Synopsis. Six months since youâve broken up with Toji Zenin - hotshot center for the menâs national team, perhaps the most feared man in ice hockey - and youâve moved onâŚsomewhat. Six months since youâve broken up with him, and listen- Toji doesnât mean to be a homewrecker, but heâd totally still wreck that pâahem. Now if only he could get that two-timing boyfriend of yours out of the wayâŚ
Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, ice hockey player!Toji, ex-boyfriend!Toji, Winter Olympics AU, exes to Iovers, second chances, ice hockey finals, ice hockey games, jerseys, Naoya cameo, channeling my Naoya hate tbh, fights, sIight vioIence, Toji being in his feels, yearning, pĂşssydrĂşnk Toji, oraI (fem rec.), p talking, p sIapping, P WORSHIP, heâs GONE, heâs better than HIM and he proves it, fĂngering, spĂtting, overstĂm, manhandIing, doggy, Iocker room s, heâs big, making it fit, âteachingâ your p, cervĂx smooches, multiple oâs, heâs JEALOUS, desperate s, rough s, slight marathon, sIight exhĂbitĂonism, needy Toji, FĂRAL Toji, creampĂes, cĂşmpIay, proposals, sIight brĂŠeding, happy ending, Shiu cameo heheh, pet names, swĂŠaring.
Word count. 12.1k
A/N. SURPRISE!! Hiiiiiiiiighly request hehehe- inspired by this scrumptious Tiktok by the lovely @/bellursjournal <33
234 fights.
234 won.
Ice hockey wasnât just about the hard-hitting, fast-paced, ice-cold adrenaline that coursed through each and every single player thereâoutreaching like a gale towards the rows of audiences that jumped up in elation. Shivering at the impact of every skate, glide, and punch.
No, ice hockey was also about bringing people together.
And as corny as it may sound, it was part of why Toji loved these games so much. As one, he made them stand. He made them shout. He fired them up until they became immune to the frigidness of Milano Santagiulia Ice Hockey Arena.
So it wasnât exactly out-of-the-ordinary to see a fight start up during one of these games - between players (him especially) and between fans.
What was slightly unusual was to see a fight occur between a player and a fan. Which is exactly what he was watching happen right now.
And even more unusual was just who it was.
Youâarguing with some brute he assumed to be your boyfriend.
TchâŚTojiâs scarred lips curl without him even realizing it. Heâd noticed you the second you stepped into the rink - he always did. The second youâd stepped into his life, the second youâd stepped out of it. It was like this undeniable tug at the pit of his stomach, this rush of victory, this sudden warmth that he couldnât explain - and couldnât quite imitate no matter how many layers he wore.
Not that he would reminisce, of course.Â
Youâd met at one of his gamesâand to this day, no matter how many other matches he played in, he still considers that one of his best. It was in the feeling that you gave him - that game felt different. It was.
His eyes kept drifting to where you sat behind the plexiglass, and his skates have never glided smoother across the ice. It was a win for the records. After the game, Toji himself had been mulling over whether or not he should approach that pretty university student that had been shouting his name throughout the entire game- when you yourself had shyly walked up to him in the fan-signing section.
Steps tentative, a book crushed to your chest.
Youâd asked him for an autograph in that sweet voiceâand heâd scribbled his number out then and there. Media training be damned.
And when heâd asked you who your favorite player was- lo and behold, youâd replied that it wasâŚShiu Kong. He doesnât think heâs laughed louder in his life.
That was also the game that got him on the radars of national team scouts.
Youâd dated for a year. Almost exactly.
And to be transparent, itâs already been six months since the two of you broke up. Over someâŚhonestly, he doesnât even remember properly. He knew it had to do with his updated training regiment and the way heâd been pushing himself during the Olympics drafting season - and because of it, Toji knew he fucked up. He knew he missed dates, missed quality time, missed milestones. Barely came home from the rink.
You didnât even care about that, he thinks. You wanted him to pace himself and take some breaks, he thought that sounded like a nightmare. Eventually, the last straw had been when heâd missed your one-year anniversary, and itâd accumulated into an explosive argument- that, he could remember.
Heâs gotten better since then, he thinks.
But Toji was just about as over it as any man would be over the love of his life- fuck, did he really get his cringe after the break-up? That probably wasnât good for his health. But itâs just thatâŚhe hasnât felt that particular rush of victory ever since you left.
Not even when he was chosen for the official Japanese ice hockey team, not even when they landed in Milan, not even when they progressed to the finals.
But todayâŚ
The fucking finals of the Olympics and he was sitting on the playersâ bench before the game, scouring the stands for but a glimpse of you. The fuck have you done to him?Â
He could feel that surge of warmth, however. As though every fibre of his body had long since attuned to you, wasnât whole without y- fuck off. The point was that you were somewhere here.
And Toji was reminded of those days youâd be sitting in the very first row of his games- front and center, waving a banner with his number, wearing one of his red jerseys. ZENINâit would say on the back. Not one from the merchandise store, of course, though those sold out so fast that even Toji himself wouldnât be able to get his hands on one.
So his eyes slid along the first rows of fans. The turnout was incredible.
Japan vs. the US.Â
And Toji could guise his sudden alertness towards the audience as checking for any distractions in the stands - he didnât want to be off his game during the fucking finals, now, did he? Especially not considering that their newest recruited defense player wasâŚ
But he knew that was bullshit.
Nothing ever threw Toji Zenin off his game.
And yetâŚand yet once he spotted you - seated amongst a clump of blue-wearing supporters on the other side of the rink, right opposite where he sat on the playersâ benches - he couldnât help the sudden jitter that ran through his body. Honestly, he thinks he might just break that streak of (substantiated) overconfidence before a match-
Fuck, how beautiful you were.Â
Just as beautiful as the day he lost you, it makes everything almost move in slow-motion. If this were a movie - and it somewhat feels like one right about now - then the music would swell, and Tojiâs eyes would turn to hearts, and perhaps thereâd be a dance number or two and then a montage of-
Bullshit, bullshit! Toji Zenin wasnât thrown off his game.
Toji Zenin was unaffected by your presence- and the fact that you were wearing a jersey clearly representing the other team. He didnât fucking care.
He didnât. Not even about the fact that you were currently in the middle of a very heated argument with one of the US players. Blond hair. Black tips. Shorter than him. Not even by how close you leaned into him. And Toji doesnât bother to wipe the scowl off of his face as he perks his ears in your direction - one could never be too sure whether you were trading secrets with this e-boy blue-team boyfriend of yours.
You would never, to be clear, but just- just let him fucking evesdrop-
ââcanât believe you would do this to me.â Your voice carries, and the little tremor in your tone makes his eyes widen.
Sure enough, he could see the glimmer of tears in your eyes.
Youâre rising up from your seat slightly, and it draws the attention of fans around you. Seething, âI canât believe you would-â
âShhhhhhhhââ The man has the audacity to bring a finger to his lips and shush, likely louder than you were being in your controlled tone. Trembling, but controlled. His half-blond bangs sway just a little as he looks towards his own team and coaches, then back towards you. âYouâre being crazy right now.â
âIâm being crazy?â Laughing in disbelief. Holding up a phone that seemed to be the other manâs, presumably given to you for safe-keeping during the match. âIâve seen the messages, and you say Iâm being crazy-â
âYou are. Youâre acting hysterical and I need you to calm down.â Toji couldnât see the manâs ugly face, as he had his back turned towards the benches. But he could see every bit of how this particular sentence made your expression crumple- âLook I donât know what you think you saw on those texts, but it isnât what you think it is. Itâs locker talk- I went out with the other players, got some drinks, met some fans andâŚnothing happened with any-â
âYouâre cheating on me-â
âYouâre paranoid.â
Your eyes flash, âBut-â
âYou know I always hate to talk to you like this, baby. I really do.â He reaches up and puts a pale hand on the plexiglass, âBut youâre just being paranoid. And I donât want to call you insecure, but-â
âDonât you dareââ Youâre standing up now.
âSee? This is exactly what I mean.â From the ruffling of his uniform, Toji could tell he was crossing his arms. Oh, how he wished this son of an asshole would turn around right now- just turn around and let him get a good look at what gave him the right. His cruel lips curl just a little bit in a way that just looked so familiar. It makes his blood boil. âYouâre being crazy.â
And Toji sees the exact moment you furl in on yourself. âButâŚâ It makes his fists clench.
Before he knows it, heâs gritting his teeth so hard he tastes metal.
âIâm a hockey player, baby, Iâve gotta network.â With such a tone of finality, he ends offââStop being so hysterical, and maybe we can have a civil conversation after.â The man kicks his blades into the ice and starts to push off, âCheer for me loud during the game. My teammates are going to be watching.â
You donât say a thing.
But he does, âYouâre lucky youâre dating me, yâknow?â
And thatâs when Tojiâs eyes finally fall to the text upon the manâs uniform.
ZENIN.
He knows who it is even before he turnsâand Toji falters. Not out of reconsideration, or anxiety, or fear - but out of the sheer surprise that ah, this was going to be convenient.
Because Toji Zenin knew the bastard - more than he would have liked to.
Naoya Zenin was a part of his past whether he wanted to or not. He was the snot-nosed, bratty second heir to Zenin Industries that would hide behind corners and snicker to himself whenever Toji got caught sneaking out to the arena again. Whenever he was told off for going against Zenin family values - against his duty to become the head of their sport equipment business - by whichever higher-up happened to be feigning for a stress outlet that day.
Short and sweet, Toji Zenin wasnât supposed to become an ice hockey playerâlet alone the fucking best in the country. But he digresses.
And how fucking hilarious was it that the (second) heir to a family so vehemently against Toji becoming an ice hockey playerâŚalso became an ice hockey player? He had an inkling this would happen - when Naoyaâs mean-spirited amusement turned into surveillance attempting to catch him sneaking out of the estate, turned into watching him play at the local arena. Turned into awe.
He knew the boy was stunned ever since the first time he watched Toji play. And he never laughed when Toji was caught after that day.
But it seems that that still hadnât stopped the kid from growing up into a fucking asshole like the rest of them.
He was damn glad heâd escaped from that household the very second heâd gotten an offer from a local team, the Tokyo Ice Bucks. Though a morbid part of him wished heâd stayed just long enough to be there for when Naoya announced that he, too, wanted to become just like their disgraced once-heir. How he wished he couldâve seen the reactions of his high-strung relatives, his uptight family friends, his parents, his councilâthough, seemingly it hadnât worked out too bad for Naoya.
As he climbed up the ranks, heâd heard through the grapevine that his cousin had been sent to some of the most expensive training centers in the world. Ultimately getting signed onto a team in the US (though the hefty sum his family had paid likely helped, but those were just rumors of sports businessâŚ). He also knew that the other man had gotten naturalized recently, getting chosen for the Olympics team. He knew it all.
Toji just didnât know that Naoya would also be your fucking boyfriend.
âMajor scene, eh?â Kusakabe clatters himself down on the bench, slightly winded after a practice run. He fixes the laces on his ice skates, âI saw your ex-girlfriend there, sheâs gotten even more beautiful. She seemed to be arguing with-â
âMhm.â Replying absent-mindedly, Toji stands.
âSomething about cheating- what a fucking bastard. Doesnât deserve her, but then again neither did you.â
âI know.â
And Kusakabe frowns, âDoes she know that sheâs dating your weirdo estranged cousin?â
âNo fuckinâ clue.â
âOiâŚâ Comes the slightly wary tone at Tojiâs swift, dismissive responsesâKusakabe looks up at his teammate. âDonât do something stupid.â
But Toji doesnât answer, too fixated on watching the remains of your argument with Naoya: you sitting down weakly in your chair, looking around to make sure no one notices as you wipe away the tears in your ears before they overspill. He sees red.
He shoots up to a stand.
âOi-â Kusakabeâs more panicked tone echoes across the ice- did Toji already get inside the rink? He was skating on the ice before he even registered it. âOi, fuck-face. Asshat. Tojiââ
But Tojiâs eyes were set on one thing, his ears were listening for the commentator announcing the imminent start of the game.
âToji, donât do something stupid-â
And maybe he was stupid. Because it wasnât for nothing that Toji Zenin was named the most feared man on the ice by The Hockey News just this year. He stood big. He stood tall. He stood unafraid to fight his entire childhood, so why should he be afraid to fight on the ice?
234 fights since the start of his ice hockey career.
234 fights won.
And right now the man wasnât afraid to get blood on his hands, even if it suspended him.
Their coach barks at the rest of the Japanese team to get into position, and itâs a blur as he bends low at the faceoff spot, awaiting the referee to release the puck. Toji Zenin: captain of the Japanese Ice Hockey team.
His eyes shift past the US captain before himâto where Naoya Zenin was lined up as well. And he can see the precise, exact moment that the other man registers- and a shiver courses down his spine.
The puck drops.
It goes to the Japanese team.
Toji swoops the puck using the blade and attacks between the forwards- pitiful, honestly. He could almost let out a slight burst of laughter as he senses the dumbfounded looks on their facesâand yet, he doesnât spare them a single glance backwards as he races between members of the other team. Past center. Past forward.
 A right-winger attempts to steal the puck. Heâs ignoring Kusakabeâs call to pass and toe-dragging around his bland-faced opponent to skate right past. Right winger. Left winger.Â
The forward surpassed yet again.
At the speed of light, screaming audience members meld into one.
All but you.
Youâyouâre all thatâs on his mind as Toji makes it unscathed up to the defense- past left defense.Â
Until heâs left facing the very man he hasnât seen in ten years. Eyes like his, though they were dark and widened in fear - somewhere in the far distance of the stadium, Toji hears one of the commentators make a remark about their relation. He doesnât listen.
He feints the puck slipping out from the leash of his hockey stick for a split-secondâjust long enough for excitement to flicker in Naoyaâs eyes and for his own hand jerk to claim it. Only to smile- hah, you fucking thought.
And Tojiâs slamming at the back of the puck - straight into the net of the goal.
Bursts of cheers and commentary as the Japanese menâs ice hockey team scores the first goal of the Olympic finals. Fans getting up onto their feet. Hands high in the air.
But Tojiâs own curls into a fist that meets Naoya Zeninâs jaw.
The sickening sound of bone crushing against flesh, knuckles - itâs never sounded sweeter in Tojiâs ears. The baffled man is on the floor before he can even register what happened. Thud! Thereâs a gasp that echoes throughout the stadium, before the two-toned man haplessly attempts to get up and get at least one hit in for his own dignityâbut itâs too late, he raises a feeble hand but it falls. Meanwhile Toji pummels punch after punch.
Hard enough that it makes the ice floor shudder.
Long enough that the referee glides over and their team starts surrounding them.
Naoyaâs now spread-eagle on the floor and sobbing for mercy, which Toji genuinely didnât hear - he genuinely didnât. Couldnât. His ears were ringing and his eyes were seeing red- no, they were seeing that vision of you wiping away your tears.
His prominent knuckles met the swoops and structure of Naoyaâs face, features that he canât deny make him wonderâŚdid you see Toji in him? The proud slash of his mouth. The high cheekbones of the Zenins.
It made something twist within him to think that not only might you have seen Toji in him- but then he wouldâve betrayed you as such. As if Toji ever would.
Naoya made you cry.
He couldnât beat this fucker harder.
It takes four of his own teammates to pull him off.
And by then, even the commentators had stopped speaking, the audience watching in a mix of interest and horror. Their hands on their mouths. Toji staggers onto his feet and yet his hands were still clenched - still twitching as though he was in the middle of the fight.
Kusakabeâs nails dig into his skin even through those thick uniforms, and heâs muttering something in his ear about the referee and a five-minute timeout. But Toji doesnât care.
Toji isnât looking at the referee, or the coach, or any of his teammates.
He turns his head over his shoulder to look at youâ
You with your mouth agape, your eyes fixated reciprocatively on him, your blue jersey taken off to reveal your normal clothes underneath. There was a slight tremor in your body as you take in your ex-boyfriend, Toji.Â
Victorious from beating up your cheating boyfriend.Â
And the black-haired man can only smirk.
He tastes iron, and itâs only then that he realizes he had a nosebleed. Dripping from his left nostril and down across his lips, his garish grin; not from a single thing Naoya did, of course - that fucker hadnât even gotten a single hit inâŚToji was almost reconsidering whether the bastard was a Zenin at all - but perhaps from his teammates fighting against his fighting, perhaps from his sheer anger, perhaps just from looking at you for the first time in six months.
Even from here, he could see the slightest snippet of your bra strap peeking out from underneath your t-shirt.
It was the Japanese national ice hockey team red.
Or more like, Toji Zenin red.
He smirks even wider.
.
.
.
Needless to say, Naoya Zenin was carried out of the game in a stretcher.
Toji didnât feel any regret about it - not even a single speck. His penalties still applied as well- for about five minutes before he was back to kicking ass in the finals. Metaphorically, this time.Â
He was about to show them why exactly heâd become the captain of the national team in such a short time.
And he could take on whatever shit they were commenting about a âfamily feudâ and a âbeau stuck in the middleâ (who the hell even told them that? He was sure it mustâve been that loudmouth Kusakabe) if onlyâŚevery time he circled the perimeter of the rink, he could see that smile of yours through the plexiglass screen. No banner with his name, but still cheering him on in a sea of blue.
Also needless to sayâJapan won gold at this yearâs Olympics for menâs ice hockey.Â
The celebrations were overpouring - streamers, confetti, fans attempting to jump their way into the rink. This was about tenfold the intensity of celebrating any local game theyâd won, and yetâŚhis eyes were anywhere but on the commentators, the audience, the teammates that were huddling around him.Â
Toji was turning his dazed head left and right- only attempting to find you.
âWe wonââ Kusakabe yelled out at him, giving him a hefty thump on the back and pulling the man into his embrace. âWe fucking won, you asshat-â
âWe did.â Tojiâs lips felt parched. He couldnât see a single sign of you through the chaos. âI think.â
They - meaning the rest of the team, with their captain tacked-on and looking slightly astray ever since he lost sight of you - celebrated for the pictures, for the podium. They celebrated on the ice and off it.
Eventually, the celebrations extended past the rink and towards their locker rooms. It was a sprawling room thatâd been especially constructed; white walls and wood-panelled furnishings, even whiter ceilings that gloried down even more spotless racks for each, swathing the end of the room in a semi-circular fashion. It was where they kept their helmets and their jackets, took them off like armor after such a win. Towards the other end of the chamber were the stalls where they showered, large enough to house a small group in each of them, with benches of clean wood.
The tile beneath was colorless except for five familiar rings intertwined, spreading their wings from one end of the locker room where the showers wereâand down to the benches where the celebration had bled out.Â
The players had long since filtered out to celebrate with food and family, except for one particular captain of which he had no family visiting. But also because he was getting his final warnings on pulling such a stunt like thatâŚ
ââI have no idea what-â Coach Shiu Kong peers through his stern eyebrows at the man seated on the bench, his head bowed low. â-or who triggered you to start enforcing like that, but know that you are walking on very thin ice.â
If Toji hears the other man - his best friend - then he doesnât show any sign of it.
âTheir defender practically needed to be hospitalized.â Shiu sighs, âI donât give a shit if you beat the boy up, but keep it within guidelines. I overheard some of the officials discussing whether we shouldâve given you a much tougher penalty.â
At that, Toji flinches.
âA much tougher penalty.â
Being a player himself not too long ago, however, Shiu could understand the other man somewhat. And he knows the captain would do it all again.Â
Gladly.
Toji remains silent, and Shiu pinches the bridge of his nose. âLook- youâre lucky you got off with a five-minute penalty this time. Insanely lucky. Next time youâre not gonna be so lucky, so I suggest you keep your fists to yourself.âÂ
âTchâŚâ Their star player wrinkles his nose and looks away.
To which Shiu claps him on the shoulder, âLook, you did good out there.â Looking closely at the other man, âAnd I know the girl- Iâve seen her around practice when you used to bring her, before she stopped coming around. Gorgeous. But keep your head on straight.â
One final clap. âYou did good.â
Before he, too, leaves.
The locker doors swing behind him. And then there was one.
As the celebrations raged on outside, Toji doesnât know how long he spends sitting on that bench - thinking to himself. About what? Everything and anything. He couldnât quite pinpoint one thought before it flowed into the next one, and even then just as heâd register itâsuddenly it was speeding into the next. Aqueous.Â
But one thing was for sure, they were all about you.
You.
You.
You.
Knock-knock-knock.
Who the hell knocks on locker room doors?
Slightly bemused and perhaps wondering whether this was a paparazzi hoping for a good shot, Toji leans back in his seat and lets the knock reverberate. He doesnât answer before the doors are clicking open, and a set of footsteps ring across the vast, dampened chamber - a set of footsteps that heâs memorized far better than his own heartbeat.
It was you.
This realization doesnât damper his shock a single bit as your head peeks âround the tiled corner. Breathing out an exhale of relief as you realize that heâs the only one there, youâre revealing yourself properly in his line of vision now.
âOh, good.â And your voice- fuck, even your voice doesnât feel real. It echoes slightly in the space, and makes you sound even more dream-like in Tojiâs ears. âI didnât feel like walking in here and seeing an eyeful of ice hockey dick.â
âThink about ice hockey dick a lot?â Theyâre the first words out of Tojiâs mouth to you in six months, and suddenly he feels like banging his head against a wall.Â
âYou mean Naoya?â Your nose crinkles in distaste, and he feels like spitting. âHell noââ He feels like laughing. âI told him weâre breaking up the second he got put on that stretcher.â
He startles himself with a guffaw, âAs the bastard was being carried off?â
âAs the bastard was being carried off.â Youâre nodding, before awkwardly shifting on your feet. âIâm sorry.â
One of his brows raise, âFor what?â
âI didnât know he was your cousin. I just thought the last name was a coinci-â
âNah- forget about it.â Waving off one hand - roughened with so many years of training, of holding a hockey stick as though a lifeline - in your direction. âNo harm done, girlie. Guess that jusâ means you have a type- though obviouslyâŚâ Toji stabs a finger in his direction, â-Iâm the handsome one of the family.â
âAs humble as ever, I see.â You tease.
âAlways.â He shrugs in a nonchalant attempt, though his green eyes kept straying to you. âYou look good.â
Youâre meeting his eyes slowly. âYou look good, too.â
And whatever he sees in your expression makes him gulp. âFuck-â He whispers underneath his breath, reaching up and rubbing the burning back of his head. âNow, not that I mind ya being in the menâs locker room butâŚâ
âO-oh.â You jump slightly, as though just now reminded of your objective. âI wanted to thank you.â
Heâs taken aback. âHuh?â
âForâŚwell not that I condone violence buuuutââ Averting your gaze from his, âI wanted to- thank you.â
âY-yeah.â Breathless, âNo harm done. The fucker didnât deserve you anyway.â
âOh yeah?â Thereâs a slightly challenging look in your eyes now, âI wonder who did.â
Toji Zenin then stands from his seat, and youâre taking a half-step back as if youâd forgotten just how much the athlete towered. His shoulders had gotten broader since the last time you saw him, fitting out the shape of his brand-new uniform snugly. His biceps bulkier. His hips more defined. His face more ruggedly handsome. His sage eyes sharperâand currently locked in on youâŚ
âTo be quite honestâŚâ Toji starts, a slightly husky timbre to his tone, âI donât think anyone did.â
You jut your chin up in defiance, âI disagree.â
âClearly the current dating pool isnât good enough if you ended up dating fucking Naoya of all people.â And was that a silent seething you could hear in his tone? âNever would I blame you for what he did, girlie. Never. Iâm just wondering what the hell attracted you to him in the first place.â
And your handâs reaching up to touch him- âI haveâŚI have no idea.â
âBecause donât you know what you deserve?â His large right hand reaches out to cup your cheek tenderly- before heâs gliding it to the back of your neck and squeezing you meanly. âTell me.â He tightens his fist and makes you look up properly at him, âTell me what you deserve.â
To which youâve just finished grabbing onto his red jersey. Tugging him to youâyouâre walking backwards and dragging your ex-boyfriend with you. âSomeoneâŚhandsome.â
He grins, âMhmmmm?â Fingers tap-tap-tapping the cute column of your throat. âAnd what else?â
âSomeone big nâ strong.â Step by step, you head towards the nearest vertical surface you can remember - one of those wooden partitions that separated the shower stalls from the changing area. âSomeone really good at hockey.â
âHeh-â He fails to hide the glint in his eyes, âAnd?â
âSomeone sweet, though he pretends not to be.â Giggling at his huff, âSomeone interesting. Someone that opens up. Someone that wonât give up.â
âAnd?â
âSomeone filthy rich-â
âHeh, gold-digger.â
âSomeone that can change for the better for me.â
Itâs with a quiet thudâ! that youâre hitting the partition now- taking Toji with you. He braces himself with a large arm pressed on the area above your head, and from here you can ogle every single muscle, vein, and twitch.
Every single scorched pant as he leans in.
Blinking up at him, your heart races at the question you were about to ask. âSomeone thatâll fuck me right?â
He smirks and you swear you can feel it against your mouth. âWhy the question mark, doll?â
And then his lips are on yours.
Rushing. Ravenous. Famished.
Toji massages his scarred lips against yours, smacking at the taste of that dewy cherry lipgloss you had on. And he doesnât hesitate for a single second before letting the tip of his tastebuds draaaaaaaag right down that gloss, humming. âMissed this taste.â He trails his right hand up to rest against the edge of your chinâwidening the gap between your pretty lips nâ swiping his eager tongue in. Hot and open-mouthed.
Kissing you so filthy.
Toji fucking groans something feral as his tongue slips even deeper, reclaiming those velvety spots inside you. And as he feels your mouth water, feels your hips start to squirm, the ice hockey player canât help but chuckle.Â
Lifting his left hand off of the wooden surface to run down your front, managing you away from the partition and inside the stall. Youâre walking blindly backwards, being led by solely his hands - nothing inside but the showerhead above and the wide open space. Toji pushes you against the cold tile and kisses you even more ferventlyââMissed how wet sheâd get just from kissing me.â
Cupping your pussy through your short, short skirt.
âIs she purring already?â
You gasp, âYou canât just say that-â
âWhat was that?â Toji cocks his head in near-innocent confusion, âCanât hear you over her congratulations.â
âYou fucking-â
The next thing youâre seeing is enough to knock the wind out of your lungs - and the words. And itâs not because of anything Toji says, itâs not because of his expressions or his gestures, or even the way he rubs the mountains of his palm against your clothed pussyâitâs because of the way he doesnât hesitate before letting his knees hit the tiled ground with two deep thuds.
Fucking kneeling before you.
Toji throws your non-dominant leg over his shoulder, and bores up at you with half-lidded eyes. Heavy. Darkened with arousal- he wanted you so fucking bad.
He was a man deep in thirst.
In a single motion, the hockey player flips your skirt up nâ tucks the hemline into your waistband.Â
Itâs almost as if heâs in a daze - as if heâs hypnotized - as he brings his face closer to your throbbing core. Where your pussy was nearly beating out of your red pantiesâbefore Toji flares his nostrils and gives that dampened spot on your panties a gooooood sniff. âMmm, sâlike coming home.â Your mouth gapes as you wonder whether he even realized what he was saying- was it possible to even act so starved? So animalistic? Open-mouthed, he breathes out a scorching hot pant that makes your legs shake. âShitâshit, shit shit-â
âWhat?â You squeak out inâwell, perhaps in surprise, perhaps because of the way your ex-boyfriend doesnât waste a second more before nudginâ your legs apart and sticking his nose right between your clothed slit. Slurp!Â
And his mouth merely opens with a gasp.
With a groan.
A sudden jolt courses through the hockey captainâs muscular body. And before you know it- before Toji himself knows it, heâs clasping onto either side of your hips and draaaagging your pussy all down his face.Â
All across every handsome feature of his. It doesnât matter if you still have panties on, heâs gaping his dampened maw wide open and saaaaalivating across every nook nâ cranny he could reach. That cute crevice of your pussylips growing even wetter as you start to feel his nosebridge rub uuuup and down, uuuup and down- up and down.Â
Gurgling those sweetened wads of slick at the back of his throat as he ebbs himself even closer- âOh my god, pretty girlâŚâ And for a second there, you think heâs talking to youâonly to find Toji pulling away with a squelch! of fabric. His half-lidded eyes remain fixated between your legs, and that sinful mouth of his glistens eagerly with your juices. âFuck, oh my god-â
âWh-what is it?â Youâre squealing out, despite fully knowing that heâs talking to your pussy by now. Just your pussy.
And Toji croons upwards, his glazed eyes flickering towards you. âYour sorry excuse of a boyfriend doesnât eat you out, does he?â
You gape.
How the fuck did he know?
âBecause she told me- duh.â Toji rolls his verdant eyes as though the answer shouldâve been obvious - the answer to a question you clearly donât remember asking. Out loud, at least.
AlthoughâŚyour mind isnât clear at all.
Itâs so clouded by the way he massaged the top of your folds with his tongue. Those rugged, textured tastebuds flicking aaaaaall over your outer lips, dipping into the outline created by your slit. In and out. In and out.
Itâs as though he was already attempting to fuck you through your damn panties- perhaps the only thing holding him back right now. Toji taps the flattened surface of his tongue across your sopping slit once heâs completely sure heâs slurped up every ounce of you there was to slurp-
âCan you hear her?â He utters hoarsely. And he doesnât even need to wait for your response - Toji surges in once more in a way that was almost uncontrollableââSheâs purrinâ so much- heh.â
Eyes rolling to the back of his head at the cloying, clingy taste.
You were just so weeeeeet and warm.
âSheâs been so neglected. Poor pussy.â
âOhââ Your mouth drops.
And thatâs the last thing youâre managing out before Toji tucks the rounded tip of his finger beneath your ruined red panties, making it snap- once before tugginâ them aside and spitting. Letting the vertical line of saliva lubricate you a bit more for him to swab his tongue everywhere and anywhereââShe- she hasnât been tasted like this in aaaaages.â
âI havenât, I havenât-â You sob.
That pointed chin of his plasters against your cunt, nearly hitting the back. And Tojiâs pushed up so deeply against your pussylips that youâre wondering whether he even has the space to breathe- crushing his face between your folds. What was that saying about big noses? âShe hasnât been tongued the way she likes it.â
Wrenching your head off of where itâd been rested against the cold tile wall. âH-huh?â
With a growl, youâre shocked as his four thick fingertips come slamminâ down on your pussy. âPay attention, doll.â And heâs juuuuust nudging aside your sensitive folds to lap up the sap leaking between them. Feeling that cute orifice of your hole that was just clenchinâ around him, âShe hasnât been tongued the way I know she likes it. Dirty girl.â
And youâre shivering as the very first inch of his girthy muscle slips inside your entrance. âFuh-fuuuuck-â
âShe hasnât been tasted like she deserves.â He pants out between rovering movements with his head now, baaaaaack and forth. Baaaaack and forth. Faster each time. Deeper each time. âShe hasnât been spat on. She hasnât even been fingered-â
âFuh-fuuuuck, nghâyes.â Youâre keening out, your voice crackling dangerously. âI mean no- no, he didnât.â
Feeling the leer of his lips against your other ones, something almost cruel to their shape. âI know.â His severe timbre - mixed with the scrape-scrape-scrape of those textured tastebuds inside you - make you see stars. No warningâand heâs reaching up to plaster the crown of his thumb against your throbbing clit. âAnd Iâll fuckinâ kill him for it.â
Without thinking much of it, youâre grabbing onto a handful of his jet-black hair and bowing your body forwards. âTojiââ
âLook at her.â
As though he wasnât even hearing you right now- Tojiâs eyes were widened, his voice slightly breathy. Both of his hands were positioned on either side of your cunt nâ spreading your puffy pussylips apart. âFucking look at herâŚâ
Tojiâs tone was trembling.
Tojiâs tone was wrecked.
And youâve never seen the man knot his dark brows like this- as though he was at the feet of a shrine and worshipping you with looooong, deep thrusts into your wet cavern.
So watching him between your legs like this- you already knew that Toji was a ravenous eater from your relationship. But to hear him be so desperate?
You couldnât help the next words that fall from your mouth, âN-Naoya always thought it was emasculating to-â
Thereâs a brief squelch then a smack!
Heâs tugging his hands away from your stinging clit, before kissing all over it. Sucking. It made your knees weeeak to feel him unabashedly press up against your pulsing nub as he thrusted his tongue inside - sniffing, moaning, breathing you in. âHow can ya have a pussy like thisâŚâÂ
Letting his jaw droop even further open as he presses the tip of his tongue inside, swabbinâ into every geysering orifice. âHowâ?â Heâs massaginâ your tight walls apart from one another, accelerating with every soft gasp youâre letting out. âHow can ya have a pussy like this nâ not just fucking drown yerself in it?â
Youâre bucking off of the frigid tile, leaking out a few more dewdrops of slick.
He moans as he watches that bead of translucence exit from your hole nâ cascade between your legs- âSome men die of thirst whilst others fucking- fuck, fist their cock to the thought of this pussy every night.âÂ
Excitement zips down your spine as you realize heâs talking about himself- every night? For six months straight? âEvery-â
âEvery night.â Toji affirms. âSix months straight. I thought about how many times Iâd make you cum on my tongue.â
âShitââ Heâs then fucking your poor hole battered, harder than the strokes he had before. Those were just to fit the first few inches of him inside, these were to make your velvety pussy feel him.
âEvery fuckinâ night. I missed this pussy sooooooââ Spitting. â-much. Every night, I thought about how much my poor girl must be missinâ me. Every night, I thought about how much better sheâd taste than any sweet dessert in the world.â
âTojiââ Your whines rattle through the locker room. âShit, it feels so good-â
âAnd itâs the fuckinâ least she deserves.âÂ
Without any further warning, Toji then slides the larger end of his thumb between your sopping wet slit. Collecting a few wads of your clingy juices, heâs pushing it back inâ
âFuck, sheâs so tight.â He whispers underneath his breath, nose crinkling at the way your gooey walls immediately rush to clench around him. His tip being engulfed by the warmth. Not only were you sucking him in, but those cutely trembling hips of yours were jerkinâ off the wall expecting more, more, more- âShe hasnât been fucked properly in a whileâŚâ
And before you can even register it, heâs removing his thumb with a wettened plop! Rapidly replacing it with his lengthy middle finger, his index.
Scissoring those scouring tips open inside you.
Swabbing them into those ridges nâ sweet spots.
Letting them jostle against one another and against your most tender areas-
Fuck, youâre throwing your head back.
Those thoroughly thick fingers of his kept filling you up so much more than his tongue did, and youâre gnawing down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from making too much noiseâeven more than you already were. In and out. In and out.
How you missed the pleasurable burn of him stuffinâ you.Â
The way it sends carnal shockwaves up your spine- especially every time he pushes past the shy squeezes of your first ring of muscle. The first restraint.Â
âT-TojiâŚâ Youâre wailing out in that pretty tone that makes his ears perk up immediately, âPleaseââ Your hips rut upwards, âSo close toâŚâ
âTch- dâyou even have to ask?â
And you didnât think that Toji Zenin was ever the type to forget anything to do with your cunt, did you? Did you?Â
Because this wasnât his first damn rodeo: you best believe that the first time Toji ever had the chance to feel you clenchinâ around his fingers, he took the time to memorize every nook and cranny inside. Heâd mapped it all out.
Heâd drilled it straight into his brain that if he quirked his fingers juuuuust so to feel the spongy depths of your roof- then shovelled his fingers along that pathwayâŚjuuuuust so. Heâd be greedily swallowed up until his joints, and itâd only take a few more vulgar thrusts for him to locate that special bundle of nerves inside of you.
The one that made you see stars. The one that made you call his name out loud enough for the neighbors to hear-
âHehâŚâ He dares crack a smirk, âAnd he hasnât found this spot yet, right?â
And right now, your prettily cracking whine was echoing across every corner of the locker room. âT-Tojiââ Heâd found your g-spot. Reeling his slick-glazed fingers back just enough to roughly push and push, to dig his rounded fingertips against that throbbing area. Constantly. âRight there- k-keep going. Right there-â
âHeh- keep going? You seriously ever thought Iâd stopâ?â The captain of the national theme looks genuinely baffled youâd asked, disbelieving of the words. Him? Stopping when youâre completely begging for him not to? âDoll, Iâd rather fuckinâ die than let this pretty pussy down.âÂ
And with that said, Toji wraps his swollen lips around your clit once more.
He was stimulating you with twice the blissful waves now- once with his fingers probing into you and pinpointing each sensitive nerve inside you. The other through the wet smacks! of his lips, latching onto your knobbly clit and sucking as though the sweetest candy in the world.
You watch as Tojiâs handsome cheeks hollow out because of his suctioning. His pretty pink lips were all glossed over with layers of your sploshinâ cunt, rolling drunkenly over that nub.
âI need you to cum on my tongue.â The black-haired man sputters against your wet, treacly cuntâhis breaths becoming more nâ more ragged by the second. Tone thick, âI need you to cum on my fuckinâ tongue so bad-â
âMâso closeââ Youâre using the leverage you have on his sweaty bangs to tug him in even deeper- not that Toji could go even deeper.
