can yearn, a demon can love.”

Oh. 

One of his overlarge hands drag down your spine, fiddling with the ties of a dress that he’d tailored to your exact size. Perhaps centuries ago.

“And this demon has been waiting for centuries for your soul to return, my lady.”

Your arms tighten on his shoulders, and tender slip up to loop around his neck. “I’m here, Kento.” Your body is boneless in his hold, and he holds you to him like he wants you to be of one soul.

.

.

.

There’s a sodden squeeeeelch as he’s lightly tuggin’ those cute panties of yours aside- how could you even walk around with something so sweet on you?

Nanami feels his oh-so-famished tastebuds start to water at the sight of your pretty, pretty cunt. Just a thin line of drool makin’ its way down the side of his stern lips, mirroring the way that your tight hole was weeping out.

He rubs his glove-clad thumb down the front of your glistening folds, and you whimper at the scratch of its smooth texture. “Have you ever done something like this before, my lady?”

With a mewl, you nod. 

And you can’t help but notice the way that Nanami’s jaw clenches. “I see.” And there’s an inkling of something dark in his tone that you can’t quite pinpoint right now, roverin’ his mean fingerpads just over where your poor clit was. “And, forgive me if this is too forward, but have you ever fully enjoyed something like this before, my lady?”

“Well-” You try to keep your tone even, bucking off the bed. You were all sprawled out with only your drenched panties on, and Nanami Kento was on his knees by the foot of the bed.

On his knees for you.

His lips twitched impatiently, a sort of hunger in his eyes the longer he had to watch your needy pussy cling onto nothing. Continuing, “Well, I’ve liked it before with other people but-”

“Yes, my lady?”

And as you finish off, you slightly duck your head in shame. Whispering the words out (though you knew he’d hear with his demonic senses anyways). “But none of them have ever made me…cum before. I can reach it by myself but with other people- you know.”

“I understand.” You peer up to see the way that Nanami stares kindly at you. Something understanding in his eyes. Something…primal.

And your cunt starts to throb even more once he reaches his dominant right hand up to his mouth, then proceeding to bite down on the edge of his glove, and pull it off with his tongue. So unintentionally attractive. “Then, kindly allow me.”

In a split-second, his thick fingertip is probin’ between your pussylips.

Feeling the hotness of you clenching ‘round him and he groans- “You’re so ready for me, aren’t you, madam?” Just the slightest hitch in his tone as he’s then sinking in with a slooooooppy slurp. The kind that leaves your ears ringing and your mouth dropping with each scouring inch he eases in.

Your eyes roll to the back of your skull at the feeling of his tender girth poking your insides. “O-oh my god.” Bucking your hips even deeper into his touch- “How does it feel so good already?”

“Oh, is that so–?” Nanami’s blond lashes flutter in amusement, “But you haven’t felt anything yet, my lady. Won’t you just raise your hips for me-” He guides you, and you’re squirming down his lengthy digits. “-yes, yes. Just like that, keep taking it all, alright?”

“I am I am-” Sobbing.

And you don’t know where you’re bawling more from - your swollen lips on your face, or the ones down below. The ones that he was striking viciously with his mountainous knuckles, every time he thrusted to let the long, solid inches of his finger delve inside.

Inside and inside.

Pushin’ in- he was just so eager to plunge himself inside.

Until the very forefront of his knuckles smacked your pussylips, and Nanami’s ruthlessly pressing his ring finger against your outer cunt. Smooch-smooch-smooching the very round tip of his ring finger against your pulsing clit, until he’s trying to fit that inside, too.

“Easy does it.” Nanami hisses, blond brows furrowing. Beads of sweat start decorating his forehead as he concentrates. “Easy- eeeeeasy. You can take it, my lady.”

And if you thought that the stretch of one of his fingers was enough to drive you wild, then you weren’t ready for two. “Oh my- fuck. You’re so mean.” You whine, holding onto his other gloved hand. Nanami has his fingers romantically intertwined with yours, and you were just clawing at his wrist there. 

The demon raises a brow - devilish. “Would you like me to stop?”

“No!” You rush to blurt out, your hips startin’ to gyrate. It took you a few vulgar strokes to get used to the size of him stretchin’ out your tiniest hidden nooks and crannies open - you swear that Nanami’s fingers were larger than normal. Scouring oh-so-deeply inside. “No no no- keep going. Ngh, you’re a-almost there.”

“Mmm, am I?” His lip curls, “And I wonder if ah- ‘there’ would feel even better with three fingers, hm?”

“O-oh…”

“That’s all you have to say, madam?” Nanami genuinely questions, though there’s a certain waver in his voice that lets you know he was teasing you. He was making your honeyed cunt grow even wetter with how Nanami Kento, of all beings, was being mean to you.

And with a few more slashing strokes, he’s fully opened up the clingy channel of your walls- fuck, he couldn’t even reel his two fingers back without your needy pussy trying to gulp him back up again.

Then with a sudden, soaked squelch you’re feeling a third of his fingertips kiss your tight hole. Tapping just a few times before he instantly presses down on your clit and makes you gasp- “Oh, fuck.”

The perfect moment for Nanami to shove his extended digit inside. All three of them expanding and contracting, scissoring a few times to engrave the crowned edges of his fingers against your most tender spots. “There-” Nanami hisses, between clenched teeth. “There there there-”

You’re suddenly seeing white- why? 

Because on that fourth bludgeon of his, Nanami’s easily locating your g-spot to pummel.

“-you’re taking it all so well, my lady. S’like you’re made f’me…heh.” 

“Shit-” Only blubbering and panting, he’s hittin’ your favorite spot so hard that your vision starts to blue - and you don’t know whether it’s because of tears or the sheer amount of white-hot pleasure that he’s making run through your body. “Shit shit shit shit- oh. Right there, keep going, Kento.”

Yet another smack! to that gooey bundle of nerves—“Ohhh, how I love when you call me that, madam.” Hard.

Push after push after push, and he’s spreading his prying tips so open- letting the doughy edges catch on the crevices of your g-spot. Meanly caressing. 

Even though he’s speeding up, slick dripping down the sides of his overworking wrists like a faucet, you don’t think he misses that lewd target of his even a single time. Push after push after push. Dizzy with the force, you look up n’ find that Nanami’s slitted pupils were glowing.

He was using his demonic powers to perfectly angle the strikes of his fingerpads against your sweetest, sultriest spot. Stickin’ straight against your nerves, you had absolutely no chance of a breather when he was using some sort of x-ray vision to keep your pussy captive.

“Captive?” Nanami reads your thoughts, “Madam, I fear that this isn’t even- hah, half of my speed. Would you like me to accelerate?”

And he does.

And you’re feeling so much bliss at the moment that you can’t stop yourself from anchoring your feet onto the mattress and pushing off- unsure whether you wanted to help meet his cadence or run away—

“Ah ah, what an adorable feat.”

His husky baritone breaks through your hazy thoughts- and before you know it, Nanami’s free hand untangles from yours to grip the sides of your neck n’ tug you right back.

Slapping that cutely sensitive front of your pussy with his knuckles, the demon chuckles darkly as you squirm at the pleasure. “You don’t think you can run away from me, can you, my silly lady?” With a growl, he tightens his restraint on your throat and makes you wince at the lack of oxygen. “You can’t. You won’t.”

And with that, Nanami cranes his watering mouth down to kiss the insides of your thighs. Letting the syrupy-sweet sheen of your slick coat his chin, “I’ve waited for you for centuries, and I’ll wait for you centuries more. I’ll find you.” Tightening. “Don’t think of running, madam.”

“Won’t- won’t-” You squeal out, and through the blurry gaps of your vision you can see the way that Nanami’s salivating. The way that his lips edge towards your heated core, the way he looks like he’s starving the longer he stares down at your cunt. “But, Kento, I do have one request of you.”

He snaps his head up immediately, “Anything, madam.”

“Could you please, ngh-” Your lips wobble desperately as you utter, and Nanami listens enraptured to every word. “-please put your mouth on me?”

And the stern man - a demon, living for centuries, unphased as he waited for your soul to meet him again - lets his mouth drop into a heated ‘oh’ as he registers. As he lets your words throb all the way at his furious cock.

“As you wish, my lady.”

Then you’re feeling the scorching hot sensation of his breath cloud your inner thighs, slithering upwards just in time with his mouth. “As you wish-” Nanami whispers, more to himself - more like a mantra. 

“As you wish, as you wish, as you- mmm.” His mouth slips over the crevice of your cunt, and you’re feeling him perfectly slot his lips with your folds. He cracks his ravenous mouth open, “Allow me to- oh.”

Before immediately shutting himself up after the first candied taste of your cunt. 

He lets his slicked tongue squeeze inside, gulping. “F-forgive me for not finishing my sentence. What I meant was, allow me to-” You buck, shoving him nose-deep between your sultry pussylips. “-oh, fuck. Forgive me, you just have me so…”

And he can’t even finish his sentence like this.

Because every time he’s parting those stern lips of his to speak, yet another glittery wad of your slick slips between that greedy maw of his. Pooling at the back of his mouth like some puddle, he can’t fucking get enough of your sweet, sweet juices. “It’s just- the taste of you. Shit. My lady, and who has allowed you to taste this sinful?” He hums. Guttural.

“Mmm, I dunno. Maybe you should’ve found out earlier-” You say, coyly. And raise your hips up to let his strong, velvety tongue pry inside n’ out. Almost fighting his fingers for space inside.

“Maybe you should’ve appeared earli- oh, fuck.” Shit, did he love hearing your gorgeous voice in conversation. 

But if that meant breaking off his prolonged, open-mouthed kiss with your pussy then he wasn’t wasting any time. He was just slathering his maw widely agape, the flat tastebuds on top of his tongue moving back and forth and all over.

And spearheading just his honed tip inside, the crowned girth of his tongue snakes all the way to your innards. Jostling his own fingers-

You gasp when that only makes him skid his fingertips against your g-spot even further. 

“I promise, I’ll be able to finish my sentences-” Nanami seethes. “-promise I’ll be able to, just with another- mmm, just another taste-” And his tongue lavishly licks up and down your slit. “-and another- oh, maybe one more-”

Again and again.

He’s trying to control himself but he can’t.

His sizzlin’ hot tastebuds probe their way inside, before ultimately pulling out and resting against your clit. Nanami counts your throbbing pulse one-two-three-four times before he starts fucking you with it again.

All three of his digits and his tongue. Swirlin’ in dizzying patterns around and around and drawing a cute heart on top of your nub. Followed right up by his silvery initials—‘N.K.’

You’re shivering, curling the tips of your toes as the fatness of his tongue rolls over your clit. Again and again. And his fingers are just merciless- digging three slender circumferences against the side of your walls, feeling that if he could thrust even deeper to hit the side of your cervix then he would have ages ago. In fact…

“Wh-what are you-” You jump your upper half off of the springy sheets - it was as if your wet dream was coming to life. Nanami was elongating the tendrils of his fingers with supernatural powers, slipping every thorough inch even deeper. “Oh my god- ngh, now that’s just unfair-”

“And yet, I’m not the one that thought of it.” He snickers, plunging his digits further. And further and further. 

So deep, in fact, that you think you can feel his slimy, slick-glazed tips all the way near the back of your throat. Stabbing in thorough thrashes, you huff. “And yet- who’s the one that’s, mmm, pussydrunk, hm?”

“No- no no no, I’m not pussydrunk, madam.” Nanami insists, “Not at all. This is just a slight affliction that I- mmpf.”

You clench ‘round his fingers and that only makes him jerk his face even deeper- thank goodness he didn’t have to fucking breathe, because he was spending all his time swabbin’ away. Using the hand he still had on your throat, he pulls you in incredibly. “It’s not that m’pussydrunk—” Slurring his damn words. “-it’s just that…”

“Mhm—?”

You’re so wet by now that you begin to gush down his face. And Nanami didn’t have blood running through his veins, of course, but you should still feel his cheekbones burn with heat.

You’d made the centuries-old demon blush.

You’d made him gurgle on the slippery wads of your slick.

So completely pussydrunk that the thought of you realizing he was so- and taking your treacly cunt away made him glue his lips to your clit with a slight cry. A slight whimper—“D-don’t take this pretty pussy away from me.” His hand lifts off of your neck to hold onto your thighs, tugging. “Please?”

And as if to prove his point - to prove his desperation - the roverin’ tip of Nanami’s tongue moves even harder against your pussy.

Even faster.

And his scouring fingerpads probe in so deep that you throw your head back with a moan. Those wriggling tips filling up your every orifice, “Yes-” You weave your fingers into his unruly golden locks. “M’not gonna, Kento-” Gasping. “M’not gonna take myself away s-so you don’t have to- oh.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Just so rough with it. “Thank you- thank you- thank you-” 

You swear he’s bruising at the battered innards of your walls, and he’s leaving nail marks for daaaaays upon your thighs. Battling with his own lecherous fingers. Moving his lush tastebuds again and again and again-

“Thank you for lettin’ me taste such a sweet, sweet pussy, madam.” Nanami scorches out against your cunt, slobbering all down it. “Thank you for letting ‘er- ngh, cum all down my tongue.”

“C-cum?” You lift your dazed head at his pussydrunk babbling - only to find that it wasn’t just babbling, after all.

Because Nanami’s honed abilities meant that he could sense when the zapping fireworks at the pit of your stomach grew, he could fucking smell the honeyed fragrance of your cunt growing close. And, sure as day, with a few more vulgar strokes, you’re falling apart on his fingers and his mouth.

Your back arching you even closer against his nuzzlin’ nose, you cry out as your high zaps right through you. “It feels so good- oh, Kento. Oh my g-god.”

“Mmm, the opposite, my lady.” Nanami chuckles, fucking you through every peak of your high- you should have expected that he has a sixth sense for it. And with the soaring peaks of your orgasm, Nanami mazes his fingertips to directly hit your g-spot.

So good.

You’re drooling through your entire high stupidly, your eyes watering through the sensitive pangs of pleasure. Tuggin’ on Nanami’s clammy scalp to pull him in even deeper, and he was more than happy to let himself be moved. To be ridden.

Long, sloppy drag of his tongue making you arch your back. “Sh-shut up-” Mewling out, you let yourself be wrung dry of the waves of pleasure. 

“As you wish, madam.”

And he dutifully listens, there for only your euphoria. To which you respond by elongating your high by grinding down on his face—allll the way from the point of his handsome chin to the tip of his straight nose. “Shit-” You whimper, “Shit shit shit- never felt so good. Never felt like this.”

Nanami groans ‘round your clit, the vibrations sending you into a frenzy.

“M’serious-” You prattle out, your movements eventually slowing. That might just have been the best orgasm of your entire life - you were never going to be the same. “It just felt so good, Kento…wait, you’re not- ngh, done?”

He only shakes his head.

He only lets his slitherin’ tongue lap and lap at the teary crevice of your pussy.

With every lick, you’re feeling your body go into overdrive. Heat flaring. Heart racing. You absolutely thrash against the damp sheets of the bed as he continues- like you’d never even reached your high. 

Just plap after plap after plap of his knuckles against your tender outer pussy- and you start to wonder whether it doesn’t hurt for him. Whether his wrist doesn’t sting. Whether his mouth wasn’t swollen n’ rubbed raw on your drippin’ wet pussy, “Mmm, told me to shut up and make you feel good, didn’t you, madam?” You weren’t entirely sure that that was what you said, verbatim. 

Yet you’re too gone on his silvery tastebuds to bite back anything now. “Y-yes…?”

“And that’s exactly what m’doing.”

He’s overstimulating you even more. Thrusting his tongue between those sopping wet lips of yours to poke at your throbbing g-spot, you swear he’s able to elongate his wet muscle even further.

Slashing against your most tender spots-

“Sh-shit- but m’so sensitive.” Whining out, you half-heartedly attempt to tug him off of your pussy- but it was as if Nanami was plastered to your wettened lips. “I don’t even know if I can cum so soon again, Kento.”

He slightly raises his head - not enough to stop his drivelling mouth, of course - and raises a blond brow. “You don’t know, my lady?”

You shake your head.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.”

And with that said, he’s fingering you to make a point. Staring at the writhing expressions on your face every time Nanami’s digits plunged inside, they hit the near-back of your pussy with such slurping sounds.

Hit after hit. Teasingly kissin’ against the throbbing spot of your nerves, and that’s when you can feel the fireworks start up again in the pit of your stomach once more-

And that’s when Nanami can sense it.

Smell it.

Taste it- fuck, it was as if you became even sweeter on his tongue any time you were nearing your high. And he doesn’t say a single word - doesn’t waste the time to - only thrashing and thrashing, he hits the bruised area of your g-spot and watches as you fall apart once more.

Pleasure zipping through your body.

Toes curling.

Tears were streaming down your cheeks, and your mattress was all but drenched with the moisture.

“Oh my god-” You’re all but limp by your second orgasm, letting it wrack your body mercilessly. “You were right-” Your breath hitches. “-ngh, m’cumming again, Kento. C-cumming—”

“Mmm, I know, madam.” Nanami grins, and you can feel it form against the tender folds of your pussy. Branding itself there. “I did that.”

He was mean.

You buck and you buck and you buck as he licks every crevice of your insides, and once he was done fucking you well n’ proper through your other high- the slicked tip of Nanami’s tongue slurps back in once again. As if to do it all over again.