But he smirks at your sheer desperation and you can feel the formulation of his expression against your sodden pussy. And thatâs when your panties are being properly ripped off your hips- straight off. Clean. With his teeth. As you buck and gasp, heâs spitting out the useless lace remnants into his left hand and snakinâ it between his legs.
And youâre not quite sure - you canât see beyond his hunched core - what Tojiâs doing with that particular treasure. But by the way his biceps suddenly flex as though gripping something, by the way he lets out a sudden grooooooan deep into your pussy- you can already guess.
Tojiâs sculptured arm starts flying up and down at a rapid pace.
In the same sloppy, striking cadence as heâs fuckinâ his tongue between your soft pussylips. He jerks himself off furiously, a thin line of sweat drizzling down his forehead the more, and more, and more-
âToji, babyââ Youâre whimpering out, tugging on his shaggy strands a bit to make him look at you. âMâgonna cum- so donât stop, mâkay?â
âHas-â Panting out a murky breath, âHas he ever made you cum before?â
To which youâre almost embarrassed to shake your head, âN-noâŚâ
âCanât believe heâd- fuck.â Toji grumbles, his thick brows marrying together. Those sharp canines of his make an appearance as he snarls, âMâgonna kill that bastard. Mâgonna fucking kill him-â Slapping the velvety underside of his tongue down-down-downââBut first mâgonna make you cum.â
And since the last time you saw him, Toji Zenin has learned to keep his promises. And heâs proving it.
Which is why it takes only a few more vicious strikes at the very bottom of your pussy - at the very target of your g-spot - for you to throw your head back nâ start shaking with your orgasm. The white-hot pleasure coursing through your every blood vessel makes you cry out, so much better than you remembered.
This wasnât the same as idly prodding yourself with your vibrator while your boyfriend wasnât home.
This makes you buck. This makes you gasp. âC-cummingââ Your thoughts coming belated to you as youâre riding out Toji Zeninâs handsome face, elongating your high on the prominent curve of his nose or the puffiness of his lips. âCumming, Toji, shitâŚsâthe best itâs ever felt.â
âUh-huh?â He murmurs up wetly at you. âOnly the best for mâgirl.â
âYour girl?â And that makes something within you tremor almost as much as your orgasm.
âShhhhh, and ride out your orgasm-â Heâs talking you through those soaring peaks of your high - incredible.Â
Because not only was Toji curving his fingertips just right against your g-spot, but he smirked against your clit and gently bit down on that nub.
Youâre flinching upwards- never having experienced something so strong. At least, not in six months.
And it seems like forever before your high passes - not that you were complaining. That orgasm left you all heated and raw, feeling so wound-up that you honestly thought a mere brush of Tojiâs fingers would be enough to get you cumming again.
Your overwhelming wave of pleasure is just barely finished before Toji stands up to his full height again.
Blinking away the tears in your eyes, youâre looking up at him. The slightly-dimmed lights of the locker room created the effect of a halo around his head- how ironicâŚbecause the way heâd made out with your pussy made you think of Toji to be someone from quite the opposite realm.
But you donât get to comment on that right now.
No- you were too busy watching slack-jacked as he tugs off his national team jersey.Â
And youâd already seen Toji shirtless before - of course, you have. Youâve already seen him in every state there was to see himâbut itâs seeing him after so long that really makes your cunt twitch. Your eyes sweep across his broad shoulders, those toned pecs with a certain familiarity- you note that he still had that unruly line of his happy trail. It was deep black in color, a ruggedly handsome look to it as it started off at his abs then snaked all the way down, down, downâŚ
His chiselled abs. His slightly-tanned skin.
The only real difference that you couldâve pointed out was that Toji, in fact, seemed a littleâŚbigger than you remembered him. Bulkier. Beefier. Broader around his arms and his pecs.
And perhaps that was in part to do with memory- but more likely it was that his new training regiment with the national team had been serving him well. Very well.
And his cock, fuck, his cockâŚ
Toji hadnât fully exposed himself as he jerked off whilst eating you out- but it was more than enough. Just enough of his black hockey pants getting nudged downâthey stuck around his meaty upper-thighs, and youâre left starinâ at the thiiiiick throbbing cock in-between.
Toji was big. Toji was hard. Toji was so reddened at the tip of his bulbous shaft that you wondered whether it must be painful-
You hadnât forgotten just how big he is, had you?
But you swear Toji had been around seven or eight inches the last time youâdâŚseen him all those months ago. But this? This was about nine- fuck, if you pulled out a ruler than you wouldnât be surprised if he was around even ten inches.Â
Perhaps that was just your imagination refusing to concede that your ex was the largest youâve ever had. The best, too.
Thickened so much that it made your legs squeeze. Covered in veins from underneath his reddish tip, and aaaaaaaaall the way down to his tanned base.Â
Those hefty balls of his clenched at your attention, and youâre both thinking at the same time that he mustâve really missed you.
Toji reaches his right hand up to his face and spitsâslithering it down to give his aching erection a good tug. That mere touch was enough to make him ooze out a few more droplets of pre, capping the top of his crowned tip as though the prettiest glaze.
He has to cough ever-so-slightly to rip your attention away from his cock.
Even then, you could barely keep your eyes off of your ex-boyfriend as he turned his hockey jersey the right way. About to throw it over his shoulder whenâhe looks at you and seemingly gets an idea.
âOff, doll.â
And suddenly itâs a blur of hands and grabbing - Tojiâs pulling your own clothes off, ultimately leaving you in absolutely nothing. He tucks those remnants of your panties in his pants pockets, and tugs your head through the holes of the jerseyâ
âY-youâre making me wear this?â Youâre babbling out stupidly as he steps back to admire his work, âAnd only this?â
Toji lets out a low whistle, âFuck, yeah.â Before gesturing for you to twirl- âNow turn around nâ put your hands on the wall- hah, I want to see my name on you while I fuck you.â
Nevermind the fact that technically this was his last name, as well.
But that didnât matter - never would. These were Tojiâs colors, Tojiâs number.
And right now, it was Tojiâs fat- aching cock that was making your pussylips bulge apart. Slowly and sensually.
He mightâve been ravenous when he was tasting you for the first time in six months - but Toji was taking his goooood time filling up your driveling orifice. Stuffing back the beads of slick that kept on spraying out of you, letting his pointed tip stretch your entrance out.
Heâs letting his breath hitch as he reels his hips back a bit, pushing his twitching cock iiiiiiiiiinside and then out. Iiiiiiiiiinside and then out.
Baaaaack and forth.
Baaaaack and forth.
That ruddied roundness of his cockhead gets stuck between your lips, and Tojiâs brows furrow- he attempts to pull out. He really does.
But youâre just gobbling him up so damn greedily- inch by fucking inch. That he canât help but arch his toned hips against yours- soothing the globes of your ass cheeks a bit before Toji gives a nice, honed thrust. Pointed deep towards the back of your pussy.
Though he isnât getting that far with your snug channel.
âO-ohââ The captain groans out as heâs sucked in deep, push by fuckinâ push. The intrusion of his girth makes its way âround your first ring of tight fuckinâ muscle - slotted between your legs and enough to leave your knees weak with only a few shallow thrusts.
Tojiâs having such fun holding onto the side of your waist- eventually moving to hook âround your pretty thighs when it seemed as though you were going to collapse.
His pretty girl, so desperate to take him that you canât even stand.
âFuck, you feel so good.â He breathes out, scorching breath gusting down the curvature of your spine. âFuck, my girlâs pussy feels so goodââ
âToji-â And for the first few of his semi-thrusts, youâre letting your eyes roll to the back of your head. But thereafter youâre jerking your hips back in desire for more, craving all those carnal itches inside of you satisfied by Tojiâs thick cock. âN-need it.â
Toji opens his mouth to tease - youâre sure of it - but at that very moment youâre using your velvety walls to give him a thorough clench that makes him break off into a groan. âThis pussyâs been so hungry fâme, hm?â
Shivers wracking through your entire body. âY-yes-â
âHe didnât fuck you like he shouldâve, hm?â
âHe didnâtâfuck.â
âAlways wished it was your- heh, ex beside you, huh?â
Tearily, youâre looking back at him with an expression of sheepish guilt. âYesâŚâ
âOhââ And the mere fact that you said that - your mere answer - is enough for the towering man to hunch his body into yours. To buck his hips into you like an animal.
It wasnât even planned.
Just an instinctual movement to graze his dribbling tip against the very forefront of your womb- Toji lets his cockhead pulse inside you for a moment before starting to fuck you again. Slightly speedier, slightly deeper.Â
Slightly rubbinâ the line of his flared ridge against your dewy insidesâit made the manâs balls clench to watch the way youâd drip nâ suction around him. You were fucking thinking of him? Just as much as he was thinking of you? âSo this pussy has been greedy fâme.â As if to prove his point, heâs easing in just a few more puckered inches to swipe the front of his burning divot against your spongy cervix. âHow many times have you touched yerself to the thought of me?â
âI-Iââ It takes you a sudden slap on your pussylips to realize that he was genuinely waiting for an answer.Â
âHow many times?â Toji gasps between his clenched canines, Adamâs apple bobbing in fervor. âAnd donât lie to me, girlie- I know sâbeen more than once.â
âSo many times-â Just the most sultry scrape against your g-spot- the sensation of Tojiâs pulsating cockhead pressing on those nerves feels so good. Good enough to reveal your secrets, your hazy brain seems to think. âT-too many times to count-â
âFuck.â He has to gnaw down on his bottom lip to keep himself from cumming too soon. Too fast. If anything, he wasnât going to be like that (likely) two-pump chump boyfriend of yours.
Which is why the older man finds himself smearing his left hand over your pussylips once more- this time, however, it wasnât to place a mean spank. It was to spread those folds open and roll his fingertips over your neglected clit. âDirty girl. And h-how many times have you cum just from the thought of me?â
âAll of those times, Toji.â The constant rhythmic nudginâ of your favorite spot was enough to leave your mind absolutely shattered by this point in time. âAll those times Iângh, can only cum if itâs you.â
âOh?â Fuckâfuck, fuck, fuck. D-donât even fuckinâ sayâŚâ He reaches down and slams his hand against your clit once more - partly to take his mind off of those sinful words you were babbling, partly out of punishment for exactly those. And if you were in any better state of mind, then youâd have marvelled at the fact that youâd just made Toji Zenin sound damn starstruck. Just with your pussy. âDonât even fuckinâ say that shit.â
He leans over you and nuzzles his cheek against your own.
Scarred lips muttering into your ear, âI know sheâs been- fuck, needing me just as much as I need her.â Theyâre kissing down your sweaty temple for a few seconds before sinking his teeth into your ear lobe, âI know sheâs been fuckingâdreaming of me, wishing for me, fantasizing about me, getting so fuckinâ aroused at just the thought of me that- hah, locker rooms like these were a problem.â
Blinking the tears away from your eyes, âW-waitâŚâ
âOr maybe that was just me.â Toji finishes off. Though he really didnât have to for you to realize that heâd been talking about himself the entire time.
Toji had been craving you these past six months.
Desiring you.
Fucking his fist and his pillows at the thought that - perhaps one day - heâll have you underneath him like this again.
And perhaps thatâs why there was a strange reverence to everything he did. Something jittery at his fingertips, something that made him hold you a little tighter - as though to make sure that you were really real.
Heâs looping both strong arms around your tremoring figure and gluing you to his toned front. There, you were being massaged after each rub nâ puuuuuull of his vein-decorated cock down your swallowing insides. Hand still reaching downwards.
Toji lets out the most lecherous slurps once he still manages to loop his hand between your sodden pussylips nâ toy with your clit. Finger pinching. Thumb rolling. Just by how sensitive you were - still getting re-used to the sultry sensation of someone elseâs hand upon your nub - he knew that that damn Naoya wasnât properly lovinâ on this part of you, either.
And it makes his blood boil just as it did on the rink today.
His fingers move on top of your clit at an almost frenzied pace- back arching, head throwing back.Â
Naturally, your lips spread wide open to let out an echoing moanâbut itâs too late. Tojiâs already leaning in and replacing it with a dollop of his sweetened saliva, âYeahâŚâ He looks down at you as though you were a dream, âM-maybe that was just me- fuck, but I have one question, doll.â
âYesâ?â Sobbing out.
âHave you everâŚâ Almost as if it was a precious secret, meant to be between the two of you and the locker room, Toji leans down to whisper against your ear. â-imagined me while he was fucking you?â
Your jaw drops.
Your cunt twitches.
And Toji feels the flooding of your walls with arousal- itâs splashinâ either side of his cylindrical girth. One that was probing and pushingâand speckling every sweet spot inside you with his sap, Toji was fucking you as though he was furious with you.
Long, hard pummels of his hips.
Hard enough that the skin surrounding his pelvis area was reddened.
Long enough that your mind was already completely muddled - filled with only the probinâ pressure of his plump cockhead. Pointing against the cute button of your g-spot once moreââYes.â You whisper.
And if there was anything - anything - that could make the Toji Zenin falter, then it wouldâve been this. Because for two split-seconds youâre feeling the constant sloppy scouring of your innards pause- before itâs resuming harder than ever.
Before heâs fully bottomed-out now and slamming against the gooey depths of your womb.
Before youâre cumming from just that single thrust-
âY-yesâ?â Even Tojiâs voice shatters on the repetition of your answer - and heâs looking down at you with his deep, probing eyes. âYou- you thought about m-me fucking you when you were still with that bastard?â
You turn around at the amused disbelief in his voice, and nod. âAlways thought about you, Toji.â Youâre not blind to the way this particular sentence makes the other man flinchââEvery time. He mustâve thought that- ngh, he was the one making me feel good this whole time but it was- oh. It was you.â
âAnd itâŚfelt good?â
âSo good-â
Unsure what to say - unsure what to even do- Toji merely leans down and bites the tender side of your throat. Sure for anyone to see past your collar.
Claimed.
You squeal as youâre fucked through your second high of the night, âA-always youâToji.â Though loooooong and rugged smooches of his tip, perfectly pointed to graze your ridges inside and ultimately end up on the g-spot.Â
Tears bursting to your eyes. Hands slipping with sweat along the tiles.
Toji pulls you even deeper into his embrace - grabbing ahold of your neck with his free hand, the other reaching down to pinch your clit in short, staccato pulses. Matching the peaks of your high. He makes sure to wait just until your wracks of pleasure are at their highest, before plummeting his throbbing cock inside.
Maximizing the rub-a-dub of those prominent veins of his. Sending spurts of pleasure shivering all throughout your body at their massage.
Ridged shaft stretchinâ out those spots that feel the best, his sheer length splitting you up from the inside - you couldnât possibly forget how well Tojiâs cock filled you. Reaching into any deep crevice and orifice, markinâ himself out aaaaaall across your channel with the rounded bruises he left behind.
The captain of the ice hockey team was ruttinâ into you so hard that it was causing the heels of your feet to lift off the floor.Â
His thick fingertips dig into your body, plastering you against him- âAlways you, my girl.â His words come out sharp and exhaled, âOnly you.â
âO-onlyângh.â He catches you from slipping down the vertical wall, scorched chuckles dusting down the crook of your neck. âTojiâŚâ
âHmmmm?â
Slight panic bleeding into your tone, âTh-thereâs someone in the other l-locker roomâfuck.â
âFuckinâ what?âÂ
Still wracking with the waves of your high. âThereâs someone in the other locker room-â
Growling, heâs bowing his powerful lower half towards you - where you were frantically gesturing and miming something at the other side of the wall. The locker rooms were positioned as such that they were side-by-side, sharing a single wall split down the middle of its vast cavern, from which they ignored the existence of the other out of courtesy.
And no matter what one might fear about rowdy ice hockey teams, it never did cause any issues. Yet.
Right now you could hear someoneâs footsteps through the tiled wall, you could hear someoneâs existence, you could hear someone muttering.
Seemingly not having the best of days - though after that loss, you couldnât blame them - your mystery US player was banging on locker doors and hissing out swears. Itâs only once he seemingly drops something on the floor by accident, letting out a string of expletives starting with âbâ that itâs clicking just exactly who this player isâ
âOh, look-â Tojiâs the first to start, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. â-your wittle boyfriendâs here, too, doll.â
âHeâs not my-â
âWhy donât we give him a proper welcome, hm?â Tojiâs crooning out meanly, âWhy donât we cheer him up? That little ah- incident on the ice mustâve really been a blow to his ego.â
Youâre shivering at the implications, âD-donât you fucking dare-â
âWhaaaaaat? Mânot doing nothing.â Scarred lips quirking up into a grin- youâre noticing that Toji hasnât slowed his hammerinâ down for a single second. In fact, heâs reeling his slick-glazed cock backwards and leaning the weight down upon your lower half, probinâ you at even deeper angles. The smooth, slippery tip of his shaft was swabbing away into those nice bundles of nerves- âI didnât even say that you should do anything.â
Hiccuping at the feeling of him funneling you full - all the way to your throat. âTh-thenââ
âI just need you to be aâmmm, good girl fâme and- hah, take it.â The constant smacking of his toned hips get even harder, louder. Ricocheting off your eardrums and off the walls- âTake aaaaaaall from tip to base.â
The utmost amount of squelches nâ slurps leaving you.
You wondered if Naoya could already hear youâŚ
Shivering at the carnal feeling of him stretchinâ those tiniest orifices within you up. You loved the way his honed tip would ease in, only getting thicker and longer and thiiiicker and loooonger the more heâs fucking you. The more.Â
âTake it aaaaaaall until this greedy pussyâs satiated-â He pinches your clit once more, lining down the spot of your nerves. âTake it all until this pussy remembers-â
Thereâs the sound of another locking being slammed from the other side of the wall.
And youâre shivering-
To which Toji grinds his hips in close - so close - that youâre unable to buck nâ swerve your hips away. Eagerly taking those deeply probing grinds of his, âTake it until this pussy remembers whoâs always fucked her right.â
Youâre mewling through your tears, âY-youââ
And Toji grins before bunching up that red, red jersey of his in his free hand. Looking at the name that flashed upon your arched back, jostling with each thrust - âAnd whoâs that? Whatâs the name on the back of this jersey?â
âBut he has the sameâfuck.â Moan echoing so fucking loud this time- youâre swearing you hear the other man pause whatever he was doing. Hear him listen. Hear him wait. âZenin.â
Something drops to the floor on the other side of the wall, as if fallen in shock.
And Toji smirks.
âThatâs right-â He pants out open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, âCanât hear you- whatâs the name?â
âZenin-â
âStill canât hear you-â Thrusts and bursts of pleasure steadily climbing up in intensity. Even though youâve just cum, you could feel a twitching at the pit of your stomach. âWhatâs the name?â
âZenin-â
âWhatâs the fuckinâ name?â
There was no way he couldnât hear by now. The slapping. The clenching. The moans. âZeninââ
He slaps your clit once. âAnd whoâs last name is that?â
You knew you were going to fall apart soon. You knew that all itâs going to take was one final thrust- reeling his rounded, glossy tip back as far as it would go. Itâs letting just a few tears cascade down your cheeks, and youâre looking back - âY-yours, Toji?â
âNo.â He grinsâchiselled core pummeling into yours. He teases your clit with a cute lilâ heart drawn on top, âSâgonna be yours.â
âOhââ With the loudest, most lecherous moan yet- youâre falling apart all over Toji Zeninâs cock. So sensitive that your orgasm rips through your stark and primal - nothing but a resurgence of bliss that leaves your limbs feeling all weak.
Theyâre shaking just a lilâ as youâre riding out your high on his vein-covered cock, the perfect number of strikes before your g-spot feels raw.Â
The perfect number of strikes before your clouded mind gets even cloudierâand Tojiâs throwing his head back with a sharp, busting orgasm. Toes curling. Abs clenching. Beading from the drooling divot of his shaft, he gushes out constant volumes of cum.
Letting it dribble all the way from your deepest depths to your sultry hole- and then spotting even the tiniest crevices inside of you with his pearly white juices. âShit-â His crackling tone breaks out into the heady air, âSh-shit, now sheâs properly mine again- heh.â
As Toji fucks his wads of seed deeper inside you, theyâre letting off the most lewd squelches.
âNow sheâs shut up her yowling a bit- ngh, my girlâs been wanting this for so long, huh?â
âYes.â You nod.Â
âSheâs been starvinâ for my cum?â He coaxes, âSheâs been all empty without me?â
âSo filthyâŚâ Youâre mumbling out. Uncaring anymore of what Naoya would think - you didnât hear anything more from his side of the locker roomâmaybe heâd disappeared?
âDamn right.â Toji chuckles. Dark bangs covering most of his vision as heâs pumping his thickened tip inside, swervinâ aside your sopping wet walls to make even more room for his thick cum. âSheâs now all full I think, hmmmm?â
And you certainly felt full.Â
You could feel the splashinâ around of those gooey puddles of sap inside you, clinging onto the tiniest spots they could. He was only messing your insides even further with every single thrustâleaving a wet puddle of most of it seeping into the very back of your womb. âI th-think so-â
âWhat was that, Mrs. Zenin?â Toji goads, his voice ringing out loudly. âThink yer all full with my cum or do you want even- hah, more?â
Youâre murmuring something unintelligible that he has to lean in to hear.
âWhat was that? Canât hear you, doll, youâve gotta speak up-â Suddenly, he leans away and addresses the other side of the wall. âWhaddaya think, Naoya? Think she deserves some more-â
âToji, shut upââ Swatting behind at him.
Toji escapes with a burst of gruff laughter, âOf course, I wouldnât ask that fucker-â He presses a somewhat chaste kiss onto your lips, âTell me, doll, what do you want?â
âI w-wantâŚâ Youâre repeating from before.
âHmmmm?â
âThink I might want your baby, Toji.â Peering up at him with such pretty heart-eyes.
And that makes his breath hitch.
That makes him stall.
Tojiâs green eyes widen just a fraction- before heâs pulling out and turning you around. Staring deep into your eyes, the captain urges you to jump - wrapping your legs around his toned waist, your hands on his shoulders, your body being easily hoisted by his own - so that he can lift you off the floor.
Probinâ that rock-hard tip of his inwards-Â
âGuess thereâll be one more Zenin this time next year- heh. â
.
.
.
Naoya Zenin was stunned. He was speechless.
Which is highly unusual, because Naoya Zenin is never shocked. Never speechless.
Except for when he saw the estranged Toji Zenin at the gameâŚand when he got beat up by Toji Zenin at the gameâŚand right now, as itâs slowly dawning upon him that Toji Zenin was fucking his girlfriend after the game-
Naoya didnât think you were serious, alright?
Because how many fuckinâ times have you threatened to break up with him over stupid shit like that? This was just a little outing with the boys - to a few nighttime establishments with a few nighttime girls - that was being blown majorly out of proportion.
And sure, Naoya might have embarrassed himself thoroughly in front of you and a couple million spectators today.
But what couldnât a 5000 yen bouquet fit?
He was planning on making up with you right after, telling you to stop being paranoid and perhaps this will only make your relationship stronger in the long run. And heâd just gotten back from the medic to get his shit back whenâŚwhen the noises had started up.
It was a slightly damp noise at first, almost like water.
Then came the soft groans.
The impact of skin-on-skin.
The voices that made it undeniableâif only he couldnât recognize them. And he almost couldnât, to be quite honest, Naoya had never heard you making such noises when it was him in bed.
But he knew it was you.
Worst of all, with Toji fucking Zenin of all people.
And it was when Toji had loudly announced your engagement to him, the way youâd be taking his last name (Naoya had no clue the two of you had dated before, and he didnât want to know) thatâd been the last straw for him. He dumps his bangs and his uniforms behind, storming out from a locker room that was now thoroughly invaded by the sounds of your sex.
Muttering some unrepeatable phrases underneath his breath, Naoyaâs so caught up in his wallowing that he nearly doesnât notice the man he bulldozes over in his effort to get away.
âOh, heyââ Shiu smiles sheepishly at the younger man, âI just wanted to check on y-â
âIâm fine-â
And with that heâs storming off. To where? He doesnât know, heâll probably have to come back and get his shit later butâŚ
He takes it that youâve now officially broken up with him.
Meanwhile, suit-clad, clipboard-holding Shiu is left utterly confused at what just happened. Heâd expected a screaming match, maybe several lawsuits by the spoiled heir of the Zenin Industries at least.
Refusing to believe his luck, Shiu takes a peak inside the opposing teamâs locker room just to make sure that everything was alright- and thatâs when he hears it. ââthink I might want your baby, Toji.â
Oh.
Oh.
It was coming from the other side of the large wall- their locker room.Â
And heâs recognising the voice- wait, thatâs your voice. Tojiâs ex that heâd been moping over for these past six months, the one that triggered their captain to get in that fight today in the first place.
Though, he doesnât blame you- with that fucker as a boyfriend? Shiu doesnât think heâs biased for claiming that his best friendâs leagues better.
But, at the end of the day, Shiu was their coach above all.
And as their coach, he couldnât allow his players to get into anything reckless or anything violating the code of the Olympics. Theyâd all be in such deep shit if you happened to be caught - so you must forgive Shiu for doing what he has to do.
For rounding the other side of the locker room entrances and stepping into his own teamâs chamber. Heady with sweetness, with sex.
Heâs here as a coach to warn the two of you- really. Thatâs just it.
Thatâs it.
Nothing else. Nothing else at all.
No ulterior motives.
His pants tighten, cock twitching traitorously at the barrage of noises leaking into every corner of the room.
Shiu raps on your stall door as aâŚcoach.
A/N. MwahahahaâŚcome to me coach⌠ALSO TO MY PHILIPPINES BABYGIRLS WE MISS YOUUUU <33
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sum. you're the sheriff's daughter, so you really know better than to step into saloons and talk to outlaws. however, you like the girls, so you bring them food â cowboys sometimes take advantage of that, but you're not bowing down to any men.
art. @winterrbluess | pt 1
He kisses you like heâs been angry about wanting to for months.
Rough at first, all teeth and impatience, his mouth slanting over yours like heâs trying to erase every time he didnât do this. Your back digs into the door, his body crowding yours, hands heavy on your waist like heâs making sure you donât bolt.
You kiss him back just as hard.
For a moment, itâs nothing but that, heat, breath, the slide of his tongue against yours, the rasp of his stubble scraping your skin when he tilts his head. He tastes like smoke and cheap beer and something underneath thatâs just him, and it does something awful and wonderful to your spine.
Then â slowly, like he remembers heâs not in a back alley â he eases off the edge.
The kiss softens, not in hunger but in pace, his mouth still greedy, but deliberate now.
He licks into you slower, takes his time, draws sounds out of you he seems determined to catalogue. His thumb strokes your jaw, rough pad almost gentle, and you hate that it makes your chest ache in a different way.
You decide, very clearly, youâre not going to be the sheriffâs daughter for the rest of the night.
Youâre going to be a woman with a wolf in her house, and youâre going to feed him and let him rip you open and see whatâs inside.
He walks you backward, lips never quite leaving yours, until the door is a memory and the bed frame bumps the back of your knees. Somewhere in the movement he shrugs out of layers without breaking contact, jacket hitting the floor with a dull thud, holster tugged just enough out of the way that it wonât cut you if he pulls you in.
His fingers make quick work of your robe tie, knuckles brushing the fabric aside like it offended him. He doesnât fumble, he doesnât hesitate â he undresses the both of you with the kind of surety that comes from a life lived without much room for shame.
Your hands are slower, because you canât not look.
You push his shirt up and over, your fingers splaying over his stomach as you go, tracing every line of muscle there. His abdomen is all ridges and warmth, scar tissue and strength, skin tanned from months in the sun. You drag your palm up over his chest, feel the thud of his heart under calloused skin.
The tattoos are darker up close, you almost had forgotten since you stitched him close a long time ago. Ink runs over his pecs, curves along his ribs, bands thick around his arms. You follow a line with your fingertips and feel him twitch, just barely, like the touch hits somewhere he doesnât talk about.
âEnjoyinâ yourself?â he mutters against your mouth, voice rough.
âYes.â you say, honest because lying feels ridiculous now. âVery much so.â
He huffs out something like a laugh.
âCourse you are.â
You find scars as you go â small, pale nicks, one long, rough line near his side that makes your throat tighten. You brush over it lightly, not lingering, just acknowledging. His breath stutters for a second, chest pressing into your hand.
âDonât get soft on me, woman.â he grumbles.
âIâm not,â you murmur. âIâm beinâ thorough.â
He looks down at you like he wants to say something cutting and canât find it.
âFuck,â he settles for. âYouâre trouble.â
You donât have a chance to answer.
He pushes you back, firm but careful, guiding you onto the bed like heâs done it in his head enough times to know exactly how he wants you laid out. The mattress creaks under your weight. Your hair spills around you, your robe sliding more open than closed.
He steps back just enough to look.
The way his carmine eyes travel over you makes you feel naked even where fabric still clings, his gaze searing, scorching your skin with the confined lust. His stare is not a single bit polite. Itâs not worshipful either.
Itâs hungry in a way that doesnât pretend to be anything else.
âYou look,â he says slowly, voice low, âa lot less fuckinâ righteous like this.â
You raise your chin, even laid down and almost all bare for him.
âYou should see yourself from here.â
He smirks, teeth flashing.
âBabe, I know what I look like.â
He comes back to the bed, knees dipping the mattress as he climbs up. For a second, you think heâs going to stretch out over you and keep kissing you until you forget daylight exists, and oh how bad you want that.
He doesnât.
Instead, his hands grip your thighs, thumbs pressing into soft flesh, and he drags you closer in one smooth pull.
Your breath punches out of you, a startled sound youâre not proud of but you got caught by surprise.
Of course he hears it.
âYeah,â he says, satisfaction dark and easy in his tone. âThere she is.â
You instinctively clamp your thighs together, he just squeezes harder, spreading them, settling himself between like he belongs there. You bite down on your knuckles before the noise in your chest gets past your teeth.
His gaze flicks up your body, finds your face, catches the way youâre trying to swallow yourself down.
âDonât do that.â he says.
You pant lightly, knuckles pressed to your mouth.
âDo what?â
âHide.â His eyes narrow. âYou wanna give me somethinâ? You give me all of it.â
Your heart beats too hard.
âThere are people close,â you argue weakly. âNeighbors, andââ
âAnd?â he cuts in, leaning forward, palms sliding up your thighs, heat following his touch. âYou think they donât already know youâre alive?â
You bite the inside of your cheek and reconsider.
âGod, youâre somethinâ else,â he mutters. âBakinâ pies for whores and outlaws, bringinâ a killer into your bedroom, then tryinâ to be quiet about it.â
He ducks his head, mouth dragging over the inside of your knee, rough stubble scraping sensitive skin. You gasp, hand falling away from your lips.
He smiles against you, wicked and pleased.
âThatâs better, sweetheart.â he says. âThatâs honest.â
You find his hair with your fingers, sinking into it, cool silk over a hot skull. The grip gives you something to hold onto when the world starts to tilt. He encourages it, lets you use him as an anchor even as heâs the one unmooring you.
He works his way up slowly, taking his time with your body like heâs paying you back for every careful touch and every plate of food and every quiet moment you spent choosing to look at him like he was more than his reputation.
You stop thinking in full, neat sentences.
Thereâs just heat and the drag of his mouth on your skin and the press of his hands holding you exactly where he wants you. Every time you try to muffle yourself, he finds a way to coax the sound back out â thumb drawing circles at your hip, teeth grazing a place that makes your spine arch off the bed, a brief latch of his mouth in the curve of your thigh where it meets your sex and a small hickey he chose to leave where only you would see.
âLet me hear you,â he growls once, when you try to swallow a choked-off cry. âCâmon. You feed me, I feed you. Thatâs the fuckinâ deal.â
Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you give up on being quiet.
It doesnât take long before your body is too much. Too hot, too tight, too aware. You come apart under him, breath stuttering, hands clutching, eyes squeezing shut against the sheer intensity.
He doesnât stop when you do.
He just eases you down, murmuring something filthy and satisfied against your skin, and the cadence of his voice alone makes your toes curl.
Youâre still catching your breath when he shifts his weight, big hands urging you looser, coaxing your legs where he wants them again.
âSukuna,â you gasp, half-protest, half-plea.
He lifts his head, eyes dark in the low light, mouth slick with your honey and smug like only he is.
âThought you were brave, sheriffâs girl.â
âI am.â you say, voice shaky.
âSo be brave,â he says. âIâm not done with you.â
He proves it immediately.
You donât have words for the way he drags you up and up again, patient in his own ruthless way, refusing to rush, refusing to let you hide from how much you want it â for how much you want him. Your breath turns ragged, your throat raw with sounds you donât recognize as yours until you hear him answer them with guttural curses and muttered praise.
By the time he rises over you, bracing himself on his forearms, your whole body feels strange â boneless and tight at the same time, like youâve been wrung out and filled back up with something hot and treacherous.
Heâs shed the last of his clothes somewhere along the way. You feel him, all along you, heavy thighs pressing into the backs of your spread ones, chest broad and solid under your palms because your hands have their own way of finding the planes of his chest, like magnets latching to those muscles coiling under hot skin.
Every inch of him is warm and unfinished, like a storm not quite done breaking.
He kisses you again, slower now, tongue stroking into your mouth greedily, like heâs tasting the sounds he pulled out of you, and you can taste him and yourself mingling, an unique flavor you donât dislike.
When he finally pushes forward, the bulbous, leaking cockhead of his hard length aligned to your wanting cunt entrance, and thereâs no space left between you finally, your breath catches sharp. His jaw grits. His voice rips out of him harsh and low.
âFuck.â
Your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in. Itâs a lot â heâs a lot, heâs so damn big and girthy â your body stretching around him in a way that feels half-pain, half-revelation, your mind scrambling to catch up to what your hips already decided.
He stills, at least for a moment, chest heaving.
âYou okay, darling?â he rasps, eyes searching your face with an intensity that is not gentle but is very, very focused.
You nod, fast, then realize thatâs not enough.
âYâes.â
His mouth curls, corner of his lips twitching up.
âSay it like you mean it.â
You stare up at him, fingers flexing against his skin.
âI want this,â you tell him, voice rough, bare, and low because itâs meant for him â only him.
He swears again, like the confession did something to him, too.
âGood,â he says and his tone is wicked. ââCause Iâm not fuckinâ stoppinâ.â
When he moves, itâs not a careful, church-approved rhythm. Nothing about this â about him â is.
Itâs deep and deliberate, his hips rolling hard enough to make the bed frame complain. He sets a pace that forces noise out of you, forces you to cling to him like a lifeline, forces you to feel every inch of what heâs giving you and taking from you at once.
You try, on instinct, to turn your face away when it becomes too much â when your expression goes past what you think you should show anyone, rosy lips parted, face flush from heat and hair sticking on it from the dampness of the sweat.
His hand is there in a heartbeat, fingers gripping your jaw, turning you back to him.
âEyes on me.â he growls.
You swallow thickly, lashes fluttering open.
âIââ
âLook at me.â he insists, red eyes burning into yours. âYou donât get to give yourself to a man like me with your fuckinâ eyes closed.â
Something in your chest cracks open at that, at the way he demands witness, demands you see him while heâs this close, this bare, this inside your life and your body.
So you do.
You watch him â watch the way his mouth twists, the way sweat beads at his temple, the way his tattoos flex over straining muscle. You watch his control fray with every snap of his hips against yours, every time your nails rake his back and he bites off a moan like it offends him to let it out.
He keeps his gaze locked on yours like itâs the only thing keeping him from flying apart.
âYeah,â he grits out at one point, voice ragged. âThatâs it. Thatâs my girl. Take it.â
You donât tell him youâre not his.
Thereâs no point lying at this distance.
Your body climbs toward that breaking point again, higher and faster this time, every nerve tuned to the friction and the heat and the relentless focus in his eyes. Your breath stutters, your hand flies to his hair again, tugging hard, and he just groans, the sound low and filthy.
âCâmon,â he urges, voice shredded as he spread open mouthed kisses on the column of your neck where your pulse lives. âGive it to me. Donât hold out now.â
You donât.
You break under him, around him, eyes wide and locked on his when he raises his head as the world narrows to white noise and the feeling of being completely, utterly taken.
He follows you down a few heartbeats later, curse grinding out of him as he grinds inside you, his whole body going tense before he shudders, head dropping to your shoulder. His breath is hot and harsh against your neck, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that feels more like protection than crushing.
For a long moment, thereâs only that.
Breathing. Heartbeats. The creak of the bed. The way his hand â still on your face â eases its grip and slides back into your hair, palm cupping your skull like heâs worried youâll float away if he lets go.
Eventually, he lifts his head.
You expect him to put his walls back up immediately. To sneer. To ruin it before it has a chance to feel like anything more than a bad choice.
Instead, he just looks at you.
Up this close, at this angle, his red eyes are softer at the edges, lashes damp, mouth swollen and a little lost.
âYou alright?â he asks, voice quiet in a way youâve never heard from him in the saloon.
You clear your throat, suddenly aware of your heartbeat racing against his chest.
âIâll live.â
He snorts, breath ghosting over your cheek.
âYeah. You better.â
He rolls to the side, dragging you with him so you end up half on his chest, his arm banded around your back. He doesnât pull out of you immediately, like he likes the possessive fact of it. Like he has no intention of pretending this didnât happen.