He feels you clench ‘round him urgently, “A-again?” You ask, with a weepy tremble in your voice.

“Mmm, don’t think you can do it a third time?” Nanami gutturally groans out, “D’you wanna find- ngh, find out, hm?”

“Actually…” And he hangs onto your every word. 

Your jittery fingers intertwine with his polished hair, tugging. Continuing where you left off, “I was thinking that m’ready for something else.” He looks on in something that almost looks like disbelief - desperation. As if he couldn’t believe that these words were really spilling out of your mouth. “Wan’ your cock, Kento.”

And something in him seems to…snap.

“A-as you wish, my lady.”

He bows to you, right then and there.

In practically no time - though, to Nanami who’d been waiting for centuries, it only felt like centuries more - you’re being pushed back on the mattress until your head softly nudges the headboard. Nanami heaves himself up on the bed.

And you can’t help but notice that for someone who always looked so prim and put-together, he looked absolutely gone.

Hair sticking up in multiple angles. Eyes half-lidded and drunk. Slick dribbling down the sides of his mouth and down his prominent Adam’s apple. It drops from his fangs, which have now elongated. And lecherously down the front of his suit, which was a darker color than it usually was- drenched in heaps of your mess. In heaps of his mess. 

In quick, severe movements, Nanami takes his suit off. So fast and urgent that you can hear the whooshing sounds of the fabric attempting not to rip at the seams.

When it gets to his pants, your eyes drop down - it’s been a feast for the eyes with every layer that Nanami peeled away. First it revealed those broad, milky shoulders of his. Then it revealed his plush pecs, his ladder-like abs.

Until finally you were following the line of his sparse happy trail down to his thick, aching cock. And fuck- a few profanities leave your mouth, he was the biggest size you’ve ever seen. 

Just about nine inches (perhaps ten), with a plethora of winding veins that made it look as though he’d feel like he was twelve. A thick hilt. Ready balls. And the fat mushroom tip of his cock was glazed in a glittery topping of precum, pulsing primally as the cold air hit him. Dripping. 

“Anything you wish, my lady.”

Shivering at his serious tone of voice, you reach a hand up to your own collar-

Only to be halted in your tracks by an invisible force.

Nanami had one hand raised, his power surging. “Allow me.” He says, and with a harsh brush of his animalistic fingernails, he’s tearing your dress into shreds. Like butter under his touch. Easily falling apart. 

Your dress to your bra, they fall into tatters. And the only thing left is your slick-flooded panties that he scrapes a hand down to tear off, as well.

Before stopping- and seeming to think better of it- “Actually.” Nanami starts, “Keep them on.”

Oh, he was being filthy.

He was being mean.

And before your hazy brain can even register it, your legs are being flapped open. Kept firmly apart by two of his soft hands, feather-light, he pins them to the mattress and lets his slick cockhead slide juuuuust between your pussylips.

Back and forth, back and forth. The weight of his throbbing girth only makes you grow even wetter, and you’re gasping by the time he’s glazed himself up ‘nough to start pushing in.

“Now-” Nanami hisses, fangs grit. His heated body hunches over, and sweat beads down from his forehead to yours. The first feeling of your pussy clamping all ‘round his rock-hard length, and Nanami is a broken man. Slamming his hand down on the top of the mahogany headboard. “Now, madam, we’re gonna have to breathe, alright? Breathe with me now-”

You gasp- “Fuck- fuck, you’re so big-”

“Mhmmm—c’mon, my lady, breathe with me.” And though he was almost falling apart at the seams, he found the ability to string together coherent-enough sentences. Seething. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in–”

In and out. In and out.

Just like the way that plush, pinkish tip of his was swabbin’ repeatedly- he was pumping out half-ruts, just trying to fit himself inside your pussy.

Opening you up wiiiidely—

You try to follow along with what he says, “Fuck-” But the stretch of the first inch of his cock fitting in was incredible, he was molding his way inwards. Shaping out your snug channel, “But how am I supposed to when you feel like- hah- that-”

“Awww, difficult, hm?” Nanami coos, empathetically. You nod, all teary-eyed and pretty taking his elongated shaft that he can’t help but let himself swell just a lil’ wider. Thicker.

You’re taking this change in size with a moan.

And he ponders to himself for a few more strokes, getting used to the warmth of your cunt. Before humming like he’d just been struck with an epiphany- and soon enough, Nanami’s holding out his strong, vein-covered forearm in front of your line of vision.

Murmuring, “Then bite on it.”

Your eyes widen, “What?” But before you know it, you’re already making use of the demon’s sinful little solution - the next inch that he’s somehow mazing inside you, you’re sinking your teeth into the golden flesh of his forearm and taking it.

“Mmm, just like that.” He pants, squeeze-squeeze-squeeeezing his way past your puckered folds. The globular front of his cock kisses either side of your walls, pinpointing specks of pre everywhere his fingers had touched just moments earlier. “Take it- take it take it take it- sloooow and easy. You’re doing so well, my lady.”

Sensually, he’s managing to let your ravenous cunt swallow up his inches. 

And your sobs hitch after every stroke, it just felt like his fleshy tip was gracing your very lungs. You straddle his slim waist- tugging. “K-Kento…”

“Impatient, are we?” He raises a brow, “You have to take it easy, madam, if we want it to fit- breathe in. Breeeeathe in—”

And every time you did, he was shovelling in a few more inches. But the thing about Nanami Kento is that he made sure he tended to your every need; playfully rolling his thumb over your clit as he pumped himself into your hot core. 

Which meant that he took things slow, took things at a pace that your feverishly needy mind was being infuriated by.

Without warning (though, later on, you’re sure that he’d sensed it coming and simply let you), you lock your ankles around his hips and pull-pull-pull him in. 

And with that, his roverin’ wet shaft.

Bottoming out.

The headboard he’s holding onto cracks under the pressure.

You wanted him deep inside you. And Nanami can only respond by spitting out a line of swears that hits you in a scorching breeze, his face twisting into something of pure ecstasy. “O-oh.” Nanami’s voice stutters. Nanami’s voice cracks. “Ohhh, you shouldn’t have done that, my lady.”

And without further ado, he’s fucking you like a madman.

“Wanted to t-take it easy- you shouldn’t have done that-” He manages to spit out. Body shivering. His cock throbbing angrily right at the spongy platform of your cervix. “You r-really really…” Dazed, slightly, like his body was moving in water, he unhooks his palm from the now-splintered headboard. Then he throws those cute legs of yours over his deltoids.

Letting them lock firmly behind his sweaty neck, Nanami’s bending his ripped body doooooown. Folding you in half, too- you swear you’re hearing a few of your joints pop! 

And Nanami’s only hazily gliding his palm down your limbs, a soothing coldness overcoming them. No broken bones on his watch (even if his body was moving before his mind right now). So there’s no excuse for why you can’t bend in half for him. No excuse for why he can’t press his sticky forehead to yours and drill his hips even harder.

No excuse for the way that rotund tip of his scrapes your cervix with a rapid thud! thud! thud! The tender curve of his ballsack strikes the front of your pussy all raw—

Your mouth waters with the impact, “Y-you’re reaching in so deep, ngh.” But of course he was: he had you manhandled until the caps of your knees hit your tits.

“Mmm, just how you like it- hm?” Nanami chuckles, though there’s a certain pleading tone in his voice. Those drunken, honeypool eyes of his are boring straight into yours, and he memorizes even the slightest expressions you’re making at the massage of his puffy cock. “It feels good? Feels great? Makin’ this pussy feels so- oh, loooovely like she deserves?”

“Yes-” You’re gasping, your throat hoarse at the feeling of his zig-zagged veins that just kept intruding into your deepest hidden crevices. “Yes yes yes yes- yes-”

Somehow, he always managed to find the area that your drippin’ wet cunt needed him the most. Just straightly heading his wet tip towards that spot, and pressing a thorough smooch that made you damn near scream into his mouth.

And it’s then that a sudden thought hits you.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Nanami echoes- fuck, you’d almost forgotten that he could read minds. And with those demonic powers of his, he was echoing out a certain cockdrunken idea that you had. “So you want to know whether I can use my extra vision to hit your g-spot with my, mmm, cock, huh?”

Restless, you nod.

“And you know what you need to- d-do to have me fulfill your wishes—right, madam?” Uttering out - stumbling though his words. 

Shit, even he was affected by the idea.

The ends of his tight fingertips shivering as you finally unfasten your mouth to ask- “C-can you please- ngh, use your powers to hit my g-spot, Kento?” And when you flutter those teary lashes of yours for effect?

Fuck, you might as well just call him a dead man (he was too far gone on your gushing cunt to register the fact that he, technically, wasn’t living).

Because with a sudden, concentrated surrender of his hips- Nanami perfectly angles the blushin’ red end of his shaft. That lil’ divot on the very end streamed out precum that made you splosh around from the inside, “Breathe in.” He rasps, thumb flitting down to press on your clit. “Breathe- out-”

“Oh- oh my–” More like you’re squealing out at the rough jab of his cockhead. The demon’s eyes activate into something glowing when he perfectly targets your needy g-spot.

Snickering. “Breathe in.”

You breathe in.

“Breathe-”

This time, he doesn’t even finish his damn sentence before letting the slit of his shaft snag your sweetest spot. You had so many cute, clingy ridges inside that he loves to stretch out with his sheer girth- and one of them was right by your g-spot that Nanami just kept rubbing and rubbing and rubbing all over.

Wadding out a mess of his precum until your walls likely looked like cobwebs from the inside- “You don’t know what you’re- hah, doing t’me, little mortal.” The fatness of his thumb rolls over your clit, making you see stars. “Have no idea. No- oh, have n-no idea.”

His free hand holds your quivering jaw, turning your face up to look at him and only him.

“You’ve made a demon fall in love with you, my lady. Tut tut.”

You’re squirming in his hold- he was losing control over his body. Unraveling at the seams. Rutting like an animal. Even the smooches of his hardened cock left your insides all bruised n’ battered, swat-swat-swat.

“And not only that—” Nanami continues, in his slightly breathy tone. You half-wondered whether he even knew what he was babbling away- “Oh- not quite, madam. I do apologize.” He answers your unspoken question.

Your breath catches - so he was pussydrunk enough to simply be prattling away. Unthinking.

The spit-slicked edges of his mouth gluing against yours, his tone was absolutely shattered as he mutters into your open maw. “But you’ve made me fall in love with your- your pussy, too.”

As if in response, your dampened cunt lets out some of the most lecherous noises. And you huff out a teasing giggle, “You’re talking as if this is your- mmm, first time, Kento—”

But Nanami doesn’t laugh.

Nanami doesn’t do anything but look at you so-very-seriously.

“W-wait-” Realization starts dawning on you, and you can feel your heartbeaten quicken as it sets in. “Don’t tell me…it really is your first time.” He grins…and nods. “And earlier with your mouth, too- was that-”

“But of course, madam.” The demon breathes, thoroughly ruined on your sweet, sweet pussy. “I did say that I have been waiting- mmm, centuries for you, no?”

Oh, shit.

If this was what he was like when he was inexperienced, then you almost feared to wonder just how good he’d be when he was experienced - with none other than you, you’re imagining. And as if to prove his point, he plunges and plunges his thickened shaft into you.

The plump circumference of his tip fitting against where he was causing your g-spot to indent—hollowing out with his rotund end.

In time with each of his thrusts, Nanami’s fingers pinch your perky clit. You were throbbing with need for him, and his mean thumb drew out so many things right on top of where you were most sensitive.

Swirls n’ hearts n’ his initials.

You could feel the branding of his name stinging against your core, each movement of his fingerpads creating the sloppiest slurps. “Oh, please-” Whimpering, you rut against his glissading abs. “Please please please please-”

“You can’t just say ‘please’ with no- mmm, command.” He chuckles to himself, as if you were the cutest thing in the world. “You have to tell me what you want. Your wish is my command.”

“I want you…”

“Yes—?”

And to utter these very words, you’re dragging him in closer. Touch burning. His breath laborious. You’re pulling Nanami in reeeeeal close and letting his straight nosebridge graze yours, lips tenderly touching yours. “Will you be cumming inside, Kento?”

He nuzzles the crook of your neck, “I shall do so as you wish. But first, don’t you know that you must give a demon permission to- take- a part of you?”

“So you can’t cum inside until I say the word?” You blink, a strange zap of power running through your body.

“That is so, madam.”

And oh- he’s pounding you into the aged bedsprings like he was trying to pound the words out of you. Thumb becoming frenzied on your clit, simply driving you wild. “I see- I- oh, ngh- I see-” A smirk stretches your lips, “And do you want to cum inside, Kento?”

“Not if you don’t wish for me to-” But just then, your cutely heart-shaped insides clench—and Nanami’s cutting himself off with a few rough swears. “Oh, f-fuck- yes.”

As you try to catch your breath, he’s completely losing his.

Again and again and again.

The lines of his veins throb n’ plaster against every ridge inside your velvety walls- “Yes, I do-” From the back of his throat, constant groans wrench. “I do I do I- do-” And each one was punctuated with the most probing jackhammers of his. “Oh, how badly I want to cum inside you.”

Before you can respond, his free hand drags down the front of your stomach. And he rests it easily where that lil’ bulge of his cockhead was thudding into your cervix.

“I need it. I desire it- I desire to stuff you full of my cum right h-here.” And then he presses down to put force on where his cylindrical length was tunneling. “I desire to see you all swollen with my seed, having taken so much that it has no place to go other than to drip onto the sheets.”

You’re squealing, feeling the world spin around you. “Oh- fuck. Please, m’not gonna last long-”

“I desire to feel every wad of cum of mine as I fuck you.” He gruffs out, “I desire to bind you to me forever-” Nanami leans in closer, as if he was whispering a secret to you. “-to let myself be truly yours. For eternity, this time.”

Sounding so pained.

“Let me cum inside, my lady-” He begs now. “I-inside. Let me cum inside, let me cum inside- please.”

“Yes- yes, I want it.” You crash your lips against his, feeling his fangs nip against your lower lip. “You can cum inside, Kento.”

And then with a final few thrusts, you’re exploding into your high.

So powerful that it results in your eyes clenching shut, white behind your vision. Back arching into his chest. You could hear the thundering of your pulse in your eardrums, right along with the husky, attractive groan of your name that Nanami lets off before he, too, finishes.

And you’re feeling it before you’re registering it.

That sultry splash! of something hot and wadded hitting the back of your pussy. It trickles all the way in lines down your cervix, and then ends up overflowing in your snug channel. 

“Oh- oh, you’re really taking it.” Nanami’s hand presses down on your front, eyes activating. “Look at you—swallowing up every single drop. This pretty pussy of yours was- ngh, hungry, hm?”

“Shit, you’re so filthy.” You whine, clawing down his muscular back. And Nanami Kento only smiles like he knew it was true.

After all, he was feeling everything that he’d described earlier - the sploshing of webbed-up seed inside you, the way it glissaded down his shaft. Every line of his veins was coated in ivory sap, and the demon was fucking in each gluey wad inside you.

Your own high is overtaken by his - and you don’t know what else you expected: Nanami was cumming like he hadn’t in centuries.

Just bucketloads of cum that left your mind all stupidly hazy. With each quiver of your own pleasure, you could feel the clingy mess slipping out of your hole. It created this intricate white ring ‘round Nanami’s hilt that he’s thumbing away with a smile.

Pushing dooooooown- “S’taken.” Nanami breathes, somewhat in awe as he gazed down adoringly at where your womb was. With those powerful eyes of his. “Fuck yes, s’taken, my lady. I’m so proud of you.”

“You mean…?”

“Yes.”

“F-fuck.”

He watches as that white hot mess dribbles down his fingerpads, and he says—“Stick out your tongue, madam?”

Slightly befuddled in the aftermath of your high - nothing more than a few sensitive twinges at the pit of your stomach by now, oh, he’d dragged it out so perfectly with his ready cock - you do as he says. And in a few sultry seconds, Nanami has his cum-glazed thumb sticking in his own mouth. Said mouth of his edging even closer to yours to spit.

And then he kisses you fully.

You moan, shocked by his sinful, sinful antics.

And it’s only then that you start to feel a strange rush go down your skin. It’s only then that you feel atoms stop in attention around your body, where yours met his.

So caught up in the feeling, you barely even notice when Nanami finishes riding out his own high. Each n’ every ounce of his sap pushed thoroughly into your deepest innards. And he was so proud of it- no, you’re too caught up in the fact that you knew that.

In that fact that you knew he was proud.

You could sense it.

You could remember it: fragments of a time spent in this very mansion, that didn’t include the last few days. A flourishing garden where you stole kisses. Pale blond hair in the darkness of this very bedroom. The screams of the scullery as they found out. Blood. A new life. You remembered it - not all, it came to you slowly.

With a gasp, you’re pulling back to look at your hands; they looked as normal as always, except for a strange tingle of…something that left you feeling like you could smash this very bed frame if you tried to.

Wait- you turn your head to the mirror on the wall, only to find that…nothing was there. Nothing but the room, in all its emptiness.

For mirrors don’t reflect demons.

“You’ve made me a-” You gulp, and he purrs in affirmation. “-a demon.”