The room smells like sweat and sex and the faint hint of gunpowder that seems baked into his skin.
You rest your cheek against the ink on his chest, tracing one of the bolder lines with a finger. His fingers tap idly at your hip, thumb stroking in lazy circles that betray how not-calm he actually is.
âYou know this ainât somethinâ you can just⌠walk off,â he says eventually.
You hum.
âWhich part? The sex or the part where I let you through my door?â
âBoth,â he says. âYou feed a wolf once, it remembers. You feed it twice, it starts thinkinâ your house is its territory.â
You smile against his skin, small, dangerous, beholden to him already.
âAnd how many times have I fed you now?â
His chest rumbles under your ear with an almost-laugh.
âToo many.â
You tilt your head back enough to see his face.
âAre you complaininâ?â
He looks down at you, eyes half-lidded, expression caught somewhere between exasperation and something you donât dare name, because he wonât ever admit.
âAbout what?â you ask, even though you already know.
He reaches up, thumb rubbing a smudge of his own stubble-burn from your chin, the gesture oddly careful.
âAbout the fact I donât stay gone once I find warmth.â
You swallow and you know your eyes widen just a tad, for half a beat, surprised.
Thereâs a beat of silence where the house creaks around you and the night presses against the windows.
âThen I guess,â you say softly, âI better get used to you in my doorway when the sheriff isnât around.â
He stares at you for a long moment, then huffs, rolling his eyes like youâve irritated him by saying exactly the thing he didnât want you to.
âYouâre gonna fucking ruin me, woman.â he mutters.
âYou already are,â you answer, honest and unafraid, and watch the way that lands in his face.
His arm tightens around you, hauling you a fraction closer, like the thought of letting you out of reach suddenly irritates him more than anything else.
âGood,â he says into your hair. âThen weâre even.â
sum. you're the sheriff's daughter, so you really know better than to step into saloons and talk to outlaws. however, you like the girls, so you bring them food â cowboys sometimes take advantage of that, but you're not bowing down to any men.
art. @winterrbluess | pt 2
The first thing you learn about cowboys is that they bleed like anybody else.
The second thing is that they bleed in places they donât want you to see.
Church lets out late, the kind of late that isnât measured by the sun so much as by the way folks linger on the steps to talk about whoâs sick, whoâs pregnant, whoâs lying, whoâs already dead and just hasnât been buried yet.
The air is sharp enough to make your nostrils sting when you inhale, and your fatherâs voice is still in your ear from the morning â stern as a nail, steady as the badge pinned to his vest.
Stay home after dark. Donât go near the saloon. Donât talk to drifters. Donât talk to cowboys.
As if cowboys are a sickness you can catch if one of them so much as looks at you wrong.
Your skirt swishes against your boots as you take the long way back, hands tucked into your shawl. The street lamps are weak little things, more promise than light. The town is quieter than it should be, but that happens when men are off âhandling land issuesâ and the women keep the doors latched, waiting for news that comes slow and ugly.
Youâre almost at the last stretch of boardwalk when you hear it â something wet and wrong, a scrape, the sound of a man trying not to make noise while failing at it.
You stop.
Every lesson your father has drilled into you rises up at once.
Behind the general store, where the alley narrows into shadow, thereâs a shape slumped against the wall. Heâs big enough that even collapsed he looks like heâs taking up too much space, like the night has to curve around him. Hat tipped low. Boots dusty. A dark coat hanging off one shoulder as if he doesnât know how to wear it anymore.
You take one step closer and the man lifts his head.
Even half-dead, he looks angry about it.
Crimson eyes catch the weak light and hold it, sharp and alive in a face smeared with sweat and dirt. Thereâs blood on his side â dark, sticky, soaking through his shirt in a slow bloom.
His jaw tightens like heâs biting back a sound. When he breathes, itâs shallow, careful, like each inhale costs him something he doesnât want to pay.
âGo.â he rasps.
It isnât a plea. Itâs an order. Like youâre one of his men and heâs not used to being ignored.
Your pulse thrums in your throat.
âYouâre hurt.â
âNo shit,â he spits, eyes narrowing. âSo go.â
You can smell him from here, leather, gun oil, whiskey thatâs baked into his skin. And underneath that, iron â blood, warm despite the cold.
Your feet hesitate anyway, stubborn in their own way.
You swallow hard.
âI know the sheriff.â you try, like that would somehow make this man trust you to know you can be of assistance.
It doesnât land as you plan, though.
He gives a short, humorless laugh that turns into a wince.
âYeah? Then he can come arrest me once Iâm done not dying.â
You should be offended, frightened, or at least do the sensible thing and back away like this man is a rattlesnake in the road.
Instead, you crouch at a careful distance, keeping your hands where he can see them.
âCan you stand?â
His mouth curls like youâve offered him a bedtime story.
âLady, I can do a lot of things.â
Then he tries â and his body betrays him with a shudder that goes through his shoulders and down to his hands.
His palm presses harder to his side, and you see fresh blood glisten between his fingers.
You donât think.
If you think, youâll run.
You close the space between you and slide your arm under his, bracing your shoulder against his ribs.
The man jerks, muscle tensing like heâs about to throw you off.
The barrel of a pistol is suddenly there, angled down but close enough that your stomach flips.
âTouch my holster and Iâll put you down.â he growls, voice low and vicious.
Your breath catches.
âIâm notâ I justâ you canâtââ you falter and scramble for words but you keep holding him as you are.
âDonât.â he warns, like thatâs the most important word in the world. âDonât get brave.â
Your hands hover away from his belt as if heâs fire.
âI wonât. I swear. Just⌠lean. Please.â
He stares at you like heâs deciding whether youâre stupid or dangerous.
Maybe both.
Then, with a sharp exhale through his nose, he shifts his weight onto you anyway, heavy and hot and real.
He smells like a man who sleeps outside when he canât find a bed, and like a man who rarely has to ask.
You manage to get him out of the alley and onto the street without anyone seeing, because God, apparently, enjoys a scandal but not tonight.
The walk to your fatherâs house is the longest walk youâve ever taken.
His boots drag sometimes. His breath turns harsh.
Once, his fingers dig into your shoulder hard enough to bruise and you almost gasp â but you bite it back, because you canât give him that satisfaction.
By the time you reach your porch, your arms are trembling.
He looks up at your house like itâs a trap with a nice coat of paint.
âYou live here?â he asks, and thereâs something ugly in it â something like disbelief that a place can be warm and still belong to you.
âYes,â you whisper. âPlease. Just for the night. Iâll⌠Iâll fix you up.â
His eyes flick over you, slow and sharp.
âYou should really know better, babe.â he grunts and it sounds like a warning and an advice at once, like you should think twice before attending to someoneâs wounds.
Like you should have left him there to his own luck and Godâs mercy.
The way he says babe makes it sound like an insult and a prayer both.
You blink.
âI donâtââ
âYou do,â he cuts in. âYou fuckinâ do.â
StillâŚ
You fumble with the door and get it open.
The warmth spills out, lamplight turning the porch boards gold.
He pauses right at the threshold like the line matters. Like he can feel it. Like his body remembers things his mouth wonât admit.
âWhy would you give me a hand,â he mutters, voice rough, his gaze locks on yours, his tone malicious. âhoney, youâre making this easy.â
You donât understand him.
As if heâs in any place to actually hurt you.
As if he could do anything to you in that terrible situation he found himself in.
You just tug him inside before your courage dies.
He moves like a predator forced into someone elseâs den, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the room as if measuring angles for violence.
When you guide him to the couch, he lets you â barely.
When you reach for his coat, he catches your wrist.
His grip is iron.
Your skin goes hot under his fingers.
âCareful,â he murmurs, and the threat in it is almost lazy. âYou donât know what youâre inviting.â
Your mouth is dry.
âYouâre bleeding on my fatherâs rug.â
That startles a sound out of him â half a laugh, half a breath.
âYeah.â
He releases you like youâre beneath his attention.
You pull his coat off first, then his shirt â slow, careful, your fingers trembling every time they brush skin.
Heâs built like heâs been carved out of hard work and bad choices.
Muscle cords under your palms. Scar tissue here and there, pale lines that catch the light. Sinews and muscles tightening when the pain bites.
And the tattoos â God.
They climb his throat and frame his jaw in black arcs, bold lines that make his face look even meaner.
They run down his chest in thick, intricate patterns, bands circling his biceps like cuffs.
Thereâs more on his shoulders, disappearing down his back.
The work is dark and deliberate, like someone marked him and he decided to keep the marks as a warning.
You donât stare.
You try not to.
He watches you anyway, eyes hooded, mouth set in a hard line as if heâs waiting for you to flinch.
You donât.
Not from the ink.
Not from the blood.
You clean the wound with shaking hands.
Itâs on the side of his torso, ugly but not as deep as it could be.
A bullet graze, maybe. Heâs lucky.
Or heâs the kind of man who makes his own luck by refusing to die.
When you wrap the bandage around his ribs, he hisses and his fingers clamp on the edge of the couch hard enough to make the wood creak.
âHold still.â you whisper.
âDonât tell me what to do in my fuckinâ misery,â he snaps, then sucks in a breath and forces himself to go still anyway.
You press the knot down, tight enough to hold.
Your hands linger for half a heartbeat too long.
Heat climbs up your throat, humiliating and fast.
You pull back like youâve been burned.
He notices. Of course he does. His eyes didnât leave you for a single second.
His mouth tilts, just slightly.
âYeah,â he murmurs, voice thick with something you hate that you canât name. âThatâs it. Look at me like Iâm a story you can keep.â
âIâm not,â you whisper, furious with yourself. âIâm just helping! Youâre hurt.â
âEveryoneâs hurt,â he groans like itâs obvious. âSome folks just get to hide it under lace and church hymns.â
You bring him water.
He drinks like he hasnât had any in days, throat working, eyes never leaving you.
When you offer him a fever tonic, he grimaces like heâd rather swallow nails â but he takes it, because his body is shaking and his skin is too hot under your palm when you press a damp cloth to his forehead.
His lashes lower.
For the first time, his face softens â not into kindness, never that, but into something exhausted.
âYou shouldnât be this kind,â he mutters, feverish, almost like heâs hallucinating â the words slurring at the edges. âJesus Christ⌠donât be kind to me.â
âIâm not.â you lie softly because you want him to rest.
He gives a weak, ugly chuckle.
âThatâs worse.â
His eyes drift shut.
You sit in the armchair near the couch, hands clasped in your lap so you donât reach for him again.
The house creaks around you.
The lamp flickers.
Your eyes rarely leave him. His broad chest rises and falls with heavy breathes, then shallow, and then regular.
You donât look at his holster again.
Outside, the wind scrapes at the window like fingers.
You watch him breathe until your own eyelids get heavy.
When you wake, itâs morning and your neck aches from sleeping crooked.
The lamp is burned down low.
The couch is empty.
His hat is gone.
His shirt is gone.
The bandage wrappers are folded neatly on the table as if heâs mocking you with manners.
The only proof he existed in your house at all is a dark smear on the rag you used to clean him and the faint, lingering scent of him â leather and smoke and something feral that doesnât belong inside four walls.
You stand there for a long time, staring at nothing.
Relief and disappointment twist together in your ribs until you canât tell them apart.
Days pass.
Your father returns, tired and grumbling, and you donât tell him.
You donât tell anyone.
It sits in you like a stone you keep turning over with your thumb when no oneâs looking.
Then, one afternoon when your father rides out again and the town breathes like itâs been holding itself too tight, you bake.
Apple pie. Cinnamon heavy. Crust flaky, the way Utahime likes it.
You wrap it in cloth, tuck it in a tin, and tell yourself itâs not rebellion â itâs just kindness.
Itâs just you being you.
Madam Mei Meiâs saloon sits at the edge of town, audacious, provocative.
Daring.
Music leaks out through the doors. Laughter. The sharp bite of whiskey and perfume and sweat. Men cluster outside like flies, hats tipped, eyes hungry.
You keep your chin up and walk right through them anyway.
Inside, itâs warmer than your father would approve of. Smokier. Louder. The piano player pounds out something rough and cheerful while women in bright dresses glide between tables carrying bottles and smiles that donât reach their eyes.
Mei Mei sees you and her face breaks into genuine delight.
âAh! Sheriffâs dove,â she calls, voice sharp and sweet. âYou bring food?â
You smile despite yourself and hold up the tin.
âFor you. For the girls!â
Utahime darts in from the side, hair pinned up, cheeks flushed from dancing. She hooks her arm through yours and squeezes.
âYouâre an angel,â she whispers into your ear, then grins wickedly. âOr a fool. Possibly both.â
You roll your eyes, but youâre laughing when it happens.
A man you donât recognize reaches out and grabs your arm.
Hard.
His fingers dig into your skin like youâre property heâs already paid for.
âWell, hello there,â he slurs, breath rancid with liquor. His eyes slide over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. âDidnât know Mei Mei had freshââ
You yank back, shocked.
âLet go.â
He tightens his grip.
âDonât play coyââ
Your heart stutters.
You raise your free hand to shove him, to slap him, to do something â anything.
A hand closes over the manâs wrist.
Not gentle. Definitely not polite.
Just there, firm as law, mean as consequence.
The drunkâs face contorts in pain as his arm is peeled away from you like it doesnât belong to him anymore.
He stumbles back â and then heâs shoved, hard, into the wall. Bottles clink. Someone laughs nervously. The piano falters for a beat and then keeps going like itâs learned better than to stop for violence.
The man pinning the drunk doesnât even look winded.
The cowboy who does it is broad in the shoulders, all heat and hard lines under dust-stained clothes. Pale pink hair spills out from under his hat in unruly strands, a color that looks almost wrong on a man built like that. Tattoos run like blackwork scripture along his jaw, over his cheekbones, down his throat â bold, deliberate lines that make him look branded by something that never apologized. Like trouble carved into a man.
His eyes lift to the drunk.
Crimson. Bright. Cruel in a way that doesnât bother dressing itself up
The same crimson youâve been trying not to dream about.
Alive now.
Clear.
Dangerous.
He leans in just enough to make his point private, voice low and profane.
âIf you grab another woman like that, Iâll take the hand you used and nail it to the goddamn door so you remember what itâs for.â
The drunkâs face drains.
He swallows, nods too fast, and slides away into the noise like the saloon swallowed him whole.
Sukuna releases him with a shove that sends him stumbling away.
The man doesnât argue.
He disappears into the crowd like he knows he just got spared out of boredom.
Sukuna turns to you.
His gaze drags over you the way the drunkâs did â except with Sukuna, it feels like youâre being weighed, measured, unimpressed by your clean collar and your good posture, like those things are costumes.
Like he can see whatâs under them anyway.
You feel claimed in some ugly private math you didnât agree to.
âWhat the hell are you doinâ in a place like this?â he asks.
No courtesy. No softening. Like you owe him an explanation for standing on the same floorboards.
You rub your arm where the drunk grabbed you, more annoyed than shaken, even if your pulse is still jumping in your throat.
âBringing a pie.â
He glances at the tin in your hands as if youâve only just remembered youâre holding it.
His mouth tightens.
âWho for?â he asks, tone skeptical.
âFor Mei Mei,â you say, then tilt the tin slightly. âAnd the girls. They like my baking.â
Something flickers behind his eyes.
Not gratitude â he really doesnât look like a man who knows what to do with that â but interest, sharp and reluctant.
âAnd what does your father think about you handinâ out sweets to a saloon full of whores and outlaws?â he drawls.
You lift your chin.
âMy father thinks a lot of things. He canât arrest me for this, anyway.â
Sukunaâs brow arches, like he didnât expect you to talk back.
âYouâre the sheriffâs girl,â he remarks, and the way he says it makes girl sound like a loaded weapon.
âYes,â you answer, steady. âAnd Iâm still allowed to have friends.â
He scoffs, mouth curling.
âFriends.â
âMei Meiâs been kinder to me than half the church women who smile and pray and talk about charity like itâs a prize,â you say. âSo yes. Friends.â
You expect him to laugh, or sneer, or call you naive.
Instead, he watches you a long beat, eyes narrowed like youâre a riddle thatâs irritating him.
Then he looks away first â like it costs him something to keep looking.
âDonât get grabbed again,â he grouses.
It lands like an order. Like again youâre one of his men.
Like heâs decided, without asking, that your safety is now part of the roomâs rules.
You donât step back. Your fingers tighten around the tin.
âI handled it.â
He turns his head, slow, and those red eyes pin you.
âHe handled you for a second.â
Your throat tightens. Heat crawls up your neck in a way you hate, because you refuse to be embarrassed by a strangerâs hands or a strangerâs attention.
You hold your ground anyway.
âAnd then you decided to show off.â
That gets a sound out of him â half a laugh, half a scoff â like youâve amused him by accident.
âYeah,â he murmurs. âSure. Thatâs what it was.â
Utahime appears at your elbow then, slipping between you and the noise, arm looping through yours like sheâs claiming you as hers.
âYou alright?â she asks softly.
âIâm fine,â you say, eyes still on Sukuna. You hate that your voice softens when you say it. âYou were going to die on my couch.â
His gaze flicks up, sharp. For a split second, something changes â so small you almost miss it.
Like he didnât expect you to say it out loud.
Like he didnât expect you to stand there and own it.
Then his expression hardens again, mean and familiar.
âShouldâve let me.â
Heâs already turning away, drifting back toward a table where a few hard-faced men sit with cards spread and whiskey poured.
They look up when he returns, grin at whatever story his posture tells.
He doesnât grin back, just drops into his chair like it belongs to him.
And still â before he reaches for his drink â his eyes cut back to you once.
Like heâs checking youâre still standing.
You deliver the pie to Mei Mei, accept her kisses on both cheeks, endure the teasing from the girls about how a man like that doesnât step in unless something matters.
You laugh it off.
You tell them to mind their tongues.
You still feel his gaze like a scorching brand between your shoulders.
Utahime slips once again to your side, eyes bright with gossip and relief after a while.
âThatâs Sukuna,â she whispers. âHeâs been staying here with his men when they ride through. Takes big jobs. Land disputes. Escort work. The kind that ends bloody. Heâsââ she grimaces. âHeâs filthy. In every way. Mean too. But he pays on time and he doesnât let men get grabby with the girls unless they want it.â
You swallow, watching Sukuna across the room.
Sukuna doesnât laugh with the other men at the table as they gamble, drink, talk loudly.
He watches.
Every so often, his gaze cuts back to you like a tether you didnât ask for.
You leave before sunset because youâre not stupid. Youâve been raised by a man who makes laws out of warnings.
It starts the way most bad ideas start â quietly, like itâs nothing.
You bring bread the next week. A whole loaf, warm from the oven, wrapped in cloth.
Mei Mei crows like youâve brought her gold. The girls descend on it like they havenât eaten real food in days, and you get scolded â gently â for not staying long enough to have a slice.
Sukuna and his men are there again.
Theyâre not always gambling. Sometimes theyâre cleaning their weapons at the table, oiling steel with steady hands. Sometimes theyâre eating like theyâve worked themselves hollow. Sometimes theyâre talking low about ranch boundaries and cattle stolen and which men deserve to disappear into the scrub without anyone asking questions.
Youâre not stupid.
You know what kind of work cowboys like that do.
And still â you bring food.
Not because of Sukuna.
Because Utahimeâs cheeks have gotten thinner. Because Mei Meiâs hands crack in the cold. Because youâve learned the church will pray for a woman starving and still cross the street to avoid her.
So you bring stew in a tin. Biscuits. Smoked sausage when you can get it. Pickled vegetables. Honey cake.
Whatever your fatherâs kitchen can spare when heâs gone and you can cook without him muttering that women who associate with saloons are asking for trouble.
Sometimes Sukuna ignores you.
Sometimes he looks up and says something crude just to see if itâll make you flinch.
The first time he does it, youâre setting down a basket of cornbread and heâs leaning back in his chair with his boots hooked on the rung, eyes half-lidded like a bored predator.
âWhatâs next, sweetheart?â he drawls. âYou gonna start spoon-feedinâ us like weâre a bunch of helpless bastards?â
You donât cower at his mean ways.
You set the basket down with a soft thunk and look him dead in the eye.
âIf youâre helpless, thatâs between you and God.â
A couple of his men choke on laughter.
Sukunaâs mouth twitches â annoyed, amused, something in between.
He looks you up and down like heâs cataloguing the fact you wonât bow just because his voice is rough.
âYou got a smart mouth.â he says.
âYou keep talking to me like Iâm stupid,â you reply, calm, âand youâll keep finding out Iâm not.â
His stare sharpens.
Your heart does that stupid little stumble itâs started doing around him, but you donât let it show in your posture. You feel timid under his gaze because his gaze is too much â because he looks like sin made into a man and made comfortable in his own skin â but youâre not fragile.
Youâre not a trembling church mouse.
Youâre a sheriffâs daughter.
Youâve seen blood.
Youâve learn how to handle a carbine and shoot moving targets.
Youâve heard screams.
Youâve watched your father hang a man and then eat supper like his hands werenât still stained.
Sukuna holds your eyes a long beat, then tips his chin once, like a concession he hates giving.
âAlright,â he mutters. âFine.â
Then he reaches for the cornbread like you made it specially for him to eat.
Weeks turn into months.
His presence becomes a season in the saloon â like winter, harsh, inevitable, and making everyone move differently.
The girls notice before you do.
One night you bring a tray of meat pies â smaller than your father likes, spiced heavier, made for hands that eat fast and get back to work.
Utahime nudges you with her elbow while youâre unwrapping them.
âHeâs in a better mood when you bring food,â she murmurs, eyes bright with the kind of gossip that keeps a girl alive.
You snort softly.
âHeâs in a better mood when heâs chewing.â
âNo,â she insists. âYouâre not listeninâ doll. Heâs⌠less mean.â
You glance over before you can stop yourself.
Sukunaâs at his table, same spot he always takes, back to the wall like he trusts no one behind him. Heâs got a glass in hand, cards on the wood, his men laughing at something that should probably be criminal. Sukuna isnât laughing â but his shoulders arenât as tight. His jaw isnât clenched. His eyes arenât scanning the room like heâs waiting for a reason to break someone.
Then his gaze lifts and catches you.
Just like that, you feel it â heat and awareness, like heâs hooked something under your ribs and tugged.
Your breath sticks for a moment.
He doesnât smile.
But his eyes soften a fraction, the way a storm does when it shifts direction instead of breaking.
Utahime hums smugly.
âTold you.â
You roll your eyes, cheeks warming.
âYouâre ridiculous, girl.â
âIâm observant,â she corrects, then leans closer. âAnd he watches you when you leave.â
You pretend you donât hear that part.
You bring the pies to Mei Meiâs counter, she insists you sit for a moment.
You do, because you like her and because you like the girls and because, deep down, you like the saloonâs honest warmth more than you like the churchâs cold virtue.
Thatâs when Sukuna appears at your elbow like heâs decided youâre part of the room now and heâs gracing you with his closeness.
He doesnât ask permission. He just stands there, close enough that you smell leather and smoke and the faint metallic edge of gun oil. His shadow falls over the counter.
Mei Meiâs eyes flick between you and him, sharp and amused.
She doesnât say a word.
She just goes back to counting coins like sheâs seen this play before.
Sukuna taps a knuckle against the counter.
âWhatâs that?â
âPies.â you answer, because you refuse to act flustered.
âWhat kind?â
You tilt your head.
âDo you always interrogate women about baked goods?â
His mouth curls.
âOnly the ones bringinâ âem.â
You lift the cloth, showing him.
âMeat pies. Spiced.â
His gaze drops to them, then lifts back to you.
âYou make âem?â
âYes.â
He leans in a fraction, voice lower.
âYou make âem for us now?â
Your spine straightens.
âI make them for the girls.â
âMm,â he murmurs, like he doesnât believe in for the girls. âAnd if we eat âem?â
You look him right in the eye.
âThen I hope you choke.â your gaze sharpens a fraction and your lips curl a little up with the little dose of poison in your tone. It just slips out before you can polish it.
The room around you feels like it goes quiet for a heartbeat â like everyone heard. One of his men snorts into his drink. Utahimeâs eyes go wide with delighted horror.
Sukuna stares at you, then lets out a rough laugh that sounds like it was dragged out of him against his will.
âChrist,â he mutters. âYouâre fun.â
You refuse to smile. Your eyes give you away.
He reaches behind him, grabs a bottle off a passing tray without asking, and sets it on the counter in front of you.
âA beer for the Lady.â he says, like heâs tossing a bone.
You blink.
âI didnât askââ
âI know,â he cuts in. âThatâs why itâs a gift, not a favor.â
You hesitate.
Youâre not really into alcohol, you prefer tea, sweet cider, not tasting bitterness on your tongue.
But youâre not about to refuse on principle.
You wrap your fingers around the bottle. His hand brushes yours as he releases it â calloused, warm.
Itâs nothing.
Itâs everything.
âThank you,â you say, quiet but firm.
His eyes narrow, like gratitude makes him uncomfortable.
âDonât make it weird.â he mutters.
You lift the bottle.
âToo late.â
You take a drink. The beer is cold and bitter and it burns going down. You swallow anyway, because youâre stubborn and because Sukunaâs eyes are on your throat like heâs tracking the movement.
He looks away first, jaw flexing.
You donât win often against men like him.
That feels like a win.
It becomes a pattern.
You stop by with food when your father rides out. You learn his schedule the way you learn weather â by watching, by listening, by understanding the rhythms that keep a household intact.
Sometimes Sukuna is there, fresh off work, dirt on his boots and blood on his knuckles like itâs just another kind of mud.
Sometimes heâs in the middle of a job negotiation with Mei Mei â sheâs got her own kind of power, and men like him respect power even if they curse at it.
Sometimes heâs outside, leaning against a post with a cigarette between his fingers, watching the street like heâs bored enough to start trouble just to feel alive.
And you â smart as you are, brave as you are â start to notice the way he shifts when you arrive.
Not softened. Not made gentle.
Just oriented.
Like the warmth of your presence is a thing his body recognizes even when his mind resists it.
He helps you without calling it help.
You catch a tray before it falls, and heâs already there with a hand under it, steadying, grumbling,
âWatch your damn hands,â like youâre the careless one.
A drunk decides youâre fair game again, and Sukuna doesnât even stand up â he just looks at the man and says something ugly and quiet that makes him pale and apologize like heâs seen God.
One afternoon Mei Mei asks you to carry a sack of flour into the back because her boy is out. You wrap your arms around it, lift, and nearly tip backward because youâre proud and the thing is heavier than you expected.
Sukunaâs hand closes on the sack. Effortless.
He takes it from you like youâre handing him a basket of feathers.
âYouâre gonna break your back.â he says.
âIâm stronger than I look.â
He snorts.
âSo am I.â
You tilt your head, eyes sliding over him on purpose this time â over the thickness of his shoulders, the corded muscle in his forearms, the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest.
You donât gawk. You donât drool. You just let him see youâre not blind.
âIâve noticed.â you say.
The corner of his mouth twitches.
He carries the flour into the back, sets it down, then turns like heâs going to walk away without another word.
You follow him a step.
âThank you.â
He pauses, shoulders going tight like youâve pressed on a bruise.
âYou keep sayinâ that,â he mutters without looking at you.
âBecause you keep doing things that deserve it.â
He finally turns. His eyes pin you down, red and sharp.
âYou gonna thank me right into a noose when your daddy finds out youâve been playinâ house with outlaws?â
You donât flinch. You lift your chin.
âIâm not playing house.â
His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second, then lifts back up.
âNo?â
âNo,â you say, voice steady even as your skin feels too hot. âIâm feeding people. Thereâs a difference.â
He takes a slow step closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough that you feel him.
Like a storm edging toward your fence line.
âAnd what about me?â he asks, voice low.
You hold his gaze. Your heart pounds, but you donât step back.
âWhat about you?â
His eyes narrow, and you see it â the irritation, the hunger, the disbelief.
He hates that you can talk to him like this.
He hates that he wants you to keep talking.
âYouâre a kind woman,â he says, like itâs a charge.
âIâm a practical woman,â you correct.
He exhales through his nose, rough.
âSame damn thing.â
Then he turns and leaves you there with your hands clenched at your sides and your pulse too loud in your ears.
By the time spring comes, everyone in Mei Meiâs saloon knows you by name.
Some men try to charm you. Some try to buy you. Some try to scare you.
They learn quick that you belong to yourself.
And, whether you like it or not, they also learn thereâs a cowboy in the corner with red eyes who doesnât tolerate them thinking otherwise.
It isnât romantic.
It isnât even sweet.
Itâs territorial in the ugly, honest way men like Sukuna are territorial â like if something warm exists near him long enough, he starts to act like the cold doesnât have a right to take it.
Utahime tells you one night, half-laughing,
âHeâs never been this tolerable.â
You raise a brow.
âThatâs not a compliment.â
âItâs a miracle,â she insists. âAnd itâs you.â
You scoff.
âItâs the food.â
She bumps your shoulder.
âItâs you.â
You donât argue. You canât, not really, because youâve started to notice it too â the way Sukunaâs gaze follows you like itâs tethered.
The way his mouth softens when you make Mei Mei laugh.
The way he looks downright murderous when someone calls you sweetheart like itâs a right.
He buys you a beer now and then when heâs feeling generous, sliding it across the counter without ceremony.
You drink it even when you donât want it because refusing feels like breaking a strange, fragile truce.
You start to wonder â quietly, shamefully â what it would feel like to let him touch you on purpose.
Not the accidental brush of fingers. Not the steadying hand under a tray.
On purpose.
You donât tell anyone that thought lives in you.
You donât need them teasing you into sin.
Youâre doing fine walking toward it on your own.
Itâs late at night.
Your fatherâs been gone since afternoon, pulled out toward the edge of town by yet another dispute over fence lines and cattle and men who think law is something that happens to other people.
The house is quiet in the way it only gets when thereâs no masculine presence filling it with rules.
Youâre in your robe, hair loose, a book open in your lap you havenât read the same page of in twenty minutes because your thoughts keep wandering to a pair of crimson eyes and the taste of bitter beer.
Then thereâs a knock.
Measured. Certain.
You set the book down slowly, throat going tight. Your fingers curl around the edge of the table as you stand, bare feet whispering over the floorboards.
You donât ask who it is.
You already know.
When you open the door, cold air sweeps in, and there he is â Sukuna on your porch like heâs been carved out of the night and decided your house is where he wants to stand.
Hat low. Coat open. Gun belt heavy on his hips. Tattoos cutting dark lines across a face that looks like trouble made handsome on purpose.
Your eyes do what they always do first, roam his body for wounds.
Itâs instinct now, embarrassing and involuntary. You scan his side, his ribs, his hands.
He catches you doing it and scoffs.
âIâm not bleedinâ.â
âYou could be,â you shoot back, refusing to be shamed out of caring.
His brow lifts.
âYou always check men for holes when they show up at your door?â
âOnly the ones who have a habit of showing up half-dead,â you say, voice dry.
For a heartbeat, something like amusement crosses his face.
Then he steps forward.
He doesnât ask to come in.
He crosses the threshold like it doesnât exist.
It startles you â enough that you take a half-step back, eyes widening, a sharp inhale catching in your throat.
âThe hellââ you begin.
He turns on you, fast, and you feel the switch flip in the air. His gaze pins you, heavy and dark.
âDonât start talkinâ like youâre gonna pretend this is about manners.â he says, voice low.
Your pulse kicks. You force yourself to stand your ground, even as your body goes taut with the awareness of him in your space.
âThis is my house.â you remind him.
He takes another step, closing distance like itâs his favorite habit.
âI know.â he smirks.
Thereâs something in his tone that makes heat bloom under your skin.
Your hand tightens on the edge of the door.
âYou donât get toââ
âI do,â he cuts in, then his hand is on your waist, fingers wrapping around you like heâs already memorized the shape of you. The touch is rough, calloused, warm enough to make your breath shake.
You make a sound â half a yelp, half a betrayed exhale â that you immediately hate yourself for.
Sukunaâs mouth curls like heâs pleased he got it out of you.
Then his other hand slides up, cups your jaw, tilts your face up with practiced certainty.
âYou keep feedinâ people whoâd never bleed for you,â he murmurs, voice thick with something ugly and hungry. âYou keep lookinâ at me like Iâm a man you can fix.â
âI donâtââ
He kisses you.
Itâs hungry, like heâs been starving on purpose and decided heâs done being disciplined.
Your back hits the door, the wood solid against your shoulders. His body presses into yours â heat and muscle and the hard line of his belt. His mouth moves like he wants to take something from you, and when you open for him your whole spine lights up like youâve been waiting for the permission you never asked for.
Your hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer because you canât help it â because youâre brave enough to want what you want.
His breath is rough against your cheek. He curses into your mouth, low and filthy, like the sound of your response offends him and thrills him at the same time.
You kiss him back.
Youâre done pretending youâre above it.
It turns messy fast â breathing too close, mouths bruising, the world narrowing to the press of him and the way your pulse is sprinting. When his teeth scrape your lower lip, you gasp, and he makes a sound that might be satisfaction or restraint.
His mouth drops to your jaw, then to the tender skin just below your ear, and your knees threaten to give.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders and youâre pressing against him harder than youâd like to think you are.
âSukunaââ
âYeah,â he growls, hands tightening on your waist. âThere you are.â
He lifts you like you weigh nothing.
Your breath catches, a scandalized little noise, and before your pride can recover your legs hook around his hips on pure instinct. Your arms slide around his neck, pulling him in because the heat of him is a drug and youâre not interested in sobriety.
His laugh is rough in your throat.
âBrave,â he murmurs, voice dark. âStill brave.â
âIâm not afraid of you,â you whisper, and itâs true in the strangest, most dangerous way.
His eyes flash, red and bright.
âYou should be.â
You kiss him again instead of arguing.
He carries you like heâs done it a hundred times, moving through your house with an ease that makes your skin prickle â like heâs been imagining the layout, like heâs been mapping your life from the outside for months.
He doesnât ask where your bedroom is.
He just finds it.
And youâre so tangled up in his mouth, in his hands, in the way his body pins you close without hurting you â just reminding you what he is â that you donât stop him.
You donât stop yourself.
He kicks the door shut behind him, and the sound echoes like a line crossed.
He sets you down at the edge of the bed, then stands over you, chest rising, eyes burning like youâre a sin heâs decided to commit sober.
You tilt your chin up, breath shaking, robe loosened at your throat, hair falling wild around your shoulders.
You should feel ashamed.
You donât. Not even a tad.
His hand slides into your hair, fist closing gently â possessive without pulling, a claim without cruelty.
His other hand cups your cheek, thumb dragging over your mouth like heâs memorizing the shape. His pad presses into the plush of your lower lip.
âYouâre gonna regret this,â he murmurs, voice low.
You swallow, eyes locked on his.
âMaybe.â
His mouth twists, something like approval flickering through the dark.
âSmart girl.â
You reach up, grip his shirt again, tug him down.
âThen shut up and kiss me.â
For a beat, he just stares â like he canât decide if he wants to laugh or ruin you for every decent man youâll ever meet.
Then he kisses you again, and the world narrows to heat and breath and the steady, relentless certainty of his hands.
And whatever comes after, what happens in the dark behind your closed door, feels like the kind of choice youâll live with â fully awake, fully wanting â because youâre not feeding a stray dog anymore.
Youâre letting a wolf into your bed.
@kearita once asked me to write something to Hozier's song, It Will Come Back, and here it is. I love cowboys, I love Sukuna, I had to eat my own hand not to make this into a fucking entire worldbuilding on wild west with slowburn and some bad angst. I hope you enjoy âĽ
hesitance short fic + side stories | ryomen sukuna x f!reader
summary: sukuna is a gym owner and is very fond of his least productive employee.
this series is a collection of moments the two have shared together during her time working for him. side stories can be read on their own, but I highly suggest reading the fic first.
tl;dr: sukuna violently pining after his employee. he needs a hug. literally everyone knows he likes her lol
genre: modern au, 18+, established friendship(?), fluff, eventual smut
fic warnings: ooc, profanity
Ko-fi link if you're feeling generous and wanted to show extra support â¤ď¸
fic:
hesitance 1
hesitance 2
hesitance 3
hesitance 4
hesitance 5
side stories:
past
#1: what are you reading?
#2: under the influence
#3: uncle sukuna
#4: are you crying?
#5: homewrecker
#6: the interview
present
(tbd)
extras:
boss!sukuna headcanons
gymowner!sukuna aesthetics
notes: the taglist for this series is open đŤśđť
i'm also open to suggestions for future side stories. hit the inbox if you have any!
All rights reserved Š 2024 hauntedcrownpost. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.
â you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. â
⌠cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. minor injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. self-loathing. mentions of difficulty eating. legal drama (likely with inaccuracies). medical content. minor descriptions of wounds. mentions of arachnids. withdrawal. pet names. oral (f! receiving). p in v. nipple play. neck kissing. marking. body worship. size difference. praise. aftercare.
⌠additional tags ; college parties and themes. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6'11".
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synopsis: your new neighborhood is good so far. the folks are friendly and the big, scary guy next door is hot. but what happens when the noise coming from his apartment becomes too much andâis that a baby you hear?
contains: fluff, little bit of crack, neighbors to enemies to friends to lovers, angst if you squint, domestic moments, slice-of-life, uncle sukuna, nephew yuji, dinosaurs, unlikely co-parents(?), nonsexual nudity, jealousy, slowburn(?), making out, eventual smut (dry humping), sukuna yearning, mentions of clubbing and alcohol as well as drug and gambling addiction.
words: 24.2k (complete)
part one
part two
part three
extra:
one
drabbles:
#1 #2
note: this started off as just a random one-shot but these two grew on me so now it's a series! i may write extras or drabbles for them whenever i get the itch.
summary: on the rare occasion that sukuna takes his nephew out to the park, he notices another kid with blush pink hairâ a baby to be exact. he tries not to stare too much, but itâs hard not to, itâs a rare hair color. itâs not until the babyâs mother takes her out of the swing set and back into her stroller when he realizes why you ghosted him almost 2 years ago.
genre/warnings: hidden child trope, ex-fwb to co-parents to lovers, angst (toxic relationships, fighting), fluff, smut, mood board
notes: im very excited to announce this upcoming one-shot as a part of @indiewritesxoxo friday night flicks event! the release date is still tba and im limiting the tag list to 50, but iâll definitely be giving updates throughout the writing process â¤ď¸
taglist is now closed
part one
part two
part three
part four
part five
part six deep dives 1-6
part seven
part eight
part nine
part ten
extras:
sukuna and yomi art
All rights reserved Š 2025 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.
wish I could see that it feels much better when I'm with you
pairing: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (university au)
summary: sukuna has a notorious reputation on campus of being terrifying, but it's hard to be too scared of the guy when he shows up to your familyâs failing bakery every day to buy strawberry shortbread.
when your life feels like its falling apart you discover just how sweet he can be.
content: 18+ mdni, eventual smut, university au, FLUFF, angst, humor, slow burn, idiots in love, miscommunication, parental illness/death, grief, money issues, stress and overwork, harassment, introverted reader, both reader and sukuna are kinda insecure in their own way, reader's life is falling apart but sukuna is there to make things better
I'm expecting to write around 20 chapters for this fic!
episode 1: going through it
episode 2: under your spell
episode 3: anyone out there?
episode 4: expectations are too high
episode 5: crush
episode 6: I just don't know right now
episode 7: late nights
episode 8: so come a little closer
episode 9: beating like a hammer
episode 10: stop the world I wanna get off (with you)
episode 11: I'll stand here all night long
episode 12: sugar mice
episode 13: wonderful life
episode 14: how Iâve longed for you
episode 15 (coming soon!)
Taglist open! Let me know on this post if you want to be added <3
Synopsis. Five times that Ryomen Sukuna - most desired man on campus, frat boy extraordinaire, your longtime FWB - would rather sIeep with you than tell you how he feels. And the one time he finally, finally does both.
Pairing. Ryomen Sukuna x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, frat boy!FWB!Sukuna, 5 + 1 things, FWB-to-Iovers, accidentally falling for your FWB, no strings attached, slightly toxic, pIayer!Sukuna, Kunaâs MEAN, denial, distractions, emotionaIIy stunted Kuna, jealousy, hurt + comfort, YEARNING, Choso cameo, Sukuna with tattoos, college wrestler!Sukuna, manhandIing, oraI (fem. rec), p talking, p sIapping, spĂtting, pĂşssydrĂşnk Sukuna, spelling, overstĂm, HEADLOCKS, rough s, tummy buIges, talking you through it, running from it, chokĂng, DĂMBlFlCATION, dirty taIk, creampĂes, cĂşmpIay, slight brĂŠeding, confessions, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swĂŠaring.
Word count. 16.9k
A/N. Officially my longest fic hehehe- inspired by all the frat!Kuna edits Iâve been seeing on my FYP, bIess all editors.
âYouâre obsessed with me.â
Sukuna grins. âOther way âround, mama.â He takes his long, languid time swirling around the liquid in his red Solo cup. It was some cheap bottle their new pledges had snagged, and it burned down his throat.
The aftermath was in the way the man stumbles just a little closer towards you. He catches himself with a tattooed hand pressed on the wall above your head. Abs against your core. Caging you. âOther. Way. âRound.â
Youâre jutting your chin up in challenge, âIt isnât.â
He hums, âIsnât it?â
âAnd what makes you so sure of yourself, Ryo?â
He shivers at the sound of your pretty voice. He could almost taste the cherry punch in it, and something about that made him tighten in his pantsâŚâMaybe itâs the drinks talking, but I just know.â Sukuna leans in so close that there was barely a centimeter between you both, between your lips. âAnd I also know you want me, girlie. Bad.â
Even with your highest heels on, the pink-haired leader of Curses Epsilon (Curses Îľ, the most sought-after fraternity on campus) seemed to loom above you. Crimson eyes narrowed. Smile predatory. Signature black t-shirt tight.
He always had caught your eye, you had to admit.
Câmon, it was impossible for him not to: a few heads taller than most of the student body, more sculptured, more attractive. Youâd heard a rumor that he did modelling down in Shibuya sometimes and you didnât doubt it. He walked around this very university like he owned it. He probably did.
Sukuna pushes back his cotton-candy locks, and youâre seeing the roots of reddish brown where his undercut was.
The shade was so at odds with the utterly devilish look those tattoos gave him. Even now you could see the ink peaking out at his wrists, his collarbones, his nose bridge. They snaked all over his body. Sensual. And when he slowly dips his head down to kiss the underside of your jaw, you start to wonder just how far those patterns wentâŚ
âOh.â You gasp, grabbing onto his well-built shoulders.
They flex through his thin t-shirt when heâs leaning even closer, and youâre suddenly remembering that he was here on a scholarship for wrestling. The infamous leader of his weight class on your university team. The King of the Court. At least that explained his irresistible build - you wonder whether he was a semi heavyweight? A heavyweight? Did they even have those?
You couldnât think.
Youâre tipping your neck further to the side, and from the edges of your peripheral vision you see the way that Sukuna raises one pink brow- before draaaaagging a line of soft kisses down the side of your throat. Filthy. Fleeting.Â
Youâve seen that look on him before - itâs the one heâd shoot at admirers that dared to stare too long. That sort of âif you want it come and get itâ look. That sort of challenge. Prowling through campus corridors that seemed to shrink whenever his figure waded through, sports bag slung over his shoulder, hair still wet from his shower, you could expect the sports superstar to throw at least ten at a time.Â
Though you couldnât really blame them! You suspected that about half the student body - and perhaps even some professors - held a burning fire for Ryomen Sukuna, and the other half simply wouldnât admit to it.
And just as long as his list of admirers was his roster.
Or so the whispers claimedâŚâHis latest catch is actually the mother of-â âThey say he has five girls at once and they know about it but stay-â âHe swings both ways so what Iâd give for a chance-â âHis longest relationship was two days and thatâs because they begged him-â âStay away.â âStay away.â âStay away.â
Stay away.
You didnât have to be told that to know.Â
It was an unspoken rule on campus, the lay of the land.
Quite the dichotomy, wasnât it? Stay away from Ryomen Sukuna, unless heâs the one that approaches you first and then itâll be like your wildest fever dream, your wettest, and when he finally leaves- well, werenât you told to stay away?
Thatâs the way things were. And all any heartbroken ex-companion would get is a few soothing words by the very same people who would turn around and make an example out of you.
âDidnât you see what happened to so and soâŚ? Stay away.â
He was like a guilty pleasure that most people knew better of, knew would become an addiction. However, still indulged in anyway.
And so here you were. Cooped up in some dimly-lit frat party, cramped until every breath felt like it was singed with the copious amounts of alcohol around you, surrounded by booming beats and bellowing boys. In nothing but the most sinful dress youâd stowed away for a night just like this. Though you had to give yourself some credit- you didnât wear this just for Sukuna, thatâd only happened to be a happy accident!
In fact, you hadnât even been expecting to meet him here.
Sure, it was the fraternity that he was the leader of, but Sukuna was always quite theâŚbusy man. To put it lightly.
Noâwhen your friends had urged you into this very party, youâd worn it with the thought of another man in mind. None other than your two-timing, two-toned, two-inched ex Zenin Naoya.
Your relationship was never meant for a happy marriage with two kids and a house that had a picket fence, but the straw that surely broke the camelâs back was about a week ago when youâd sneakily scrolled through his social media likes. And say whatever you want about privacy, but the multiple other girls he was entertaining and the deplorable podcasts about women heâd been secretly listening to let you say whatever you wanted.
And your first words to Naoya afterwards had been that you wanted to break up. Your second had been cussing him out.
Which was why, when Utahime had told you that heâd be attending (likely to try and pick up another poor girl), youâd immediately rifled through your closet for this skimpy dress you knew heâd hate. And still jerk off to later.
Speaking ofâŚhow ironic was it that youâd run from one red flag and straight into the arms of another.
The thought mulls lazily in your brain, before itâs quickly overtaken by the feeling of Sukuna resting his hands just over the small of your back. Something stirs carnally at the pit of your stomach, and you donât think youâve felt this way for a long time - not even when you were still with your ex.Â
âProve it.â You blurt out before you can stop yourself.
He stops, raising those brows of his again.
And you donât hesitate a single second before looping both arms around Sukunaâs neck and bringing him closer to you. And the hulking man lets you manhandle him as you please, lets your lips whisper just a breathâs distance away from his. In the distance you think you can hear a few gasps, feel a few stares. âProve that I want you. Badly.â
And Ryomen Sukunaâs realizing that he didnât need the alcohol, not really.
Not when he was already drunk on you.
His lips are on yours before you can say anything else.
Your first time meeting Ryomen Sukuna ended up with you pushed into the bedroom at his frat house and holding onto the headboard so that it wonât break against the wall. Bang-bang-bang. Heâd lifted your trembling hands off of them, eventually, and placed them between your legs to roll over your clit. You donât think he cared for a single sultry moment if any of his frat brothers happened to hear.
In fact, with the way that heâd been plunging his massive girth between your legs (the rumors really hadnât exaggerated!) youâd almost wondered if he wanted them to hear. You wouldnât be surprised.
Sukuna fucked hard, fast.
He made you stupid on his cock and chased his high like an absolute madman- though, thatâs not to say he was a selfish lover. Noâperhaps for his own ego, you were made to cum at least thrice on his fat, throbbing length.
And after the deed was done heâd rolled over to the side of the bed and tugged off the sticky condom. Discarding of it into the nearby trashcan, Sukuna rifled through his bedside cabinet for some wet wipes.Â
Ryomen Sukuna wasnât the type of after-sex cuddles and aftercare, youâd come to learn. As heâd handed them over to you gruffly, and flicked at his lighter to burn up a cigarette.
Taking a deeeep drag of it, he turns towards you and brings his lips so close that you think he might just kiss youâonly to puff out a smoky cloud in your face. âInhale.â You do as he says, and let the fumes burn your throat. The side of his lips were quirking up in a smirk, âMmm, good.â Sukuna gestures at his walk-in closet, one that youâd been eyeing for the sheer luxury of it when youâd first entered. âMight wanna find a t-shirt in there, your dress is a littleâŚâ
You looked at the sad heap of silky fabric on the carpet - torn now. âAnd whose fault is that?â
âHeh, just go get yourself a t-shirt, girlie.â Sukuna sits back on the headboard, and youâre appreciatively eyeing his half-naked figure. Prominent pecs. Ladder-like abs. Tattoos that stand out against his golden, tannish skin. Heâd tugged on a pair of black boxers by now that did nothing to hide the happy trail of dark pink hair that you had your nose pressed up to minute ago. âOr donât.â He looks at you with a sleazy smile- shit, heâd caught you staring. âI donât mind.â
âS-sure ya donât.â Youâre managing out, tight.
And almost robotically, you manage to pull yourself onto your wobbly legs and take one stepâSukuna chuckles to himself as you stumble.
With a glare thrown over your shoulder, you walk into his closet. About as large as your entire dorm. Rows upon rows. Shelves upon shelves. Clothes upon designer clothes that made you wonder just how loaded a future professional wrestler is.
There were brands on his shelves that you couldnât even recognize but knew were high-end simply from looking at their logo. Gawking, you flip past a few hangers - Versace, Burberry, Burberry, Gucci, Loro Piana, Dior, Dior, Dior, Dior-
Eventually, you simply give up to snatch the (hopefully) least expensive thing you could find: a wrestling hoodie with colorful logos on its front and âSukunaâ emblazoned across the back.Â
The fabric was oh-so-soft in your hands, made of pure cotton that tempted you to tug it on your body as soon as possible. Oh, youâre marveling at the way the ending hem of it reaches well past your torso, engulfing you like some sort of blanket. Experimentally, youâre pulling the hoodie flap over your head and giggling at the way it droops down all the way to your nose. Unable to help yourself, you tug the sleeves up to where your wrists were and press the pink fabric to your nose.
Strawberries.
What a smell for such a guy.
âFuck-â Youâre whispering into the fabric, slightly muffled. The rush you were feeling gets dampened down a bit as you remember where you are, âIâm getting way too ahead of myself.â
When youâre finally walking out of the closet, Sukuna was lounging on his king-sized bed and scrolling through his phone. You take a moment to admire him like this- his long limbs stretched across the mattress, hair still sex-ruffled, your nail marks prominent down his shoulders, hands hugging a pillow to his chest.
He looked as if he was carved by the heavens themselves. Though he fucked like the devil.
Heâs flicking his eyes casually your way, eyebrows slightly raising as he takes in your attire. âNice choice.â Sukuna hums, voice deep with sex. âDidnât think ya had it in you.â
And then heâs patting the empty side of the bed once more.
More, his eyes said. He wants you even more.
You almost instinctively take a step forwards before-
âActually-â You start, fighting to keep your words steady. You keep yourself rooted in front of his closet and fidget with your fingers. âBefore we do anything more, I wanted to make some things clear.â
âMn.â Heâs turning his phone off with a slight sigh, placing his hand atop his head.Â
Sukuna says nothing more, and you take it as a signal for you to continue. Taking a deep inhale, âI donât really do this one-night stand thing often- not that thereâs anything wrong with that!â Heartbeat quickening at the way his lazy smile grows, you donât know why he made you feel the need to explain yourself. âBut since weâre-â
âAnd who says weâre a one-night stand?â
Your heart does something funny with its tempo, âWh-what?â
He tilts his head as if analyzing you, almost feline with his movement. Sukunaâs pinkish tongue darts out to wet his lips, still sweet with the taste of your pussy. âWhat if I want two nights? Three? Four? Whatâre you gonna do then, girlie?â
âTh-then-â Youâre clenching your fistsâfuck, it made it so hard when he was looking at you like that. âThen youâd have to get tested.â
And thatâŚseems to make him pause.
âWhat?â
âThen youâd have to get tested, duh.â Youâre crossing your arms in front of your chest - oh, it was quite amusing to watch the Ryomen Sukuna scramble for words. And you canât help the spike of satisfaction, as he so-very-obviously didnât expect that. âAnd weâd have to set boundaries. And share schedules. And youâd have to tell me if you meet up with another one of your âfriendsâ so that we can get tested again.â
ââŚâ
ââŚâ
Without warning, he bursts out laughing. âThorough, arenât ya?âÂ
He wipes away a tear of mirth from the right side of his face and- câmon! You honestly didnât think it was that funny! Sure, you hadnât had anyâŚarrangements like this before but you couldnât have been too far off for the requirements?
âWhat are you-â But as you start to protest Sukuna only guffaws even louder.
âAlright, alright-â Heâs raising up a hand as if to tell you to stop before his (well-toned) sides start to split. Itâs only once you take a step back and huff nâ puff yourself into silence that the man finally starts to calm down. Looking down at his lap, âDamn- fuck, Iâve never had my boner killed so fast.â
âItâs just the requirements.â Youâre grumbling.
âGirl, I might as well cut off all my ah- âfriendsâ as you so-nicely put it and marry you.â Quite dramatic, but alright. You notice that he doesnât push back against your boundaries, however. Sukuna stares you down, eyes twinkling with something that you couldnât quite discern. âAnd what exactly would you like to call our little relationship then?â
âFriends-with-benefits, what else?â
âMm, I like it.â
âAnd nothing more- no marrying any time soon.â You shudder when you think of your last failed relationship.
Sukuna grins, âKeh- donât have to worry about that.â
.
.
.
âOkay-â Utahime slams! all one-thousand pages of Shokoâs anatomy textbook down on the cafeteria table, rattling your trays and making the surrounding students glance at your trio. Youâre watching as her glass of orange juice splashes precariously around the rim and inches one watery hand towards the pages of the book. â-spill.â
Youâre startling at her sudden interrogation, âWhat?â
And to your horror, even Shoko puts aside her medical notes to pay full attention to the commotion between her friends. Both of them staringâsquarely at you.
âYou heard me.â Utahime crosses her arms, âSomethingâs up with you these days- and we want to know what.â
Shoko nods, sighing the way she did whenever she was assigned a particularly difficult medical case to discern. âSudden glow about you- likely a mix of estrogen and dopamine boosts, slightly dazed look in your eyes, increased screen time, unconscious smiles, unexplained disappearances at odd times of night.â She taps her pen on her chin, âScience says you have a boyfriend.â
Utahime gasps, âAnd we havenât heard about it?â Throwing an arm around a deadpan Shoko, who says nothing when the other girl shakes her to and fro. âWe- we, your very best friends since freshman year, havenât heard about him.â
âSo who is it? Iâm curious.â Shoko probes.
âTell us or I cry-â
âItâs no one.â Youâre finally managing a choke out, to which youâre met with the most dramatic groans from both your friends. This time, theyâre loud enough to garner the attention of over half this section of the cafeteria- and in your peripheral vision, you swear you could feel the intensity of two crimson eyesâŚ
Your eyes flick to the side - and thereâs your first mistake.
Utahime gasps, kneeling on the bench to look over Shokoâs head. âHeâs there-â Above your frantic pleas for her to just settle down, âDonât lie, I saw your eyes move! Heâs there I just know it-â
You grab onto her dress and start tugging, âUta, for heavenâs sake just sit- down-â
âHmmm, the only ones there are Professor Yaga- no. Todo- no. That PhD student, Higuruma- maybe.â As her options dwindle, she sweeps her eyes. âIjichi- no, eugh. No offense, my dear, itâd just get so troubling to have to peg him all the time.â
You donât know whether to laugh or cry. âU-Utahime, oh my god!â Even Shoko simply lets it happen in amusement.
Until finally, her eyes waft over the group of fraternity brothers that sat tall amongst the rest of the students. She wrinkles her nose at them, âOne of the Curses Epsilon boys- no way, youâre smarter than that.â
They were such a boisterous bunch. Murmuring what were most likely innuendos with each other, clapping each other on the backs with guffaws. Almost handsomely stupid the way they kept looking to their pink-haired leader for approval. Occasionally, someone from a neighboring table would walk up to them in an attempt to talk to Sukuna - and the entire table would fall over themselves to erupt in wolf howls.Â
You were almost thankful for the way Utahime had given you the excuse to stare right at him. The way heâd wave off whichever newcomer, the way heâd roll his eyes at his friendsâ antics. Youâre realizing that his group was mostly composed of athletes, evidenced by the team jerseys and the trays upon trays of food were wolfing down.
Sukuna, noticeably, wasnât wearing his wrestling hoodie.
The thought makes something shift at the pit of your stomach.
âOh my god, itâs one of them-â Utahimeâs following your line of sight with something akin to horror, and even Shoko seems to be rapt with an attention that she didnât ever have in her classes.
Both of them had easily let their eyes slip past the boys, it seems. And itâs only once they saw your lingering gaze, only once they saw that familiar smile across your face, that theyâre realizing.
Widened eyes slipping back to the rambunctious table.
You snap your eyes to your purple-haired friend once you register her words, âN-no, wait-â
âYou stuttered!â She squeals, and you donât know whether itâs out of excitement at the gossip or sheer fear. She turns to Shoko, âShe stuttered, right? Iâm not dreaming? She stuttered?â
Shoko nods, âShe stuttered.â
Utahime whirls back to face you, âYou didnât even stutter when you told off that asshole Naoya- thank you for that recording by the way, it was quite the pleasure to listen to.â Shaking her head as if to make herself get back on topic, âEither way, are you or are you not dating one of the Curses Epsilon boys?â
âI amâŚâ You pause, â-not.â
They both groan at your response. Utahime even reaches over the table to shake you by the shoulders, âTell us- I can- tell- when- you- lie-â
âNo- no listen!â Youâre defending yourself, swatting away her grabby hands. âIâm really not dating one of them, promise! Itâs justâŚâ
Shoko asks, âJust?â
You sigh, there was no getting out of this now. âRemember that party we went to at their house a few weeks ago?â Continuing as they nod, your heartbeat starts to accelerate as you realize youâre getting to the meat of the story. âRight- and remember how I disappeared halfway through the night and told you that Akari dragged me off somewhere?â
Utahime gasps, âI have connected the dots.â
Shoko frowns, âYou havenât connected shit.â
âIâve connected them.â She replies, âI always assumed you ended up hooking up with someone that night and didnât think much of it. Now youâre telling me that it was one of them-â
âKeep your voice down!â You plead, âBut yes, it wasâŚand the thing is that one night turned into two, two turned into three.â Your skin starts to heat up as you remember just last night when youâd snuck out to be let in through the back door of Curses Epsilon. To be pressed onto all fours and ruthlessly ploughed into- âBut look, the point is that now weâre kindaâŚsortaâŚfriends-with benefits.â
They gasp in unison.
Utahimeâs all but standing on the bench once more, âWho is it-â
âWhose dick do I need to cut off.â And Shoko is, too.
You put your face into your hands with a groan as they start listing off names.
âNo.â
âChoso?â
âNo.â
âLarue?â
âNo.â
âKenjaku?â
âNo.â
âIt surely canât be fucking Sukuna-â Both of them look at you, look at the impression on your face. And they turn to each other with serious expressions, âSheâs fucking Sukuna.â
There was no use in telling them to keep their volumes down now - people turned their heads your way and started to whisper. You could only imagine what the rumor mill was conjuring up now. Hell, even Sukuna himself casually flicked his head your way in interest.
And you wished you could sink even deeper into your seat.
âDid you see that-â Utahime hisses.
âI saw.â Shoko replies.
And the purple-haired girl reaches over to clasp your hands, âHe was giving you that look- oh my god. He looked like he was about to eat you upââ And you think that Utahime is perhaps the only one whoâd look over and glare at Ryomen Sukuna the way she did just then, âYou know what they say about him, right?â
âIâm well aware.â You breeze off, âItâs nothing serious- just no-strings-attached fun, promise. I could break it off at any time and not feel a thing, and I know the same goes for him.â
Utahime scoffs, âYeah but itâs not like heâs seeing you that often, right?â A pause. âRight?â
âWellâŚâ
Youâd been saved in that very instance by a bzzzzâ! in your pocket: a text from the man of the conversation himself. And with a quick apology to your friends (you loved them, you really did, but you supposed that was enough interrogation for the day) and a glance at your calendar to make sure you didnât have any more classes for the dayâyou were racing out of the cafeteria.
Followed suspiciously closely by a certain pink-haired wrestling superstar.
You didnât quite care who saw what or thought what, because a few hours later found you back in your single dorm room.
Fucked stupid.
Sex still hung in the air.
You were sprawled out across your humble single bed, heaving as if youâd just ran a marathon. Head sinking into the pillows. Cunt all drooling with your splashinâ slick. Still reeling from the aftershocks of your multiple highs.
With Sukunaâs athletic stamina, however, he seemed to be barely affected. Taking a light drag of his cigarette (youâre sure the building had a no smoking policyâŚ), he looks over your dorm room with faint interest. Much smaller than his but also muchâŚcozier, you had to admit.
Lived in.
He takes in the polaroids of you and your friends, all the cutesy lights, the columns of books. Sukuna stares hard at one of the pictures above your headboardâit was one of you, Utahime, and Shoko after shotgunning a few beers. On the verge of throwing up.
âCute- the dorm, I mean. Sânice.â He says, blowing out a streamline of smoke at the photograph. âThis purple-haired one sâthe one that was screaminâ about us in the cafeteria today?â
âYou heard that?â You exclaim.
âGirl, the entire cafeteria and Gakuganjiâs senile ass heard yâall.â He rolls his eyes with a grin, âDunno whether youâre louder then orâŚâ Such a devilish, devilish grin. â-here.â
âShut up.â
âYou certainly didnât-â
âThey threatened to cut off your balls if you broke my heart, yâknow.â You donât quite know why youâre telling him - Sukuna was probably used to the threats of his love interests by this point. Youâre turning to your side and facing him, trying not to shiver at the way his eyes glide appreciatively down your exposed body. âNot that thereâs gonna be anything at stake to break.â
âOf course.â
âOf course.â
âAnd what if?â He asks you, to which you only look at him in confusion. Sukuna takes his sweet time puffinâ on his cigarette once more before satiating your curiosity, âWhat if I break your heart?â
You think about it for a little bit, âI wonât cut off your balls.â
âOh?â
âIâll cut off your entire dick and feed it to you myself.â
The cigarette falls from his hands and onto your carpeted floor- which Sukuna hastens to put out with an uncharacteristic yelp. You guessed wrestling scholarships didnât cover burnt-down dorm rooms, and you have to stifle a giggle at his actions.
âYou-â He pants out, finally looking up after picking the scorched nub between his fingers and throwing it into your trashcan. Almost glaring those rosy eyes down at you, âYou think youâre soooo funny, huh, mama?â
You chuckle, âI do.â
âWell, yer lucky youâre cute.â He grumbles to himself, at least- you think thatâs what he grumbles to himself. Because the moment youâre looking at Sukuna in slight surprise, he turns his head.
You see nothing but the sharp edge of his jawline, those high cheekbones, the tips of his ears that were flushed withâŚthe sex? Surely? Almost as if he knew what you were thinking, Sukuna brings a hand up to cover them under the pretense of scratching his sweaty undercut. âNever met anyone with this much fuckinâ audacity.â
You yelp, âH-hey!â
âHey yerself.â And then heâs heaving himself up and digging underneath your own fucking bed as if it was his. How strange, this familiarity. The two of you had only known each other for a few weeks (though you had to admit you had spent considerable hours together) and here Sukuna was rifling through your room like nothing - you just wasnât sure whether that was a him thing orâŚHeâs finally pulling outâ
âThat- thatâs my rose toy?!â
âYeah, letâs give âer a spin.â
.
.
.
âI donât know, I donât know!â Itadori Jinâs voice echoed out from the other line, almost reaching a fever pitch in defensiveness.Â
Sukuna rolls his blush-red eyes, heâd been standing outside this godforsaken cafĂŠ on a call with his brother for what felt like hours now. With you inside and waiting. All warm. AllâŚfucked-outâanyway! The point was that you were inside all comfortable, and he was a hulking figure looming outside some frilly cafĂŠ grumbling profanities underneath his breath.Â
In his defense, it was after one of your âhangoutsâ, alright!Â
It was just another day with you. After heâd pumped deep into your lungs, Sukuna just-so-happened to hear your stomach rumble in hunger. And he was the one to have suggested taking a stroll down to the lilâ cafĂŠ down the block. It was packed with college students, and he didnât really care who saw - besides, bearing through the gaudy interior theme and re-play of music certainly not his taste was almost bearable for the pleasant surprise in your ears.
And the refueling, of course. The main reason he was taking you here was because (surprise, surprise!) a house full of college men didnât quite have the nutrition needed to last a few more rounds. And Ryomen Sukuna wasnât done with you just yet.
He just didnât expect to have been assaulted by a phone call from his older brother the very second heâd taken a step inside. And Sukuna had told you to find a seat for the two of you, deciding to take the call outside. He knew his brother wouldnât give up if he declined the call.
They always were alike, Sukuna and Jin.
Sure, maybe not in personality - Jin was always a bit of a goody-two-shoes, though he could hold his own in a fight. Sukuna was the one everyone said they had to watch out for.
The one that didnât get invited to birthday parties by fearful parents, the one picked last during team sports because they said heâd start a brawl, the one visited only by his brother and his father the first time heâd ended up in the ER after a fight, the one who only had those two to cheer at his wrestling matches. Only ever those two.
Whatever.Â
Same rosy hair.
Same features (for the most part, at least. Sukunaâs constant trips to the gym and the ER had resulted in him having a rather more rugged look than his twin).
Same stubbornness.
Theyâd ended up going to different universities, with Jin attaining a scholarship for marine biology a few hours away. Which meant that family functions werenât quite as frequent as they used to be, but he could still hear it in the manâs voice - that stubbornness.
It made the younger of the two brothers feel the heat creeping up on the back of his neck, slightly squirming as Jin admonished himââIâm just saying that you sound happier than usual-â
âJin.â
âAnd thatâs a good thing!â He could practically envision the bespectacled man throwing his hands in the air, trying to hold back his smile. âHell- Ryo, itâs a wonderful thing! You finally have someone making you happy! Youâve finally met someone special! You finally have someone in your life-â
âI donât have trouble getting around.â He grumbles, andâwell. Ryomen Sukuna isnât quite the type to explain himself, but with his brotherâŚ
âRyo.â
âAlright, alright!â Sukuna bursts out, and a mother nearby grabs her child by the hand and speedwalks away. âAlright, I havenât met up with anyone else! Iâve cut off all of my ah- friends, for lack of a better word.â He could hear the smug hum of his brother, âBut thatâs not because itâs special or anything, itâs just becauseâŚâ
Jin urges, âGo onâŚ?â
âBecause sâjust convenient, alright?â Heâs finally answering, âSâtoo much of a hassle to get fuckinâ tested after each one, so I might as well only have her in my life- ah wait, fuck, I didnât mean it like that-â
âI knew it.â Comes the squeal, âListen, Ryo, I just donât want your stubbornness to get in the way of something special-â
âAnd I donât want to hear yer voice- goodbye, old man.â
The ringing tone to denote that the call has ended is much more soothing than his brotherâs voice, he decides. And he takes a few deep breaths before tucking his phone back in his pocket- turning it on silent mode.
He turns around to step inside andâthere you are.
Dressed in that hoodie of his that heâd forgotten to take back from you. The air of someone thatâd just been properly fucked. Through the glass, he sees you staring at the other people outside. He strays his gaze himself to see what you see- youâre chuckling at that little boy who skips along the pavement, you gasp at the delivery driver with a stack of boxes who almost trips, you coo at the elderly couple walking their dog. Hand-in-hand.
Sukuna looks down at his own empty hands.
Scarred and calloused.Â
Before heâs reaching his dominant one upwards and pushing open the swinging cafĂŠ doors. You look up from the booth youâd chosen for yourselves as he enters, waving him in the right direction. It was one by the window, he notices, though in the very corner of the place as if youâd wanted to hide yourself away.
Perhaps hide the two of you away.
HmâŚSukuna thinks, rubbing at his chest. And thrusting both hands into his pockets, heâs sauntering right up to you.
Heâs not blind to the stares he garners from some of the other customers, and though any other time he might have thrown a stray wink or two - and honestly, nothing was stopping him now - he simply sides into the seat opposite you. âSorry âbout that, mama- emergency calls.â
âEmergency?â You raise your brows in amusement, peering at the man opposite you as if you were analyzing every inch of him. And he almost couldnât believe that just a few minutes ago, youâd been shaking and whining underneath him. âI donât know anyone named âEmergencyâ at our school.â
âGoes to another school.â He quips, knees bumping against yours as he stretches them out underneath the table. âDonât tell me youâre jealous, girlie~â
âWouldnât dream of it.â
In almost no time, the waitress is bounding up to your table and jotting down your orders. He orders his coffee black, no sugarâand you roll your eyes at him.Â
The older woman then coos down at the little interaction, âOh, you know weâve got a special offer just this week in honor of our upcoming fifth anniversary? 100% off on all desserts for couples!â Her eyes wrinkle beautifully at the edges, âWould you two perhaps beâŚâ
You open your mouth, âOh, weâre actually-â
âCompletely in love.â Sukuna interrupts you casually, his large hand settling over yours on top of the table. âMaddeningly. Weâll take one of everything for the lady and a strawberry shortcake for me, thanks.â
âOho, you two.â She chuckles, walking off. âAh, young love~â
You watch as she leavesâand snap your head towards Sukuna so fast that you think you may have gotten whiplash. âYou-â
âItâs for the offer, donât overthink it.â He lets go of your hand and crosses his arms. You almost miss the heat of it - was the air conditioning in this place too high? Youâre sinking your hands into the sleeves of your- his hoodie, and Sukunaâs slouching in his seat. âTake it home- all the desserts, share it with your friend or whatever. Itâs for you, anyway.â
âRight.â Youâre not quite sure what to say- âThank you?â
Itâs a rather long and awkward silence that follows.
You attempt to break it by grasping for some shred of conversation, âSo ah- is everything alright?â
He raises a pink brow in question.
And you donât know how he manages to do it - how he manages to make your veins bubble and bolt inside of you with just a single look. âThe ah- the call, I mean.â Youâre squirming in your seat at his half-lidded gaze, so intense. He always looked at you with this certain fire, whether in bed orâŚhere. âYou were just out there for so long, I hope it wasnât anything serious.â
He rests his chin on one hand and tilts his head, âNot worried about me, are you? If it was anything serious?â
âAnd if I was?â
âYou shouldnât.â
To which you furrow your brows in confusion, âWhat do you mean? Of course Iâd care if something bad happened to you.â
Sukuna only holds your gaze, his expression unreadable.
He reaches a hand down his chest - right over his heart - and lightly rubs that spot. Finally looking away from you, the frat leader answers. âNo- no, itâs nothing serious. Just aâŚfriend.â
âI see.â You still.
âYou said I could still have âfriendsâ, right?â He asks, a note in his voice that was imperceptible. Sukuna looks at you with a meaning that you didnât fully understand, and youâre realizing that the two of you had been leaning over the table for quite some time. âOr has that changed?â
It seems like an age before you break his eye contact, âNothing has changed.â
Sukuna leans back in his seat, âI see.â Thereâs silence between you both once he reaches into his pocket and starts scrolling absent-mindedly through his phone. âThen yeah- it was a friend that called. Iâll get tested afterwards though, donât you worry that pretty head of yours over it.â
âGood.â
A few more minutes of silence.
He canât bear it. âLemme eat you out in the bathroom as an appetizer before our food?â
âBe quick.â
.
.
.
âTruth or dare! Truth or dare! Truth or dare!â Utahime chants, jovial words slurring into a nearly-incomprehensible mess as she claps her hands. Messily, sheâs pulling you and a few others into a haphazard circle on her bedroom floor.
All cooped up in a room that was decidedly not designed to hold this many people. The air dimmed with LED lights and cheap alcohol. Bass thumping throughout the bones of her apartment - it was a small get-together thatâd turned into a large get-together thatâd turned into friends of friends of friends both invited and uninvitedÂ
You swear youâd seen a few graduates sneak themselves onto the living-room-turned-dance-floor before you were being pulled into her room by your inebriated friend. One who, as the host, was deciding what the game of the night would be. âTruth or dare!âÂ
Pronouncing, more like.
Shoko rolls her eyes, âYour ability to turn into a twelve-year-old when youâre drunk both fascinates and abhors me.â
âJokes on you I donât know what that word means.â Utahime sticks her tongue out, to which most of the group giggles.Â
âBut seriously- are we twelve?â
âFineâŚâ Utahime grumbles, and clicks her fingers as if happening across a sudden epiphany. âDare or drink, then!â Sheâs peering towards Shoko with a smug smirk, âHowâs that for all adult and mature, hm?â
âThatâs almost worse.â
Youâre taking the opportunity to sweep a look at the (likely) players: some more of your friends, Ijichi, Haibara, Higuruma from the PhD students, a few sweet sorority girls, some strangers, one Curses Epsilon member-
Your eyes widen as you take in the long-haired manâChoso, you believe his name was.
He catches you staring and smiles at you shyly, an expression that you hope youâre returning without it looking too much like a shocked grimace.Â
Youâd seen this very man around Sukuna sometimes, and he seemed to be one of the quieter amongst the bunch. Below Sukuna in terms of rank, certainly, they seemed to have an almost brotherly relationship that stood out to you when you looked at the group. And, listen! Itâs not that you didnât realize a member of his fraternity could attend parties - in fact, Curses Epsilon was synonymous with parties.Â
So you should have expected this. So you should have been prepared for this.
But the fact that he was hereâŚa part of you couldnât help but wonder whether that meant Sukuna was here, tooâŚ
What that meant he was doingâŚ
WhoâŚ
Youâre startled out of your little reverie by a call of your name- and to your horror, youâre realizing that youâd been staring right at Choso. The man was squirming before you, his ears tinged just the slightest rosy shade.
Heart thundering at your throat, you look away and turn back to Utahime. Slightly breathless, âWh-what?â
âYouâre up first!âÂ
Sheâs pointing down at the carpeted floor, which had a glinting vodka bottle in the middle thatâd been spun, it seems. Its transparent circular nozzle stares you down in an almost-accusing way and makes you shift uncomfortablyâyou didnât even know that theyâd begun spinning bottles yet. And whoever was to fall victim to the end of its vermicular spine was the first up for their dares.