“I’ve contracted us for life, my lady.” Nanami responds, “Look here.”

He taps his index down on the spot where his palm had been plastered mere moments ago, where he was feeling for his cum sprayin’ out into your womb. And as you look down, you can see that your skin was emblazoned with a glowing purple mark of supernatural sorts. Swirling spirals and hearts: you were branded.

“And here.”

You raise your eyes to where Nanami had stuck his tongue out now- and there it was. A matching tattoo (symbol? Branding?) that matched the one you had, right in the middle of his tastebuds.

Two peas in a pod.

Two demons in a mansion.

You could feel the exact moment that Nanami’s cock throbbed at the fact that you were growing even wetter at the notion - a soul that was formerly yours, shared now, for eternity. And you’d spend it all with this handsome man, in a mansion that would never crumble.

“I can smell it on you—” Nanami snarls, canines showing as his lips twist into a feral snarl. He gives another squelching thrust, “We’re going to have a looooong few centuries to make up for, my lady. Mistress of the house.”

.

.

.

“Chapter 22: Fables From the Shadows - Nanami Mansion. (Cont’d)

And yet, the tale of the scorned heir is only one theory seeking to explain the existence of this deeply demonic yet tragic figure of Nanami Kento.

I think you will find, dear reader, that this author in particular is quite inclined to believe a much lesser-known theory. It is one slightly less blood-curdling, though with no less a flare of drama: the theory of the scorned lover.

Though most records of interviews with the original servants that served the Nanami Mansions have been lost to time, what few have been procured did speak of what has been aforementioned in this chapter. Yet, it is in the footnotes that the most jarring pieces of information start to reveal themselves.

They speak of a rather different character to the demon, Nanami Kento. A demonic yet agreeable character: sharp, sensible, no less human (or at least acted so) than the other humans that it worked alongside, keeping the mansion shining like a crown jewel.

And perhaps most representative of the demon’s humanity of all, was the way in which he fell - and quite hopelessly, it is said by one worker - for the daughter of the mansion’s master. Her name— And her wits, her laugh, her kindness seemed to have enraptured this demon. And it makes us think that, perhaps, even the most hellish creatures of all are asinine in the face of love.

Love makes a fool of us all.

And yet, there is a reason that demons do not fall in love.

For once this secret dalliance was discovered by the household, it is said that the master was enraged - till one could not tell the difference between human and demon. In the owner’s fitful anger, some say that the dishonored daughter was made a sacrifice of, others justify that she was discarded from the mansion, never to be seen again.

Whatever the result of misplaced love (perhaps it was not misplaced, after all, who are we, as mortals, to judge?), the demon had lost her.

And that loss manifested into grief, that grief manifested into anger. The once-proud stone pathway to the Nanami Mansions painted itself red, and it has not had a master since.

They say that Nanami Kento still roams the empty halls, and keeps the house a home, in wait of his lost lover. 

As for the fate of them, only time will tell. 

Do you believe in reincarnation, o’ mortal? For, demons certainly do. And if a soulless being could not love a mortal centuries ago, perhaps there is hope that her soul may find him once more. Whether by accident, or by chance, or by fate altogether. Demons always are quite stubborn.

And perhaps, this time, they may love one another as two souls who have ever loved one another should. As one. 

This author, in particular, chooses to believe that their souls are already one. For there is a home for every lost soul, doors and arms wide open.”

—Of Demons and Servitude: The Hellish Agelong Contracts That Surpass Love by Sebastian Michaelis.

A/N. Was technically supposed to be posted last month but ah-

“But the absence of a tsahìk-”

“Mawey- do slow down.” For not the first time since their trek started, Gojo is turning his head behind him. He might have been a firm leader, but he wasn’t unfair. He watches the Herwi hunters that extend from his feet to far beyond hills of ice and frost - some middle-aged and weathered by the snow already, some fresh-faced and cold with the eagerness to prove themselves. Following them were six-legged canines they called txeylan—powerful hinds pulling sleds piled high with hunt. “The younger ones are having trouble keeping up.”

Gaping, the elder looks between his leader and the younger members near the middle of their group. Flanked by older Na’vi. “But- but olo’eyktan-”

He’s looking up at the irritated sky, “I will see no further talking.”

Though there is an easy smile across his face, the elders know not to cross him. Senior in age—only age. 

They bowed their heads and looked away above all because he is their leader, but below that - deep, deeeeeep below what their prides would allow them to ever admit - because they knew he was stronger. The strongest.

The heir born of a blizzard, Satoru of the snow. 

It was said he opened his eyes during the coldest night of that year. Ice-blue. Bitter blue. Like the pools of crystallized water that the Herwi people would dance their celebrations upon - and that night they held the longest celebrations to date. Arms in arms and singing songs. And giving thanks and giving the young his first taste of snow. 

And though the position of olo’eyktan had an aspect of inheritance to it either way, it was undeniable that the world had just borne their future leader.

He’d grown up taller than other Na’vi his age. Stronger. Stormy flurries wherever he stepped, and a blizzard himself. 

There almost seemed to be a gap between him and everyone else.

Gojo had been sixteen when he was officially granted the mantle of ‘The Strongest’ by the clan. It was only about time, and only because of the elders’ reluctance that it’d taken this long.

And now it was impossible to say whether he was more loved or respected as a leader: the more boisterous of the younger Na’vi certainly loved him, the elders couldn’t stand him, the ones of mating age just couldn’t get enough of him. Though it was all for naught.

In all the twenty-eight years that he’d sifted through these snows - in all the ten years since he’d come of age - Gojo hadn’t so much as looked at another with a degree of infatuation.

Not for a lack of propositions- in fact, if you asked his attendants then they’d tell you that Gojo had a surplus of propositions. At least five Na’vi would stroll up the familiar pathway to his underground hut, calling out sing-song wishes to braid his hair, to walk amongst the ice glaciers together, to mend his fur clothes. 

Hopefuls. 

His attendants were ordered to send them all away with a gift from the olo’eyktan and a firm rejection (though, Gojo finds that that certainly didn’t deter them…)

They just didn’t seem to understand why such a suitable young Na’vi seemed to be waiting…watching…for something even he himself didn’t seem to understand. Always turning his blue eyes to the skies, ever since he was a child, always, always-

Gojo stops in his tracks.

One of his arms raises to halt the procession behind him. 

The Na’vi hunters freeze.

The Na’vi hunters let their tails swish.

The txeylan sniff the air.

Gojo’s long pointed ears twitch in every direction before resting in a single direction up ahead - where the belly of the snow seemed to swell with something. Something that the recent snowstorm had swallowed.

“Olo’eyktan…” One of the younger Herwi behind him whispers. “What is it?”

“Mawey. It might be a dead snow beast.” He hisses, though he knew that wasn’t right. It wasn’t uncommon for even the creatures of these terrains to be bested by nature. But something about the figure in the snow was…different from the hounding things they hunted. Much more delicate, much more scrunched in on itself.

Gojo keeps his hand held high in the air and passes on his hunt to the nearby clansmen. Still holding onto his bow and arrows, he edges closer. “Ì’awn- the clan stays here while I investigate.” Leaving no room for a word edgewise.

The wind whips his long hair and kuru as the Na’vi steps closer. And some maddened part of him almost feels that it was as though Eywa, their goddess, herself was trying to get him to stay away.

But an even madder part of him wanted to get closer—needed to get closer.

He was being drawn in.

Making not even a single noise with his padded feet, he’s crouching down before the unmoving figure and using his long skeletal fingers to wipe away those dredges of snow. 

Away from a face—

He gasps.

The rest of the Herwi startles behind him, “What is it- what is it, olo’eyktan?”

“Is it a snow beast? Must we commence the rituals-”

“Cease! Are those fingers it has-”

“Five?”

But Gojo doesn’t answer their queries, instead he’s silently pressing his ear to the swell of the body’s chest and—ba-dump!

Listening to that faint heartbeat.

He’s not sure how this little human was still alive, and he pulls back to look at them- the first he’s ever seen. Gojo has already heard the whispers from other Na’vi clans, of these aliens named mankind whom had settled upon Pandora a few years ago.

He’s heard about humanity’s wits, their machinery, their greed.

He’s heard of the way they’ve hurt his people.

But he’s never seen one up so…close. Were they all this small? How could something so small be so destructive?

Gojo tilts his head down at you and runs one of his cold indexes down the side of your masked face, did they all look so hurt by the cold? He can’t imagine that it didn’t hurt- after all, the only reason that the Herwi had managed to reside in these mountains for hundreds of years was because of its harsh environment. Not human nor animal nor Na’vi wanted to be here—but Gojo always loved this place, as did his people.

He wondered whether it was such passionate love or hate that drew the little human in his arms to climb such peaks. To come this far. 

He can’t help but lean down and scoop the human up into his arms.

“O-olo’eyktan what is the meaning of this-”

“Fnu- shhhh.” Gojo responds in his native language, “She’s resting.”

The olo’eyktan carries the human all the way back the treacherous path to his clan huts.

And every time he looked down, he could see the way that smaller body fell and rose with each faint breath. He could see the flying of human-made coats that did nothing to fight off the cold of Pandora. He could see the pen and notebook stuffed inside it as if they were the most precious treasure of all.

He can see you.

.

.

.

Day #1 in the Herwi village: 

Woke up in what seems to be the healer’s hut, a wide insulated space that is more or less steeped into the underground with a berth of the entrance AS (above snow). Capped dome on top. Walls are composed of wooden planks on the interior flanked by compact ice from the outside, decorated in the thick furs of what appears to be snow beasts. Long book shelves. Kindling lantern of something bioluminescent and emitting heat. Shockingly warm inside. Vents are present but small to prevent an excess of thin air. Separate storage spaces and areas for examination, implications of advanced surgery and medical procedures taking place far beyond what we humans can understand.

Though Herwi healing techniques seem to be similar to that of other Na’vi clans (particularly the Omaticaya) in terms of relation to Eywa and natural resources, it must be noted that Herwi healing makes prominent use of ice for anti-inflammatory and vessel constricting methods.

Sparse presence of herbs and more emphasis on pressure points (for a copy of the Herwi circulatory system diagram see Page 8…), though the olo’eyktan reassures that there are a multitude of flora endemic to the Pandoran heights. 

The olo’eyktan seems particularly eager to give a tour?

With your eyes blinking open…you think you’ve died and gone onto whatever there was afterwards.

It would’ve been just like you to meet your demise during the pursuit of your research- the higher-ups at your laboratory predicted the same thing. The last thing you remember before blacking out was feeling faint - weeks of hiking up this arduous peak and you’d run out of your provisions a few days ago, surviving on only melted ice to fill your belly. At least, until the sudden threat of a snowslide had resulted in you abandoning your tent and bags behind for escape.

From then on it had only been: you, your pen, your notebook with your research, your translator, and your burning passion to find the Herwi.

It was no surprise that you didn’t last long.

But you suppose you just didn’t expect the ‘afterwards’ to be a blue, blue summer sky. 

Oh—how you missed the cloud-frothed ocean of blue down on Earth. It was never quite the same on Pandora, and you’re just beginning to wonder whether heaven was really home-

“Yawne, txen?”

Before your muddled mind realizes that this really wasn’t your sky after all.

What you were looking up into were the eyes of a Na’vi warrior.

He’s leaning his overlarge body above yours, and you’re pressing yourself flatly against a mattress—one that was made of copious amounts of furs and the softest spun wool to make you feel as though you were floating up on the clouds.

But the farther you’re getting, the more he dwarfs you with his curious peering.

Closer.

And the only thing you can do is look up into his handsome blue face- the lightest of blues you’ve ever seen. 

Now, you have to start this off by saying that every single Na’vi you’ve seen was beautiful—every single one of them. 

But you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone like him before: long white hair, blue eyes almost like a Metkayina, and glowing spots scattered like snowflakes across his cheeks. Heavy eyelids. Taller than your average Omaticaya. Perhaps a bit bulkier, as well.

If you tilted your head just past his looming figure then you could take in the tufted fur clothing he wore, slightly more coverage than of Na’vi from the more tropical areas; with patterns of rosettes peaking out wherever his skin was exposed and dotted like a fainter version of a snow leopard’s. From your own planet.

But you were not on your own planet.

Far from it.

You’re realizing with a jolt that he was one of the Herwi clan-

“Are you…” And though you’d dreamed and wished and hoped for this day for so long—right now you find yourself absolutely speechless. “Are you- fuck.”

To which he only beams- “Nga lu rusey- oh, nga lu rusey.” His pearly white teeth are on full display, one little dimple crinkling at the edge of his smile. He just looks so handsome like this that you almost lose your breath- no. It must be the hypothermia that’s getting to you. It must be. And if you didn’t know any better then you’d have said that he almost sounds utterly relieved—“Oe'm lefpom. Txen? Lu nga txen? Tsal pung?”

“I ah…” Mouth dropping open. Shit—your translator!

Before he can say anything more, you’re digging in your coats- or at least attempting to. It doesn’t take long for you to shuffle behind the thick blankets and realize that you weren’t wearing those humanly thin layers you did when climbing up the mountain. Well-fitted for the Earth’s cold, but not for the harsh ever-winters of Pandora.

Instead you were wearing…a thick woolen coat?

Much too large on you- almost comically so. It had sleeves that reached a few feet past your fingertips, draped down to your toes, and enough space that you could hide at least five of you inside it. 

No translator.

No pen. No notebook-

He sees this smaller figure fluttering about worriedly and tilts his head curiously, “‘Upe lu nga fwew?” Before handing you your notebook and pen from a table behind him.

“Pardon? Ah- thank you so much—!” You beam at him, and he beams back. But looking into his blue eyes once more, you feel a sudden sense of helplessness wash over you. “But I’m sorry, I still can’t understand you.”

At this the Na’vi furrows his pale brows - you’re not quite sure whether he knew what you were saying, but he seemed to have picked up on your emotions. Nudging his large face against yours with a purring sound, “Yawne? Oe'd tìng aynga.”

And a part of you somewhat melts- “I said I really can’t- hahah.” You half-heartedly try to push his incessant face away with a laugh, taking particular delight in noting how happily his tail was swishing. Fluffier with more fur than you’ve observed on other types of Na’vi, also covered in pretty rosettes that swayed to and fro.

It’s right now that you wished you had the patience to stay behind and immerse yourself more in the Na’vi language lessons your laboratory had provided. Most scientists didn’t even go out into the field until they were experts - but you were too antsy, too greedy to know. Something seemed to have called you here whether it cost you your life.

Given you’d picked up on some phrases here and there, but it seems that the Herwi had a different accent from the clips played in those listening tests. Slightly softer, slightly more of a whisper.

Like the breath of winter, his words cooled your mask and heated up something entirely different inside of you. “Oe pey ngim krr.”

Before you know it, the Na’vi clasps both your hands in his—and you’re startled by just how large they are, just how cold. You’re analyzing the way his pale fingers hold your own as if it was all that was tender in the world.

Intertwining.

“Ngim krr.” He looks at you with those azure eyes seriously, opening up the palm of your right hand and touching his to yours. Palm against palm. Breath against breath. “Nìt'iluke.” 

You get the feeling that you were missing something very important- “I’m sorry I really wish…I’m so sorry to ask any more of you- I really am. But have you happened to see my translator anywhere?”

“Tìnga’prrnen?” He cocks his head in confusion, trying to mouth the word.

“Erm- yes?” Hoping that he understood you, “My translator—” You emphasize the syllables- “It’s a little device to understand you-”

You’re gesturing between the two of you- and you swear you see the light blue Na’vi pale. “Tìnga’prrnen? Oe?”

“Yes?” You knew that ‘oe’ referred to oneself.

He balks- maybe you were getting through to him? “Nga new ne kanom oe tìnga’prrnen-”

“Skxawng.”

Before he’s suddenly cut off by a hard smack to the back of his head- and you’re looking up just in time to see another Herwi Na’vi enter the hut. The dimorphism between this particular strand of Na’vi wasn’t anything too prominent, you find - both were tall, both were pale, both had long tails and rosettes scattered across their agile bodies.

The only real difference was that the one at your bedside was more rugged, with even more pure-white beads woven into his hair. Though that you could chalk up to their separate duties within the clan.

She walked inside as though she owned the place, throwing her long loose hair behind her shoulder. She doesn’t even flinch as she shuts the other man up—as she brings out a black earpiece from behind her and hands it to you. “I believe this is yours. It was dropped in the rush outside.”

“O-oh!” You’re surprised to find that it was none other than your translating device. Taking it gratefully, “Thank you so so much.”

“Don’t mention it.” 

At your baffled expression - as far as you knew, the Herwi were the last remaining uncontacted clan of Na’vi, with no knowledge of humankind nor their many languages. “I learned your language from my books-” Gesturing around her - you were right to assume that this was her hut, filled to the brim with ointments and books. Mostly of Na’vi origin, but you could spy a few in English and Japanese. “-sent by friends in the Omaticaya. I find your human stories are…quite amusing.”

“I see.” You breathe.

She gestures at herself, “Ieri Shoko of the heart.” Then at the male Na’vi member, “Gojo Satoru of the snow. I apologize for him, he is our olo’eyktan- also the one that found you.”