And it just-so-happened to be you.Â
You gape, âI-IâŚâ
âCâmon, câmon! You canât back out now-â Utahime taps her chin and pretends to think, âI dare you toââ
âFucking hellâŚâ You already know that this wasnât going to end up well for you.
And just as you expected, her eyes slide over to meet another pair of eyesâdark, doe-like eyes that had been fixated on you ever since youâd been fixated on them. Subconsciously or not. She smiles as she drinks in the sheer intensity that Choso had been staring at you with, âI dare you to make out with the person sitting opposite you for ten seconds.â
Your brows furrow, âSitting oppositeâŚâ Eyes lifting up to meetâhis. âOh.â
âOh.â Chosoâs pink lips part, the tips of his ears furiously red.
And thereâs a few seconds of silence- between you two, but not the drunken students that surround you two. They erupt into cheers and wolf whistles, ribbing at a quiet Choso Kamo to get on with it.Â
As you stare, stunned, he peeks up at you through his long lashes. âW-would you mind?â His quiet voice was almost inaudible.
âIâŚdonât.â You find yourself answering, mouth moving faster than your brain can compute.Â
And before you know it, youâre rising to your feet and making your way to the middle of the circle. Those dark eyes widen as you draw nearer- so different from the red ones that you were used to.
Something in your stomach clenches, and you feel a strange buzz zing! throughout your entire body. Youâre not sure whether you like it or not.
Choso himself starts to get closer to you, and your pulse quickens at his closing proximity. His eyes turn half-lidded as they flick to your lips and back up to your face, like he was making sure that you were okay with this. Tentative. AlmostâŚshy. Youâre admiring the tousled look of his hair, that tremble of his lips, and the way his eyeliner makes him look so soft.Â
You wanted to run. You wanted to kiss someone. You wanted to run. âI- I really donât.â
Choso kisses you.
For a beat. Two.
One of his ringed hands snake upwards to grip the column of your throat, and youâre parting your lips with a moan! Fuck, you were getting wet. Just in time for him to slip in his tongue and-
CRASH! THUD!
Youâre wincing at the rush of light that assaults your retinas, and as you slowly blink back your vision- you realize that there were tears in them. Because of what, youâre not too sure. But you chalk it up to the harshness of the light as your eyesight clears back up.
And then youâre seeingâoh, it couldnât have been a figment of your imagination.
Youâd never mistake that cotton-candy hair anywhere.
Sukuna was on Choso, with the other man sprawled out on the ground and the rugged wrestler on top of him. Chest heaving. Skin flushed. A vein throbbing at his neck. His entire body was rigid and honed for a fight that he knew he was going to win. He had one tattooed hand gripping the front of Chosoâs shirt, and the other pulled back mid-punch.
A punch that he was frozen in.
A punch that clearly hadnât landed yet.
From what youâre surmising of the situation, Sukuna had pulled the other man off of you by his collar. From what youâre surmising of the situation, he was all but about to attack the other man just because he was kissingâ
âRyo.â Youâre starting, a hand reaching out as if to stop the fight yourself.Â
Any and all floatiness from the liquor had now completely dissipated from your body, and you were only left coiling in thick, unyielding tension. Surprisingly, your voice doesnât waver. âDonât do anything fucking stupid or god help me-â
Almost as if jolted to life by the sound of your voice, Sukuna lets go of Choso in a single, jerky movement.
Though he doesnât speak - and youâre almost thankful for it, you donât know what youâd say to him. Instead youâre breaking out of your little trance and pushing aside Sukunaâyes, pushing him to the side so that you can get to Choso.
Stunned, he lets you move him.
He always has.
With both hands gently placed upon either side of Chosoâs handsome face, youâre inspecting him for any injuries. He flushes slightly at your touch. And - tactfully - no one nearby says a single word about it. âIâm- Iâm alright.â Choso says, his tone slightly hoarse.
But you donât give up until youâre completely and utterly sure that heâs okay. âHm, well alright.â Finally letting up, you start to move yourself- and only then do you realize that youâd been straddling Chosoâs hips. Hurrying to scramble off, âO-on behalf of him, I apologize.â
Youâre lightly bowing and he stops you with a hand at your shoulder- only to glance at Sukuna and let you go as if you burned. âNo, no! Itâs my fault for not knowing-â
âDonât worry.â You spare a glance at Sukuna, who had his eyes downcast and his expression revealing nothing. âThereâs nothing to know.â
And thatâŚthat makes the Ryomen Sukuna flinchâ
As if heâd just been stabbed.
As if the temperature in the room had dropped to freezing.
As if youâd plunged your hand right through his ribcage and torn out his heart.
But you couldnât find it in yourself to care at his point. âAgain- Iâm so sorry.â Turning back to Choso, whoâd been watching the exchange with side eyes - right along with half of the party thatâd turned up from the living room now at the whispers of a commotion here. Especially one with the wrestling starâand over a girl at that! âAnd about that ahâŚâ You gesture at his hipsâŚthe ones youâd been straddling.
Choso blushes even deeper, waving his hands in front of him frantically. âNo- no, I didnât mind! I mean- I mean, itâs alright and you donât need to apologize! But you didnât need to apologize anyway because I didnât-â
âMan.â Shoko rests a hand on his shoulder, âStop talking.â
He immediately clicks his jaw shut.
The next thing youâre doing, you donât even know if you even fully thought it through. Because one second youâre standing upâand the next youâve got your hand wrapped around Sukunaâs waistâand the next youâre dragging him through the packed partyâ
Through the crowd that turns their head to look at your unlikely duo, that turns their head to watch the gruff leader of the wrestling team be led out as if he was a naughty child.
Sukuna lets you take a few steps out of the apartmentâs front door, before heâs halting in his tracks and gripping onto your waist instead. Not hard enough that it hurts, not gentle enough for you to be diverted anywhere but his one-track destination toâŚwell, you werenât quite sure.
âRyo- I mean, Sukunaââ You squeal as your heels click-clack! down the stairs. You donât pull yourself free from him, because you know he would let you. âSukuna, I demand to know where weâre going-â
âThereâs nothing to know.â
Your stomach drops.
Itâs the last thing he says. The only.
And you can only follow as Sukuna draaaags you out into the night-lit street, cars lining the pavements like the straps of lingerie on a faceless body. An outstretched. A ready.Â
Youâre recognizing the gleaming black body of his new Audi in an instant - you would anywhere, to be honest. It took up about half the street. Imposing, just like him. It always did make your heart skip a beat to see it parked outside whatever rager you were attending for the night. Just as soon as youâre registering the car, youâre having your back pushed up against it-
âWhat are you-â You gasp out, before his lips are on yours.
Furious. Feral. Fighting to open them roughly with his own mouth, heâs taking a single look at your prettily parted lips and spiiiiitting straight onto your tongue- before stuffinâ it with his own tastebuds, just in the way that Choso was about to mere minutes early.
You muffle out, âM-mmpf- Sukuna!â
âRyo.â He rasps, blindly unlocking the door and pushing you into the spacious backseat. âYou know mâalways your Ryo.â
That night he fucks you harder, faster than any time before.
As if he was claiming every inch of you.
And you donât end up going home for the nightâno, you end up at Sukunaâs instead. And if he made you moan his name even louder than usual, well, itâs only in the morning that you realize that Chosoâs bedroom was right next door.
.
.
.
Ryomen Sukuna had flowersâ
An entire bouquet of red roses that heâs sure the florist ripped him off for - surely something grown out of the dirt couldnât be that expensive?! But he did have to admit that it looked wonderful taking up more than half of his backseatâthe very same backseat heâd fucked you senseless in not too many nights ago.
The two of you hadnât seen each other properly since Utahimeâs party.
What with his wrestling practices for the upcoming tournaments, and your finals rounding the corner. Itâs honestly by sheer miracle that Coach Kashimo had cancelled todayâs training for some reason or the other (he honestly didnât look too closely, merely glancing at the email before driving to the nearest florist whilst texting you to ask whether you were free). And, well, here he wasâŚ
So fucking pathetic in his excitement to meet you that heâd forgotten the damned flowers in his car!
Sukuna hopes that they werenât wilted as he struggles to put on his ripped jeans, discarded on your bedroom floor right along with the rest of his clothes. Heâs looking around frantically for his t-shirt, when you glance over at him from the bed.
And he doesnât see the flicker of hurt in your eyes.
âLeaving so soon, Ryo?â
âUh huh.â Heâs absent-mindedly respondingâwhere the fuck where his socks? Did he even need socks just to go down to his car-
You bite down on the inside of your cheek, âAnother appointment?â Another person, is what you really wanted to ask, butâŚ
âSomething important that I forgot.â Sukuna replies, looking underneath your bed and ah- there they were. He feels you sitting up on the bed, blanket clutched to your naked chest, as he sits on the mattress with his back turned and finishes dressing up. âFuckinâ hell, canât believe I even came up here forgetting-â
âRight.â Your tone was clipped.
âShouldâve gone down the second I remembered but-â
âShould have.â
âBecause itâs mad urgent-â
âMore than me.â
âI just got a little distracted, yâknow?â The pink-haired man glances over his shoulder with a teasing smirk, slightly frowning at the way you turn your head away from him. HmâŚhe attempts to lighten the mood, âSâall your fault, girlie~â
âSukuna.â
And that makes him slightly wither in on himself. That tone. That name. Trying to get a good look at your face, he leans towards you. âWhatâs wrongâŚ?â
âI think we should end this.â
Everything.
Everything was wrong.
Ryomen Sukuna doesnât fight your decision, Ryomen Sukuna doesnât try to get you to explain. He lets your words sink into his being like a pebble cast out in the vast and unceasing Blueâand he lets them fester within him just as mysteriously.
Heâs walking out of your dorm a hollow man.
Right up to his car, heâs taking automatic steps. Where he flings the door open and grips the bundle of stems of those- of those fucking roses.
He wants to destroy them.
Sukunaâs hand trembles as he raises them high in the air to chuck- before his peripheral vision features two familiar faces. Unbreathing, heâs turning his head jerkily to the side and staring at themâmatching crowsâ feet, a slow hobble, the slightly hoarse laughter between a whispered conversation. A vision so private that he almost wants to look away, he didnât know how you did it.
It scares him how quickly he recognizes the elderly couple to be the exact same one youâd been admiring from afar that one day at the cafĂŠ.
It scares him.
Ryomen Sukuna doesnât know why he hands his heartbreak bouquet to the old couple that day. But he does remember one thing - the delighted smiles on both their faces, the way the old man had so-clearly wanted to hold the blushing, beautiful flowers. But heâd given them to his wife anyway.
Seeing the young man staring, the old man had winked.Â
A knowing smile on his face.
âOh dear, oh dear.â To which the sweetly older woman had reached down to pluck! two blossoms from the bouquet. And without hesitating, sheâd tucked one behind her husbandâs earâand then beckoned Sukuna to lean down to tuck the last one behind his. Rosy red against lovely pink.
His eyes widen as her slightly roughened hands cup his cheek.
Humming with a smile, âYou are so easy to love, my dear.â
Something in him breaks a little at that very moment.
And Ryomen Sukuna drives the entire four hours it takes him to drive to Itadori Jinâs university, to damn-near bang down his apartment door.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCKâ!
âIâm coming, Iâm coming! JeezâŚâ His older brotherâs familiar voice - stubborn, so stubborn just like his calls out from inside the apartment. He doesnât care that itâs 2AM and Jinâs neighbors would be complaining, right now he justâŚreally needed his big brother.
He can hear the footsteps get even closer. âWho the hell is it at this time- I swear if itâs rent then I already paid it two weeks ag-â
The door clicks open.
Jinâs face freezes in surpriseâbefore itâs dropping at the look on Sukunaâs face.
âOh, Ryo.â
His arms are around the taller manâs instantly.
And if Itadori Jin felt his sweater drench where Sukunaâs face rested, then he doesnât say a word about it.
âWhat did I tell you about keeping your someone special, Ryo?â
.
.
.
Itâs the next day when youâre waking up to an incessant knocking at your door.
It pounds like the headache youâd been sporting all night.
And youâre getting up, your eyes swollen - not just from sleep (in fact, you donât think you slept a single wink all night) - and your movements all sluggish. Looking down, you realize that your pyjamas- Sukunaâs wrestling hoodie, was still drenched in tears. Your blinks were heavy. You felt a mess.
You barely even wanted to get out of your bed, and you donât think you would have had it not been for the sheer ferocity of the knocks.Â
Were they trying to break down your damn door?!
âC-coming!â Youâre coughing out, sure you had a doorbell that was going unused. Disgruntled, youâre unlocking the door and reaching for the doorknob. âJeez, Uta, I swear this isnât really a good time if youâre going to-â
The first thing you see is red.
Red.
Red.
Red roses.
Bouquets of it lined every inch of your dormâs corridor, as far as your eye could see, some even piled on top of each other, the largest held between Ryomen Sukunaâs trembling hands.
And the second thing you see is, well, red again.
The blush that dusts his handsome face, rivalling his pinkish locks. Sukuna takes a half-step forwards- before he seems to think better of it and lurches right back. His thick brows furrow in sincerity, as if he just wanted to make you feel his wordsâ âI love you.â He pants, as if heâd just run here. And it feels like all the breath has been knocked out of your lungs. âI love you, I love you, I love you, I love you-â
âOh, Ryo.â
And itâs all the confirmation Sukuna needs to let the bouquet in his hands drop down to the floor. Rustling. Letting the blossoms be replaced with something that is, to him, far more beautiful.
He crushes you so tightly into his embrace that you almost canât breathe - nothing but the soft strawberry scent that engulfs you whole. And you almost donât think you need to. Not right now. âI love you.â
âYou idiot.â You choke out, âYou idiot- youâre so- fucking- stupid.â You punctuate your words with punches to his chest, which makes it rumble with a chuckle. âAnd Iâm even more stupid because IâŚâ
âYes?â Breathless.
âI love you even more, Ryo.â
He sighs with his entire soul and collapses in on his worldâyou.
A few minutes later.
What feels like absolutely no time later.
Youâre finding your back laid flatly against your single bed - a humble compartment in your dorm room. But now it had you sprawled out across it and reaching for your rickety headboard to hang onto dear life, Sukuna kneeled at the foot of the bed and clawing at your tear-stained sweatpants.
Pulling at it.
Tearing through it.
Your whines intermingle with the rip-rip-riiiip of fabric once heâs exposing your naked legs. You were wearing nothing underneath it, and Sukunaâs fucking groaning as he opens up your thighs to take the heavenly sight in-between.
âFuh-fuckâŚâ You swear you see a line of glittering drool fall down the side of his mouth, one that Sukunaâs gulping back as soon as it comes. âHoly fuck, sweetheart, how do you look even tastier every time I see ya?â
Youâre huffing, unable to stop yourself. âMaybe youâre just mixing me up with-â
âDonât say that.â And though his voice was quiet, it was stern. It meant every word he was saying, âNever say that.â
Gliding his roughened hands down the tender inner parts of your thighs- youâre shivering as you feel every line and callus from his palms. Remnants of wrestling. The softness of holding you. It makes something in your heart lurch, âI-I just-â
âYou donât need to explain yourself.â Sukuna looks away with a light blush as he cuts you off, âBut I do. We have much to talk aboutâŚbut the one thing I need you to know is that ever since I met you, I have never, and will never, so much as look at anyone else.â
âRyoââ You whimper, feeling the thick crowned edges of his thumbs inch towards your drippinâ core.
âAnd I want you to know that mâyours.â He nudges his handsome head closer, until he could breathe in the sultry scent of your pussy. You could feel the cold breeze of his inhale- âSoulâŚand body.â
And then heâs lavishing his loooong tongue out to lick a wet stripe at your clothed pussy.
Sluuuuuurpâ! Such a greedy taste of your cunt. Before Sukunaâs drawing his muscle back in just to do it all over again - flick after flick where you were most tender. With the tip of his tastebuds heâs outlining your glistening crevice, and pinpointing them right where the knob of your clit was located.
Youâre twitching as you feel him enter his lengthy tongue juuuust underneath the drenched fabric of your panties, before fishing it back out whenever he feels he got too close to your pussy.Â
âP-please-â Youâre grabbing onto Sukunaâs head of pink hair, trying to move him even closer. âWant you even closer- stop teasing now.â
He rolls his eyes rudely, âTeasing? You think this is me teasing, sweetheart?â And before you can register it, heâs reeling his tongue all the way back into his mouth. Leaving your poor cunt all throbbing and completely untouched. âThis is me teasing.â As you buck your hips pathetically with the desire for his ridged texture, âWhat I was doinâ earlier was just savoring, mama.â
You throat was thick with need, âBut- but what is there to savor-â
âWhat the fuck are ya talking about?â One of his pink brows raise.
âI mean-â You hasten to explain, your entire body radiating pure heat and need. âYouâve already had me like this before-â
âOhââ And suddenly, the most lecherous smile plasters across his attractive face - already slicked with copious amounts of wadded slick that sticks to him like some sort of adhesive. âGirlie, you donât even know the half of what mâcapable of.â
And before you know itâSukunaâs rugged fingers come down to spank! right on top of your pussylips.Â
Before you know it, heâs clasping the side of your ass cheeks and flipping you right over as if you weighed nothing more than a feather. With one finger hooking onto your panties- you can distinctly sense when the wrestler seems to think better of it and instead bites his pearly white canines down on your soaked underwear.
Youâre muffling out with your face pushed into your pillows, âWh-what are you-â
Before heâs teeeeeeearing your panties right down with nothing but his mouth.
Exposing your quivering pussy all for him to see, smearinâ apart your folds with both his thumbs. He takes a few seconds to admire the slick that splashes out of your entrance, before spitting vertically down your slit.
Simply to add onto the mess.
Itâs the only warning youâre getting before Sukuna completely surges in and shoves himself nose-deep between your puffy folds. Just the tip of his nose drags down the middle of your cunt from behind, and before you know it- his tongue is zig-zagging at your hole wiiiiiildlyâ
Heâs like a madman. Heâs like a man starved.
Gulping at the excess of your leaking sap and then munching himself even close to lap at the dewdrops of slick just about to fall out of you. They donât even have to be pouring out of you for your greedy Sukuna to be gluing himself to your cunt.
Shovelling his tongue even deeper.Â
And when your tight orifice canât take any more of him, heâs grunting out into your cunt and spitting.
âFuck.ââHeâs clenching his jaw and spitting out once more at the slight resistance of your hole. Just the way that Sukunaâs wet muscle was oh-so-thick, and he kept having to pry apart your pussy folds even further just to inch inside. Until youâre shivering at the feeling of his knobbly tastebuds dragging down your walls, âCâmon câmon câmon- just fucking take it my girl, I know you want to.â
âI swear your tongue got even bigger, Ryo-â
Your velvety walls close in on him, keeping his slippery tongue hostage while he only tries to ebb even deeper. Heâs clenching his jaw at the slight resistance of your tight hole. âSâonly been a day and sheâs forgotten me this much?â
Fisting at the pillows, âI didnât, itâs just youâre too big.â
âAppreciate the flattery, mama.â You could feel his grin against your softened flesh. âBut itâs my fault.â
Instinctually, youâre raising your head off of the spit-drenched pillows to ask just what he meant-
âBut I guess I hafta eat her out so she remembers this time, hm?â
But you didnât have to ask for the answer.
You didnât even have to thinkâhonestly, you donât think you can even, well, think by the time heâs got a hold of you.
Because Ryomen Sukuna was going to do well on his promiseâRyomen Sukuna was going to do well on all his promises.
He was latching one ruthless hand onto the side of your hips and manhandling your hips to start gyratinâ down onto his open maw. Angling you in just the right position so that his swollen lips can latch onto your throbbing clit-
âBetâcha didnât know that mâa good multitasker.â Heâs gurgling out, wads of slick nâ spittle clogging up his throat. And the thing wasâSukuna didnât care how much he had to suffocate on your pussy, he fucking loved that shit.
âI-I donât think I did.â Youâre replying.
âAnd betâcha didnât know that I- fuck, I can reach in so deeeeeep.â The large muscle of his tongue swipes in so deeply inside of you- you canât even fully comprehend whether heâd plunged inside all the way up to his chin because of how dumb he was fucking you.
Rough, hard strikes at all your most delicate spots inside.
Finishing off with the most sinful noises - itâs like the deeper he gets, the louder those noises get. âBetâcha didnât know that I r-reach yer- hah, g-spot this fast, hm?â
Youâre furrowing your brows. Sure, you were slowly getting more and more dazed on his cock - but surely you werenât that mindless that you wouldnât notice? âWait, but I donât think you ever actuallyâoh.â
And then youâre feeling it.
And youâre realizing that Sukuna had timed it precisely for the middle of your sentence, when he can hear the effects of you stumbling and falling apart on his very tongue.
Mazing all the way inside as if searching for treasure, his thorough inches are spreading out your walls so well. Not leaving a single crevice unturned, a single drivelling orifice, a single bundle of nerves- that heâs honing in on and darting straight against.
Pushing down on the area of your g-spot, youâre suddenly jolted by the electricity of your pleasure. He snickers, âThere it is.â
Crying out, âTh-thatâs just mean, Ryo.â
âTh-th-thatâs just mean.â Mocking, in a lilting pitch that was most certainly not reminiscent of your own. With a tough roll of his eyes, heâs only unfastened his maw to take you even deeper from behind. âBetâcha didnât know that I could be meeeeeanâfuckinâ meaner than you even even thought.â
âI-I think I know too well.â Or so you claim - but shit, Sukuna had never eaten you out like this before.
With his pointed chin jutting against the base of your treacly cunt, and his nose curving against your slit. Sukuna isnât just thrusting his tongue inside you, heâs also making sure to flick and linger his tastebuds into any orifice he knew you were fragile at.
Again. Probing.
Again and again and again.
And with a smug chuckle, Sukuna claims. âBetâcha didnât know that I could go reeeeeal fast.â Until youâre hanging your head down to stare between your slick-sheened legs and all you could see was a pink blur intruding at your folds. âOr reeeeeeal slow.â
âF-fuck, that feels so good.â Your back arches into the perfect curvature when his velveteen tongue starts slowing down into an agonizing pace.
It was just so slow that you could feel each line and crevice of his rows of tastebuds, and just so thorough that speckles of your syrup were darting from your orifice and splattering! down onto the mattress. It starts forming a puddle on the sheets beneath you- one that Sukuna was certain not to go to waste.
His free hand skids down the insides of your thighs, layering his fingers in a thin glaze of your pussyâs slick. And whence his fingertips were all done and coated, the pink-haired man was raising them up to his mouth and sucking the sweetness off.
Not. A. Single. Drop. Wasted.
With a groan, heâs not letting his time go to waste, either. And heâs back funneling your snug channel with his tongueâin and out, in and out, in and out. âTake yer pick- sâall for you, mama.â
âSh-shit, but I like both.â You didnât even know whether he was talking to you or your pussy by this point - but you were too gone on his tongue to even care. Slightly bucking your hips into his mouth, âBut I- ngh, do like it a bit better when you goâŚfasterâŚâ
A sudden spank down on your clit once more, âAtta girl.â
Nose pressed up against your slit, tongue lashing ruthlessly inside.
Ruthlessly.
If you thought you were ruined on the movements of his tongue just earlier, then this sudden sloppy cadence has you seeing fucking stars.Â
The gooey end of his tongue swabs against every tender spot at your innards, somehow forking at your luscious g-spot and attempting to reach even deeper. Perhaps your cervix. Perhaps your womb. And Sukunaâs permanently patterning his tastebuds against your walls. Swirling and swirling and swirling right on time with the caresses at your clit.
He didnât care how much you bucked and trembled at the sheer pleasure of it, the frat leaderâs fingernails dig deep into your flesh every time you lurch away.
âAh ah-â Only to be hauled back down in mere seconds by one of his strong arms. Back and forth, back and forth, baaaack and forth. With an unceremonious squelch! your pussyâs being plastered back down onto his mouth. And Sukuna tongues your folds back open to start jutting in between your lips, âDonât- haaaah, fuck, donât fucking run awayâŚhow mâI supposed to eat out my girlâs pussy if yer fucking running away?â
âI donât know, youâve never- hck!â Before you can open your mouth with your next few words, Sukunaâs showing you what it means to be his girl.
To have his knobbly fingertips pinch at your clit and start drawingââH-hehâŚcan ya spell it?â He rovers his thumb even harder on top of it like a button, âBetâcha didnât know I could do that. Spell it. Or are ya fucked dumb on mâmouth already?â
Youâre replying crossly, âMânot fucked-â
âThen spell it.â
With a pitiful moan, youâre throwing your head in a downward direction to try and see exactly what he was-
Smack!
Yet another mean swatting on top of your puffy pussylips, and Sukunaâs tutting against them. It was as if his lips were glued to your pussy using the slick adhesive of your juices, and he didnât want to detach himself even to speakâeven to speak. âAh ah- no cheating now, mama. Noooo cheating.â
âFuh-fuckââ He angles his fingertips as if he was about to strike you once more. âFine- I meant fine! The first letter is, mmmâŚâ
âYeeeees?â Drawling out.
And your pupils are swirling in time with the sultry motions of his digits. It was a pattern that makes every hair on your body stand on end - too curly to be a particularly pointy letter like âAâ or âKâ and yet not even half as curly to have been an âSâ that might mean his name. âIs itâŚR?â
âAtta girl.â Yet he plants another slamming of his fingertips that makes you throw your head back and whine, âWhoops- accident, sweetheart, accident.â
âF-fuââ Fuck you, is what you meant to say.
But Sukunaâs roughly bashinâ away at your sweetest orifice a few more times, leaving a big bruise against the side of your walls with his tongue. And it simply leaves you speechless, âMmmm, nope! The next letter isnât âFâ, try again.â
âYâ!â Youâre bawling out, your jaw falling agape at the sheer incredible speed at which he was drawing out all those whines and noises. It was simply unbearable in the best way. Unbearable.Â
You could tell that he had so-very-clearly been holding back at your previousâŚhangouts. And you could feel the burning sensation of bliss start up at the pit of your stomach, âAnd is the rest of the word âRyomenâ?â
âMmm, three correct.â He answers, to which your hazy mind guesses that the first letters were R-Y-OâŚâQuite the sneaky lilâ thing, arenât you? And ah- hereâs a little hint, this next oneâs an apostrophe.â
âFuuuuuck, mâclose.â Youâre whimpering out in response- and his response, heâs only slashing at your g-spot at a faster rhythm. Only plucking at your tender clitââS, and the next letter is- ngh, P.â
âGood, gooooodââ
âU.â You gulp, and youâre unsure whether it was because of your oncoming high or because a lecherous part of you already suspected what the rest of what he was writing may be. âSâŚSâŚâ Your entire body shivers, limbs unravelling - and youâre not quite sure whether youâd make it until the end of-
Your lips wobble as you try to enunciate, âRyoâs pussyâŚâ
âThatâs my girl.â
Youâre seeing a split-second of flashing lights before youâre suddenly pushed onto your high - hard, overtaking waves of pleasure that leave you all boneless against Sukunaâs eating mouth. But that worked just alright for him- heâd simply white-knuckle onto the side of your hips and lavish your tight entrance with his entire tongue.
Probing, again and again.
The cushy edge of his tongue swipes forwards to strike your g-spot right on time with the peaks of your euphoria. Like a perfect button for him to press on and increase your pleasure until you were simply shaking, âAnd my girl feels so goooood on her Ryomenâs mouth, doesnât she?â He pants, fingers pinching your clit now and rolling between the roughened pads of his index and thumb. âFeels so nice cumming on Ryoâs tongue- betâcha didnât know it could feel this good, huh, sweetheart?â
Furiously shaking your head, âDidnât- didnât know- hck!â
And with a few more moans youâre just splashinâ your clingy wads all down Sukunaâs throat, all across his handsome lower half. âOoooo- aaaaaatta girlââ
âC-canât stop cumming.â You shake, tears sparkling at the edges of your eyes. âIt just feels so good-â
âLeave some for mâcock, alright?â
But he was the one that wasnât leaving anything, that wasnât showing you any mercy.
Even once the sparks of your startling orgasm have bated, heâs plunging his wide tongue in and out. Scouring the inside and outside of your treacly pussy. Licking up every single ounce of slick sploshed down your front.Â
Dripping wet.
Only once youâre well and thoroughly overstimulated does Sukuna actually falter his movements, âMmmm, there ya go, girlie~â Heâs pulling his prolonged muscle out of your hole with a sloppy squeeeeeelch! He looks down at your mindlessly clenching pussy and admires his handy-work. âAnd now for the real deal.â
âTh-that wasnât the real deal?â Youâre asking through a whimper.
âThat? That was just my appetizer, yâknow?â The pink-haired man snickers at his own joke - though it really didnât sound like a joke to you.
You attempt to flip yourself over- but Sukuna keeps you firmly in place with a hand at your hips. âAh ah- donât you think of running from me. Not now. Not ever.â And while youâre still draped across your front on the bed like this, Sukunaâs starting to tug off your hoodieâ
Before he realizes just which one it is - his, his name on the back - and he stops immediately.Â
âActuallyâŚâ Sukuna stands, and you know that tone of voice didnât bode anything good for you. âWhy donâtcha keep it on, hm?â
Instead, heâs the one thatâs stripping now.
That skin-tight shirt.
Those baggy pants.
Those boxers that wereâoh.
Your eyes widen, âIs it just me or didâŚgrow even bigger since last time, Ryo?â
âMmm- why donât we ask my pussy about it later, hm?â
And with that said, youâre getting to turn around and admire all of Ryomen Sukunaâs toned, tanned muscles. They ripple as he discards his clothes somewhere over his shoulder, making those tattoos of his look as though they were moving by themselves.
Greedily, your eyes follow the circles on either of his deltoids. The snake-like patterns down his pecs. The rings around his beefy biceps. The rings around his wrists. All the way down to the rings around either of his meaty thighs.
Shyly, youâre realizing that youâd skipped over one spot in particular.
And you drift your eyes back upâSukunaâs erection was hard and hot between his legs. The most furious red at his mushroom tip that made him look as though he was so achingly needy he might as well fall off.
That you might as well count each one of his throbs.
Biting down on your lower lip, youâre impatient as you follow a bead of milky pre that dollops on top of his thick tip. Smearing just a bit. Travelling down, down, dooooown the veiny length of his shaft- until it ends up at the unruly tufts of pink at his base.
His tattooed base.
One more ring around his hilt, and next to thatâyou gasp.
âOhâŚoh my god.â Without a second thought, youâre leaning in to get a closer look at that irritated patch of skin next to Sukunaâs v-line. And if your eyes werenât deceiving you - that part of his skin had a swirling black calligraphy of none other than your fucking name on him. âDonât tell me youâve-â
âI did.â
You gape up at him, âRyomen Sukuna, youâre fucking crazy-â
âI know.â He shivers as you reach out to touch it. Sukuna was fully unclothed now and prowling towards you on the bed, like a predator closing in on his prey. âBut I couldnât just name that pussy of yours âRyoâs pussyâ and not contribute my part, too, could I? I had to show my dedication too, mama.â
âBut putting it permanently on your skin-â
âIs the best decision Iâve ever made.â
You knew there was no talking him out of it, and Sukunaâs eagerly smoothing his calloused palm on top of your stomach. Caressing you. Drinking you in with his eyes.
Flipping you onto your stomach once more-
âNow face down, ass up- I wanna fuck my girl right.â
Youâre barely managing to let your sweaty scalp hit your pillow before Sukuna suddenly has his obtuse tip squeezed between your pussylips and pushing and pushingâ
âOhââ Your eyes are scrunching as tight as they could close, and the only thing you can do is utterly melt into Sukunaâs carnal desire. You donât think youâd ever get used to his sheer size. âOh my god- oh my fucking- ngh, I always love h-how you feel-â
âFor now-â And itâs a damn miracle that the man could speak - especially when your tender walls were squeezing him like that. âF-for now just pretend itâs the first time.â
Did he just stutter? What was he evenâŚâWh-what- oh.â Youâre being shut up by Sukunaâs rugged, ravenous tip once more. Heâs swabbing every treacly spot of your insides without even trying - simply just attempting to fit and fit and fitâ
âJust- hah- just pretend sâthe first time.â He kisses his lips to his teeth, both clammy hands plastered onto the side of your hips to help him funnel his massive cock inside.
His flared slit lodges against the roof of your cunt, and youâre arching just so beautifully into him- that he canât help but lean down and bite at the side of your throat. Humming in satisfaction at the way the marking is just covered by his hoodie, it gives him the courage he needs to say those next few words. âPretend sâjust you and I. Pretend sâour first time- ngh.â
âYou mean to sayâoh.â Youâre dizzy on the way his honed tip was perfectly opening up your hidden spots, and every time heâs reeling his hips back itâs just a constant back and forth. âDonât think I even knew I had a spot thereâŚâ
âGood- good, jusâ like that.â He grunts out, holding you even tighter to his muscular body. âPretend sâlike weâve never fucked before. Youâre my girl- always have been. Mâyour Ryo- always have been. Always will be.â
âA-always will be-â
âAnd right now sâour first time, Iâve never fucked you before- oh, forget about all those fucking times in my room and in the car.â He whispers out, something desperate cracking primally at the back of his throat as he eases his way inside. âSâour time nowâand I get to finally, finally fuck you as mine.â
All his.
And youâre finding that when Sukunaâs fucking you as just hisâŚit means heâs so much more ravenous than youâve ever known him to be.
So much more ruined.
So much more out-of-controlâ
Itâs like heâs truly realized his full potential. âSince yer mine I get to- hah! stop you from running from my cock whenever I like.â Hauling you down like a ragdoll with both hands on your waist, you shrill at the slamming contact of his hips against your hips. His thighs against the backs of your thighs. His large cockhead against your ready cunt. âI get to fuck you raw for the first time. I get to fuck you so much- s-so fucking much nâ I donât even have to worry about the marks I leave.â
âWhat marks?â
A slam so hard that you swear you can feel the globular end of his shaft right near your throatââThese marks.â
And youâre almost about to repeat your question in search of an answer once more- before youâre realizing what exactly Sukuna means.
Marks.
The marks he was leaving on every gooey orifice inside your cunt, on the globes of your ass being pummeled by his hips, on the sides of your body under the mercy of his grip.
Using that very same grip, heâs folding you on all fours underneath him. Tighter and tighter. Closer and closer to his hulking body. Before your muddled brain can register it, Sukunaâs reaching over his meaty right leg to plant right on top of your sweaty scalp.
Yesâon top.
The heel of his foot ends up on your head, and your eyes snap open in- perhaps shock, perhaps at the sheer audacity of him. You jolt.
âAh ah-â The only thing you hear before one of his hands clasp âround the cottony fabric of your hoodie and tugs it down - it seems that your sudden lurching movement had made his uniform bunch up by your head.Â
And the famed wrestler wasnât just bringing it down to take a good look at your pretty self. Noâhe was also bringing it down to read the name - his name - emblazoned across your back and jostling to and fro while you were being fucked by his ruthless hips. âTheeeeere we go, gotta rep the name, mama. Especially the first time.â
âRep the set? Youâre already fucking me- ngh, senseless.â
âAnd yet I already get to have you- fuck, wear this fâme. My girl. My lovely, lovely girl.â His toned figure leans down and heâs sloppily kissing at the name.Â
His nameâfuck, how he loved this position. That was why heâd purposefully chosen it, to have his name peak up at him as he ploughed himself into you like a madman. Grunting out once your sopping lips squeeze him at the stretch, âThe girl with my- hck! last name-â
âRyo!â
âWhoops- too soon?â He doesnât even sound the least bit regretful. And you canât even answer, because then heâs only fucking your surprised whines out of you, âMmm, and donât forget that I also get to do- heh, this.â And as if it was even possible, his vicious hips accelerate their tempo against you. âI get to do whaaaatever I want with my girlâs pretty pussy- ah, apologies, my pretty pussy just to fit my thick cock inside.â
âI-inside-â You mindlessly babble out, âWant it inside-â
âYeah? Want it all the way until my tattoo? Never been fucked like this before, have ya?â
Well, he has fucked you like this before. But that coherent part of you realizes that that wasnât exactly the answer that Sukuna wanted right nowââNo- no, never. Youâre the first to fuck me like this, Ryo, mmm.â
âGood.â
Whether he was praising you for keeping up with his conversation - or whether he was praising you for taking his cock until heâs bottoming out - youâre not quite sure. Either way, the curly pink hairs at his base finally reach your foldsâand they scritch-scratch at your pussy in such a carnal way you never knew you needed.
As heâs fully inside of you, the wrestling superstar hunches his entire body over and shivers. And pants. And throbs his entire length deeply inside of you in a way that makes your head pound with a rapid ba-thump! Ba-thump! Ba-thump!
âH-hereâŚ.â One of his hands lifts off of your hip to caress down the front of your stomach. Sukuna feels for where his swollen tip was pulsating against your womb, and presses doooown against that lilâ bump. âSâmy first time kissinâ my girl over here, isnât it?â
âIt- it isââ
And Sukuna truly is fucking you like itâs the first time - heâs fucking you like heâs angrier he didnât have you earlier, heâs fucking you like heâs making up for all the lost time.
Just roughened, piercing bashes against your g-spot- he doesnât even have to try to locate that bruised nâ battered little area on your channel. The rounded orifice of it gets pummeled by his shaft, and youâre seeing stars due to the sheer pressure of him. âIt feels so- ngh- fuck.â You could barely even string together a sentence, head feeling all airy.Â
âFeels sooooâ?â
âI donât- I donât evenâŚâ He doesnât even have to be fully inside to let his curvaceous tip poke into your cervix. Purposefully angling his hips, Sukunaâs rub-a-dubbing the door to your womb with his puckered tip. âTh-think mâcockdrunk, Ryo.â
And if you were in any better state of mind, maybe youâd have noticed the way that his rude cadence seemed to stutter. âC-cockdrunk?â
Nodding through your tears, âI am, I amâoh.â
But of course, never let Ryomen Sukuna be known as the man that doesnât take care of his cockdrunk partner.Â
Never.Â
Because in a split-second, heâs lifting his rude foot off of your head and you jolt at the sudden rush of blood to your scalp. âOh- oh myâŚâ
Only mere moments of mercy before you feel your entire limp body be hoisted off of the mattress.
Your eyes damn-near bulge out of your scalp, and youâre flailing at the feeling before- âShhh, shh sh- be a good girl fâme before you make me put that foot atop your head again, mama.â Sukuna grunts, and suddenly youâre feeling one of his strong arms look around your neck.
You could feel all those developed biceps of his bulging against your throat once Sukuna cradles your neck and squeeeeezes. Spittle flowing out of you and down his veiny forearm like a fountain, âD-did you just put me in a fucking- ngh, headlock?!â
âMhm.â He shows absolutely no remorse, âAnd I donât hear her complaining.â
In fact, he could only hear the most sopping wet squelches emanating from your cunt.
And so Sukuna keeps holding you in this treacherous headlock whilst heâs pummeling you from behind. All those veiny inches of his cock being slurped right up between your pussy lips. Again. And again. And again and again and againâ
It feels like hours have passed before youâre jolting at the sudden feeling of Sukunaâs warm fingertips slithering down between your sheeny legs once more. Your clit throbs like itâd missed his touch- and never one to leave you wanting more anymore, heâs twisting his rugged fingers on the nub.
Letting the patterned edges of his digits start twistinâ and turning that swollen knob in his hand. Your cunt squelches out a wet splash of slick at the sudden pleasure, âI-it just feels so good-â
âI know.â Sukuna hums, all smug with himself. âSheâs told me- heh, think about thaaaatâI get ta speak with her for the first time tonight.â Before you can say anything else, he dips his head down to look at your cunt from underneath you and coos. âHey, girlie, how are ya~?â
âY-youâre unbelievable-â And yet heâs rovering his thumb all over your clit in a way that just has you gasping for more, and your cunt squelching out even louder.
âMmm, mâdoing good, thanks for asking.â He continuesâŚa fucking conversation with your pussy. And at your widened stare, he shrugs. âWhat? Mâonly having a chat with- hah, my pussy. Whaâs wrong with that?â
âN-nothingâŚâ You suppose.
âExactly.â And then he times the ministrations of his thick thumb just right to roll over your clit in synchronization with his cock. Youâre feeling one incredible thud! at your g-spot, and then youâre feeling another drag on your clit. This timeâŚa pattern that youâre finding strangely familiar- âCan you spell, mama?â
âAre you askingââ Smack! A rude spank on your cunt, âF-fuckâŚâ
âApologies âbout that. Sâmy first time with you, remember? And I hafta get to know you. Get to do this.â He hums, and itâs not to you anymore. Heâs completely and utterly devoted to keeping all his concentration on giving your pussy the utmost pleasure possible - from two different places of origin. âSo about that spellingââ
âFuck, Ryo, what are you trying toâŚâ
This time, heâs not cutting you off. This time youâre trailing off out of your own volition, your ears listening for the sequences of letters that Sukuna calls out.
A sequence that sounds oddly familiar.
A sequence that spelled out your name.
He drag-drag-draaaaags your clit and it lets out a particularly loud lecherous sound that the larger man beams at, âMmm, exactly. Perfect pronunciation and all- now letâs see if you can spell the rest.â And without further ado, Sukunaâs expert fingertips start outlining a different set of letters on your throbbing clit.
Making you shake with pleasure, âW-wait that spellsâŚâ Silently mouthing along.
Sâheâs accelerating the thumps all the way at the back of your cervix, until youâre feeling dizzy.UâKâjust the sheer amount of tears that streamed down your cheeks already told you that you were getting close to your high. Uâ
Your eyes widen, âY-youâre not seriously-â
âShhhh.â
Nâbut oh, he was. As if he was reading off of that sports hoodie on your back. And he was letting you tremble uncontrollably in the aftermath of his constant strikes and thumps at your greedy orifice, drilling into you with a hunger that never satiates. A hunger that tells you heâs wanted to do this for a long, long time. Aâ
You whisper what exactly it spelled out.
Your name, with the last name of-
â-Sukuna.â The man himself finishes off, before leaning down to leer at your drivelling cunt. The very same that was slurping and squelching away maddeningly at your gushing slickââSâgonna be your name very soon, my girl.â
You donât quite know which one of you heâs talking to - you or your pussy.
But you donât quite care at this moment, either. Because in almost no time, youâre bursting into your nth high of the night - itâs no longer simply your second anymore.
Because as soon as youâre crashing into the white-hot wave of your second, youâre plummeting into your third. Your fourth. Your fifth. Seemingly dragged out of you as if it was oh-so-easy by none other than Sukunaâs ruthless cock.
You shake as it explodes through you, harder than any other orgasm youâve experienced in your entire life.
Toes curling.
Lashes staining with tears.
The only thing you can do is arch your back into Sukunaâs sculptured one and let him thoroughly bash you through your zaps of euphoria. Over and over.
He lets his veiny shaft glide down your gooey insides, caressing every inch of you that seemed to explode with pleasure any time he was pistoning into you. âYeah-â He grunts, feeling you uncontrollably clench around him. âYeah, yeah, yeah- cum around my cock, sweetheart. Only around my cockââ His headlock on you tightens, â-got it?â
âGot it-â You babble out stupidly, your cheek slipping along the sheen of saliva youâd created on his forearm. âI got it, I got it- butâŚâ
One pink brow raises, âButâŚ?â
âBut I also want you to do o-one thing fâme.â
He nuzzles the crook of your neck, âAnything.â
âCum inside?â
And, well, Sukuna did say âanythingââdidnât he?
Because with a few more vulgar thrusts, the infamous frat leader is tipping his head back and emptying himself out inside you. You could feel the way that his thiiick balls clench from behind you, each of those wadded webs of ivory sap being poured out into you.
Each and every single one.
Stuffed and stuffed inside of you.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you take in the second skin that heâs layering on top of your insides. Something so warm and filthy feeling heavy inside of your orificeâfuck, youâre discovering that a primal part of you loved the feeling.
It sploshes! out into your deepest depths and create a lilâ puddle that you can feel even at your cervix. Just swirled around by his thickened tip, âC-cummingââ The man rasps out, voice botched with a primal sort of hoarseness. He stutters as he cums. He shakes as he cums. Crimson eyes shuttering at the most blissful feeling in the world, spurting his seed inside your needy pussy. âAnd then thereâs that- hah! I get to cum inside you for the f-first timeâŚâ
And it really was the first time he was filling you up like this. All the way up to the brim and fucking those pearly beads of cum right back inside you, âKinda- ngh, always wanâ you to cum inside me.â
He pecks the side of your temple, hips still shifting filthily. âHey then weâre gonna have a- mmm, mini-Sukuna before youâre even Mrs. Sukuna, girlie.â
âM-maybe I donât mindâŚâ Bucking your hips back into his for more friction.
âTalkinâ outta that pussy, I see.â
With yet another sudden spank! on top of your sultry folds, youâre being flipped over once more and stuffed right back up to your womb with Sukunaâs thickened inches. All of them shoved right up until you can feel them at your very throat- âWe might have to dumbify her too, Iâm afraid.â
âSâgonna be a long night.â Youâre commenting with a shiver.
Sukuna grins, âHowâd you spell âthe first of manyâ?â
.
.
.
The tournament was in an uproar by the time youâre running into the stands.
Well, more bowing and apologizing as you scramble to your seat past rows of other supporters- but you stand by it nonetheless. Youâre letting out a pant of relief as you finally plop unceremoniously down onto the only empty chair in the stands, placing down your bag and pulling on the collar of Sukunaâs wrestling hoodie in an attempt to fan yourself.Â
âYouâre late, my dear.â Utahime hisses from the row behind you, flipping off the middle-aged man that grumbles at her.
âI know, Iâm sorry!â You whisper back - ah, so thatâs where they were. A few more rows behind her were some of the Curses Epsilon brothers - including Choso - that you had been starting to get to know, little by little. They wave happily at you and you wave back with a grin. Youâd been wanting to get seats next to all of them, but it seems theyâd filled up faster than youâd hoped.
At the very least you were lucky to have your friends so close by you, and youâre shooting them an apologetic smile - after all, you were the one thatâd bugged your two best friends to join you watching Sukunaâs wrestling match. You mouth, âWhole story. Explain later.â
âTraffic?â Shoko asks from next to your purple-haired friend, looking up from her anatomy textbook. For what reason she had that, you werenât quite sureâŚand you werenât brave enough to ask, either.
Choosing the short story, youâre nodding at her suggestion.
Youâd run all the way here, truth be told.
Sukuna was already halfway through his final match of the tournament, one more and heâd win this collegiate title. And though a part of you was upset that youâd missed out on so much (sure, you could watch them later on the recordings, but it was the principal that counted!), it made you so-very-proud to see so many of the recruiters with their eyes locked on Sukuna and Sukuna only.
Your boyfriend of just shy of a month.
You couldnât blame themâfuck, you just wished you hadnât had to wait so long at the dry cleanerâs! Apparently there had been some sort of mix-up thatâd resulted in you being quite delayed while you actually waited to claim the hoodie you knew and loved too much.
Sure, itâd been slightly stained from some of last nightsâŚactivties (somewhat of a good luck ritual, he claimed, though you knew what he really wanted to do was fuck you in the hoodie with his name), but beloved nonetheless!Â
Anywaysâafter falling behind your schedule, youâd been hit by traffic, and then there was the issue of actually trying to navigate the stadium, and then- well, here you were!
Evidently, it seems that Sukuna is sensing the same thing.
Because in the middle of an ankle lock, Sukunaâs crimson eyes flick upwards towards the stands- and theyâre meeting yours instantly.
A charged tension only the two of you could feel.
Squirming slightly in your seat at the intensity of his stare, his realization, you give him a wave.
In mere split-seconds, Sukuna has the other man slammed down onto the floor and his sweaty body struggling to even move. You cheer, that had to have at least been two points.
âWeâre lucky youâre here, my dear.â Utahime leans down to whisper to you. âYou wonât believe what that boyfriend of yours was like before the game- moping around, calling you, staring longingly at his phone wallpaper of youâeugh! I didnât even know that a man of that size and strength could act like a lost puppy.â She shudders.
Shoko states plainly, âWhat she means to say is that your boyfriend missed you.â
And youâre just about to open your mouth to answer- when right beside you, a jittery voice speaks up.
âP-pardon me.â The three of you turn your heads in the direction of the man thatâd been seated to your left, you hadnât paid much attention to him considering the frantic state youâd been in when you first got here. âDid you say âboyfriendâ?â
And now, you almost wished you did.
Because the man beside you looked exactly like Sukuna onlyâŚsofter. Quieter. Calmer. With an air about him that told you that perhaps he was the type that grew up with quite a bit of responsibility. He wore a sweater with the shapes of some marine animals sewn into it. He didnât have any of Sukunaâs tattoos or the chiselled look of a recent athlete or the gruffness he wore like a cloak - but the resemblance was uncanny.Â
The bespectacled man adjusts his glasses and your jaw dropsâthis must be his older brother that he told you so much about! âYou must be his girlfriend that heâs told me so much about.â
âY-yes!â You snap out of your little reverie at his words, and youâre immediately reaching out your hand for a handshake. âYou must be his older brother, Jin?â
Jin pulls you in for a hug, sighing out against you. âThank you so much for taking care of him.â
âNo- not at all! The pleasureâs all mine, and heâs the one that takes care of me most of the time.â Youâre sheepishly admitting, âThank you for taking care of him all this time, I know he looks up at you so much.â
The other pink-haired man blushes, scratching behind his neck. âW-well I wouldnât say thatâŚâ He glances to his left, âOh! And silly me- I forgot to introduce you to our father.â
Youâre beaming at the gruff old man seated next to Jin, a furrow between his brows that you couldâve recognized anywhere on his younger son. âItâs a pleasure to meet you!â
The introductions between you and Sukunaâs family go swimmingly (if there was a wrestling alternative then youâd have said it), and youâre finding that they were the absolute sweetest. Jin was soft and compassionate, the polar opposite of Sukuna and yet so similar to him at his deepest core. Wasuke was more like Sukuna on the outside, and you swear you could feel your sides splitting at the quips heâd comment about his son while you all watched the match.
Eventually, the three of you along with your friends in the latter rows are chatting up so much of a storm that you almost donât noticeââHeâs about to win.â
At the sound of your voice, the rest of your group looks over at the ringed boundaries of the match.
Instantly, youâre all up on your feet and cheering at the top of your lungs.Â
All of you.
Jin and Wasuke.
Shoko and Utahime.
The Curses Epsilon boys.
You.
And when Ryomen Sukuna finally defeats his tough opponent, you canât decide which one of you cheered the loudest.
But what you do know is that heâs sauntering up past the boundary the minute his win is announced - all sweat-streaked and spitting out his mouth guard, all panting and toned with his muscles, all uncaring whether or not his coach is talking to him right now.
He doesnât care
He doesnât care.
Sukunaâs breaking into a sprint once he sees you getting off the standsâand scoops you into his arms whilst you yelp in delight.Â
You knew you must look such a sight, you and this hulking man.
You feel him bury his face into the crook of your neck, whispering. âCould you all have been any louder?â And you could feel the way his face burns against your skin.
âWhat- the King of the Court fan club?â Youâre innocently questioning, âYes, that is our name and you can thank Jin for that. And no, we donât show signs of stopping any time soon- we actually plan on expanding to the rest of the campus by the end of semester-â
He peeks up at the group behind you, here just for him - his brother and father, your friends, his fraternity brothers - and groans. And you can only laugh.
âYou all are insufferable.â Sukuna says, baritone dramatically pained. âEspecially you.â
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Three times where Anakinâs jealousy was harmless, even fun, and one when it wasn't.
Pairing: Anakin Skywalker x Reader/OFC.
Summary: Every time he sees her across the room and forgets to breathe, forgets that damn code that complicates his life. She knows exactly what sheâs doing, sheâs beauty, power, and temptation wrapped in one impossible woman, and everyone wants her, but she only burns for him. Every time he sees her with someone else, Anakinâs composure cracks a little more.
Word count: 7.141
Warnings: Anakin, a warning itself. A little bit of smut, not graphic, there, toxicity there, jealousy, a creep, violence and blood. (let me know if i miss something).
Authorâs note: Hiii, two times in one day, count yourselves lucky. First time writting for our sweet beloved Ani.
This is inspired by hours and hours of clone wars and this tiktok. It goes without saying that all this is fictional, I don't want to upseat anyone, this is for fun.
With that being said, enjoy, hope you like it. Lots of love, ME.
(gif credits to the owner)
The air was thick with expensive perfume, velvet words and politics. Senators with fabricated smiles moved like currents through golden light, their laughter overlapping with the soft strings of the Nabooian quartet tucked into one corner of the ballroom. Glasses clinked. Conversations sparkled.Â
Anakin felt her before she even entered the hall properly. The soft tug in his chest told him she was close, and when she stepped into view, adorned in metallic green robes that kissed the floor, hugged her curves and shimmered as she moved, he nearly forgot to breathe.Â
And so did everyone else.Â
She looked like a whispered sin.
Men turned. Women glanced. Senators whispered. Generals approached her. Every damn set of eyes in that room followed her. Of course they did because she looked like the brightest star of them all.Â
Anakin could feel them, sense their intentions as they approached her with too-wide smiles like the itch of static across his skin. Their attention wasnât polite, it was hungry.
His eyes saw her having polite smiles, he heard her laughter, rare but dazzling, curved through the air like sunlight on water, and it struck him, standing across the room in ceremonial Jedi robes, how damn bright she was.
And how many men wanted to bask in her glow.
She was the kind of woman people gravitated toward. A quiet sun in the middle of a storm. A cathedral in a world of shacks, commanding awe.Â
He stood across the ballroom, robed in Jedi formality, a guest and a ghost. His hands stayed folded behind his back, his expression neutral. But inside, he was seething as yet another advisor leaned just a little too close, whispering something into her ear that made her smile, and his fingers curled into a fist.
For hours, she moved like light across the floor, drawn into every orbit. People hoarded her attention, called her name, asked for things, fed off her warmth. She smiled, laughed, and even joked. All while never looking at him. Not even once.
Then it happened, some Republic attachĂŠ leaned in to say something, too close, and she turned her head to hear him better, her shoulder brushing his chest. His hand hovered just behind her waist. Not touching, not quite.
But Anakin felt it, felt the heat surge like a detonation in his chest. A sharp, hot pang hit low in his gut.
He hadnât touched her in weeks, some mission in some Outer Rim dustbowl, he couldnât even remember the name now. All he could think about in that moment was the ghost of her skin under his callus fingers, soft, smooth, velvet-warm and seared into his memory like a brand.
And now others were close enough to smell her perfume.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, willing the fire down, but it simmered. Oh, it simmered. Another man stepped up to her side, clearly emboldened. Flirting again. Anakinâs knuckles whitened behind his back.
She plucked the flower the man offered her, twirled it between her fingers, and, finally, looked up. Across the room, past every other face. Right at him and her smile changed. Slow. Private. Not for anyone else. She knew what she was doing and she loved it. He could feel the pulse of her amusement, soft and golden behind her ribcage, glowing just for him.
And that was enough to cool the burn. For now.
She excused herself a few moments later, slipping away with the tail of her gown floating behind her, weaving through polished diplomats and oblivious senators. He waited precisely ten seconds before following, every step practiced restraint.
The cool night air of Coruscant swept over the balcony, a quiet haven away from the noise and glitter of the gala. The hum of air traffic and muffled music were distant, irrelevant things. All Anakin saw, all he ever saw, even in his dreams, was her.
She leaned against the railing like she owned the city, like the stars were her playthings. The wind caught her hair just enough to make him ache.
âYou looked cozy in there,â he said, voice low, sharp at the edges. âYour... fan club seemed enthusiastic tonight.â
She didnât turn. Just let the silence stretch, knowing itâd get to him. It always did.
âFan club?â she echoed at last, tone light, teasing. âSounds like jealousy, Skywalker.â
Anakin scoffed and folded his arms. âInteresting choice of company tonight. You always did like the dramatic types.â
She turned, one brow lifted. âYou mean politicians?â
âI mean men who seem to forget that you are clearly out of their league.â He stepped closer, boots nearly silent, heat radiating off him in waves.
âYou know,â she continued, tilting her head slightly to the side, âif I do have a fan club, Iâm pretty sure you started it. That whole brooding stare-from-across-the-room thing? Very compelling.â
His jaw ticked. âRight. Iâll remember to blink next time I watch you let half the Senate fall in love with you.â
Her eyes glittered as she turned to face him. âYou were watching.â
âYou knew I was.â
âPractically vibrating,â she teased. âIf you glared any harder, youâd have ignited the Chancellorâs carpet.â
The Force crackled faintly between them, quiet, intimate, like the brush of fingers on bare skin. He didnât have to reach for her emotions; they poured into him like sunlight and wildfire. She was amused. Charged. Testing him.
She took a step closer. Barely there, but it was enough. âMaker, youâre jealous,â she murmured, delighted at how much tension it was in his jaw and arms. âThatâs adorable.â
That did it.
In one smooth, sudden motion, Anakin pressed her back into the shadows of the balcony, out of sight. Her breath caught as the cold stone met part of her spine and his body followed, flush against hers, every line of him pressed with unrelenting intent, the warmth of his palm burning the small of her back. His metallic hand caught her jaw, tilting her face up, not rough, but firm.
His eyes burned gold in the dark as the shadows wrapped them in silence, covering their secret.Â
âDo you know how hard it is not to touch you when they do?â he hissed, breath hot against her cheek. âNot to shout that youâre mine?â
She smiled slowly, challenging. âYou donât need to shout.â
He growled softly, teeth clenched. âRight, because youâre the one who loves to be loud.â
She didnât deny it. âI love to shout your name,â she purred as her fingers found his belt, tugging him even closer.
Their mouths crashed together in a kiss that had no business being soft. It was hot, messy, desperate, brutal in its restraint. Tongues sliding, biting, fighting for dominance, hands gripping wherever they could, pulling the other deeper, like the weeks apart hadnât worn their restraint down to shreds.
He groaned into her mouth when she bit his lip, and she gasped when he pressed his big leg slid between hers with sinful precision, and Anakin swallowed the sound greedily.
The world outside didnât exist. There was only this, this fire, this want, this ache they werenât allowed to name. And the Force around them swirled, tight and humming, their shared emotions tangling like limbs in the dark. Possession. Desire. Frustration. Love, blistering and untouchable.Â
They kissed like they were starving. Like they might not get the chance again. Like it wasnât enough to be his in secret, she wanted to be his in blood, in breath, in everything.
When they finally pulled apart, panting, her lipstick smudged, his hair a mess, and her dress rumpled, he still didnât move.
He leaned his forehead to hers, eyes closed, hand on her cheek now, softer. But the tremble in his chest hadnât gone.
âYou are mine,â Anakin whispered.
Somewhere inside, he knew this was dangerous.
But her hand running in his hair, tugging softly, her lips swollen and smirking beneath his, and the feeling of her emotions bleeding into his own, her heart thudding against his. âAlways.â
It all made him reckless.
Made him Anakin.
The halls of the Jedi Temple bathed in a golden wash of sunlight that stretched through high windows. It was a sanctuary, quiet and disciplined, above any kind of distraction.Â
Anakin stood with his arms crossed, flanked by a line of teen knights finishing saber drills under his supervision. The hum and clash of practice blades echoed through the open-air courtyard, mid morning sun painting golden light across the pale stone floors.
He was focused, they all were. Until he wasnât anymore.
A tug. It started like a subtle itch in his chest. That familiar flutter of energy in the Force that only she caused. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Then came the whispers. The laughter. The telltale shift in attention that shouldnât be happening in a Temple.Â
Anakin turned and there she was. She had always made a mockery of Jedi rules just by simply existing.
She moved through the courtyard like a comet, bright, elegant, entirely out of place and somehow right there. The sun kissed her skin and made her glow. Hair swept back, face glowing, wearing that rich blue gown that fitted her like a globe and stole breaths left and right.Â
Poor young Jedis, they barely stood a chance.
He watched, arms still crossed, as they began to trip over themselves for her, far too eagerly.
A taller knight stumbled forward, lightsaber already off, bowing too low. âSenator, would you care for a demonstration?â
Another, younger, grinned, straightening his robes with unnecessary flair, puffed up his chest and opened his mouth to talk, but was cut short by a third that stepped in beside her, charming and overly familiar. âSenator,â he said, smirking, offering his arm. âPerhaps I could escort you to the Grand Hall? The Templeâs layout can be disorienting, after all.âÂ
âActually,â another interrupted, âI was just about to take my morning walk, can I show you the gardens?â
Anakin narrowed his eyes. The younger knights, barely past their trials, surrounded her like moths to flame. Soon, he was sure the entire practice floor was about to break in spontaneous combat displays.
They were all smiles and flushed cheeks, tripping over each other for a chance to impress her but all she did was smile politely, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement.Â
Anakin moved, dangerously calm, all coiled control and silent warning. The kind of movement that sliced through space like a saber unsheathed, needing no sound to be final. He stepped into view like a storm rolling over a bright sky. Shadows clung to his silhouette, jaw set, blue eyes hard. He towered over the young knights who were still mid-stammer and mid-swoon.
Her eyes found his instantly and a smile, bright, amused, knowing exactly what this was, appeared on her tempting lips. âGeneral Skywalker,â she greeted, honey-smooth and just this side of smug.
âSenator,â he said, voice all clipped politeness, but there was a glint in his eye only she could read. âYouâre expected elsewhere. Pleaseâcome with me.â
It wasnât a request. Not really.
She tilted her head, clearly entertained, and followed without protest. Behind her, the poor knights stood shell-shocked and heartbroken.
Anakin took her the long way, through narrow passages and shadow-laced halls that only he would know. Hidden corridors carved into the Templeâs bones, tucked from sight and sound. No one followed. No one dared. No one ever did when he didnât want them to.
The tension thrummed between them. Unspoken. Electric. She could feel it through the thread they never dared name. That quiet, intimate current that pulsed like a live wire between their hearts. It made her skin prickle and her mouth curl.
âYouâre brooding,â she said lightly, brushing his hand with hers.
âThey were drooling,â he replied, jaw clenched, walking too fast.
She laughed softly. âYouâre a menace.â Force humming quietly between them in familiar warmth.Â
He didnât deny it. Just opened the door to his quarters and tilted his head towards the inside. His eyes burned hotter than the twin suns. âThey were idiots.â
âThey were children,â she said, shrugging off her shawl. âIt was flattering, sure. But harmless.â
She stepped into his space and reached for his tunic, smoothing invisible wrinkles just for the excuse to touch him.
His hands found her waist like magnets, urgent, desperate. Like his world only started spinning when she was close. Like heâd been starving for the feel of her. âYouâre mine,â he muttered, voice rough, low.
The second she pressed against him, the tension snapped. His shoulders dropped and his breath hitched. She always did this to him, only she ever could.
The smile she gave him lit up every star in his chest.
âPossessive much?â she teased, lifting her gaze beneath her lashes. Her hand rested against his chest, gentle pressure just over his heart. âYouâre lucky thatâs sexy.â
âThey donât even see you,â he growled, lips brushing the edge of her jaw as he inhaled her. âNot really. Not like I do.â
Her fingers slid into his hair, threading through the waves of it, soft and slow. His anger began to dissolve under her touch.
âI know that,â she whispered, grounding him. âYou donât have to prove anything, Ani.â Her lips brushed his, featherlight. âI only have eyes for one Jedi Knight,â she whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
A sharp breath left his lungs, forehead pressed to hers. He didnât speak. Just stood there and felt her. Let her presence, her truth, her kiss soften all the edges. As it always did.
âYouâre the only one,â she said, voice softer now, brushing her lips against his. âThe only one who gets to take me home.â
He said nothing. He just clenched his jaw and looked at her like she was the entire galaxy, beautiful, untouchable, and he didnât know how to protect her from it without claiming her. But Anakin was ready to go to the end of time to keep her safe, even if it meant destroying himself in the process.
She kissed him, soft and slow, with reverence, her thumb brushed along his jaw and his hands finally moved. One slid around her lower back, the other tangled in her hair, cradling her like something both sacred and dangerous.
âYou were planning to come early,â he said, voice rasping low. âJust to see me.â
She smiled against his lips. âTook you long enough to figure it out, my love.â
He kissed her, deeper, hungrier. Less about proving, more about having. Reverence disguised as hunger. Possession disguised as devotion.
They didnât speak again for a while. Not when she tugged him toward his bed. Not when his hands ran down her back like he was mapping out the constellations of her skin. Not when his mouth marked her skin like scripture. Not when she gasped his name like it anchored her. Not when he murmured her name like a prayer. And definitely not when the Force pulsed around them, holding the world at bay.
She had come early and now, thanks to him, sheâd come more than once⌠and would definitely be late to her meeting, with love bites and traces of him in places only he could see later in the night.
But that had always been the danger, with her, time bent, it didnât really matter. The world waited. Only she existed.
And if anyone asked, well, he was General Skywalker. And no one dared question him.
She was trying to work. Key word, trying. Because trying didnât stand a chance when Anakin Skywalker was in the room. Her focus kept going to him.
He wasnât even doing anything, not really. Just existing, sprawled across the soft seating like it was his throne, golden and smug. His presence filled the space like a storm fills the horizon, vast and crackling, impossible to ignore. She could feel him under her skin, behind her ribs, humming through her bloodstream even with five feet and a desk between them.
And he knew it, of course he did, he could feel the effect he had on her.
âYou know,â he said casually, leaning back and resting the back of his head in his intertwined fingers, âwe should go away.â
She didnât look up from her datapad. âGo away?â
âA vacation.â He was already picturing it, voice wrapped in sunlight. âJust the two of us. Thereâs a place, far, far from here, remote, beautiful, where no one would recognize us.â He looked at her. âIt will be like we are an actual couple instead of Senator and Jedi.â
Her fingers paused above the screen, the weight of the idea pressing into her chest like warmth. She could see it too, for a moment. Feel it like a dream she wanted to believe in.
âI would love nothing more,â she said honestly. âBut I canât, Ani.â
âWhat do you mean you canât?â he sat up, affronted, like sheâd personally insulted the sun. âItâs two weeks. The Senate can survive without you. Miraculously, I know.â
She sighed, still not looking at him. âIâm sure it can. But I have propositions to review, bills to finalize, votes to prepare. Important meetingsââ
He stepped around her desk and popped a dramatic hip like the galaxy's most petulant god. âMore important than me?â
She narrowed her eyes, slow and sharp. âYou know exactly what you mean to me.â
âDo I?â he said dramatically, crossing his arms and turning around like a tragic holo actor. âBecause right now it feels like my heart is being shoved to the bottom of your schedule.â
She let out a breath and leaned back in her chair, folding her hands across her stomach as she studied him.
âOur love is everything to me,â she said carefully. âBut my work matters too. It matters for people who donât have the luxury of sneaking away. Our work matters, Anakin. What we do matters.â
âTo me thereâs nothing more important than you,â he said standing there with his back to her, arms crossed like a storm cloud, radiating disappointment in dramatic waves.
She stared at his back, lips twitching. âThat better not be a pout.â
âNo,â he grumbled, âitâs⌠noble heartbreak.â
She laughed softly, Maker help her, she adored this ridiculous man. âYouâre such a menace.â
âAnd yet here you are,â he said, not turning around. âStill not on vacation with me.â
She stood, walked towards him and slid her hands around his waist, resting her chin between his shoulder blades. âWhat can I do to prove to you that you matter the most to me?â
âThe damage is already done,â he said with great theatrical flair.
A laugh almost escaped her lips, but she pushed it back, and in a swift motion she stood in front of him. Her fingers found his jaw, warm, strong, and tilted his face down to hers.
âMy sweet sweet Ani,â she whispered, her lips slow, hot, reverent, against his, making him melt, just a little. âIf you want proof,â she murmured, âthen let me show you what you mean to me.â
She kissed him, soft and deep, hands threading through his hair possessively, it silenced every protest he thought about making.Â
The kiss was heated, frantic, like theyâd been starving for each other and finally allowed to feast. It was instant combustion. No slow burn, no delicate teasing. Just raw need, all fire and ache and knowing. He exhaled into her mouth, his hands tangled in her hair, then moved down to her waist, clutching like gravity itself had shifted and he was grounding himself.Â
She tasted like stars and defiance. He kissed her like she was air and flame all at once. The fire she lit inside him was hers alone to command.
When her mouth grazed his neck, what was left of his composure unraveled like silk and his lips met hers again. He walked them back, blindly, not breaking the kiss, not once, her mouth still pressed to his, until she hit the bookshelf. He pinned her there, one hand cradling her head so she wouldnât knock into the shelves. Books toppled behind them like falling stars as his mouth found her throat, her collarbone, her name falling from his lips like a prayer heâd been dying to say.
She gasped, breathless and burning, and he kissed her harder, like he needed to brand himself into her soul.
Then he moved again, his hands were already back on her, mapping the lines of her body like sacred territory. He knew every curve, every reaction, how sheâd shiver when he kissed just below her jaw, how her breath caught when his fingers traced her spine. They collided again, lips bruising, hands insistent.
But it wasnât just need, it was knowing. The kind of knowing that came from worship and war, from battles fought side by side and promises whispered in the dark.Â
When the desk hit the backs of her thighs, he lifted her onto it, his free hand shooting out to sweep everything off the surface in one violent motion, datapads, files, a stylus, a small potted plant, all crashing to the floor as if the whole galaxy could wait while his was mouth still on hers, and she pulled him in like gravity had given up and left only them.
They moved together in a rhythm as old as time, sharp gasps, soft moans, whispered names, a symphony of want and devotion echoing off polished wood and walls that had seen too much and still not enough.
Her legs wrapped around his hips, her heels locking at the small of his back, pulling him into her, into this, and he thrust into her, the sound she made shattered him. Her head fell back, exposing her throat, and he kissed it reverently, like a knight bent before a goddess.Â
She was wrapped around him, tangled in his body like ivy on stone. Her hands were in his hair, his tunic, her voice in his ear, guiding him, worshipping him. His mouth dragged over her neck, her chest, every place that made her tremble.
His hands moved over her body like he knew every inch of her in his bones, because he did. He didnât fumble. He didnât guess. He knew her like he knew the hilt of his saber, like breath, like instinct. He knew what would make her gasp, what would make her moan, what would unravel her completely. And she gave herself to it, to him, because she knew him just the same.
When the desk groaned in protest, he lifted her into his arms, and she laughed breathlessly against his mouth as he carried her to the little velvet sofa, limbs tangled, breathing ragged. He continued to worship her there, whispering her name like it was a secret spell that bound the universe together. She pulled him in with her eyes, with her hands, with the soft, broken sound she only ever made for him.
Every movement, every sound, every glance between them was instinct, history, devotion. They didnât have to speak. They knew.
And when they finally collapsed on the floor, sweaty, undone, breathless and wrecked and more whole than ever, he hovered over her, brushing damp hair from her face, his heart pounding against hers.
âYou are everything to me,â she whispered, cupping his cheek.
His lips curved into a crooked smile as he pressed his forehead to hers. âNo,â he murmured. âWeâre everything.â
The gala was crowded, loud, and glittering with too much fake gold and not enough sincerity. She floated through it like she always did, charming, gracious, intelligent. Every word laced with purpose and diplomacy. She was dazzling, magnetic. Untouchable.
Anakin had been watching her from across the room, he always is, with admiration, with love blossoming in his chest, but tonight his jaw was clenched so tightly it could shatter in any moment.Â
Senator Vanto of Andosha was practically glued to her side, as he had seemed to be lately. He had been circling for weeks like a blood-slicked nexu. It started with a look across the Senate, followed by sugar-drenched pleasantries echoing in marble halls and smiles that lasted a second too long, then a fleeting compliment with a lingering hand on her back. Then he started to get more bold, a too-close whisper over a datapad, every time she laughed the man leaned in closer, taking every possible opportunity to have a hand on her, his eyes devouring her like a predator savoring the kill.
Anakin had seen it all, every touch, every glance from the Senator over the last few weeks, and it burned through him like acid, each and every single time, and she didnât see it. Or worse, she refused to.
Now, in that glittering cage, every time he even breathed close to her, every time she flashed that too-perfect public smile, Anakinâs vision blurred at the edges. And when the senator started parading around with a hand on the small of her back, his filthy hand on her smooth velvety skin, fingers grazing the open back of her gown like he had the right, like he could, Anakinâs blood boiled.
And she, she laughed, not her real laugh, the one she gave him in quiet moments beneath tangled sheets, but the polite one she wore in public. It didnât matter. It burned all the same.Â
Without a word, he turned on his heel, strides clipped and purposeful. He didnât care who saw. Let the whole damn Senate speculate. Let them whisper. He didnât care. He launched his fighter and left.
By the time she got home, the apartment was dark. Cold. But not silent. Anakin was there, pacing like a caged animal, shoulders tight with barely restrained fury.
She didnât even get her shoes off before the storm hit. âSomething wrong Ani?â she asked, the door barely clicking shut behind her.
He turned, the heat in his eyes sparking like wildfire. âYou really have to ask?â
She blinked at him, confused, tension curling at the edge of her spine. âI donât understand.â She frowned, âIf youâre upset about something, say it. Donât just, brood,â she said, unwinding the earrings from her lobes.Â
âIâm not brooding,â he snapped. âIâm trying very hard not to explode.â
She scoffed. âWell, youâre doing a terrible job.â
âJust like you were at keeping Senator Vantoâs filthy hands off you,â he said, sarcasm dripping like venom.Â
Her breath caught. âAre you really going to start again?â she snapped, looking at him through the mirror in the room, pulling the pins from her hair, letting it tumble over her back. âIâve told you, heâs a colleague. Thatâs all.â
Anakin stood dead center in the room, arms stiff at his sides, fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white. âA colleague who practically breathes down your neck every time youâre in the same room. And you let him!â
Her laugh was cold, sharp. âLet him? You think I let him?â
âI donât think,â he said, voice jagged. âI saw you with my own eyes!â
âI was doing my job!â she said loudly, turning towards him. âTalking, negotiating, building rapport, which is what Iâve always done. What do you want me to do, Anakin? Be rude? Push him away in front of the entire Senate chamber just to make you feel better? Throw a drink in his face and declare I belong to you?âÂ
âIâm asking you to see it,â he bit out. âHe touches you like he owns you.â
âI donât belong to anyone!â she yelled, sharply and coldly.Â
âI thought you said you were mine,â he said, lower now, his voice breaking at the edges.