“So you’re my saviour.” You’re looking towards him- Gojo once more. He catches your eyes and looks away with a pale blue hue dusting his face. “Irayo nga.” Giving your thanks (one of the few phrases you could speak with complete confidence). 

You’re looking towards him- He shudders, “Oe ke ronsem tsonta lu tìnga’prrnen.”

As soon as he’s saying it, Shoko smacks her hand on her forehead- and you wonder what exactly he means. 

So without further ado, you’re fixing the earpiece onto yourself.

“Idiot.” Shoko’s turning back to Gojo, “You know that’s not what she meant?”

Gojo crosses his arms and huffs- “I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind if it’s for her-”

“Not even Eywa could make that happen.”

“Getting preg-”

“Hello?” Testing—and if the way both Na’vi jerk their heads to you in slight surprise is anything to go by, then you’d say that the translator was working rather well. It was less an earpiece that translated and more a device to target that part of your brain that communicated and understood foreign languages.

Allowing you to both understand and speak in the dialect of the Na’vi - an invention by yours truly, of course. You’d (as close as) perfected it just last year for this expedition. “Can you understand me?”

Gojo stares at you with wide blue eyes.

With his pretty lips parted.

With his tail swishing back and forth.

“I see y-”

“We understand you.” Shoko nudges him roughly in the ribs, “I apologize if we’re a bit startled- it’s the first time we’re seeing a human in person.”

“I could’ve guessed that.” You giggle, flickering your eyes over to the starstrack Na’vi. Though you were equally as such. Somehow you speaking in his language just seemed to make him…“But I want to emphasize that I come in peace- I just want to learn as a scientist, not even my laboratory knows exactly where I am. And I intend to keep it that way.”

Shoko crosses her arms and looks gravely at you, “What do you want?”

“To learn. To research you and your people.” You look between them both, “To confirm the existence of the Herwi clan has been a dream of mine for a long time- not for the papers or the accolades, but because I just wanted to know you.”

“And how can we trust you?” Shoko says, getting nudged by Gojo afterwards.

“I won’t reveal anything you don’t want me to.” Determination dripping in your tone, “Not even if they kill me for it.”

They appraise you, and it’s silent for a beat before Shoko looks at Gojo.

And Gojo nods.

Shoko shoots you a barely-there smile, “Well…human, what do you want to know?”

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.

After you woke up, it was after a long talk and almost three or so hours later that you’d gotten up- Shoko and Gojo had both rushed to your side. Waving them off, you’d attempted to shrug off the coat and hand it back to Gojo - long since realizing that it was his - but he’d almost been offended by the gesture.

Refusing. 

He’d kept a hand behind on the small of your back to steady you with every step climbed towards the entrance. And once you were out- you could practically feel the storm freeze around you.

Colder than cold.

The Herwi looked at you with fear.

They stopped in their tracks and didn’t even look to breathe until Gojo had followed right after. And standing beside him like that, you’d been made too aware of the drastic height difference between you two. The average Na’vi was about nine to ten feet tall, though by the look of it the Herwi of the snow were much larger than their oceanic counterparts—slightly thicker, with limbs that were long and covered in sparse fur to protect them from the cold.

The Herwi average was about ten feet, you’re finding.

Though Gojo stood at a proud eleven feet (11’1 as you come to interrogate out of him more precisely later on) and rested his hand gently upon your shoulder. They had faint scars on them that marked him as a warrior, and you could feel the slight callouses send shivers across your coat-swathed body. His tail curled around your thigh.

You don’t think you even came up to his stomach-

“My people…” He announced in booming Na’vi. “-as some of you may know from the hunt today, we have a guest.”

You shift at the stares.

“More importantly, my guest. And we will make her feel welcome like family.”

“Family?” The whispers came.

“But she is one of the sky people…”

“Part of the family is…but if the olo’eyktan says so…”

“I’ve never seen him so casually touchy with someone before-”

“Shhhhhhh!”

“I understand if you are scared, and to those who wish it- you are free to leave and never interact with her while she is here.” Though none of them do move. Fixated. “But to those who aren’t, I urge you to share the beauty of our culture.”

To which you’d gulped before introducing yourself as you had to Shoko and Gojo.

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Day #2 in the Herwi village: 

The governing system of the Herwi is quite reminiscent to that of other clans - made up by a singular olo’eyktan or olo'eykte, accompanied by a tsahìk (though Gojo assures proudly that he is not mated as of writing this), and a council of clan elders that act as an advisory board.

Most decisions are made solely by the wisdom of Gojo himself, though large choices require a vote from the council as well as his people. Such requisites are rare, however, as it seems the olo’eyktan’s impact extends to the non-council people in such a way that they trust him with everything. (For more on the lovely reception and the sheer popularity of Gojo Satoru see Page 11…)

Governing seems to be harmonious if a little quietly tense in regards to certain elders that disagree yet are ultimately obeisant to their olo’eyktan.

This scientist in particular caused a little stir in the Herwi leadership once a research visit was proposed by the olo’eyktan to the rest of the elders. Though initial reactions had been reluctant, after a terse discussion, ultimately six moons had been granted to collect all appropriate research (due to be checked by the elders prior to leaving). No more. No less.

Six moons should be more than enough!

Shoko might have let it slip that it was Gojo who used his privilege as olo’eyktan to convince the council…and he wasn’t too happy that they’d granted you merely six moons (five days if you’re counting the first night there) to stay here. He wanted to gawk at this new human more, you supposed.

But you were so very grateful to each and every one of them either way - even those wizened elders who scowled at you suspiciously wherever you passed. Though even glares seemed sweet when you were living your dream, hm? And it best be believed that you were taking advantage of every single second you had with the clan - every single second.

Because this was exactly what those cigar-smoking higher-ups had laughed at you for. 

They thought you were chasing a myth.

The Herwi people had been so gracious as to offer you an empty hut, despite Gojo’s fervent insisting that you take his and he can simply tough it out in the cold outside-

And the next day you were up early- perhaps a little too early for the olo’eyktan who’d apparently tracked your trail and followed you around for an hour. Before he finally managed to stop you in the middle of your field study - helping out a young Herwi mother take care of her crying toddler, whilst learning about Herwi childcare techniques - and raised his bag full of food.

Breakfast.

You’re smacking your hand against your forehead as you’d completely forgotten - not quite out of the ordinary for when you got too immersed in your work. But it was different when you had someone seeking you out to take care of you…

And so after sharing the abundance of breads and berries and soups (far too much for but the two of you) with the Herwi mother and child, the two of you sit outside her hut and admired the view of the village. The soft half-sun that melted across the capped peaks, a buttery layer of light that was not even half as bright as on Earth.

But somehow gentler.

Gojo’s raising one berry to his lips before- “Ah…” His mouth drops when he takes a glance at you- more accurately, at your masked self. And he’s stopping in his movements, “Excuse me for just a second, beloved.”

“Oh? Of course.”

You watch as he’s standing up and sprinting light-fast towards the edge of a great steaming lake in the horizon. His figure’s crouching down and cupping his hands in the sparkling water, bubbling with fury. Gojo brings it up to his face and whispers a mantra that you couldn’t quite determine. Not from where you were sitting.

Before carefully bringing it right up to you- “Drink, beloved.” 

He gently leans down to let his fingertips meet your mask.

And you’d had no option—you consider it for science, though a part of you knew you didn’t have to linger your lips so much on his cold skin- but you lift your mask up and drink it.

Once the water floods your throat, you knew something was different.

Your lungs quiver.

Once.

Twice.

And you’d found yourself able to breathe—

Breathing on Pandora.

“How did you…” As you gasp, Gojo reaches out and removes the mask off of you completely. He’d let the earpiece stay on, of course, but lightly grazed his cold digits against the shell of your ear and made you shiver. “I don’t even know what to say- thank you. I didn’t even know this was possible—no other Na’vi clan let alone a mere human has discovered a way to let us breathe normally on Pandora.”

“For you. Lake Yapay.” Gojo says, large hand still cupping your face. “It steams great billowing heat in the day, and freezes by night. Here in Herwi, we use its water to expand our lungs during snowstorms.”

And you want to write it down- you know you should, but the pen in your fingers won’t move. Or more accurately, your fingers won’t move.

He continues, “This land is alive and works in mysterious ways. It has worked for you, beloved, as I knew it would.”

“Thank you again, olo’eyktan.”

“Satoru.” He interjects.

“Satoru.”

He smiles as if it meant the world.

And so your feast commences.

“You have to remember to eat.” Gojo says to you as he scoffs down a sweet paste made of ice-blue berries, “How will you brave the winter storms otherwise? Of course, I will protect you—and yet still.”

“Well, I sure hope I survive six more nights for my research then, hm?” You joke.

But you hadn’t expected Gojo’s face to darken, for him to shake his head. “It’s not fair.”

“Pardon?”

“Six more nights…” And you hadn’t exactly expected him to be so…invested in your research - you admit that you would benefit more from a longer period of studying the Herwi, but you were ready to take what was given. He looks down at the glaring snow and whispers—more to himself. “It’s not fair. I will correct it.”

“Correct?”

“Oh?” And you look from him to the village straight ahead, “Well, I’d be happy either way, Satoru.”

Just then that little Na’vi you’d been helping to watch over before comes waddling and giggling out of the hut to hold onto you- and you pick her up readily.

Gojo took one look at the two of you and shivered.

Shivered.

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Day #3 in the Herwi village: 

Hunts are an imperative part of the Herwi lifestyle—not only is it how the people are nourished, but it’s a social activity, it’s a coming-of-age activity. 

As aforementioned, hunts are commenced and led by none other than the olo’eyktan. A large group of Herwi warriors shall trek across the icelands in one unit, and it was quite interesting to note that most of the younger hunters are positioned in the middle where they are less likely to get injured during such a trip.

It is in the middle of their hike that Gojo will alert when the group is to split up: Snow beast hunters and snow marine stilts. Divide and conquer seems to be the only strategy that somehow tames such an unforgiving environment, and Herwi marine-hunters seem to be picked from the most patient of warriors. They carve out a hole in the middle of frozen bodies of water (never Lake Yapay, this divine body is never harmed) and each positions themself atop a tall icicle beside it to escape prowling beasts and currents. Crouched and ledged atop one, the sheer core strength and balance is divine once they cast their lines and wait.

On the other side of things, we have the Herwi beast-hunters. Using a large variety of weapons, the most popular is noted to be the bow and arrow - used by the olo’eyktan himself. They stalk in the cold white billows of snow with not even a single shiver, they lay in wait for hours, they tire their prey out.

And nevertheless this scientist found today’s hunt rather interesting…

The third and fourth days had passed by in much the same fashion - except for the slight tweak in your routine that included opening your hut door and finding the olo’eyktan standing there every single morning.

Always with food, always with a smile, always with some interesting niveous flower for you to press into your notebook. Then afterwards the two of you would set out to help you interview the Herwi people of all ages and backgrounds, to take samples, to explore the natural fauna, to even join Gojo on one of his Hunts on the third day. 

They admitted that they didn’t focus on hunting as much as they normally did on that trek, too enamored with this strange little human that had showed up one day and had their olo’eyktan glued to her side.

You interviewed hunters and elders (well, the ones that didn’t ignore you completely or were on the verge of cursing you out until they caught their leader’s eye) until your mouth hurt. And Gojo had taken you into the best spot with natural Pandoran fauna, making you jot down notes until your fingers cramped.

Once the sun was beginning to set and the Na’vi were getting ready to head back to their village for the night, you’re taking the opportunity to interview some of the young hunters. Gojo was off in the distance making up for the slightly lowered hunt by ice-spearing more snow beasts. And you were more than happy not to distract him while he took care of his olo’eyktan duties- after all, the other hunters were nice. Never having seen a human before, they’d been more than happy to answer your questions.

Ribbing each other, guffawing as they answered, placing their hands down on you and ruffling your head from above.

Almost as if you were a plaything- and you admit it was in the name of science, you didn’t mind it too much until a particularly boisterous hunter about Gojo’s age had kept swatting at you no matter how many times you politely moved away. Until he’d caught you on the scruff of your coat and tried to lift you up—

You hear the sound of bones breaking before you realize what it is.

Whipping your head behind you in an instant to see that Gojo was behind the other hunter and pulling his hand hard enough that you hear other Na’vi cry out. 

He lets go of you, of course, and you watch with widened eyes as Gojo then bandages his fellow Na’vi’s arm himself. Though you note that he doesn’t apologize.

Gojo didn’t leave your side for a single second after that.

That night after the dinner by the lake, Gojo walks you to your hut and sleeps outside in the bitter cold- no matter how much you tried to get him to take up the bed inside. He’d insisted.

After mating, he’d said.

You wonder whether your translating device was malfunctioning…

(See Page 26 on Herwi possessiveness…).

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Day #4 in the Herwi village: 

Beads.

A well-known part of Na’vi culture, one of the most recognizable, perhaps. The scientific community has written long and extensively on the importance of bead-sharing in the Omaticaya clan, however, this scientist shall be the first to detail the beauty of how this tradition extends to the Herwi clan.

According to the artisans of this village, beads aren’t fashioned through molten stone or seeds or clay—given the availability of such in this environment. Rather, they’re made with snow.

Never-melting snow.

Yes, the design of hona beads from snow is a practice unique to the Herwi clan. Broken off from the hardest icicles growing at a peak of Mt. Hoet said to touch the sky, not only is it a treacherous passage to get to those specialized bits of ice, but the process of making the beads finds itself just as arduous. These icicles are then welded into delicate beads and dipped into the waters of Lake Yapay at night, letting them soak and then carried to freeze at the highest peak once more.

This process is repeated until the beads are as hard as diamonds on Earth- perhaps even harder. Never-melting. Never-breaking. Never-forgetting. Though not too hard so that the Herwi will be unable to carve unique patterns and symbols special to themself. Rinse. Repeat.

Though the clear meaning of such is ambiguous, it is most certainly a way of showing appreciation - as one would have to love someone very much to do this, no?

It was on your fourth day amongst the Herwi clan that Gojo didn’t show up with a beautiful flower or trinket from the terrain- instead, he’s bounding up to you with a string of beads and knotting it against the side of your face.

Pushing it back and taking you in with it.

Without a question.

“Satoru, did you…” You’re holding the line of beads up to the sunlight and watching the little patterns glimmer. They were slightly frosted and flurried like the smallest of snowglobes, “Did you make this for me?” 

And you swear they had the most intricate design of clouds on them, swirling and tumbling.

“Of course.” He smiles proudly. “Us Herwi are taught how to design our very own hona beads ever since we were children, and as Na’vi coming of age we walk up the path to make the first one for ourselves…as adults we make one for our family or…” Mates.

“And this- god, I need to…write about this but I can’t even imagine how long this would’ve taken.” 

“Four days.” Gojo cocks his head and looks down at you- and that brilliantly confident grin of his plasters across his face once more. “For most it takes four years, but for you I did it in four days.”

“Oh, they’re just amazing.” You run a hand down the ice-cold globules, “Thank you, Satoru.”

He holds your hand as he leads you out into the village.

Gojo tells you that night to wear those very beads to the clan dinner - once a week (at the very least) after a particularly successful Hunt, the Herwi people will get together for a massive feast. You’d heard excited whispers about it from the public you surveyed, and it seems that the olo’eyktan had chosen tonight.

Night had begun to fall, and you were dragged playfully by some younger girls straight to the edge of this vast frozen lake. Past snow-capped huts that stuck out of an even more snow-capped ground like eager heads, and ice-jeweled trees and frozen rivers and pathways lit with bioluminescent algae trapped in lanterns of ice.

It was a world in frost.

Where Na’vi had gathered with their families, their friends, their food—all in an array of tables that circled the crystallized body of water like a wedding ring.

Under the snowy night sky they communed. 

“You are wearing my- I mean your hona beads.” Gojo had beamed as he eventually caught up with you and guided you himself. He led you by hand again - even though you weren’t exactly quite sure why…at least it kept you from being toppled over by the other tall Herwi rushing to snag their own seats. “You look beautiful with them, beloved.”

And you weren’t quite sure what to say- though the bubbling pit at your stomach certainly wanted you to tell him something. Instead you divert the topic, “You hunted today as well, yes? Is there anything here that you hunted?”

To which he looks at you with a rather cocky smile, “Beloved, I have hunted more than half of the feast tonight. Trust that you will enjoy it.”

And you might have joked about him being presumptuous- but you really did enjoy the feast.

Under a star-studded sky and glimmering lanterns that twinkled like the freckles upon Gojo’s face, he led you to the very head table that no other Na’vi dared touch. It was rather obvious that this one was meant for the olo’eyktan himself, but what was curious was when your seat had been placed right next to his.

Perks of being a special guest, you suppose?

Shoko was beside you and shot you an amused smile, before preening for another Herwi next to her with a scar that ran across her face and half-braided hair. 

“Utahime.” Gojo had whispers in your ear, “Shoko’s mate.” 

“Ah- I see!” Pen quivering in your hand, you’re jotting down your observations in your notebook under the table. “Perfect. I’m quite curious about the mating rituals of the Herwi, you see. Do you suppose I’d be able to ask them some questions later on in the night?”

“Don’t ask them questions- ask me.” Gojo huffs. Brows furrowing. Lower lip jutting into a pout.