âIâm not a possession, Anakin.â
âNo,â he said, quieter, rawer. âBut you are mine, just as Iâm yours, because we chose each other. Because what we have is real. And heâs trying to take you from me,â he said, touching his chest.
Her laugh then wasnât cold, it was shattered. âYou sound insane.â
He stepped closer, too close. âAnd you sound blind.â
The room froze.
Her face hardened, voice tightening like she was holding back something sharp. âDo you hear yourself right now? Heâs not the problem here, Anakin. You are.â
That cracked something in him, clean through the middle, cracking his chest open.
âNo,â he said, voice rising. âIâm the one whoâs stuck waiting while he gets to stand beside you, hover over you, touch you. Me, the man that has loved you since the first time he saw you, who would burn the galaxy down just to keep you safe, gets crumbs behind closed doors! So excuse me if Iâm sick of pretending this doesnât bother me!â
Her heart stung like it had been slapped. âYou think this is easy for me? Hiding, lying, splitting myself in two just to make this workââ
âThen maybe itâs not worth it,â he snapped.
She flinched, like heâd hit her. Her mouth opened, then closed, her voice caught behind the pressure building in her chest.Â
The silence that followed was instant and total. The air turned to glass between them, fragile, sharp, suffocating, waiting to shatter.
Her voice dropped to just a whisper. âIs that really how you feel?â
He faltered. He didnât mean it. But pride, stupid, stubborn pride, held his tongue hostage and wouldnât let him soften. âMaybe it is.â
Her breath hitched, then turned away from him, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. âThen go,â she said, wrapping her arms around herself, holding herself together with the last thread of her control she had before shattering.
Anakin didnât move, said nothing. His jaw ticked, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. He stared at her back for a long moment, at the way her shoulders rose and fell like she was holding it together, barely.
He wanted to take it back. Maker, he wanted to. He wanted to cross the galaxy that appeared between them and fix it, he wanted to hold her and not go.
But he didnât, and instead turned on his heel and walked out, again. Jumping on his fighter and going away, leaving her in the quiet wreckage of their home.
The silence echoed through the apartment like a thunderclap as she stood there, still in her gown, her earrings in her hand, hair loose caressing her back, and shaking. The lights hummed softly above her. The room felt cavernous without him in it.
And all she could do was stand there, alone, tears pulling in her eyes, surrounded by the wreckage of what theyâd built, and wonder, maybe this time, theyâd broken something they couldnât fix.
A full day passed.
She hadnât moved much, buried under blankets, curtains drawn to shut out the light that mocked her with its warmth. Her datapad buzzed every few hours with messages and alerts, unanswered. The Senate could wait. The galaxy could wait. For the first time in years, she let herself unravel. The senator, the leader, the unshakable voice of reason, reduced to someone wrapped in silence and tears. There was the steady hum of sorrow beneath her skin and the raw ache of something lost, sobs coming and going in waves, breaking through moments of numb silence. She tried to hate him. Tried to hate herself. Neither feeling stuck. Only grief for what might already be gone did.
By late afternoon, the tears had run dry, replaced by something hollow. She pulled herself out of bed, her muscles aching like she had fought a war in her sleep. The shower steamed the mirror, the water was hot, steady, cleansing, grounding her just enough to feel like maybe she could start over.
Maybe.
But she wasnât sure if she wanted to.
She was wrapping her robe around her when the knock came. She frowned, confused. No one was supposed to visit. The few people who might, had the good sense not to.
When she opened the door, Senator Vanto stood there.
Concern painted across his features like a poor artistâs attempt at sincerity. âYou werenât at the Senate today,â he said, stepping inside uninvited. âPeople were asking. I was worried that you perhaps were ill.â
She blinked, unsettled. âI... wasnât feeling well.â
He smiled, taking a slow, familiar step toward her. âI figured as much. I thought maybe I could help. Maybe you needed someone to talk to.â His eyes dragged over her, landing on her exposed collarbone where the robe dipped. âOr just someone.â
A chill slid down her spine and she tightening the piece of clothing around her.
She moved toward the sitting area, creating distance, hoping heâd take the hint. âThank you for your concern, but really, Iâm fine.â
âI know,â he said smoothly, following her, âbut maybe itâs time you stop pretending you donât need anyone.â He looked her over, the flush skin, her bare legs, her wet hair. âYou need someone who can take care of you,â he reached out, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face.Â
She stepped back, discomfort. Her skin prickled, but not the way it did when Anakin touched her. There was no warmth here, no tenderness. Just a creeping, nauseating wrongness.
âI said Iâm fine.â Again, she rounded the sitting area and tried to put as much distance between them as she could.Â
But he followed, again, too closely, too comfortably. With every inch she gave, he took more.
âYouâve always kept yourself surrounded by politics, war, rules, men who are never really there for you. Jedi who disappear when it matters most.â He said it with meaning, with venom. âBut not me,â he sat and pushed her to sit with him. âI wouldnât leave you alone, not even for a second.â
Her knees hit the cushions before her mind registered what had happened. Her stomach turned. âVantoââ
âI mean it.â His voice dropped. âYou need a man whoâs strong enough to handle you. Someone who knows what to do with a woman like you.â His eyes drifted down. âSomeone who knows how to touch you.â His hand landed on her thigh, firm, possessive.Â
Her blood froze. The hand was not delicate, not gentle. It burned. Her skin crawled under it.
âI can give you what he never could.â His voice slithered around her. âYou donât have to be alone anymore.â
She tensed, tried to inch away, but his hand gripped tighter. âLet go of me,â she pushed his hand away. âItâs time for you to go,â she said, standing sharply.
He stood too, moving in close, cornering her. âCome on, darling,â he said with a twisted smirk on his lips.Â
She backed up. Her robe slipped slightly off one shoulder again, she yanked it up with trembling fingers.
âYou can stop pretending now. No oneâs watching.â His hand caught her arm.
She yanked back. âDonât touch me.â
But he didnât stop and his grip tightened. âIâve seen the way you look at meââ
âThereâs no way I look at you,â she snapped, breath catching. âLet go of me.â
âNo more playing game,â he smirked again.
âStop itââ she twisted, trying to break free.
âNo more hiding.â His other hand gripped her side, fingers digging through the thin robe like claws.
She gasped. âPlease, no.â
The fear started creeping up her throat like acid.
Her skin was on fire where he touched her, not in the way Anakin lit her nerves with heat and reverence, but like poison seeping into her bones.
âYouâve got no one here but me.â
She whimpered, voice cracking. âI said noâplease donâtââ
He leaned in, tried to kiss her.
She twisted, shoved against him, her voice shaking, heart in her throat. âI said noâ!â
And thenâThe door burst open with a crash.
A wind tore through the room as if the stars themselves had followed him in.
Anakin stood there, eyes burning, jaw locked, the fury of a thousand suns radiating off of him. His voice was low, guttural, animalistic.
âGet. Away. From her.â
Vanto startled, letting go just long enough for her to stumble back. She shoved him hard, scrambling to the other side of the room.
And before she could even breathe, Anakin crossed the room in three strides. The Force lifted Vanto off the ground like he weighed nothing, like a ragdoll, choking him mid-air. His feet kicked helplessly as Anakin stalked forward.
âYou dare to touch her,â Anakin growled, his voice was cold. Controlled, but barely.Â
He threw him against a wall and with his free hand, took his lightsaber and ignited with a snap-hiss of blue death. âYou hurt her.â His face was carved in stone, his rage blistering, terrifying, as he pointed with his saber at him.
âTry fighting like a man,â Vanto stood up, coughing. âWithout your Jedi tricks.â
Anakinâs lips twitched. A slow, dangerous smile, not at all kind. âOh, it would be my pleasure.â
The saber shut off with a snap, and he launched forward.
The fight was brutal. No rules, no honor, just raw and animalistic fury unleashed in the flicker of a heartbeat.Â
She stood frozen, robe clenched tightly around her trembling frame, breath caught in her chest as she watched the man she loved, her sweet Ani, unravel.
Anakin was a storm, all fire and anguish and vengeance, striking with the kind of force that only came from years of buried grief, unspoken heartbreak and possessive love in every strike. Metal met flesh with a sickening precision. Blood splattered. Vanto swung wildly and desperate, landing a few hits, but they barely registered.Â
Anakin was relentless, built for combat. Designed for it. He wasnât born like that, for war, but he was made into it. War had carved him into a weapon, he was honed by pain, but underneath the fury still lived the boy who once only wanted to protect the people he loved. And now, seeing her hurt, that boy was screaming and the man he had become answered with rage.
âAnakin, stop!â she cried, breathless, panic bleeding into every syllable. âDonâtâplease, heâs not worth it!â
In the chaos, as she tried to break them apart, to stop the devastation, Vantoâs fist swung. It wasnât meant for her. But it found her anyway. It hit her, colliding with her cheek, sharp and brutal.
The sound, sickening, wrong, echoed through the room like a thunderclap. She gasped, stumbled, a cry of pain tearing from her throat as she crashed into the side table and fell. The thud of her body hitting the floor split the air.
Everything stopped. He punched her. She was on the ground, pain flashing in her glassy eyes, blood on her hand and a cut in her porcelain skin.
The sound she made, that wounded sound, more raw than war, more real than anything heâd ever heard, broke something in him so violently that his breath left him in a single, strangled gasp.Â
The world narrowed and all he saw was her, his word had fallen hurt and all his anger turned to something worse.Â
She was hurt. Because he hadnât stopped it. Because he hadnât been fast enough. Because he had left and was almost too late, again.
That was it, he snapped.Â
Anakin tackled Vanto with everything he had, not as a Jedi, but as a man who had seen the only thing that kept him sane, the source of his happiness, hurt and afraid. There was no humanity left as he charged. The punches came fast, the anger white-hot. He didnât hear Vantoâs protests, and didn't care because all he saw was a danger to her. He threw him across the room, pinned him again, and hit him harder.
All he felt was heartbreak made flesh, striking out at the thing that dared hurt what mattered most to him.
Every hit said: You donât touch her. Every hit said: You donât get to make her afraid. Every hit said: She is mine to protect.
Only when Vanto was unmoving, groaning, bleeding, broken on the floor, did Anakin stop.
He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, fists trembling with fury. His eyes were wild, dark with something primal, something unbearable. A small whimper reached his ears and he turned around. She was still on the floor, broken and shaken.
The door opened again. Security. Too late.
Anakin rushed to her side, kneeling, hands shaking as he cupped her face. âAre you okay?â His voice cracked, desperate. âLook at me. Tell me youâre okay, please.â
He touched her cheek, gently, like she was made of light and grief and might vanish or shatter if he pressed too hard, and she whimpered at the contact. It wasnât fear this time, nor pain. But because something in her had broken open, and he was the only one who could hold it together.
âThis is all on me,â he breathed, horror and panic folding into his voice. His eyes burned, rimmed red. âMaker, forgive meââ His breath stuttered. âI shouldnât have left. I shouldâveââ
Her wide, tear-glossed eyes met his. âYou came back,â she whispered, voice so small it broke him. Her trembling fingers touched his cheek, catching a tear as it slid down his face. âYou came back right when I needed you.â
His face twisted with emotion, grief, relief, love that nearly broke him in two. âOf course I did,â he choked out. âIâll always come back.â
Her lip quivered. âDonât leave me again,â she pleaded. Her voice was broken, raw, but somehow softer.
He closed his eyes, forehead resting against hers, as if that could fuse them together and keep the world from breaking them again.
âNever,â he whispered, voice raw and aching. âMy love, never.â
Behind them, security restrained Vantoâs broken, barely-conscious body. There was shouting. Movement. But none of it touched her. None of it touched him. But none of it mattered.
She leaned into Anakinâs touch, into the only thing that felt real, like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. And maybe it was.Â
âJust hold me,â she whispered. âHold me like only our love matters in this world. Hold me like only you know how to.â
Even if the fire of his rage still clung to him like a second skin, he was hers, and she was his. He was the safest place she had known.Â
He was home.
Without a word, Anakin gathered her into his arms, carefully, reverently, as if she were made of sacred things. He held her like she was the only truth heâd ever known, the only fight that ever mattered.
And in that moment, with her curled against his chest, with her tears soaking his tunic and his heartbeat steady against her earâŚ
The galaxy couldâve ended, and neither of them would have noticed.
pairing: Anakin Skywalker x Reader (Star Wars set in clone wars before rots)
word count: 1077
story themes: Lovers to enemies to eventually lovers (slowburn)
warnings: angst, spoilers to the clone wars series
chapter summary: Y/n is framed for a crime she didn't do, not even her lover Anakin believes her - not fully. She runs through Coruscant with heartbreak in her chest and Anakin pleading with her.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
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âY/n! Y/n! Wait!â Anakin huffed as he ran through the streets of the lower levels of Coruscant. Blinking the tears away that mixed with droplets of water, you pushed past the wet bodies that stopped to watch your every move.Â
Tasting blood in your mouth from biting your lips so hard, you licked it away while your eyes darted to every possible escape and secluded area. Sirens rang in your ear and bright beams of white flashed on your body, alerting every possible individual that you were in trouble. You were done.Â
You couldnât even breathe. It was like someone had strangled your throat and all your insides were closing in. It made it even harder to run away. But you were there, you could do it.Â
Shoving past a green Rodian, you ran into an alleyway that secluded you from the crowd and noises. All you needed now was an exit considering this was a dead end. You whipped your head up, beams of light radiated through the sky by ships that were looking for you.Â
âShitâŚShitâŚShit.â You cursed, your hair flying everywhere as you tried to look for an exit.Â
You couldnât go above but you could go below.
Removing the cover plate from the floor, you peered down below to the sewage water that illustrated the floors. It was big enough for you to fall through but it was just so damn deep.Â
âStop running, Y/n!â You whipped your head around to see Anakin at the entry of the alleyway. His hands were held high defenceless and his eyes doleful, afflicted with the current dilemma.Â
 âI wonât hurt you. We can talk this outâŚâ He said, taking small and slow steps towards you, afraid you might dart off again.Your expression softened, wanting nothing more than to fall into his arms and forget whatâs happening. He wanted you to trust him. He needed you to trust him. And you almost did. That was until masses of clone troopers fell behind him, their weapons aimed directly towards you.Â
Your face fell for a brief second before you hardened it, your eyebrows furrowed and your lips pressed together. Without a second thought, you jumped through the man made hole, the water splashing underneath you.Â
You inhaled deeply as you tried to regain your balance, the sewage liquid reaching just underneath your ankles. Taking advantage of the few seconds you had against them, you sprinted ahead already hearing Anakin and the rest of the soldiers make their way down.Â
Making your way through the tunnel with the soldiers right on your tail, you felt yourself feeling dizzy with the constant twists and turns you made. Their flashlights hitting your back only aided them but it helped you too. You reached an intersection which made it easy for you to lose the troopers. Turning your body around, you pushed both your palms you, the force causing the bodies to fall to the ground. Using the split second you had, you ran to the right. Your body moving faster than your feet, after a couple more turns and silence, you found yourself an exit. The tunnel abruptly stopping to Coruscantâs Hole where you could see the multiple levels in all itâs depth. You ran near the edge, your hands on your knees as you tried to regain your breath, your heart practically pounding against your chest.Â
âY/n?â Anakin called out, his feet sliding on the water as he tried to slow down. Whipping your head back, you watched his figure cautiously making its way towards you.Â
âWe can talk this out. Just me and you.â He held his hands up just like he did not long ago.Â
âSo you brought the whole battalion to track me down, huh?â You yelled, pointing to your chest as you felt aggressive tears run down your cheeks.Â
Anakin gritted his teeth as he whole body tensed, âListen, youâre not exactly making it look good for yourself by running away. The whole of Coruscant is trying to track you down!â He snarled.Â
âTheyâre calling me a traitor! But I guess you wouldnât understand what it feels like would you?â Your voice cracked, making you sound weaker than youâd like to be perceived as.Â
Anakinâs heart sank hearing your vulnerable voice, âI would NEVER let anyone hurt you, Y/n. Never. You need to trust me.â He said as he slowly made his way towards you.Â
âI-Iâ You stammered, your eyes darting everywhere, âI donât even know who to trust!â You locked gazes with Anakin and you definitely didnât miss the flash of hurt that caressed his face.Â
âMe, Y/n. Me.â He whispered, his body now mere inches away from yours. He cautiously slid his right hand into your shaking one, his thumb rubbing your knuckles. You didnât want this. This close intimacy. It would only make things harder for you. Closing your eyes, you tried to recenter yourself.Â
âWeâll go back to the council together and you can make your case.âÂ
You abruptly pushed him away from you, shaking your head as your eyes pierced his, âNo. No!â You waved your hands around, âIâm not taking the fall for something I didnât do!âÂ
âIâm ordering you to stop running and come with me.â He firmly stated, everything inside of him aching as he watched you conflicted with your emotions and desires.Â
âOrdering me?â You scoffed, taking a few steps back away from him. âNow youâre ordering me? I am not your padawan, Anakin!â
A silence fell among you both as you heard the nearby soldiers making their way towards you. Anakin didnât look away from your gaze and neither did you, it was almost as if there was a conversation between your eyes and his but nothing being said.Â
âIf you trusted that I was innocent, Anakin, youâd be here on your own account. Not by the councils.â You whispered, turning your back against him as you peered at the multiple ships flying in the hole.Â
âY/nâŚâ
You inhaled before leaping out of the tunnel, the wind hitting against you as fell multiple levels below, the force cushioning your landing onto the ship.Â
Anakin watched as his lover left him. He wasnât sure if he could even consider calling you that. But waves of emotions hit him second by second. He was hurt mostly. Hurt that someone would dare accuse his lover of treachery. Hurt that you couldnât trust him enough. Hurt that you left him.
--
A/N: hey guys! posting a 20k fic from my drafts that I've had for yearssss, i fear its finally time it meets the daylight. I will be posting them all out slowly so I can still complete the fic and write new chapters but I do have uni now so. also yess this chp is basically like her replacing ahsoka but ahsoka is still in this story but under slight different circumstances but still essential. it does deviate a little ofc since its a fanfic but main star wars plot remains. hope yall enjoy lmk if u guys have any future chp suggestions or anything else !!!
If anybody wants to be tagged in a future taglist lmk and im open to it :)
summary: raised in a village on the kingdomâs outskirts, youâve always dreamed of seeing the annual lantern festival in the capital. when you unwittingly help a thief on the runâgojo satoruâhe agrees to take you there as repayment. what starts off as a simple deal soon pulls you into a conspiracy that ties back to the crownâand to satoruâs past.
⢠pairing: thief/flynn rider!gojo satoru x fem!reader
⢠contains: romance, angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex, loss of virginity), slowburn, action, tangled au, debatable attempts at comedy, profanity, inaccurate depictions of horse-riding, mentions of poison and murder, violence that comes with daggers/swords/frying pansâplease let me know if iâve missed anything!
⢠word count: 31k
⢠playlist: âyou broke my smolderâ
⢠art credit: _3aem | read on ao3 here.
It turns out that blackmailing a wanted criminal is much harder than it seems.
For one, he does not take you seriously. Not even a little.
âOh no,â Satoru says, eyes wide with feigned horror. âYouâre going to turn me in? Me? The helpless victim in all of this?â He clutches his chest, staggering back as if heâs been struck. âWhat a cruel, coldhearted thing to do to the man whose life you just heroically saved.â
âYouâre only saying that because you know I have the upper hand,â you deadpan.
âDetails, details,â he says, waving a hand. âBut letâs be real here, sweetheart. If you were really going to call the guardsâafter you rescued me from the aforementioned guardsâyouâd have done it by now.â
You stiffen. He grins, slow and knowing. âAh,â he says, tapping his temple. âSee, thatâs the problem, isnât it? Youâre bluffing.â
âI am not bluffing,â you insist, even as your grip tightens around your satchel.
Satoruâs grin only grows. He takes a step closer, like a cat toying with its prey. âOh?â
You plant your feet firmly, refusing to back down. âOh, indeed.â
Thenâso fast you almost donât register itâhe lunges. With a startled yelp, you whirl away, narrowly dodging his grasp as he reaches for the satchel. Satoru lets out a low whistle. âNot bad,â he muses. âYouâve got quick reflexes.â
You clutch the satchel to your chest. âYouâre just predictable.â
Satoru places a hand over his chest and gasps. âPredictable? Me?â He scoffs. âSweetheart, I am many thingsâcharming, intelligent, devastatingly handsomeâbut predictable is not one of them.â
âFine.â You roll your eyes. âIf you want the crown back so badly, then take it,â you say, and before he can react, you pivot on your heel and sprint.Â
âWhoa, heyââ
You dart through the trees, leaping over gnarly roots and weaving through the underbrush, legs burning as you push forward. The satchel bounces against your side. The village is closeâif you can just make it past the ridge, maybe you canâ
A hand catches your wrist. Youâre being spun; the world tilts, and your back slams into something solid. Your breath is knocked out of your lungs with a sharp gasp.
Gojo Satoruâthe most wanted man in the entire kingdomâlooms over you. His palm is pressed flat against the trunk of the tree behind your head, trapping you in place. Heâs not even out of breath. His hair is a mess of white strands, a few falling over his forehead, and his eyesâthose ridiculous, celestial blue eyesâare twinkling with delight.
âWell,â he drawls, âthat was fun.â
You glare up at him. âLet go.â
âMm.â Satoru taps his chin, considering. âNah.â
âGojo.â
âSay please.â
You shove at his chest, but he doesnât budge. At all. Heâs all lean muscle beneath his clothes, far sturdier than his lanky frame would suggest. You grit your teeth. âYou are the worst.â
âAnd you,â he says, patting the tip of your nose, âare terrible at making threats.â
You open your mouth to retort, only to clamp it shut immediately after. Hoofbeats. Both of you freeze. Theyâre distant at first, then grow louder, thundering against the dirt path. Your stomach twists. The guards are back.
Satoru doesnât hesitate. One second heâs in front of you; the next, heâs sweeping you into his arms like you weigh nothing and hauling you away from the side of the path, diving into the thick of the trees.
âWhatâ? Put meââ
âShhh.â He claps a hand over your mouth, pressing you against the trunk of an enormous oak, both of you half-hidden behind the tree. Your heart pounds. You can see the riders now, their armour glinting under the early morning sun. Their voices carry over the rustling of the leaves, and you hold your breath.
Satoru does too, though you doubt itâs out of fear. No, he looks entirely at ease, a smirk tugging on his lips as he watches the guards ride past, none the wiser. Just as quickly as they arrived, theyâre gone. The silence stretches.
Finally, Satoru leans in, his breath warm against your ear. âYouâre welcome.â
You bite his hand.
âYowza!â He jerks back, cradling his hand like youâve just inflicted a mortal wound upon the limb. âDid you justââ
âYes,â you say primly, straightening out your tunic. âAnd Iâll do it again if I must.â
Satoru gapes at you, then lets out a laugh, wild and unrestrained. âOh,â he breathes, shaking his head. âOh, I like you.â
âGreat,â you say. âSo youâll take me to the capital?â
His laughter dies. You smile sweetly at him.Â
Satoru groans, dragging a hand through his hair. âUnbelievable,â he mutters, mostly to himself. His head tips back against the tree, and for a moment, he just stands there with his eyes closed, as though heâs bargaining with the gods to give him the virtue of patience which he so clearly lacks. âI just saved your life.â
âI saved yours first.â
He pinches the bridge of his nose. âYou are so lucky youâre cute.â
âIââ Your cheeks burn despite yourself.
âNot that lucky, though,â he interrupts, dropping his hand and fixing you with an almost pitying look. âBecause if you think Iâm actually going to drag you with me all the way to the capital just because you swiped a little trinket from me, youâre out of your mind.â
Your momentary victory screeches to a halt. âWhat?â
âYou heard me.â He straightens, stretching his arms above his head. âIâm not taking you anywhere.â
âBut you just saidââ
âI just humoured you. Big difference.â
Your mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. You ball your hands into fists at your sides. âYou promised.â
âI lied.â
âGojo!â
He grins, wholly unrepentant, and takes a step back. âCâmon, sweetheart. You didnât actually think that was going to work, did you?â He tuts, shaking his head. âCute and naĂŻve. What a dangerous combination.â
Frustration coils in your chest. You take a deep breath. âAlright,â you say, almost calm. âThen Iâll just go to the guards right now, andââ
âNo, you wonât,â Satoru says, raising a single finger.
Your nostrils flare. âAnd why wonât I?â
âBecause I just saved your life,â he says, enunciating each word as though youâre a particularly slow barn animal. âWhich means, at the very least, I deserve some gratitude.â
Your jaw drops. âGratitude?â
âThatâs right.â
âWeâre even!â you sputter. âI saved you first!â
âSemantics. Point is, I was heroic, you were impressed, and now you can return my crown to me and we can go our separate ways.â He winks. âSounds good?âÂ
âThatââ You stare at him, incredulous. âThat is the exact opposite of good.â
âHm. Sounds like a you problem.â
Your grip on the satchel tightens. âFine,â you say through gritted teeth. âThen Iâllââ
Before you can finish, heâs already moving. Fastâtoo fast. You barely register the blur of motion before his hand is dipping into the satchel, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the crown. Panic flares. You react without thinking.
Your hands snap out, grabbing his wrist before he can pull away. He pauses, blinking down at you, startledâbecause somehow, despite his speed, despite the way he shouldâve been able to snatch the crown before you noticed and vanish into the treesâhe hadnât accounted for you actually stopping him.Â
Both of you freeze. Then, in an utterly ridiculous, ungraceful tangle of limbs you both go crashing to the ground. The satchel slips from your grasp, tumbling into the dirt. The crown spills out, gleaming in the morning light. Itâs a glittering band of gold inlaid with the sort of precious stones and gems youâve only ever heard about. A string of words, written in a curling handwriting, are etched into the inside of the crownâs band. You blink against the glare. Satoru lands half on top of you, his weight pressing you into the earth.
Satoru is heavy. Not overwhelmingly so, but enough that youâre acutely aware of every point of contact; the solid warmth of his torso against yours, the way his arm is braced beside your head, keeping his weight from crushing you fully.
And, unfortunately, he seems just as aware. A slow, amused smile curls at the edges of his lips as he props himself up on his elbows, peering down at you with those ocean-bright eyes. âMy, oh, my,â he muses, low and amused. âHow terribly forward of you.â
Your face heats up. âGet. Off.â
He doesnât. Instead, his gaze flickers to the crown lying in the dirt beside you, just out of reach. His smile widens. You see the moment he decides to go for it. Unfortunately for him, youâve already decided first.
With a grunt, you knee him in the stomach. Satoru wheezes. You wriggle out from beneath him just as he recoils, scrambling for the crown. Your fingers barely skim against the metalâbut before you can grab it, the thief lunges forward and tackles you again. There is no grace to it this time. You wrestle in the dirt like two absolute idiots, rolling, kicking, twisting in a desperate scramble for control. Heâs stronger, but youâre determined, and maybe just a little feral at this point.Â
âWould you quit it?â Satoru grunts, narrowly dodging an elbow to the ribs.Â
âNot until you help me!â
âI told youââ
You shove your palm against his face. Satoru lets out an indignant noise, muffled by your hand. You take advantage of his momentary distraction and reach outâonly for Satoru to grab your wrist and twist, sending you both tumbling again, untilâ
Somehowâsomehowâhe ends up pinned beneath you, and this time, you have the crown.
Your fingers tighten around it as you scramble off him and glare down at Satoru. Heâs sprawled in the dirt, a mess of leaves clinging to his wind-ruffled hair, and a streak of dirt is smeared across his chin. Youâre certain youâre in no better shape; you pull a stray twig out of your hair, and rub away the mud on your cheeks with the back of your hand. He props himself up on his elbows, surveying you.
âTragic,â he sighs. âI almost had it.â
You twirl the crown between your fingers, letting the jewels catch the light, and let your lips turn upwards in a saccharine smile. âItâs called a hustle, sweetheart.â
The marketplace is settling into a quieter rhythm at this time of the day, the golden light of mid-afternoon casting long shadows upon the cobbled streets. Satoru trudges beside you, his usual confidence replaced with something closer to reluctant resignation.Â
He looks utterly put upon, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, lips set in a pout. Every few steps, he kicks at loose pebbles on the road, sending them skittering ahead of him. Youâd almost feel bad for himâalmost. But then, you remember that this is a man who stole a crown, got caught, and is now bitter because someone played him at his own game.Â
The smell of freshly baked bread drifts through the air, warm and inviting, mingling with the sharp scent of spices from a nearby stall. You stop in front of a small bakery, the wooden sign above it swaying slightly in the breeze. Through the open windows, trays of steaming loaves sit behind the counter, their crusts golden brown and crisp.
Satoru watches as you peer through the display, an unimpressed look on his face. âWonderful,â he says. âI get blackmailed into helping you, and now we have to go grocery shopping. Truly, this is my lucky day.â
âWe need supplies if weâre going to travel.â You glance at him, and roll your eyes. âOr do you plan on surviving on pure arrogance alone?â
He sighs dramatically, tossing his head back. âIâve survived on worse. Once, I survived an entire week on nothing but stolen fruit and the will to be a menace to the commander of the Royal Guard.â
âThat explains so much.â Ignoring his indignant huff, you step forward and exchange a few coins for a loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. The baker, a kindly old woman, gives you a small smile as she wraps it in cloth. You thank her and tuck the bundle into your bag.Â
Satoru watches this process with the dismay of a man being forced to endure unimaginable hardship. Then, as if suddenly remembering something important, he straightens. âSpeaking of which,â he says, tilting his head towards you, âwhere exactly is my crown?â
âSafe.â
âWhere?â
âHidden,â you say, and flash him a too-sweet smile.
Satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face. âYouâre crazy. First, you rob me. Then, you blackmail me. And now, youâve hidden my prized possession like some kind ofââ He gestures vaguely at you, searching for the right words. âSome kind of tiny, feral leprechaun.â
You scoff, crossing your arms. âThink of it as collateral.â
âOh, sure,â he mutters dryly. âBecause trusting the person who stole from me is such a fantastic idea.â
âYou stole it first.â
âSo youâve said. The point is, I need that crown.â
âWhy?â you ask, raising a brow.
He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, before flashing you his usual grinâteasing and entirely insincere. âBecause itâs mine?â
You snort. âTry again.â
Satoru leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing some grand secret. âWhat if I told you it holds great sentimental value?â
âIâd tell you to stop lying to my face.â
âWow,â he says, and then says your name, dragging out the last syllable. âSo distrustful.â
You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your satchel. âIf you do what you promised, Iâll give it back.â
He studies you, gaze flickering briefly to your satchel, as if heâs considering whether he could swipe it and make a run for it. (Not that it would be of any use, anyway, since youâve hidden it underneath your mattress in your tiny little cottage.) Instead, he sighs, slouching forward like the weight of the world rests upon his shoulders, and mutters, âThis is cruel and unusual punishment.â
âNot my fault you lost,â you sing-song.
âI almost had it,â he whines, but his lips twitch.
âBut you didnât.â
âWhat do you want to go to the capital for so badly, anyway?â He squints at you. âYouâre dragging me halfway across the kingdom, blackmailing me with my own stolen goods, and for what? What could possibly be so important that youâd go through all this trouble?â
You hesitate. Itâs not that youâre unwilling to tell himâitâs more that you know exactly how heâll react. Still, you suppose thereâs no avoiding it now. You clear your throat, keeping your gaze ahead as you walk. âI want to see the lantern festival.â
A beat, and then, Satoru stops dead in his tracks. âIâm sorry. What?â
âYou heard me,â you grit out, already regretting having said anything.
The thief blinks at you, disbelieving, then throws his head back and laughs. Itâs far too loud and obnoxious for your liking.
You whirl on him, scowling. âStop that!â
âOh, this is rich.â He wipes at his eye theatrically. âYou mean to tell me that all thisââ he gestures between the two of youâ âwas because you want to see some floating lights.â
âTheyâre not just floating lights,â you snap, folding your arms. âTheyâre magical.â
Satoru snickers. âSure they are.â
âThey do it in honour of the late queen. And not just anywhereâonly in the capital. People travel from all over to see them.â
âYes, and most people would travel from all over to avoid me, but here you are. Seriously, sweetheart, I thought you were on some grand, noble quest. Some life-or-death mission. But no. You just want to watch some fancy fireworks.â
âForget it,â you huff, pushing past him. âI donât need to justify myself to you.â
Satoru falls easily into step with you, still chortling to himself. âNo, no, I think this is fantastic. Here I was, thinking you had some deep, tragic backstoryâmaybe an old lover waiting for you, a family secret, a kingdom to reclaimâbut no. You just want to see a festival.â
âI happen to like beautiful things,â you tell him.
He hums. âSo you do.â
Thereâs something in the way he says it that makes your steps falter, but when you glance back at him, his expression is unreadable. You quickly recover, jabbing a finger into his chest. âAnd donât act like this is entirely my fault. Youâre the one who stole the crown. If you werenât a criminal, you wouldnât be in this mess.â
âThatâs a very unfair accusation. I am an entrepreneur.â
âYouâre a thief.â
âA businessman.â
âAn annoyance.â
He grins. âA charming gentleman.â
You groan, picking up your pace. âI canât believe Iâm stuck with you.â
âOh, please.â He slings an arm around your shoulders, ignoring the way you stiffen. âWeâre partners now, arenât we? Off to see the lanterns, hand in hand, like something out of a fairy taleââ
You shrug him off and march forward, squaring your shoulders. Gojo Satoru is unbearable, but if heâs your only ticket out of this boring, provincial life, then you have no choice but to grit your teeth and stick it out. The cost will be worth the reward.Â
The road stretches long and unbroken before you, a dirt path winding between fields and sparse woodland. Youâve seen this road beforeâwhen traders arrived at the village, when hunters returned from the mountainsâbut youâve never set foot beyond it.Â
Now, after years of watching others leave, you are the one walking away. You should feel relieved. Excited, even.Â
Instead, you feel like an imposter. Like youâre wearing someone elseâs skin.
Even your clothes donât feel like your own. Youâre used to sturdy village garmentsâworn tunics and skirts, softened by years of washing, familiar and comfortable. But now, youâre dressed for travel, and it feels unfamiliar. A dark green cloak, belted at the waist, drapes over your shoulders, its hem brushing against your ankles. Beneath it, youâve chosen a linen shirt and brown trousers instead of a skirtâmore practical, but strange. The boots on your feet are a size too big, borrowed from the village blacksmith, and though well-worn, they still rub uncomfortably against your heels.
Beside you, Satoru moves as if he owns the world, his long strides lazy. His clothes, though practical, have the distinct look of someone who wants to be looked atâworn leather boots, dark pants, a white tunic half-buttoned beneath a navy vest cinched at the waist. The coat hanging off his shoulders is long, lined with faded embroidery at the edges, the kind of detail that once belonged to something expensive before time and travel wore it down.
Unlike you, he looks completely at ease. As if heâs done this a thousand times beforeâwhich, of course, he has.
âI was expecting a little more enthusiasm,â Satoru comments. âMost people would kill for a trip to the capital with someone like me.â
You adjust the strap of your bag. âMost people would just kill you.â
âOuch. That one actually hurt.â
âIf only,â you mutter.
He chuckles, undeterred, and kicks a stray pebble along the path. Youâve been walking for over an hour, and he hasnât stopped talking the entire time. Itâs mostly been nonsenseâcomplaints about the lack of decent taverns in your village, dramatic sighs about the state of his boots, and a running commentary on the tragedy of being forced to travel with someone so determinedly unfriendly.
âWhat exactly is your plan once we get there?â he asks. âBecause I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but the capital isnât as great as they make it sound.â
âI donât need a plan,â you mumble. Truthfully, you have no idea, but youâre certain the answer will come to you. Somehow.
âRight, because winging it always works out well,â he says, looking at you like heâs waiting for you to react. He gets no such satisfactionâyour eyes are fixed firmly on the roadâand so, he ploughs on, âYou know, itâs adorable how much faith you have in your ability to not get robbed, lost, or, I donât know, arrested for trespassing.â
You let out a slow breath. âIf I do get arrested, Iâll make sure to tell them where to find you.â
âAh, but that would require you to know where I am. And I am a famously difficult person to pin down.â
You make a noise of irritation in the back of your throat, adjusting the strap of your bag. At this rate, youâre starting to think that letting him get caught might have been the better option.
By the time the sun has dipped below the horizon, the two of you reach the edge of the woods. The thick canopy overhead swallows the last of the daylight, leaving only streaks of violet and deepening blue through the gaps in the leaves. The path ahead is narrow and winding, the scent of damp earth and pine filling the air. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls.
âThis is it,â Satoru announces, dropping his bag on the ground. âOur humble abode for the night.â
âWe could walk a little further,â you say, frowning.