He leans over and wraps his arm around the back of your chair. Squirming, “O-oh…but you’re not mated yet, are you, Satoru?”

“Nope!”

“Right…” But then how could you ask him about mating if he wasn’t—nevermind.

Because just then the group in charge of cooking for the clan had rounded the tables and begun placing their most savored delicacies on top of them. Meats upon vegetables upon berries that you’d seen growing naturally across the mountainside they lived on. It was steaming hot and everything that you could dream of.

Whether you didn’t like meat, whether you didn’t like vegetables- there was always something there for you.

Most of the richest dishes were allocated around the olo’eyktan and your single table, stuffing the surface to the brim until you had to squeeze next to Gojo for space. Of course, he didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps too busy piling his place with the sweetest treacly milks and frozen desserts that he could reach.

After dinner came the dances.

It happened every night after the community dinner when everyone - full and satisfied by then - would start humming and chanting their ancient hymns. Echoing into the sleepy snow and the ever-young night, someone would pull out two snow beast-skin drums by then. Thumping away to the songs of the snow. 

Children ran off and made snow-prints and snow-fights in the mountains of powder. Family members would begin drowsily feeding each other and insisting they eat more. Others traced their own hona beads and promised they’d make ones for the one they love.

More would punch small holes through the frozen lake and bring the water up to their mouths, of which a sudden blow would make the water freeze and scatter out into the air in twinkling snowflakes. Emulating the stars themselves.

Snow-breathers. 

They’d sing, they’d sound, they’d show off and then…the first mated couple would walk onto the middle of the frozen ice.

Then the second.

The third.

The fourth and the fifth and the sixth-

What a way to end the night, love warming the cold air and couples twirling around each other with their tails intertwined. Usually, you’d be content to clap and attempt to sing along—

But then Gojo stands up- and you almost believe he was ready to leave the table altogether…until he’s reaching his hand out to you.

You.

And you look around in slight surprise- almost as if expecting someone to materialize right beside you and take Gojo’s hand instead. But the only thing you’re getting is Shoko’s approving nod from next to you, before she lets herself be dragged by Utahime onto the frozen lake.

And so you’d danced.

Rather an interesting sight considering the height difference, you admit—but it was beautiful. Gojo scoops you up into his arms with one steadied underneath you, the other holds one of your hands in his. 

So much larger. So much more powerful.

And yet so gentle.

He twirls you around to the music and you laugh at the wind stinging your face.

“Satoru, you’re going to drop me—”

“I should rather die than drop you.”

“But- but what of the other Herwi that will be mistaken?” You ask then, already sensing the envious looks that were thrown your way. 

“There goes my dream of being tsahìk, I’m almost sure of it now-”

“But I haven’t been able to try my luck with the olo’eyktan yet-”

“Oh shush, girl! You seriously think any of us had a chance?”

You look into his handsome face, eyes trained on you despite all the whispers and disturbance amongst his people. Only you. “You won’t be able to find a mate this way.”

Something unreadable in his blue eyes, flickering with fire from the tables and something else entirely. “Perhaps I don’t want one.”

“Well that would be entirely your decision.” You place your hands on his broad shoulders, flexing as they move you around with ease. “But it seems in Herwi tradition, the olo’eyktan is wont to take a mate.”

He raises a white brow, “And who should you believe must be my mate then?”

You didn’t quite know how to answer that.

Averting his eyes- and those of the Na’vi staring at you two. “W-well, Herwi has many fine women and men. Reykol is the best singer.”

“I do not want Reykol.”

“Tìtaron is a good hunter.”

He pulls you closer, “Yes, she is a good hunter. But I am better, and I do not care for Tìtaron.” Reaching up one hand to brush away the snowflakes that had begun dusting your face, “I believe I have already been fated to. Even before I was born, I have already chosen.”

You swallow, “Who, Satoru?”

He only smiles.

“Who?”

But he does not answer, you’re twirled around once more and the moonlight catches your dangling beads.

“Is that…”

“Surely our leader isn’t saying what we think he is saying-”

“But look at him, he looks so…happy.”

You turn your head to catch the fact that most of the Herwi were looking at you, whispering behind their hands. In hindsight, you think that perhaps it was not a coincidence that they ogled you - and particularly the hona beads that you’d been gifted. Not a coincidence at all.

You wore his signature because you were his.

And they all knew you were his.

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Day #5 in the Herwi village (the last day): 

Leaving tomorrow, a perceptive scientist may notice that there is only one thing missing from this comprehensive research into the Herwi clan.

The source of Eywa.

As a deity to all Na’vi people, her influence seeps into the songs and prayers of even the highest terrains on Pandora. Into the healing. Into the well wishes. Into the belief system of a people so accepting and harmonious that their tree of Eywa does not need to be visibly present for her will to be carried out.

But as for where she resides here…

Your fifth and final day was less research and more saying your goodbyes to all the friends you’d made in the Herwi clan. You’d be leaving first thing tomorrow, before the sun even rose, according to the sternest of the elders. 

Gojo hadn’t met you outside your hut that morning, and you’d idled away the time packing and repacking your bag of samples and books. Thrice, before you started to believe that he might not come after all.

But that was alright, ultimately believing that he’d show up later on in the day, you visited all the healers, the hunters, the dancers, and the chefs. The mother and toddler you’d grown close to on your first day here, and even a stray elder that had sought you out to bow goodbye. 

All the young Na’vi and the old Na’vi.

All the Na’vi that had come to not fear you and the Na’vi that had found you endearing at first sight.

They’d warmed up to you since you first came here. They gave you gifts, each of them, and your heart ached as you thought of leaving. 

Goodbyes were always painful - but perhaps one most of all. Gojo.

He still hadn’t met you by the end of your route, and you’d circled the village about twice by the time you were done. He was nowhere to be seen.

It was almost as if he’d disappeared into thin air.

It was with a heavy pit in your stomach that you started to head back to your hut—your last dinner with the Herwi people would be in a few hours. Afterwards, Gojo had previously arranged for you to be accompanied by some of the clan’s best warriors on your trek down. 

You just thought that’d include him.

Perhaps you could sleep it off until the final dinner- and you were shutting the door just behind you…

Before sounds a hurried, hasty knock—

You open the door to see the olo’eyktan of the Herwi tribe.

Panting. Covered in snow.

“My apologies, I have spent the day clearing the pathway for us.” Gojo huffs out, leaning against your door frame with one hand. The other reaching out to you—“Come with me, beloved?”

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The Herwi source of Eywa was inside an ice cave.

One that would get blocked when the goddess herself did not wish to be seen, one that Gojo had torn through layers of packed ice to burrow a pathway for the both of you. He’d carried you all the way to the gaping mouth of blue ice and ghost snow.

Closing in on you like arms of rime beckoning you to the tree of Eywa. The Tree of Winter.

The cold embrace of a mother.

One you were still not quite sure whether you were allowed to see—but Gojo knew he wanted you to see. He saw you. 

At the end of the cave was an ice column about eighty feet tall and naturally formulated to look like the winding branches of a tree. Dripping to the ground in phantom white snow, each one delicate and graduating from white to blue. There almost seemed to be a glowing aura about it.

Clear mirrors making up the tree’s vines. Honed tips of the icicles rising from Pandora and stabbing down towards it. The top of the tree reached where the cave roof was hollow, beaming a circle of light from the skies that donned Eywa in innocent pink.

You gasped at the white snowsprites that bounced off of the tree and onto your two bodies. 

Where Gojo stand with his back straight, his meaty thighs spread—pearly white teeth biting down to stop himself from fucking moaning at the feeling of your mouth sliding up n’ down his hot cock.

While you were standing.

You didn’t even have to get on your knees.

His eleven foot figure loomed above you, one hand on the back of your head and the other pumpin’ his furious erection. Your maw slips down his puckered tip and he shivers- bucking ever-so-slightly and hitting the back of your throat dead-on—

And yet he wasn’t even fully bottomed out.

He wasn’t even fully bottomed out.

The sudden realization makes you claw at the sides of his blue skin with a whine- direct vibrations that make the puckered tip lodged inside your mouth twitch. He’s sploshing out even more syrupy pre like he couldn’t stop it.

He’s not even trying and it’s already so much, cascading like a waterfall down the front of your chin.

“Now- hah, now.” One of Gojo’s prolonged fingertips reaches out to smear away the slippery sheen across your face- at least, that’s what you think he’s doing.

But instead you’re feeling him curve his rude digits between your lips and push those dewy droplets inside. Shovelling his cock just a little bit deeper, “S’not good to waste it, beloved. Open your mouth and take it all like a good girl, yes?”

“Mmmpf-” A damn miracle that you could get out that much sound in the first place. You’re pulling off to answer, and Gojo jerks his hips a lil’ to chase your damp mouth. “You’re saying you want me to take it all—?”

He shivers, leopard-like tail twitching. “Yes.”

And right before your very eyes, you can see his shaft throb even bigger. 

Harder. 

The prettiest bluish-pink on his tip, one with a divot that leaks out a line of precum. You’re following it with your dazed eyes- before the next thing you’re seeing is a close-up of it.

Gojo has his massive hand plastered to the back of your scalp and is pushin’ your head in, digging his dripping wet tip against the back of your throat. With a groan, the Na’vi pins you to him and hammers out a few sloppy thrusts of his cock.

Again and again.

Slurp after slurp—

“Gonna take it all- hah- my entire cock inside that pretty mouth, yes?” He’s cocking his head to the side and asking down at you sweetly. And he might look all in control, but Gojo’s voice fucking breaks at the very end of his sentence. 

Right in synchronization with the way you were draggin’ your sizzling tastebuds down the veiny sides of his erection. Just the cutest tongue that was eagerly lapping up everything he was giving—“Doesn’t matter if you’re a lil’ human, you’re gonna take the leader’s biiiiig cock, aren’t you?”

Removing yourself from his thickened tip with a wet pwah! “Y-you’re really serious about the-”

“Yes.” 

And he’d apologize for cutting you off later- hell, he’d grovel at your feet if he has to. But right now all Gojo can think of doing is holding onto the back of your head and strollin’ his thumb down the column of your throat. The olo’eyktan can feel that fat cylindrical intrusion where his cock was pumping in and out- and he’s sliding his fingertip dooooooown that bulge. “Aren’t you a scientist, beloved?”

“Y-yes?”

“Then aren’t you curious about just how far a human can take Na’vi cock?”

“Well…” You blubber out, “I guess so-”

“Then consider it for your research.” With each syllable he’s cutting your breath off by thudding his cockhead against the roof of your mouth. “Then just fucking- haaaaah—” And you’re finding that the pre Na’vi cock exuded was actually rather sweet- almost like honeydew flooding up your mouth n’ being slid all round by the intrusion of his shaft. “-take it.”

“Mmmpf—ngh.” Tears were streaming down your face by now, wetting your cheeks and making the Na’vi wipe them away with his thumb.

“Don’t cryyyyy—” He’s airily calling out, almost nothing like the level-headed Na’vi you’d met before. “Big girls don’t cry. Don’t worry- m’gonna give you all of my cock, beloved.”

“S-Satoru-”

But each of your broken yowls were being bullied back in with his bludgeoning wet tip, bruisin’ away its splitted end anywhere and everywhere. 

He swabs into the tiniest nooks and crannies inside your mouth with his sheer size, leaving your knees utterly weak where you were still standing. He’s holding your head up to his cock- “C’mon- feel.”

You peer up at him in confusion.

“Feel for your research.” Fluttering his long pale lashes down at you, a sultry smile spreads across his lips. “How many loooong thick inches you’re being given. How many veins are filling ya up. How many times I hit the back of yer throat like this-”

A shuddering slam right where you were most tender. “Please-”

“M’helping you with your- fuck, research.” He chuckles down lecherously, “By shutting that smart human mouth of yours up.”

“Fuck-”

“Feel it- just feel.”

He thrusts so hard that his heavy ballsack smacks! against your chin, “Feel the way that lil’ mouth of yours can barely even take me. Feel how fat my balls are with cum just for you. Count them? Wanna calculate the girth?” Until it was stinging a permanent girth on your skin, rubbed raw with impact. “Feel the way I- ngh, bruuuise your throat n’ those sensual lips until anyone that talks to you knows I’ve been here.”  He’s babbling on stupidly by now, eyes falling more n’ more half-lidded by the minute. He’s holding on tightly to your restless head and shoves- “Feel the way I fuck my mate—”

Gojo trails off as if shocking himself, and you’re snapping your teary eyes up to him with a muffled- “What?”

But you don’t know whether it’s on cue, you don’t know whether it’s the startle of being caught- but Gojo’s slamming his cocktip way past the back of your throat and cumming.

Oozing out hot dollops of cum that take over your pretty mouth.

Shaft throbbing furiously. Balls twitching like no other. He throws his head back and squelches straight down your throat, and you can feel the thickness of it plug up your voicebox.

So sweet.

So much.

And you’re not sure whether it’s a Na’vi thing or it’s a Gojo thing that he’s cumming so much in one go.

Loooooong miry stripes that trickle down the sides of your mouth- he leans down and pushes them back between your lips with one of his thumbs. Ivory sap constantly leaking down onto your tastebuds, he feels the heady slip n’ slide of his cock against those wads of cum. “Fuh-fuck…”

And then he’s not moving, merely clasping the back of your head and bringing you firmly up against his slender pelvis. 

Your nose rubs against the tufts of white on his abs before you realize that he’d just bottomed-out—just once, like he’d promised. 

And it was enough to send you reeling, feeling the pushback of his swabbin’ tip. Pouring out even more heady liquid every time he was draaaaging down your velvety tongue. 

The tip of your tastebuds flicks his sensitive slit just right and you can feel him pulse deep inside. “Feel me in there?” Gojo’s groaning from above. “Feel how much I ache for you. Feel the volume of my cum- are you counting it?”

“I-I—”

But evidently your half-sob wasn’t enough.

And the Na’vi is reaching down and pinching your nostrils together with his free hand. “Ah ah- focus on your research, beloved.”

And you’re struggling uselessly against his mean action, to which Gojo watches with a predatory gaze at the way you huff n’ sputter. And he has the audacity to snicker-

“I really can throw you around like a ragdoll, huh?”

It’s as if the realization had just struck him and he’s shuddering. 

It almost feels like ages before he’s finally pulling away with a loud plop!

An excess of your cum was leaking out of your maw and threatening to drip onto the floor- “Tch, this is a sacred place, my human.” He’s rasping out—swipin’ up the frothed white cum as if he wasn’t absolutely desecrating you. Pushing those clingy wads between your maw.

He then guides his honed tip to glide across your lips, gluing your lips shut with all his seed.

And Gojo can’t help but admire you- peering up at him with his towering height. All covered in his syrupy slick and speechless, unable to talk even if your voicebox had been left intact.

He smiles, tail swishing happily to and fro. “My human.” Gojo leans all the distance down to kiss you upon your sopping wet lips. “My m- pretty human. My pretty human…”

But you don’t have enough sense at the moment to ponder too long on his little slip-up before he’s bending down close with his hoarse mouth against the shell of your ear.

Making you feel so sensitive.

“-did ya get enough research yet?”

And then he’s good on his other promise: throwing you around like a ragdoll.

Before you know it, Gojo’s thundering down onto his knees upon the frozen floor - taking you right along with him. He grabs his fur coat from a little ways away and makes you rest down on top of it. With ease.

Back flat on the coat. Legs spread high in the air.

Twisted around the back of Gojo’s neck and locked in place-

“Satoru-” You look around the Tree of Winter that only seems to glow even brighter, the snowsprites buzzing. “-are you sure we should be doing this h—oh.”

Gojo doesn’t say anything - he doesn’t have to.

He’s merely unhinging his jaw and letting his loooong pinkish tongue drip out. It was glossy with ravenous saliva, thick at the base, and curved at the tip. The end of it dripped tantalizingly with spittle- almost torturously. 

Achingly needy.

There was an almost feline quality to it that made your thighs clench.

“N-nevermind.”

The only thing you’re managing to get out before Gojo had his tongue stuffed against your wet core and swabbin’ away until you saw white—“M-mmmpf.” His mouth was just so large that he could engulf your pussylips with a single bite, honed canines grazing the outer edge of your cunt while he kisses inwards. “My pretty mate- my tasty mate.”

It’s almost as if he was pussydrunk already.

With just a single slurp of his curvaceous tongue glidin’ up and down your slit, Gojo has his blue eyes rolling to the back of his head and his hips bucking. Wildly. “Why didn’t Eywa tell me that you’d taste so good-”

“Oh my—” Your back arches while his thickened fingertips come between your legs to pinch your puckered pussy into his mouth. Pushing you against him even more - greedy. “Shit, it just feels so-”

Smack!

And without a single warning, Gojo has his roverin’ fingertips slamming down on your pussy. Straight on top of your slit where your clit was hidden, it sends shockwaves of both pain and pleasure up your spine.

You’re gasping and staring down at him-

“Now now, no cursing- be good before Eywa, hm?” That damn hypocrite - and you could see it in that sultry smile of it. Gojo was getting off on the way you’d squirm your cunt restlessly against his face, sighing into the way he starts fucking your pussy once more. “Or else m’not gonna eat this pretty pussy of yours out, ya hear?”

You gape, “That’s not fucking fair-”

Smack!

“What was that, beloved?”

“I said—”

Smack!

Smack!

Smack!

Until Gojo’s leaving your pussy raw and needy, and even then he wasn’t done with you- he has the audacity to purse his plump lips and spit. Spit. Letting the sharp strike of saliva make you shiver—

“What was that?” He asks you in such a breathy tone, such a ruined tone. Gojo spoke like if you told him you needed him right now then he would simply shatter. 

And you can only gulp at the state that he was in - you’ve researched Na’vi during times of high pressure, during battles, during their coming-of-age ceremonies. But never had you met one that simply seemed so…feral. “I-I’ll be good, Satoru.”

He smiles like he’s been wanting to hear those exact words for years.

Fingertips jittering with excitement, he then reaches for your intertwined ankles with his tail. 

Locking them in place, Gojo murmurs. “Good…” Before he’s getting ready to dive straight back into your sweetened cunt once more, “Because you better not run-”

And you don’t get to ask just what might constitute you running from his mouth. His tongue.

You don’t get to ask just what it meant when he looked at you with that dark inkling of something carnal, as if he was about to devour you whole.

You don’t get to ask anything, in fact, and whatever questions were already in your throat burst into a zillion pieces at the feeling of him pushing his tongue inside your hole. Properly.

Not lapping away coquettishly on your outer cunt, not slurpin’ up all your treacly juices.

Gojo had his tastebuds stuffed inside your entrance and was draaaaagging them all across every orifice inside of you. Thrusting his entire length in and out at a rapid pace, you could feel the edge of his chin hitting your base with every movement.

Inside and out.

Inside and out.

But the sheer speed of him wasn’t even the bit makin’ you the most dizzy- see Gojo’s Na’vi tongue was something amazing. Something incredible. 

Just so large and lavish that it was stretching your walls out like never before.

“P-please-” You don’t think you’ve ever felt anything like this- the way that Gojo’s textured tongue would mold against your walls, the way he’d pinpoint even the tiniest orifices with his flexible tip, the way he’d expand and contract his tongue purposefully. Until you saw white. Bucking—“Please it just feels so-”

“Where’d ya think you’re going?”

And the slur in his voice makes you pause- “Wh-what…?”

The last thing you’re managing to get out before Gojo tightens the rude grip of his fingertips on your pussylips. And the other one of his hands holds onto your waist to haul you back down onto his mouth- you hadn’t even realized that you’d been edging away in sensitivity. 

“Didn’t I tell you not to run?” Spankin’ those rugged fingertips of his down on your clit once more. You get the feeling that Gojo’s meanly choosing your clit because he knew that’d make you clench ‘round his tongue even more. “Don’t run. Don’t even move.”

“You’re just so fucking- ngh, big and you expect me not to move?” You wail out in indignity.

“Well, who told you to fuck a Na’vi warrior?” He’s countering, those half-lidded eyes of his twinkling with humor. “Better yet- who told you to fuck the olo’eyktan-”

And you suppose you had no explanation for that.

Especially not even Gojo was pumping his thickened tongue into you so fast that any and all explanations in your throat start to dissolve. Instead being replaced by the most pathetic whines and groans as he keeps fucking your pussy greedily.

As though Gojo was a man parched.

Because your wettened pussy was more refreshing to him than the waters of the lake- and if he could, he’d have his head stuffed between your legs every second of the day. Simply slurpin’ up every dewy droplet that escaped out of you, Gojo catches even those tiniest of wads.

Slipping his looooong tongue inside—you’re driven damn near mad once he slithers his length in and grazes your g-spot.

Hips bucking, eyes snapping open. “H-how did you even manage-”

“Ah ah—” His familiar tut, and soon enough you’re glued back down onto his pretty mouth again. Gojo doesn’t even need to try to ease you pliably back onto his face no matter how much you try to run- but oh, it was just so fun to watch your sultry surprise. The way you only got wetter when he manhandled you. “So this is that cute lil’ g-spot human have, hm? I thought it was just something in Shoko’s anatomy textbooks.”

“You- you read her textbooks…” You ask.

“All day and all night.” Gojo replies with a smirk, his ears twitching as he hears the quickening of your heartbeat. “Only Eywa knows how much I’ve touched myself imagining this.”

“Oh—”

It hits you like a flash of lightning- and so do the sudden swipes of Gojo’s tongue reaching your sweetest spots. Thud-thud-thud-thud he’s ricocheting against your bundle of nerves rapidly, making it echo like your own heartbeat in your ears. Thud-thud-thud-thud—

“Shit-” And suddenly you understand- you thought you understood before? But no, now you understand why Gojo had been telling you not to run away initially.

“Don’t run.” He warns.

Because all you’re feeling are the large stripes he’s licking up your slick walls, and the only thing you can think of doing is bucking. Rutting. Reaching for his lips wildly- though your body moves torturously as if you didn’t know whether you wanted more or to run away—“Shit.” 

“Don’t run.”

But how could you not run from it? How could you not even move when Gojo had your body teased n’ toyed with till absolutely no end?

He was hammerin’ his tongue against your g-spot furiously—and you were sure by now that he has the exact pattern of his tastebuds bruised right on that area. Shapin’ your velvety walls to his tongue, Gojo dives in just so animalistically.

And you can’t help but buck. You can’t help but arch your back. You can’t help but reach your hand out and attempt to grab onto something- anything for dear life. 

Again and again. “Shiiiiit is it even allowed to feel this good-”

But the Na’vi leader merely stops your hands with his own, folding them neatly into his hair. Holding onto his clammy scalp- “As Eywa wills it.” He smiles and your cunt’s just so sensitive by this point that you can feel the exact degree of curvature of his grin. “Which reminds me…”

And for your profanity you’re getting three more direct spanks, “Shit-”

One more.

Before you feel him then twist his fingertips on your throbbing clit and pinch- “Ya reeeeally can’t be a good girl f’me, huh?” Gojo asks you with a smile, though there was a hint of something in his voice that reminded you why exactly he was the olo’eyktan of such a large clan. “Look at you—”

“Sh-shit, that feels so-” But he isn’t listening, and you’re fighting the heels of your feet against his broad back. 

“Look at you.” He’s tightening his tail on your ankles and dragging you back down. He’s spitting down through clenched canines, every single word sending sparks up to your hazy brain. Barely even working by this point, surely. “Swearing. Squirming. Moaning like a slut and trying to escape- as your leader, I should punish you, beloved.”

“No more pussy spanking—” You whine, “Just makes me so sensitive…”

“I’m not talking about pussy spanking, beloved.” To emphasize his point he gives just a light tap on your sensitive nub once more.

It leaves you shaking to wonder just what else he has in store for you- though you don’t have to let your mind grapple in the dark for too long. Because in absolutely no time - just a few more vulgar thrusts of his tongue - you’re feeling the sudden plump intrusion of something slender at your hole.

It certainly couldn’t have been his tongue, because you knew what that ridged texture felt like. 

It certainly couldn’t have been Gojo’s cock, because you’d tasted that and you knew he had a much larger circumference. 

So that left only one option—Gojo had your pussylips spread apart and your entrance gulping up every inch of his fingers. They just looked so stark with their blue color disappearin’ into your hole, and Gojo’s increeeeedible length making you feel so full. 

Two of them were all that were shovelled inside- and yet he was already stretching for your very cervix on his first thrust inside. He scours the spongy end of your pussy then slides back out—in and out, in and out, in and out.

Each time his knobbly joints push against your g-spot and left you crying-

“Feel my fingers inside you?” Gojo rasps ruthlessly, his mouth wrapped around your throbbing clit. Groaning at the way you grow even wetter- Na’vi senses were strong, and he could smell the impending orgasm on you. “Feel the way I reach for your- hah, womb all inside? Feel the way I can fuck a baby in you so easily?”

“Yes-” You answer to them all, “Yes yes yes yes—”

And before you can say anything more, his powerful tail hauls you down. Bashin’ in even deeper with his plush fingertips. “Feel the way I’ve found eeeevery cute spot of yours? Feel the way I know your pussy inside and out?”

“Yes- fuck.” And you don’t even care if you’re ‘punished’ any more for breaking Gojo’s stern rules. Gojo himself was slamming his knuckles red and raw against your cunt, fucking his human’s tight pussy. “Fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Feel the way m’making you mine—?”

“Satoru, m’gonna cum-”

“Note it down in your research.”

And then you’re exploding straight into your high - and you know it’s the best you’ve ever had.

Your eyes fall shut and the only thing you’re seeing behind them is pure black with stars of white, pulsing against your bleary vision in time with the furious throbbing at your cunt. Little zaps of pleasure shoot all the way down to the tips of your toes every time he’s moving his maw across your core. Sharp. Sensitive. He’s wedged between your legs and lappin’ up each pulse.

Sluuuuurp—!

Long, aching drags of his tongue. They’re roverin’ over the most sensitive spot of your clit, meanwhile his fingers were glazed in slick n’ fucking you stupid already.

Gojo thrusts you through your high as if he was angry at you. As if he can’t get enough. As if he’s losing his damn mind and you n’ your pussy are the only reasons why-

It takes you only a minute more for your wave of bliss to taper out, fully riding through it. 

And then only another minute more for you go from fucked straight to overstimulated by a few more of his rovering thrusts. He swabs your g-spot once more and you think you’re bawling- “S-Satoru, I’m already done-”

But he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem to hear you.

In fact, you couldn’t sworn that he was grabbing onto your right thigh with his free hand and keeping himself plastered even more into your cunt-

“Satoru—!” You’re calling out helplessly, “Satoru, I’m already- ngh, done-”

“Mhmmmm?” Muttering something wet underneath his breath, and you have to strain your ears to actually hear him. Breathy. Panting. “Research- fuck! More…”

“I can’t even- oh.” It was almost dangerous just how potent he was with his mouth and fingers, and before long your thighs were starting to shake with sensitivity. Causing you to grab onto his scalp even tighter and-

“O-oh.”

And accidentally tug on the long braid of white hair thrown over his shoulder—his kuru.

Did that manage to…

Your breath hitches, and you’re reaching out to graze your fingers down his kuru once more-

“Fuh—fuuuuck.” Gojo throws his head back in a voice that almost sounded like a whimper, his slick lips quivering. His skin covering in goosebumps. His erection throbbing from where you could spy him. His entire large body shakes with the zaps of hypersensitivity going down his spine, “D-don’t think you know what you’re getting into, beloved…” His murky breath clouds out in front of him. 

“You sure?” You challenge - what a privilege it was to see him break.

The olo’eyktan grits his teeth—-“I’m warning you…”

But when were you ever one to listen to warnings?

Without thinking much of it, you tighten your hand ‘round his kuru and tug—

And then he’s on you in a split-second.

He’s not even moving- he’s grabbing onto your hips and bodily puuuulling you right back down till your cunt lips kiss his cock. He’s pushing your legs up until your kneecaps hit your tits. He’s hunching his entire body forwards and-

“Sh-shit.” Your eyes widen, “Satoru, did you just-”

“Yes.”

Just you teasing his kuru is enough to make Gojo spuuuurt out in creamy wads of cum once more, coating the outer part of your pussy in a thick layer. It feels hot and wet on top of you, streaming down to drench the coating. Before he’s swervin’ his swollen tip inside and fucking you-

No hesitation. No preparation.

You’re getting what you deserved, and that was to be fucked like an absolute anima by the Na’vi.

“You don’t know what you’ve done.” He’s spitting- straight into your hotly opened mouth. Those sharp canines of Gojo’s nipping at your bottom lip, “You don’t know what you’ve done- you don’t know what you’ve done-”

“Shit, shiiiit—Satoru.” Moaning out his name like a broken record player. He’s bullying out harsh semi-thrusts against your cunt that leave you scrambling for breath- just shovin’ his puckered tip inside, just tasting the inside of your pussy with his cockhead, just trying to fucking fit.

“Sayin’ my name like that and you don’t even fucking—” Before Gojo feels your soppy walls clench tightly ‘round him, and his lips part a little before racing down and spitting on your cunt. “Fucking fit.”

“You say that like it’s so easy-” You sob out. 

He was pistoning his hips into you ferally.

The only thing he was doing was stretchin’ out your cute hole a few times, just so big that you’re being push-push-pushed up the fur coat you were splayed out on-

A hand at your throat.

“Don’t. Fucking. Run.”

And you don’t have the chance to tell him that you weren’t actually running and in fact it was just his roverin’ hips forcing you upwards- but before you could do that, Gojo’s already rendering you speechless with his cock.

He’s grabbing an even tighter restraint of your neck.

He’s manhandling your entire body down like he’s crazed.

He’s juuuuuust barely managing to squeeze in a sultry inch of two of his massive length- the mere sensation of that in itself enough to send your mind bursting into a heap of stars. It was almost numbing on your lower half, to have this much of him fitted inside you.

Stuffed inside you.

Throbbing inside you.

And it seems that the only one more affected by that fact wasn’t you - it was Gojo Satoru himself. Head falling into the crook of your neck. Tail flinching as it now wraps around your right thigh. Mouth parting with an agonized groan.

“F—fuck.” He’s echoing out hollowly into your ear, “Fuck, you’re so fucking…tight.”

Gojo spits out the word as if it was the very reason the olo’eyktan was shattering right about now. And almost on cue, those sopping wet walls of yours clench ‘round his tip and makes the Na’vi yelp—

“Fuck, don’t do that.” He’s shuddering through his sloppy strokes, his split-ended tip filling you up with dewy precum. “Fuck, don’t do that unless you want to be taught what happens when you pull on the kuru of a Herwi like me, little scientist.”

“What happens?” You ask innocently.

“S’why I’m telling you to fucking—oh.”

Just a few more pulsating clenches of your cunt, and Gojo shivers as though he’s being held hostage by your wet walls.

He bears his canines and snarls at you in the way you’d seen Na’vi do when they want to signal, to intimidate, to mate. 

But you stare up at the olo’eyktan of the Herwi clan with determination.

And he’s giving you one final probe-

“I’m going to get you fucking pregnant.”

He breathes out against the shell of your ear, almost like the last whisper of his sanity before Gojo stares into your wide heart-eyes—and he’s reeling his hips back to plunge.

Uncaring how unready your poor entrance was.

Uncaring how your tiny human body shakes underneath his larger one.

His fat cock swipes between your glittery folds and puuuuushes against the instinctual restraint of your hole, all the way until you start to tremble- and he knows he can’t push any more. He knows he can’t break you.

He’s fighting back every sudden primal urge in him that just wants to fuck you all the way inside- and furiously pumps his solid inches back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Keeping a hand always on the top of your stomach for when he’s feeling his hard globular tip push upwards.

Gojo was just so big that he could feel himself sinking in from the outside-

“And that’s not a promise, beloved.” Gojo’s pale brows furrow as his cockhead starts swabbin’ even deeper after each thrust, “That’s not a promise- that’s not even a challenge-”

“Th-then—?” He’s pushing doooown on your overstuffed core and you find it hard to breathe, both pressures from between your legs and from Gojo pushing on your cylindrical tummy bulge was just…

The olo’eyktan grins when he watches his cute lil’ human struggle to take his entire cock, the bluish hue of it spreading apart your thighs. He reels his slender hips back in quite the long drag—before ultimately hammering- “It’s an oath. Before Eywa.”

A divine oath.

Added to the fact that Gojo was slamming his ruddied tip into you with each syllable- and you could never forget about the sheer size difference. The way that it helped him bend over you and fold you in half as though nothing but a lawnchair—your ass was cleanly dangling off the floor with how much Gojo was bending you.

A mating press. The meanest one you’ve ever seen.

You’re hit with the sudden inclination that you weren’t about to walk out of here any time soon.

And Gojo seems to be doing well on that fact- he hadn’t completely bottomed-out yet, but he was still drilling into you with such fervour. Streaking his cum from before across every inch of you, a layer of white that you feel from the inside.

Feverish cocktip swabbin’ all the way at the back of your cervix, full balls smacking your cunt.

Every time he was hurtling his hips forwards, it almost felt as if the ground beneath you was trembling. 

It almost felt as if he was hitting each of your geysering spots without even needing to try. Just so big that the veiny sides of his cock rubbed n’ dubbed up against those orifices unfairly. 

It almost felt as if you were losing it-

“So I think you’ll have a loooot of fuckin’ research, beloved.” Gojo snickers, his tail flicking you playfully. And at this point you’re not even sure what the conversation was about, just knowing that it was the background music to the lecherous thwacking of his hips on yours. 

So hard that you could feel the wads of his high from before glazing your insides. Dripping all the way near the rim of your cunt before being pumped back inside.

He pushes down on top of that bulge once more and watches you whine, “I almost don’t want to, mmm, ask what it’ll be about…”

“Ohhh, y’know—” Gojo trails off airily, something shaky in the back of his tone that sends shivers up your spine. It makes you almost content to know that you’ve gotten him so pussydrunken- but then again you weren’t too far behind. He tilts his head to the side and looks at you through partially closed eyes, smiling. “-human-Na’vi babies.”

And it’s with that that Gojo finally - finally - drills his cock all the way to the hilt.

Bottoming out.

His breath catches at the realization.

Blue eyes widening. Mouth watering.

It feels so different to have your hot innards surrounding him entirely- and fuck, Gojo wasn’t even sure whether a human like you would be able to take all of him. But it seems that you really were made for him, yes? Every curve and edge of you. Every bit of your cunt that he gives an experimental buck into, before pumping inside like a madman-

Pounding you into the smooth ground of the celestial temple.

It feels like you’re being thrust into heaven itself because of the way he was so big, big, big—all the way from the purple-ish tip that was zig-zagging your walls, to the oversized tummy bulge he was fucking into you, to the way he had you folded. Manhandled.

Gojo’s only lasting a few strokes before he’s crushing you to him so hard that it almost hurts- “Right here—right here.” The hand atop your stomach pushes down where his ruby-red tip was kissin’ and kissing at your womb. “You’re gonna have a lot ta research about fucking- ngh, getting bred by the fucking olo’eyktan. A lot to research about carrying my next heir, yeah?”

“Yes…” Arching your back into him.

“And then here—” That very hand now drifts down to the in-betweens of your pussylips and rubs his thumb over your clit. He’s drawing little circles and hearts on top of your sensitive nub that makes you wrack with pleasure, “Yer gonna have to research giving birth to such a biiiig baby, beloved.”

You shiver at the thought, mostly excitement.

And he purrs as he rubs his cheek against the sweaty crown of your head, “But s’okaaaaay- I’ll help you through every step of it, beloved. My mate.” The Na’vi’s staring down at you lovingly, fucking you filthily. “M’gonna breed you all full, okay? You might just have to research more about Na’vi phenotypes- heh.”

You can only nod. “Please…”

And before you can dwell too long on that last particular word—mate—he’s continuing. “And then you don’t have to worry ‘bout a thing- I can take care of eeeeverything. I’ll wash our kid. I’ll dress our kid. I’ll feed our kid. I’ll do everything and anything just please-”

“Y-yes?” Your voice cracks.

And he winks down at you almost mischievously, “Let’s do some research together on when I’ll be able to breed you all full of my cum next, hm?”

And with only a few more vicious thrusts, you’re feeling your second wave of pleasure tonight take over. You knew it’d been bubbling inside your veins for some time now- and right now it almost felt as if that euphoria was overflowing.

Overspilling.

Just like the gushing wads of slick that drivel over the front slit of your cunt and leave you so wet that you feel like a waterpark. Just rhythmic bursts of your high that leave your body loose and limp, shaking a bit every time that Gojo’s cockhead plummets inwards.

Head muddled.

Eyes rolling to the very back of your head.

This might just be the best orgasm of your entire life, and your wave of pleasure is looooong and drawn-out with how many times Gojo thrusts his cock in to fuck you through it. “Shit, Toru—” 

Again and again and again.

Each time hitting the target of your g-spot dead-on and watching as you gush around him even more. 

You were at Gojo’s complete mercy…almost.

Shaking. Your hands find themselves in his hair once more- or more precisely grazing the long length of his kuru. “Satoru.” You’re breathing out as he shivers carnally, “Satoru, I want it- ngh, inside.”

His eyes widen, “Demanding something of the olo’eyktan, are you?”

“Inside, Toru.” Desperate now.

To emphasize, you’re lightly tugging on his kuru and watching as it makes the Na’vi above you shudder. His cock pouring out heaps of precum that only act as a warning for something…more. “F-fuck, better keep this all in until tomorrow-”

At the very least.

You’re honestly not sure if you can keep it all in even now—because then Gojo’s throwing his head back and cumming long and hard. Harder than he ever thinks he has before- his seed dribbles out of him like a gooey waterfall, taking place inside every nook and cranny you have.

Heavy balls clenching almost aggressively as they empty out inside you.

He’s swervin’ each ounce of it inside by dragging his globular tip, that reddened cockhead making you swear you taste Gojo all the way at your throat. 

Flooding.

Your toes curl, it almost feels as though he’s fucking you into a third and fourth high altogether-

“Until tomorrow-” Gojo barks out through his smoky tone, “Until always-” After reaching his high so many times in one night, his sparks of euphoria just rip through him. And you can feel the sheer intensity of it by the way his slippery slick thwacks! against the back of your pussy, hot and heavy. It seems to inflate you from the inside, “Until we have our…fuck.”

And it’s not like Gojo to let up a sentence. Especially one that wavered with emotion.

“Until I have…” He starts again, blue eyes twinkling. “…you.”

Right now he was cupping the side of your face with his left hand- accidentally…or perhaps not…dslodging the translating device from your ear.

And then the Na’vi olo’eyktan leans with his forehead pressing down on top of yours.

Dragging his hand down the side of your head, where his beads for you twinkled in the glow of Eywa’s tree. Breathing out the words—“Oel ngati kameie, muntxa si.”

He looks at you with a slightly sad smile as if he was almost bitterly glad you didn’t understand. Though little did he know…“Oel ngati kameie, Satoru.”

And the look on his face was worth all the time you’d spent poring over Na’vi language books with Shoko these past few days. At least you understood this.

You grin, “I did a bit of research myself.”

He holds you tight, he holds you as if he wanted you two to become one.

More so.

Eventually—after about four or so more rounds, and once you were thoroughly shattered and kept on begging for it, Gojo had swiped his long kuru into his hand and raised it up to you. You yourself didn’t have one, but if there was anything you learned from being with the Herwi people—it’s that love comes in all forms and differences.

You press your lips to his flower-like nerves at the very end of his braid. Immediately, a rush of something between you two and you understand what he meant about being mates.

You feel what Gojo sees.

You feel what Gojo smells.

You feel what Gojo hears.

You feel what Gojo tastes.

You feel what Gojo feels.

You feel complete.

.

.

.

Day #6 in the Herwi village (day after the mating):

The ancient of the Herwi clan were one of the only believers in fated mates, of one who had been destined to walk beside you upon this good planet through Eywa’s will. It was said that life does not flower until one meets one’s fate, not even the skies shall migrate, not even the ice shall melt. 

Two souls bound to meet.

And until then one can only look up, up, up…

This scientist was found in quite the curious position as mate to the olo’eyktan on the morning after.

Re-entering the village, hand-in-hand, it was inevitable that the Herwi people would stare. Not only was it quite past the deadline of six moons given, but each bore resemblance of a mating session that could’ve been spotted a smile away.

Bite marks. Bruises. Slight falter in walking.

Not to mention that it seems word had spread about the…inoccupancy of the Tree of Winter just the night prior. (Additionally for more on Herwi stamina read Page 69…)

Circling back, the stares were rather unabashed. Some gasping. Some ribbing. Some tuts by elders of the clan who then again turned around with a smile.

It was obvious that they had been praying for the olo’eyktan’s happiness for a long, long time.

It must be noted that congratulations were doled out heavily at the communal dinner that night. Food. Dances. Parades.

It must be noted even further that preparations for coronation at the Herwi tsahìk shall be taking place in a week’s time. Who would have thought, a human being a tsahìk? Who would have thought that humans had fated mates as well?

For this scientist’s final note, preparations are already being planned meticulously for the arrival of a new heir to the Gojo name.

And that leaves the scientific community with one last thing, now that fluency in the Na’vi language is on the path to be attained: the glossary.

Tsahìk - Head shaman, high priest, interpreter..

Olo’eyktan - Male clan leader.

Mawey - Calm.

Txeylan - Best friend.

Ì’awn - Stay.

Fnu - Be quiet.

Txen - Awake.

Nga lu rusey- oh, nga lu rusey. - You’re alive- oh, you’re alive.

Oe'm lefpom. Txen? Lu nga txen? Tsal pung? - I’m happy. Awake? You’re awake? Are you injured?

‘Upe lu nga fwew? - What are you looking for?

Yawne? Oe'd tìng aynga. - Beloved? I’d give you anything.

Oe pey ngim krr. - I’ve been waiting a long time.

Tìnga’prrnen - Pregnant.

Tìnga’prrnen? Oe? - Pregnant? Me?

Nga new ne kanom oe tìnga’prrnen. - You want to get me pregnant?

Fì'u - This.

Irayo nga - Thank you.

Oe ke ronsem tsonta lu tìnga’prrnen. - I wouldn’t mind being pregnant.

Lake Yapay - Lake Steam.

Hona beads - Endearing.beads.

Mt. Hoet - Vast.

Kuru - Neural queue.

Oel ngati kameie, muntxa si. - I see you, my mate.

Oel ngati kameie, Satoru. - I see you, Satoru.

A/N. It must be acknowledged that Herwi culture was influenced by some aspects of Inuit culture, as well as some aspects of my own Sinhalese culture! Both such beautiful cultures that I was honored to research more in-depth on. Also this Na'vi vocabulary bank was used, and for longer Na’vi sentences this translator was used and might not be fully accurate ahhh-

it showed you and caleb xia, a member of your rival band ABLAZE, seemingly wrapped in a hug.

in reality, you had been shoving him away, after he and his bandmates had the nerve to brag about how his group had done so much better than yours. even your bandmates had seen exactly what happened, so how on earth had the picture been so badly misinterpreted?

and the biggest question of all — how had a fan even manage to snap the damn thing? it happened behind the curtains!

“that was taken completely out of context! we’ve got to do something. i don’t even like him!” you blurted out.

“you say that,” your manager replied, eyes fixed on the red light, ready to speed off again, “but yet less than a day after the photo surfaced, it spread like wildfire. it’s been three days and it’s still not dying down. every other tiktok video is discussing the so-called relationship between the stars of the two rising groups.”

“well, since we know its not true,” rosé, another bandmate, chimed in from beside you. “couldn’t the company just release a statement saying its a false rumour? why do we even need to meet the ABLAZE boys?”

you’d tried asking the same thing earlier, but all you got in response were mumbled reassurances about “handling it” and a half-hearted rundown of the general meeting that was being arranged.

you couldn’t even rest in peace after the show that night. by the time everyone was finally free to head home, it was already past 11pm. and then this stunt had been pulled on you.

it was moments like this that made you hate being in the spotlight. things like this happened far more often than people realised — the difference was that the company usually shut the rumours down quietly. so why involve the big bosses now?

jenna was still rambling on, her voice laced with frustration and disbelief as she complained about how people loved to twist the smallest things into “trendy” topics. you were only half listening. your eyelids grew heavy, drifting to the kind of sleep you had been craving all day. despite the speeding, the car’s steady motion felt like a lullaby — until it slowed to a stop.

before you knew it, you’d arrived at your company building.

“come on, hurry. everyone should be there by now.” jenna urged, practically sprinting inside.

being part of one of the biggest entertainment companies in the country meant that security was always tight.

“this is not the time!” she shouted, slapping the security scanner in vexation. it wasn’t the first time she lost it on the equipment, but it still somehow made you stifle a laugh.

the elevator hummed as it climbed, the wait excruciating. every floor that passed felt like it took an eternity and you could see the tension etched into everyone’s faces. reaching the top floor meant facing the executives, and judging by the hour, this wasn’t going to be a simple meeting about a rumour — it was definitely something bigger.

“…i think that might be the best idea. it benefits both of them.”

you caught the tailend of the muffled discussion as you stepped into the massive meeting room.

“ah, there you girls are!” your company ceo, mr lee, said as he looked up. “now we just have to wait for the ABLAZE boys to arrive before we begin.”

“we’re here.”

the voice was unmistakable — clear, firm and far too close for comfort.

you turned sharply, coming face-to-chest with caleb xia himself. the very reason you were standing in this room in the first place.

“perfect!” both ceos said in unison. “let’s start this meeting and get it over with.”

“we called this meeting as soon as we came to an agreement on how to resolve the situation.” your boss began. “the dating rumours involving y/n and caleb have been circulating nonstop for the past few days. given that you're both rising in popularity both domestically and internationally, we decided immediate damage control was necessary.”

they spoke so calmly, that you weren’t prepared for what came next.

“that’s right.” ABLAZE’s ceo, mr chen, continued smoothly. “after careful consideration, we’ve decided that the best course of action is to release a statement confirming that the two of you are, in fact, dating.”

you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. relief washed over you for half a second before his words fully sank in.

wait.

what?

DATING?

your head snapped immediately from your ceo to caleb, nearly giving yourself whiplash. confusion written plainly on both your faces.

“we included everyone in this meeting because this decision extends beyond just the two of you.” mr lee continued, unfazed. “with more groups debuting, staying at the top has become increasingly competive. you and caleb are both popular — together, you draw more attention. we’re also considering a collaboration, perhaps a single or even mini album, to promote this relationship.”

this was your life decision they’re making, so why are they playing like it’s nothing?

“im sorry,” you said, your voice thick with disbelief, “but how is this damage control? our fandoms hate each other. if anything, this sounds like it’ll create more problems.”

“y/n, you need to understand that yes, some fans might not approve,” mr chen admitted calmly. “but many already support the pairing. you’ve been shipped together for a long time, and since the photo went viral, the majority response has been positive. this could benefit both your careers.”

maybe that was true. but it didn’t mean you liked it.

you could feel all your members’ eyes on you. when you turned to look back at them, their expressions mirrored your own shock.

what on earth have you gotten yourself into?

the ABLAZE boys, on the other hand, looked completely unfazed — as if this was mildly entertaining. it wasn’t surprising, though. they loved a good challenge, and they clearly found this more amusing than troublesome.

“i feel heartbroken y/n,” caleb said, dramatically, tilting his head while pressing a hand to his chest, his signature puppy eyes making an appearance. “don’t you want to be in a fake relationship with me?”

“that’s all that this is going to be, caleb. don’t even start.” you shot back, side-eyeing at him.

you hated how calm he looked. hated that he could still joke about something like this when it could just ruin your lives.

“well!” your ceo clapped his hands together, signalling the end of the meeting. “your managers will coordinate the official statements, and your next public appearance together!”

as soon as the executives left the room, you rounded on caleb.

“what’s wrong with you?” you demanded. “how could you agree so easily? don’t you have any questions?”

“woah,” caleb chucked. “a ball of sunshine, aren’t you?”

caleb turned his head to face you. “i don’t want this any more than you do.” he admitted. “but, he wasn’t wrong that it’s getting harder to compete in this industry. i want to stay at the top. don’t you?”

“…of course i do.” you muttered, glaring at him.

“that settles it, then,” he said with a smirk. “and really — how bad can dating me be? i think this’ll be fun.”

he walked out before you could respond.

“fun my ass.” you murmured, following your manager back toward the car.

just like that, you were dating caleb xia. words you never thought you’d say.

A/N thank you for reading the first chapter of smile for the cameras ! while i was writing the fic, my laptop crashed and i lost an hour's worth of the stuff i wrote. but it's okay HAHA we come back stronger ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ (hopefully). its my first time writing for caleb so hopefully throughout the series i'll be able to write his character well. i've been wanting to write a multi-part fic for a long time so here it is ! i'm aiming for about 8 - 9 parts, but we'll see where this story goes. i hope you enjoyed the first chapter and thank you for supporting sftc ᥫ᭡

𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴, 𝘳𝘣𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 <3

taglist: open; just send an ask! ⁀જ➣ track 2 > rivals meant to go viral (coming soon!) ⁀જ➣ masterlist

thirst tweet #1

@/dynamightsnumberonegirl

thinking of a certain blonde pro hero's biceps... (and how good they'd feel if they were currently around me, headlocking me as he fucks the air out of me...) sigh.

His brow lifts just a fraction, lips parting as he exhales through his nose— not annoyed, but ssessing.

He flexes his arm without even realizing it, bicep tightening beneath the fabric of his shirt.

“…Do you actually know how strong my headlock is?” he asks, eyes flicking up towards the camera, voice low and deliberate.

He tilts his head, mouth curling into a sharp grin.

“—Actually,” he adds, rolling his shoulder, “you’d probably be happy about it. Dying in a real good place and shit.”

thirst tweet #2

@/dynamightluvr2009

you btter believe that this man is a MUNCH. he will eat pussy so good. tongue thrusting in and out while he sucks on your clit. literally drooling rn... and then he'd get up from between your thighs with your slick all over his face ahskshdhkjkhaahaha

Katsuki reads all of it then lowers the board and stares straight ahead.

Then slowly drags a hand down his face.

“…Did this person get footage from my house?” he asks flatly.

He squints at the username.

“…Is this my wife again?”

He makes a pause.

“Because this shit is way too accurate.”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head like he’s offended— but the smugness ruins it completely.

thirst tweet #3

@/warriorpoetry

do you think dynamight is mean with it??? does he bully it??? makes fun of how wet it is??? how full of cu—

He stops abruptly, then clears his throat once.

“…Yeah, no. I see where this was going.”

He snorts, shoulders bouncing as he leans back.

“I got a feeling everyone was ovulating at the same damn time while writing these,” he says, laughing under his breath.

Then, quieter, amused:

“Not wrong, though.”

thirst tweet #4

@/bakugousb1gfattoe

i filled my rose toy with exploding poppers so i could really experience riding that Dynamight D

Katsuki lowers the board just enough to stare over the top of it, brows knitting together in genuine disbelief before his mouth twitches despite himself.

“…That’s,” he starts, then stops, huffing out a short laugh through his nose. He rubs his thumb along the edge of the cardboard, shaking his head.

“That’s… weirdly creative,” he admits, clicking his tongue. “What the hell.”

He squints at the tweet like it personally offended him, then leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, biceps flexing without effort.

“And how do you all know it sends sparks?” he adds, incredulous but clearly entertained. “That’s not public information.”

thirst tweet#5

@/herohearts

Guys PLEASE i need dynamight to yell at me (for research purposes ofc)

He doesn’t even read it twice.

“I think someone made a whole damn compilation of me yelling,” he says immediately, deadpan. “Go search that on YouTube.”

He pauses.

Then smirks.

“…If that does something, that’s on you.”

thirst tweet #6

@/katscherry

yearning for a blonde haired pro hero with the words murder god in his hero name to save me from my ovulation right now please god. he'd be so mean too...

Katsuki barks out a laugh.

“Jesus Christ, I was right about the ovulation,” he mutters.

He shakes his head, grin sharp and self‑satisfied.

“Yeah,” he admits, tapping the board against his knee, “I’m not gentle when I’m needed.”

Then he looks straight at the camera.

“And I always show up.”

thirst tweet #7

@/whorefordynadaddy

his face card has literally never declined. angry? hot. calm? hot. bleeding on the battlefield? unfortunately still hot. god has favorites. and i get it.

He hums, slow and pleased.

Runs his thumb along his jaw like he’s considering the evidence.

“…Can’t argue with facts,” he says simply.

thirst tweet #8

@/murdergoddynamightsproperty

trust that dynamight would keep his hero uniform on while he fucks you for stress relief after a rough day... mind you he's on you like the moment you open door.

Katuski exhales sharply.

“…Okay,” he admits, nodding once, “you got me with this one too.”

He squints suspiciously at the board.

“But how the fuck do people know this shit?” he mutters. “Am I that predictable?” he asks more to himself.

“Maybe I should change up some things about my sex life. Wife. Be ready.”

thirst tweet #9

@/handsomeandangry

so dynamight creates explosions? oh honey... i will show him what a REAL explosion looks like when i open those legs

Katsuki shakes his had in disbelief, as he stares at the card board.

“Those are some big words,” he says, eyes gleaming.

Then he leans forward slightly.

“But I doubt you can back it up.”

He pauses for a bit.

“Also, what’s with this obsession with explosions and orgasms? You really are freaks,” he snickers as he moves to the other board.

thirst tweet #10

@/explosiveaesthetics

Dynamight looks like he could handle heavy loads but so can I👀👀 try me sir

He clicks his tongue, eyes widening slightly at the phrasing. He looked almost impressed.

“Now… aren’t you having a way with words?” he smirks. “But I respect ambition.”

Then, smirking:

“Just don’t collapse under pressure.”

thirst tweet #11

@/glowuptokyo

Day 1272 without hearing dynamight call me a good girl... life is pain 💔

Katsuki’s expression shifts— slower, more deliberate. Then he tilts his head.

“…We’d have to be in a very particular setting for me to say that,” he replies evenly.

The implication hangs thick in the air. “But I will surely tell that to my wife.”

thirst tweet #12

@/dynamightdaily

NO guilotine will take away the HEAD im about to give to this man. #whore4dynamight

He exhales through his nose, amused.

“Damn,” he mutters. “That’s commitment. Keep fighting for me, please.”

thirst tweet #13

@/goldenblast

I need PRO HERO SEX GOD DYNAMIGHT TO BLAST THIS PUSSY RIGHT NEOWWWWW!!!!

Katsuki laughs, loud and unapologetic.

“Tch. Control yourself,” he says— then lets out a little smirk. “Also, blast? Funny way of calling it.”

thirst tweet #14

@/chaoticbeauty

Please reject me so I can get over you @/dynamightofficial💔

Katsuki pauses a few moments, then scoffs softly at the confession.

“…Not happening.”

He lowers the board, eyes sharp and unapologetic.

“Get comfortable, you’ll stay there for a while.”

Katsuki lets the last board slide down onto the stack as he leans back in the chair, posture loose, completely at ease— like this whole thing has just been a warm-up for his ego.

“…Y’know,” he says, voice low and calm but with that edge that makes it clear he could snap at any second, “this is getting good actually.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile— but a warning.

“Even though all his confidence,” he continues, tapping the armrest once with a sharp, deliberate motion, “only ever shows up online.” He shrugs, slow and casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Figures.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely, gaze tightening. Every twitch of his smirk, every slight raise of his brow, makes it clear he knows the effect he has— that this room is hanging on him, powerless, and he loves it.

“Still,” he adds, voice dropping low, slow, the air around him thickening with tension and amusement, “keep it coming. I like knowing exactly what kind of thoughts I’m living in rent‑free.” His smirk curls slightly, more teasing than threatening, but still enough to make anyone in the room squirm.

“…Now if this is finished,” he mutters, voice low and almost teasing, “…I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

The camera lingers for a beat on his figure. The studio is quiet, the tension thick, the air practically humming.

You knew what you were signing up for when you asked Bakugo to train you for his training is nothing short of brutal perfectionism and a ruthless regime, but you were tired of being belittled for not being strong enough ever since your major slip-up at the U.A sports festival that had you embarrassing yourself on national television. Ever since then it's been a mental war between you and your confidence that continues to plummet day after day until it falls past rock bottom.

You want to be stronger. You know you can never reach the level of Shoto, Izuku or even Bakugo, but you want to at least be on solid ground where you won't trip over your own two feet.

You grit your teeth, sweat trickling down your nape from heat trapped in between your skin and your uniform. You channel your quirk again and hit Bakugo with all you've got.

Bakugo takes it like the champ he is before he straightens his back and gazes at you, the corner of his lips perking up slightly. He looks pleased, satisfied even as he nods his head approvingly and you take it as a cue that the hellish training is finally over for today before you collapse back onto the ground, muscles screaming. Every single fibre of your body aches with pain and sweat clings onto your skin like a tattoo.

Bakugo ambles off to the side. You're too preoccupied with steadying your breathing to notice what he is doing. He returns shortly afterwards with two bottles of water and a towel that he probably dug out from your bag. Bakugo sits cross-legged beside you and nudges the uncapped bottle towards you. "Drink." He utters gruffly and you listen without a shred of complaint as you pull yourself up into the same position and lap greedily at the water that flows down your throat.

"Am I getting better?" You finally ask in a scratchy voice despite all that water, desperate for a positive light. Bakugo frowns at you as he caps his own bottle and puts it to one side, grabbing the towel and leaning forward to wipe your sweat away.

"A little bit better." Bakugo replies and your shoulders sag immediately from disappointment.

"Just a little bit?" You echo sadly before you yelp as Bakugo flicks your forehead.

"Dumbass. You can't expect to become the best within a few days." Bakugo grumbles roughly under his breath, a stark contrast to how gentle he is when it comes to wiping your sweat with the towel. "You should be proud of yourself for accomplishing something even if it's just a little bit."

"Sorry." You mumble, squeezing your eyes shut as Bakugo drags the towel over your eyes carefully. You hear him huff in response.

"… Your balance needs more work." Bakugo utters quietly after a short while as he tosses the damp towel to one side and fixes your hair. He slides a curved finger underneath your chin and tilts your head up, making eye contact. "You keep losing your focus because of that. Pay more attention to your centre of gravity."

You nod your head slightly, gazing into Bakugo's crimson eyes which swirls with a familiar warmth. Yet you still see the traces of your own apprehension reflected in his eyes, worry and doubt clouding your judgement. He notices immediately and wraps a calloused hand around your arm before pulling you into his embrace, guiding your head to his chest with one hand.

"Worried about the mock battle aren't ya?" Bakugo mutters and you stiffen immediately which he takes as a sign that he hit bullseye. "Why?"

"Because you're partnered with me." You mutter, thinking about the upcoming 2v2 mock battle against another class and one that hasn't been very friendly about your feeble strength. You were initially reassured that Bakugo was going to your battle partner, but that quickly spiralled into dismay when you realised the possible outcomes. "If we win, they're going to say we won because of you. And if we lose, they're going to say we lost because of me. I'm… I'm just going to be a burden in the end."

"Why do you care so much about what others say?" Bakugo snorts loudly before he falls silent as you raise your head and give him that look, the one that says we've talked about this before. You wish you had a spine of steel like Katsuki Bakugo and not give a damn about what others say but caring has been ingrained into your body and soul for as long as you can remember. It's not something that'll change overnight, and something you've communicated to Bakugo clearly across various occasions. It took some time before Bakugo finally comprehended this mental state you often found yourself stuck in and he would always be there as a steadfast presence as you worked your way through it.

Bakugo kisses your cheek softly as a silent apology and you accept by resting your head on his chest as he cradles you close to him, sculpted arms wrapping around you firmly.

"We'll show them." Bakugo mutters, a strange determination laced in his voice that invokes minuscule tears you didn't know your tear ducts are capable of producing. "We'll show them that you're not the pushover they make you out to be."

"How are you so sure?" You whisper in a faint voice, energy slowly ebbing away as your eyes flutter shut.

"Because I know you can do it, sweets." Bakugo plants a gentle kiss on your temple, warm fingers resting on your pulse point and that's all the reassurance you need, really.

—

You've grown stronger, faster and more durable over the weeks under the guidance of Bakugo and his hellish training. If you dedicate 100% to training, Bakugo raises his standards to 110% and if you dedicate 110%, Bakugo raises it to 120%. No matter how much you dedicate, Bakugo will always raise the bar to push you beyond your limits.

And when you aren't in Gym Gamma or the forest surrounding the dorm training with Bakugo but in your dorm room and recovering instead, Bakugo sees that you get sufficient rest, massaging your sore limbs and bringing you healthy food. You often wonder how you manage to end up dating Bakugo and your doubts start to creep in again but Bakugo is quick to shut them down with plenty of heartfelt kisses.

The day of the mock battle comes. You shift uncomfortably in your spot, trying to calm your frazzled nerves while dressed in your hero gear. The opposing class pay you no heed, rather, all of their attention is on Bakugo who is the strongest in class 1A at this moment. The two of you are soon called into the battle grounds alongside two from the opposing class who toss you knowing smile full of mockery.

Your gut sinks immediately yet your footsteps never stop as you step onto the battleground. Bakugo raises a gloved hand and plants it on your head roughly, turning his gaze towards you.

"Remember what I said, sweets." Bakugo murmurs, his voice low and back turned towards the camera so no one can make out what he is saying to you. You nod your head as the clock starts counting down, curling your fingers into fists.

The clock hits zero and the mock battle starts. You've ran through the quirks of your opponents and dozens of scenarios in your head plenty of times, trying to anticipate what they might do to win, but you've never imagined a scenario like this where the terrain starts to shift. You sway precariously on your feet as the ground rumbles viciously underneath you and Bakugo vanishes from your sight immediately. Panic floods your veins as you finally realise what your opponents are trying to do—by splitting you and Bakugo up, they can take care of you easily before focusing all of their energy on Bakugo.

You curse under your breath as you regain your balance, head snapping upwards to lock gazes with your opponent. The terrain has shifted massively, a giant wall of dirt separating you from Bakugo and you know that it'll be a waste of time trying to flee to Bakugo's side. You have to take this opponent alone, all by yourself.

But can I do it? Your brain ask weakly.

I know you can do it. Your memory of Bakugo snaps back in a rough and determined voice.

"Do you like our strategy?" Your opponent smiles smugly at you, his posture far too relaxed like this is just a mere walk in the park. "It's called culling the weak. I'll probably finish you off in 1 minute given how… redundant you are."

You grit your teeth before raising your arms to brace yourself as your opponent dashes towards you with a series of wild attacks, his incessant cackling growing more and more annoying with each passing second. With your finely honed reflexes, you dodge each of the strikes with surprising ease and destroy the product of your opponent's quirks with your own quirk. Though your opponent is one of the strongest in the opposing class, you've been through hell and back under Bakugo's training and your endurance barely slips. You pour all of your focus into your balance and your reflexes as your opponent gradually grows more and more agitated from how he has yet to land a single blow on you.

You hop backwards with ease, adrenaline surging through your bloodstream and heart pounding against your chest. You watch as your opponent curses you out, shouting profanities at you, yet your focus never wavers as you preempt yourself for the next blow.

"Dodge all you want!" Your opponent yells rudely at you, anger written all over his face. "You still can't beat me and you never will!"

You cock your head, perking up at the sound of indistinct explosions before you gaze at your opponent evenly. "I know I can never beat you." You utter in a firm voice. "But I think I did a pretty good job of holding my ground from how pissed you are."

Your opponent's face contorts into an expression of ugly rage before he howls and lunges towards you, but he doesn't get every far when there is a tremendous blast and the familiar singe of Bakugo's heat on your skin. You flinch at the impact that seems even more powerful than what Bakugo is normally capable of producing before a blur of black and orange invades your vision and Bakugo's proud voice rings in your ears.

"You heard that, you stinkin' loser?!" Bakugo yells as he raises his palm for another powerful blast that sends the opponent stumbling backwards against his own will. "That's my girl you're been looking down on this entire damned time!"

Bakugo grabs your opponent's face and pins him down onto the ground. "Listen closely, you prick." He seethes, visceral growl bubbling in his chest. "The next time you face her again, she'll definitely put your face into the dirt because she's more than capable."

Bakugo bares his fangs completely as his voice drops into a low and dangerous whisper. "And spread the word. If I catch any of you idiots talking shit about my girl again, you better start begging God for mercy because I won't have any when I blast you to high heaven."

Your opponent mumbles something along the lines of an apology under his breath frantically and you can only smile in relief to yourself as the buzzer goes off and the teacher announces yours and Bakugo's victory. With a huff, Bakugo shoves your opponent to one side before storming towards you, his gaze softening the moment he reaches your side.

"See?" Bakugo whispers softly as he leans downwards and plants a kiss on your forehead. "You did it."

You giggle softly, heart fluttering. "Are you proud of me?" You ask softly, ignoring the cameras that are still broadcasting the romance between the two of you to the two classes.

"Proud?" Bakugo echoes in disbelief before he snorts like it's the stupidest question in the world. "Damn right I am."

"Y/N and Bakugo, stop flirting." Aizawa's flat voice comes over the speakers. Bakugo growls at the camera before he takes your hand and starts leading you out with the proudest smile you've ever seen dancing on his lips.

a/n: this has been in the drafts for a long time so i thought i'd clean it up and post it to keep you all fed. i'll fix the formatting once i am home.

Sorority president. Former prom queen. Glitter on your collarbones and lip gloss that cost more than most people’s rent. You ran your chapter like a kingdom, and every social event like a coronation.

People whispered when you walked by, a little envy, a little admiration. You were the kind of girl who lived in a cloud of perfume and pink confidence. You got what you wanted because, well, why wouldn’t you?

And then there was him.

Dick Grayson, he’d flash that stupid dimpled grin, say something charming in passing, and walk away like he hadn’t just turned half the quad into mush.

But not you.

You refused to be another name in his phone, another starstruck girl he smiled at and forgot about. You told yourself he wasn’t even your type, too smug, too good, too polished. The kind of boy who probably thought feminism was a podcast.

Except… that didn’t explain why your heart skipped every time he said your name.

“Hey, Princess,” he’d say, leaning against the wall outside the student centre in that infuriatingly casual way, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes glinting like he already knew how much he got under your skin.

You’d roll your eyes, flip your hair, and snap back something like, “Don’t call me that.”

He’d grin. “You like it.”

You didn’t. (You totally did.)

Because Dick Grayson was supposed to be a fratboy cliché, beer pong, ego, gym selfies, and yet he was none of that. He was calm, charming, disarmingly sweet. He listened when people talked. He volunteered at charity drives. He had that “nice guy” reputation that made every girl feel safe around him.

But you? You knew better.

There was something behind that smile, a spark of mischief, a flicker of something darker. You could feel it when his gaze lingered too long, when his hand brushed your arm just a second too slow to be accidental.

And the worst part? He didn’t chase anyone. Not the girls in his DMs, not the ones who whispered his name at parties. He only ever seemed interested when you were around.

You could feel it when you passed him at events, the heat of his gaze tracking you like he was the one person on campus immune to your sparkle, or maybe the only one who really saw it.

It drove you crazy.

Because Dick Grayson wasn’t supposed to make you nervous. You were the untouchable one. The girl who broke hearts and never apologised for it. But whenever he leaned in, that lazy smirk tugging at his mouth, and said something like, “You always look like trouble, you know that?” your stomach would twist into butterflies.

And then there were moments, little cinematic ones you’d never admit meant anything, like after that mixer last Friday. You’d been walking out in your heels, the night warm, the air sweet with cheap perfume and spilled champagne, when you saw him.

Leaning against his car, sleeves rolled up, eyes on you.

“You looked cute tonight, Prez,” he called out, smirking.

You tossed your hair, chin tilted high, pretending not to blush. “I always do.”

His grin was slow, devastating. “Yeahh. You do.”

Your pulse tripped. You hated that it did.

Because he wasn’t supposed to say things like that, not to you, not like it meant something. But the way he said it… the way his voice dropped just slightly, soft and sure, it felt like a secret.

You’d walked away before he could see the way your smile broke into something real, the sound of his quiet laugh following you all the way down the sidewalk.

Dick Grayson might’ve been the golden boy of his frat, but you were the princess of the whole damn campus.

And maybe that’s why it stung, that the only boy who didn’t fall at your feet was the one you couldn’t stop falling for.