âAnd risk running into something with fangs?â He plops onto the ground, resting back on his elbows. âNo thanks.â
You sigh but donât argue further, shrugging off your pack and kneeling down to clear a space for the fire. If you wait for Gojo Satoru to be useful, youâll be waiting until your bones turn to dust. To your surprise, he doesnât interfere. He simply sprawls out on the grass, watching as you gather dry leaves and kindling.Â
âWatching you work feels kind of nice,â Satoru says, tapping a finger against his knee. âItâs like having a personal servant.â
You shoot him a glare. âDo you want to get stabbed?â
âWouldnât be the first time,â he says, and guffaws to himself.
Rolling your eyes, you focus on the fire, striking flint against steel until sparks catch in the dry grass. Slowly, the flames flicker to life, casting an amber glow over the clearing. Shadows stretch long and uneven, the trees shifting in the fireâs light.Â
The thief sits up, brushing stray grass from his vest. âAlright. Time to find some food.â
âWe have food,â you point out, nodding at your pack.
He makes a face. âWe have bread. I, for one, refuse to live like a peasant.â
âYou are a peasant,â you say, raising your eyebrows.
âWrong,â he corrects. âI am a distinguished criminal.â
âGo starve in the woods, then.â
âFine,â he huffs, standing up and dusting himself off, âbut if I donât come back, you have to live with the guilt.â
âI think Iâll manage.â
He mumbles something under his breath, but disappears into the trees anyway. You take the opportunity to sit back against your pack, stretching your sore legs and letting the warmth of the fire seep into your bones. Five minutes later, Satoru returnsâonly, heâs not alone. He sprints back into the clearing like a man being personally hunted by death itself, arms flailing as a blur of fur and claws barrels after him.
âWhat theââ You barely have time to sit up before Satoru dives behind you, using you as a human shield.
âGet it away from me,â he hisses, gripping your shoulders like his life depends on it.
Your eyes whip back to the so-called menace: A small, scruffy-looking cat with patchy grey fur, green eyes, and one torn ear. It stands by the edge of the firelight with its tail puffed up like a bottlebrush.
You blink. âDid⌠Did you just get chased by a cat?â
Satoru glares at you, panting. âThat thing is deranged.â
The cat lets out a shrill mrrow and lunges. Satoru yelps, scrambling further behind you, but the little creature stops just short of pouncing and instead sits daintily by the fire, licking its paw like nothing happened. You stare at it. Then back at Satoru. Then back at the cat.
âWow,â you say slowly, turning around to face the grown man cowering behind you. âYou, the great Gojo Satoru, feared thief and most wanted man in the entire kingdom, are afraid of a stray cat?â
He scoffs, straightening up as though he hadnât just used you to hide from a cat. âAfraid? As if. I just didnât expect it to be so⌠fast.â
âUh-huh.â
âIt ambushed me.â
You glance at the cat, which is now lying on its side and stretching out luxuriously. It is, unarguably, the most harmless thing youâve ever seen. You smirk. âI think Iâll keep him.â
Satoru gapes at you. âWhat? No! That thing has a personal vendetta against me.â
The cat looks up, makes direct eye contact with him, and flicks its tail in a deliberate motion. âYeah,â you say, grinning, âI like him.â
Your companion groans, rubbing his face. âWhat are you going to name him?â
You tilt your head, considering. The cat gives an unimpressed meow and swipes a paw at your ankle, before it pads over to you, climbs onto your lap and turns around in a circle. It kneads your thigh before settling down.Â
âMegumi,â you decide.
âOh, come on.â Satoru lets out a strangled noise. âThat thing is definitely not a blessing.â
Ignoring him, you scratch behind Megumiâs ears absentmindedly, reaching behind with your free hand and grabbing your pack. You undo the drawstring and pull out the loaf of bread; tearing out a chunk, you pop it into your mouth. The cat purrs in satisfaction, settling deeper into your lap.
Satoru watches this betrayal unfold with a deeply wounded expression. âI canât believe this,â he mutters. âTwo minutes ago, it was out for blood. Now itâs purring like it pays rent.â
You snort, tossing him a piece of bread. He catches it with ease but doesnât eat it right away, instead tearing at the crust in distracted motions. The fire crackles between you, throwing warm golden light over his features, softening the sharp angles of his face.
You hesitate for only a moment before speaking. âTell me a story.â
Satoru quirks a brow. âWhat, like a bedtime story?â
âNo, idiot.â You roll your eyes. âTell me about the capital. Iâve never been past my village.â
â...The capital, hm?â He shifts slightly, leaning back on his hands, and tilts his head skywards. For a moment, heâs quiet. The fire pops, and its glow dances over his cheekbones. Somewhere in the trees above you, an owl hoots. Then, he starts speaking.
âThe capital is loud,â he says, âbut not in a bad way. Itâs the kind of noise that reminds you that youâre alive. The streets smell like roasted chestnuts, chocolate, and something sweet that Iâve never been able to place. No matter where you go, youâll always be able to hear somethingâsomeone haggling in the market, children playing hopscotch, lovers whispering sweet nothings under balconies.â
His voice lowers, almost like heâs letting you in on a secret. âThereâs this place, just past the main square. A bookshop, tucked between an apothecary and a tailor. You wouldnât even notice if you werenât looking. Itâs smallâcramped, reallyâbut it smells like ink and old paper, and the owner never minds if you stay too long. When I was younger, I used to sit there for hours, reading about places Iâd never been. Iâd tell myself Iâd see them all someday.â
âAnd then thereâs the bridge,â he continues. âIt stretches over the whole river, wide enough for carriages to pass, but if you go at the right time, just before dawn, itâs empty. You can stand in the middle and watch the whole city wake upâlamps flickering out, shutters creaking open, the sky turning from grey to pink to gold. It makes you feel like youâre the only person in the world, just for a little while.â
Satoru exhales, and thereâs something wistful about the sound. When he looks at you again, thereâs a lopsided smile playing on his lips. âNot bad for a bedtime story, huh?â
You blink, caught between the warmth of the fire and the warmth in his voice. â...Tell me more.â
He laughs, bright and careless. âYouâre greedy.â
âMaybe.â You shrug, suppressing a smile.
âYouâll have to wait until tomorrow,â he says, leaning back fully and folding his hands behind his head. âIf I tell you too much, you might decide you donât need to see the capital for yourself, and Iâd never get my crown back.â
You glance down at Megumi, still nestled comfortably in your lap, tail flicking lazily. Perhaps itâs the way the thief spoke about it, or maybe itâs the way youâve always yearned for this, but the thought comes quietly, unbidden: I already want to see it more than ever.
Morning creeps up on you slowly, quietly, peacefully. The fire has burned down to embers, the air is crisp, and the forest hums with the comings-and-goings of woodland creatures. You are warm, bundled in your cloak, Megumi purring against your chest, and for once, Gojo Satoru is quiet.
Itâs perfect. Until something snorts directly at your face.
Your eyes snap open just in time to see a giant, pinkish nose inches from your own. Thenâ Snort. A blast of hot air right into your face. You yelp, scrambling back, only to trip over Satoruâs arm and land hard on your side. The movement startles Megumi, who lets out an indignant yowl and bolts straight onto Satoruâs face, claws out.
âWhat the Hellââ The man jerks upright with a strangled sound, flailing as Megumi uses him as a launchpad and disappears into the trees. His vest is askew, his hair is sticking up at odd angles, and he looks utterly lost. âWhatâwhereâwhy does my face hurtâ Who is attacking me?â
âThat!â You point wildly at the culprit.
Standing at the edge of your makeshift campsite, staring you both down like a disappointed parent, is a massive white horse. At first, youâre confusedâhorses donât live in the woods, youâre pretty sure. Then you see the crest of the royal family hanging off of its neck, and you grimace. His reins are hanging off the sides of his saddle; he seems like a runaway royal horse. He paws at the dirt, ears pinned back, looking every bit a soldier preparing to arrest a pair of criminals.Â
Satoru blinks at him. Then at you. Then back at the horse. âOh, youâve got to be kidding me.â
The horse huffs like he canât believe he has to deal with this nonsense. Then, before either of you can react, he lunges straight for the thief.
âSUKUNA, NO!â
You barely manage to scramble out of the way as Satoru lets out an undignified squawk and rolls out of the way, narrowly avoiding being stomped. He barely has time to get to his feet before Sukuna lunges again, snapping at his cloak.
âWhat is your problem?!â Satoru screeches, holding his arms up defensively. âI didnât even do anythingâoh, my GodâStopââ
Sukuna does not stop. Instead, he clamps his teeth onto Satoruâs sleeve and drags him sideways.
âHeâs arresting me!â Satoru howls, flailing as his feet skid in the dirt. âIâm being detained! Help!â
You double over in laughter. âIâthinkâhe recognises youââ
âOh, what gave it away? The way heâs dragging me to my demise?â
Sukuna whinnies like heâs insulted by the accusation. As if to prove a point, he yanks even harderâripping Satoru clean off his feet. He lands on his back with a thud, groaning. Sukuna looms over him, nostrils flaring, clearly debating his next move.Â
âOkay, okay. I surrender,â Satoru wheezes. âI hereby admit to all my crimesâpast, present, and future. Just let me live.â
Sukuna snorts. Satisfied, he steps on Satoruâs stomach for good measure before backing off. You wipe tears from your eyes, your own stomach hurting from laughing too hard. âI think he hates you.â
Satoru groans, draping an arm over his face. âI think I have internal bleeding.â
Megumi, now safely perched atop a tree branch, lets out an approving meow. Sukuna steps back, looking incredibly pleased with himself. His ears flick forward, and he turns to you, huffing expectantly.
You tilt your head. âOh. I think he likes me.â
âOh, great,â Satoru says, lifting his head weakly from the ground. âBetrayed by my own travel companion.â
You ignore him, cautiously stepping forward and holding out a hand. Sukuna eyes you warily but doesnât move away. âYou just donât like him, do you?â you murmur, glancing down at Satoru, whoâs still groaning in the dirt.
Sukuna snorts. Satoru lifts a finger from where heâs lying. âThat was unnecessary.â
âI think it was perfectly necessary,â you reply sweetly before turning back to Sukuna. Heâs still watching you closely, but he doesnât seem hostile. If anything, his tail flicks once, like heâs waiting for something. Slowly, carefully, you raise a hand to his nose. âYouâre not so bad, are you?â
Sukuna leans in, taking a few experimental sniffs beforeâmuch to your delightânudging your palm with his nose. Satoru lifts his head again, gaping at the scene unfolding in front of him. âWhat the Hell,â he says flatly. âI used to feed you when I was in the palace, you ungrateful beast.â
The horse flicks an ear, unimpressed. Then, as if to drive the point home, he lifts a hoof and kicks dirt in his direction.Â
You barely stifle a laugh. âI donât think he remembers you very fondly.â
Satoru groans. âThis is what I get for trying to be a good person.â
âYouâre a thief.â
âDetails.â
You scratch gently at Sukunaâs muzzle, feeling the warm puff of his breath against your fingers. He allows the touch, nuzzling further into your palm. The royal crest on his bridleâthe golden emblem of a sun against a dark blue background, the visage of light always conquering darknessâglints in the morning sun. It feels like a reminder of where exactly heâs from.
A warhorse. Loyal to the palace. Loyal toâ
You glance at Satoru. Heâs watching Sukuna with an expression you canât quite place. Something distant. Something nostalgic.
âYouâre from the palace, then?â you ask softly.
His usual bravado doesnât come immediately. He props himself up on his elbows, staring at Sukuna like the horse is a relic from a past lifeâone he hadnât expected to come face to face with again. âYeah, âcourse,â he says. âWouldnât lie about that.â
Sukuna snorts, stepping closer to you. Heâs massive, all muscle and barely-contained energy, and yet he stands still beneath your touch.Â
âDid you ride him?â
âHe wouldnât let me.â Satoru scowls. âLittle bastard always tried to bite me when I got near him.â
The horse huffs, as if to confirm this. You stroke his mane absently, and say, âHe seems different now.â
âYes, wellââ Satoru finally gets to his feet, dusting himself off with a wince. âGuess we both are.â
Thereâs something about the way he says it that makes you think heâs not telling you the whole truth. You decide not to push him further, curious though you may be. You let the silence settle between you both, the rustling of leaves filling the space where conversation might have been.
Finally, Satoru sighs. âSince heâs so smitten with you, does this mean we get a free ride to civilisation?â
âMaybe.â You glance at Sukuna.
âWonderful!â Satoru says, clapping his hands. âBecause I refuse to walk another ten miles while my organs are busy rearranging themselves from being trampled.â
âLetâs see if heâll let us.â You pat Sukunaâs side reassuringly before turning towards the remnants of your campsite.Â
The fire has long since dwindled into ash and embers, and your packs are haphazardly strewn aboutâlikely due to your frantic wake-up earlier. Your bag is slumped against the base of a tree, close to where youâd left it. Satoruâs bag is nearby, though considerably messier. One of the straps is half-ripped, and the flap is barely secured. You pick it up, brushing off dirt and leaves.
âYou live like this?â you ask, tossing it to him.
âBeggars canât be choosers,â Satoru says. He fumbles but manages to catch it, just barely.
âYou were cribbing about bread last night,â you remind him, slinging your own pack over your shoulder.
âI wasnât begging. I was demanding my basic human right to a proper meal.â
Megumi, who had disappeared into the trees during Sukunaâs rampage, reappears, gracefully leaping down from a low-hanging branch. He lands neatly on the ground, flicks his tail, and gives you both what can only be described as the feline equivalent of the stink eye.
Satoru looks at him warily. âAre you sure he isnât plotting revenge on us?â
âHe likes me,â you say, crouching to scratch behind Megumiâs ears. The cat lets out a quiet purr, rubbing his head against your hand in approval.
âOf course, he does.â
âDonât be jealous.â
Satoru mutters something under his breath that you couldnât be bothered to listen to properly. You gently pick up Megumi and settle him into the crook of your arm. He doesnât resist, curling up as if heâd rather not exert the effort to protest. Sukuna, who has been watching this entire exchange with the unimpressed air of a soldier waiting for incompetent recruits to finish fumbling, lets out a sharp huff and stomps his hoof.
You turn to him. âOkay, okay. Iâm ready.â
âYou know how to ride a horse, right?â Satoru asks, raising an eyebrow.
You pause. â...How hard can it be?â
âThatâs not an answerââ
Satoruâs warning goes unheeded; youâre already marching towards Sukuna with the kind of confidence only possessed by someone who has no idea what theyâre doing. You place a careful hand on the saddle and hoist yourself up. Or, well, you try to. Your foot barely catches on the stirrup before you wobble, losing balance. The next thing you know, youâre slipping straight off the other side.Â
Satoru catches you before you can hit the ground, his hands firm around your waist. âYeah, thatâs what I thought.â
You scowl, pushing yourself upright, but he doesnât let go right away. Youâre close enough to see the way the morning light catches in his eyes, the sharp blue softened by gold. His hands are warm where they steady you. You swallow thickly, suddenly aware of the heat creeping up the back of your neck.
Megumi, disgruntled from the movement, lets out a miffed meow. The spell breaks.
âAlright,â Satoru says. âLetâs try something else before you end up with a concussion.â
You glare at him, dusting off your sleeves as he turns to grab your packs. He ties them securely to the saddle, double-checking the knots before giving Sukuna an approving pat on the neck. The horse swishes his tail but remains otherwise still. Satisfied, Satoru turns back to you, hands on his hips. âOkay, up you go.â
Begrudgingly, you step closer, adjusting your hold on Megumi before reaching for the saddle. Satoru moves before you can think to protest, hands steady around your waist once more as he lifts you effortlessly onto the seat. You let out a startled breath, barely managing to swing your leg over the saddle before scrambling to adjust yourself. Your fingers grip the front of the saddle so tightly, the hard leather digs into your palms. Megumi, situated against your chest and in between your arms, flicks his tail against your face.
Sukuna shifts beneath you, muscles rippling underneath his sleek coat. You inhale deeply, trying to steady your nerves. Youâve never ridden a horse before.
The thought doesnât sink in until youâre actually up here, perched atop a beast far larger and stronger than you, with only a few flimsy leather straps keeping you from falling to the ground. For all the bravado youâve shown so far, you have to admit that youâre terrified.
âSee?â Satoru drawls, stepping back. âMuch better. Was that so scary?â
âNo,â you lie.
The thief studies you for a moment, and then comments, âYouâre a terrible liar.â
You give him a withering look, but heâs already movingâgrabbing the front of the saddle and swinging himself up behind you in one smooth motion.Â
âSatoruâ!â
Your protest is cut short when he settles in, his chest pressing flush against your back. Heâs warmâtoo warm (or is that you?)âand suddenly, all your attention is split between the solid, sturdy weight of him behind you, and the hands that reach around you, easily taking the reins.Â
âRelax,â he says, voice lower than usual. âIâll steer.â
Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you donât think it has anything to do with the horse anymore. âI wasnât scared,â you mutter, but there is no conviction in your voice, even to your own ears.Â
Satoru leans in just slightly, breath ghosting against the side of your face. He chuckles, the sound reverberating against your back, and says, âIâm sure you werenât.â
You donât trust yourself to speak, so you stay quiet, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of Sukunaâs steps once he starts movingâand despite your determination to remain oblivious to Gojo Satoru and his presence, you canât ignore the way his arms remain loosely draped around you, or the way he shifts ever so slightly when the horse moves, keeping you steady without saying a word. Itâs natural, the way he adjusts to you, like heâs done it a thousand times before. Like he doesnât even need to think about it.
The woods stretch ahead, quiet and endless, but all you can focus on is the sound of your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.
âTell me more about the palace.â
The rhythmic sway of Sukuna beneath you is oddly soothing, each hoofbeat settling into a steady, lulling cadence. You tilt your head back slightly, feeling the warmth of Satoruâs chest where he sits behind you. His arms are still lightly caged around you, as he guides the reins like itâs second nature to him. Megumi, no longer content with being curled up against your chest, perches himself on the base of the horseâs neck, swiping lazily at Sukunaâs mane every now and then. The horse flicks his ears in annoyance but does not stop him.
Satoru hums, considering your request. âWhat do you want to know?â
âI donât know,â you admit, eyes drifting upwards, towards the slivers of blue sky beneath the trees. âWhat was it like?â
âWell, itâs exactly what youâd expect,â he says. âTall, grand, and filled with old men who love to hear themselves talk.â
You huff out a silent laugh. âSounds charming.â
âOh, itâs a real dream. The walls are lined with marble, the kind that catches the light just right in the mornings, almost as if the whole place is glowing. The halls stretch wider than some villages, with paintings hanging on the walls that tell stories older than anyone can remember. And the ceilingsââ He shakes his head, his chin brushing against the back of yours. âSo high it feels like you could reach the sky if you just climbed a little higher.â
Thereâs something distant in his voice, something wistful and melancholic and fond. âYou make it sound very beautiful,â you say quietly.
âBecause it is. Itâs meant to be. A symbol of powerâof control. A kingdom that shines so brightly, no one knows about the shadows it casts.â
You glance at him over your shoulder, but his expression is stony. That easy drawl of his is still there, but beneath it, something festersâand it makes you hesitate before you press further.
âAnd you?â you ask. âWhere did you belong in all of that?â
Satoru exhales through his nose, a slow, measured sound. âWherever they needed me.â
Itâs not an answer, but it tells you enough. You let the silence stretch, waiting to see if he will offer more. He does.
âThe training grounds were always my favourite.â His voice drops slightly, thoughtful. âThey were tucked away behind the east wing, away from all the silk and the gold. You could hear the clash of swords from sunrise to sundown.â He pauses, then adds, almost to himself, âYou never forget the sound.â
A soldier, you think. Or something close to it. It makes senseâthe way he carries himself; the way he moves, like heâs always aware of every possible escape route; the way he knows so much about the kingdom and the capital.
You donât say it out loud, though. Instead, you ask, âDid you like it?â
âI liked knowing what was expected of me.â A beat of silence, and then, âBut I was never very good at following orders.â
A soft breeze cuts through the trees, rustling the leaves and cooling the warmth of the sun against your skin. âIs that why you left?â you ask carefully.
Satoru chuckles, but thereâs no real humour to the sound. âOh, I didnât leave.â His fingers tighten around the reins, just a little. âI was sent away.â
The words are heavy. You donât push. Sukuna continues forward, steady and unbothered, the sound of his hooves filling the silence that follows. You focus on the road ahead, on the sunlight filtering through the trees, on Satoruâs warmth behind you.
When he finally speaks again, voice lighter, teasing, you let him steer the conversation away. Somehow, you get the sense that when heâs ready, heâll tell you the rest.
The afternoon sun begins to dip, casting long shadows through the trees. The road ahead winds towards the hills, where a small village is nestled between the slopes. Youâll have to pass through it to get to the capital, according to Satoru. Smoke rises lazily from the chimneys, the scent of burning wood and roasting meat carrying faintly on the breeze.
Satoru shifts slightly. âLooks like weâve made it before sundown.â
Megumi meows, flicking his tail before settling back down; you reach forward and scratch in between his ears, absent-mindedly. The thought of a warm meal and a real bed makes your shoulders sag with relief. The past few nights have been spent beneath open skies, wrapped up in your cloak that barely keeps the chill away.
âYou think weâll find an inn?â you ask, glancing behind.
âUnless itâs run by a hermit who hates money, yeah,â Satoru says. âThough I wouldnât count on a royal welcome.â
That much is obvious. Travellers are rare in villages like theseâstrangers even more so. Your presence will not go unnoticed.
As you pass the first row of wooden houses, heads begin to turn. A blacksmith, hammer paused mid-swing, watches you warily from his forge. A woman gathering water casts a cautious glance before whispering something to the child at her side. Even the baker, hands dusted in flour, spares you a lingering look.
âMaybe theyâd be friendlier if you werenât grinning like you had a bounty on your head,â you mutter.
âI think we both know they wouldnât be wrong about that.â
That sends a sharp prickle down your spine. You donât respond.
The village square is small, paved with uneven stone and lined with merchant stalls. Most are already closed for the day, wooden shutters drawn and lanterns lit. Near the far edge, tucked between a tailorâs shop and a grain store, stands an inn. The wooden beams are weathered with age, but the sign above the entrance is freshly paintedâThe Fuzzy Duckling, it reads, complete with a crude drawing of a yellow duck underneath. The scent of stew and ale wafts through the open doorway.
Satoru nudges Sukuna to the stable. âWeâll rest here.â
You dismount first, stretching your legs as Satoru swings down beside you. Megumi jumps off the horseâs back and lands gracefully on the thiefâs shoulder.Â
The inn is dimly lit, the glow of lanterns casting flickering silhouettes. The scent of firewood, damp earth, and something vaguely sweet lingers in the air. Itâs fairly empty, though you suspect thatâs just because of the early hour. Wooden tables and stools lay barren, with empty tin jugs placed on each table. Behind the counter, a man leans lazily against the wall, watching you both with sharp, hooded eyes. His dark hair is slicked back, and thereâs a faint scar on his jawline. He doesnât say anything as he steps forward.
âHey, hey, look who it is!â Satoru grins, though, by now, youâve spent enough time with him to know itâs fake. âIf it isnât my favourite innkeeper, Shiu. Didâya finally get rid of all the mould growing in your wine cellar? I donât know if it was the mould or the age, but it sure tasted weird the last time I was here.â
Shiu smirks. âBeen wonderinâ when youâd show up again, Gojo.â
You look between them, sensing familiarity, though not necessarily the friendly kind. âWe need a room,â Satoru says, leaning an elbow on the counter. âThink you can manage that, old man?â
âCall me that again,â Shiu says, âand Iâll leave you to sleep outside with the horse. The lady will get a room for free, of course.â
You tense at his words, not enjoying the way the manâs gaze rakes over your body before settling back to Satoru. You get the feeling the thief notices too, because he moves closer to you, shoulder brushing against yours. âAh, well,â he says. âIâm afraid thatâs not negotiable.â
âRelax,â the innkeeper says. âIâm not a skirt-chaser. You can keep your woman with you. Roomâs at the end of the hall. Payment upfront.â
Satoru flicks a coin onto the counter. Shiu catches it easily, giving it a quick once-over before pocketing it. As Satoru turns towards the stairs, something catches your eye near the entranceâsheets of parchment tacked to a wooden board. Your eyes snag on one in particular.Â
A wanted poster.
The ink is bold despite the crumpled paper. The sketch is rough but unmistakableâwild white hair, sharp features, a grin that barely conceals its arrogance.
WANTEDâDEAD OR ALIVEREWARD: 100 GOLD COINS
Your stomach twists. Satoru follows your gaze and sighs. âDamn. They just canât get my nose right.â
âThis isnât funny,â you whisper.
âItâs a little funny.â Satoruâs grin widens, but you donât miss the tautness in his shoulders. He nudges you gently towards the stairs. âCome on, letâs get some rest.â
Shiu watches you both go, smiling, but his gaze follows too long for comfort. Your chest constricts. The room at the end of the hall is small but serviceableâone bed, a rickety wooden chair, and a window with a view of the village square outside. The floor creaks under your boots as you step inside. Megumi jumps onto the bed immediately, curling up near the pillows, flicking his tail once before settling.
Satoru stretches with a groan, rolling his shoulders. âCozy.â
You sigh, pressing your forehead against the cool windowpane. The village outside is quiet, bathed in early moonlight, but the unease gnawing at your stomach refuses to fade. âI donât like this,â you murmur. âThe way Shiu looked at youââ
âHe always looks at me like that,â the thief says, sounding far too chipper than he probably should.
âSatoru.â
âYeah, yeah, I know.â He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. âWe wonât stay long. You can take the bed. Iâll use the chair.â
The exhaustion from days on the road pulls at your limbs. You donât bother arguing; sleep finds you much faster than expected.
You wake to the sound of boots in the hallway. Your breath catches. This isnât the usual creak of old wood settlingâthis is deliberate. Heavy. Purposeful.
Your eyes dart to Satoru. Heâs already awake, sitting rigid on the chair, blue eyes alert even in the darkness. His hand moves instinctively to his belt, where heâd shown you his dagger rests a day back, hidden.
A knock echoes against the door.
âRoom service,â Shiuâs oily voice drawls from the other side.
Your blood runs cold. Satoru doesnât answer. He tilts his head, listening. You strain your ears too, heart hammeringâthereâs a faint shift of fabric. The sound of leather gloves flexing. Someone adjusting their grip on a sheathed blade.
Satoru curses under his breath. âSon of aââ
The crash comes a second later.
The door splinters inward, sending shards of wood flying. You barely manage to roll off the bed before a knife thuds into the headboard where you had just been lying. A figure stands in the ruined doorway: Tall, broad, dressed in black. A jagged scar cuts across the side of his mouth.
You donât recognise him, but Satoru does. His entire posture shiftsâhis usual cocky, easygoing stance sharpens, muscles tensing. A slow, tight exhale leaves him as he pushes himself to his feet.
The man in the doorway tilts his head, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. You can just make out a jagged scar cutting across his mouth. âBeen a while, Gojo,â he says.
Satoruâs lips press together in a thin line. âNot long enough.â
You glance between them, a creeping unease settling in your bones. Whoever this man is, Satoru knows himâand he doesnât like him. The stranger takes a lazy step forward, boots crunching over the splintered wood. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flick to you for a moment before settling back on Satoru. âDidnât think youâd be dumb enough to walk back in here, with a beautiful lady by your side and a bounty on your head, too. Guess you really wanted to see me again.â
âTrust me, Fushiguroââ Satoruâs jaw ticksâ âIâd rather be anywhere but here.â
Fushiguro. The name means nothing to you, but the way Satoru spits it out like a curse sends a prickle of warning down your spine. The man clicks his tongue, his smirk widening. He twirls another dagger in his fingers, casual, lazy. âDid I wake you? Sorry to have disturbed your evening, butââ
Satoru moves faster than breath, grabbing your wrist and yanking you back towards the window just as another blade whizzes past his ear, missing him by an inch. Megumi hisses, darting into your arms and scrabbling onto your shoulder. You donât even feel the pain where his claws dig into your skin.
Fushiguro lets out a low, amused chuckle. âRunning already? Câmon now, Gojo. Youâre making this too easy.â
Satoru kicks the window open. âHold onto me.â
âWhatââ
And then he jumps.
The wind rushes past as the two of you and the cat drop down, the world blurring around you. You barely register the impactâSatoru lands with a practiced roll, keeping you close, his arms tight around you as he shifts the force of the landing onto himself. Your pulse is roaring in your ears.
Above, Fushiguro leans lazily out of the open window, tilting his head condescendingly. âYouâre just making this more fun.â
Satoru doesnât wait. He grabs your wrist and runs. The streets are quiet, the village mostly asleep, but your footfalls pound against the dirt. Behind you, you hear the faint creak of woodâFushiguro dropping down from the second story without a sound, graceful as a damn cat.
The thief yanks you towards the stables. âGet Sukuna. Now.â
You donât argue. The stable doors slam open as you shove inside. Sukuna snorts, stomping his hooves in agitation. You fumble for the reins. âWhat aboutââ
Satoru turns just as Fushiguro appears in the doorway. Everything slows.
The light from the lanterns flickers against his dark silhouette. Heâs alone, not a single other mercenary in sight. But somehow, that makes it worse. In the darkness, it feels like heâs pressing down on the space, filling every corner, every shadow.
âDidnât need any,â the bounty hunter grunts.
He movesâa flash of steelâand Satoru shoves you back. The blade slices through the air where his throat had been a second before. He ducks low, twisting away, and kicks. His foot slams against Fushiguroâs side, sending him skidding back a stepâbut Fushiguro barely reacts, barely blinks, like he had been expecting it.
He strikes again. You barely see the knife coming before Satoru dodges, his movements sharp and fluid. The stable door splinters as the blade embeds itself in the wood.
Satoru grits his teeth. âGo!â
But youâcurse your damn cowardiceâhesitate. Fushiguro notices. His foot pivotsâhe lunges for you. A flash of fear tightens in your chestâ
But Satoru is there. He grabs Fushiguroâs wrist mid-strike, twisting it brutally. Fushiguro growls as Satoru hurls him backwards, sending him crashing into a pile of hay bales.
âGet on the damn horse,â Satoru orders, breathless. He swings himself onto Sukunaâs back, pulling you up after him, Megumi leaping onto the horse in time with you.Â
You barely have time to wrap your arms around his waist before he kicks off. Sukuna surges forward, hooves pounding against the dirt road as you tear through the village, leaving the innâand the very pissed-off bounty hunterâbehind.
Behind you, thereâs a soundâsomething sharp, fastâwhistling through the air. Satoru jerks the reins, pulling sharply to the side. A blade embeds itself into the wooden post just ahead of you, still quivering from the force of impact.
âShit,â the thief breathes. âHeâs not giving up.â
You donât look back. You donât dare to. The village gate is just ahead. If you can get past it, you might have a chance of losing him. Megumi wails, digging his claws into your cloak, ears flat against his head.
Satoru leans forward. âCome on, come onââ
Sukuna bursts out of the gates. Fushiguro curses loudly behind you, but it sounds far away, swallowed down by the horseâs thunderous galloping. You tighten your grasp around Satoru and squeeze your eyes shut. (You might be imagining it, but you swear you feel one of his hands cover your own, a gentle brush of his palm against the back of yours.)
The fire crackles weakly, providing warmth against the cold night air. Sukuna, exhausted from his earlier run, tucks his legs underneath himself and settles down near it. Megumi curls up next to him and begins washing himself. The stream nearby gurgles and bubbles merrily.
The fight is over, the adrenaline long faded, but still, the stress of it all loiters like a phantom pressing against your ribs. Your shoulder throbs now, where the cat had dug his claws into the skin, but thankfully, it isnât bleeding. Your hands are shaking. You dig your fingers into the earth, trying to steady yourself.Â
Satoru stands a few feet away, pacing, his boots crushing twigs and dried leaves. His breath comes fast and hard, back rigid with frustration. His coat is torn at the shoulder, and thereâs a thin line of blood trailing down his forearm.
You should say something. Thank him, maybe. Apologise. But the words stay stuck in your throat.
âWhat the fuck what that?â
You flinch, but his voice keeps coming, sharp and cutting.
âYou frozeâI told you to move, and you just stood there.â His hands come up, then drop to his sides. âYou couldâve died.â
You bite your lip, shame curling hot beneath your skin, but his anger makes something inside you snap. âI was caught off-guardââ
âNo shit!â he bites out. âYou donât get to be caught off-guard, not in the middle of a fight!â
âI didnât ask to be in a fight!â you snap. âIâm notââ You exhale sharply, hands curling into fists. âIâm not like you, Gojo. Iâm not a fucking thief whoâs used to running for my life every other night.â
His jaw tightens. âSo itâs my fault now?â
âIsnât it?â You throw your arms out. âIf you werenât on the face of every damn wanted poster from here to the mountains, we wouldnât be in this mess!â
Satoru lets out a bitter, humourless laugh. âRight. Because Iâm the one who dragged us into this.â
âYou areââ
âNo,â he cuts in, eyes flashing. âIf it wasnât for your stupid, fucking dream, we wouldnât be here in the first place.â
The words slam into you like a fist to the gut. A cold wind rustles through the leaves, stirring the dying fire. Sukuna neighs lowly from where heâs sat near the flames, but you barely hear him over the ringing in your ears. Â
Your stupid, fucking dream. The dream youâd held onto for years, the one that had kept you going, had pushed you forward through every hardship. Your throat tightens. âThatâs not fair.â
âOh, itâs not fair? You had no idea what you were asking for when you dragged me along on this little adventure of yours. Now, weâre running for our lives in the middle of nowhere, because you had to see some damn lanterns.â
The way he says itâlike your dream is nothing more than a childish whimâmakes something ugly twist inside you. âYou know what, Gojo?â Your voice shakes, but not from fear. âAt least I have a dream.â
His expression darkens.
âAt least I want something, something that isnât just running and stealing and barely surviving,â you press on, chest heaving. âBut you? What do you want, Satoru? Huh?â You step closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. âDo you even have an answer, or are you just going to keep laughing everything off like you always do?â
His lips part, but no words come out. For the first time since youâve met him, Gojo Satoru is speechless. But it only lasts a second. His gaze flickers, something unreadable flashing through his eyes before his mask slams back into place. He lets out a sharp breath, his expression twisting into something cruel.
âYou think youâre better than me?â He steps forward now, and you donât back away. âYou think just because youâve got some dream, youâre any different?â His voice lowers, turning razor-sharp. âLet me tell you something, sweetheartâdreams donât mean shit when youâre dead.â
Your breath hitches.
âOut here, itâs about surviving. Thatâs it.â He gestures between you. âAnd the only reason youâre still breathing is because Iâve been watching your back.â
You hate that heâs right. You hate that you froze. You hate that, for all your fighting words, you hadnât been able to do anything when it mattered most. Perhaps worst of all, you hate that he saw.
Satoru exhales, shaking his head. âForget it,â he says. âIâm going to get food.â
He turns and stalks off into the woods. You donât call after him, because you donât trust your voice not to break. The moment Satoru disappears into the trees, the night feels oppressive, like the darkness is closing in on you.Â
You stand there for a long time, fists clenched at your sides, staring at the spot where he walked off. Sukuna shifts in his sleep. Megumiâs breathing is slow and even. You should rest. You should scrounge through whatever leftover supplies you have from your village and find something to eat.
But your chest feels tight, like thereâs a rope around your ribs, pulling, pullingâ With a shuddering inhale, you turn and walk towards the stream.
The water is cold when you dip your fingers in, crouching beside it. The icy surface reflects the moonâs pale light. You stare at your own reflection, at the way your lips tremble, at the redness creeping into your eyes. You squeeze them shut. Itâs fine. Youâre fine.
You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, willing the burning away. But the second you take a shaky breath, it hits you all at onceâthe fear, the frustration, the exhaustion weighing on your bones. A choked sound leaves your throat before you can stop it.
You shouldnât be crying. You donât want to cry, but the argument replays in your mind over and overâSatoruâs voice laced with anger, the way he threw your dream back in your face like it was nothing.Â
He doesnât understand, you think. But is he right?
What were you thinking? That you could drag a thief to the capital and expect everything to go smoothly? That the world would just let you chase your dream, no consequences, no danger? Maybe your dream really is foolish. Maybe you are naĂŻve for believing that you could just waltz into the capital and see the lantern festival without any repercussions. Maybeâjust maybeâGojo Satoru regrets ever having met you.
The thought makes something inside you crack, the pressure behind your eyes spilling over. A broken sob escapes, and then another, your shoulders shaking as you press a hand against your mouth, desperate to smother the sounds.
A hand lands on your shoulder. You suck in a sharp breath, jerking away, heart racingâ
âItâs just me.â The voice is quiet but unmistakable.
Your breath stutters. Satoru crouches beside you. His presence is warm despite the chill in the air, and you realise now how cold youâve gotten, how your legs have gone numb from sitting in the same position for too long.
You quickly wipe at your eyes, turning away. âGo away, Satoru.â
He doesnât. Instead, he sighs heavily and shifts so heâs sitting right next to you, close enough that his knee bumps against yours. âIâm sorry,â he says, finally. âI was a dick.â
You blink.
âI mean, Iâm usually a dick,â he continues, gazing at the water, resting his elbows on his knees. âBut that was⌠excessive. I didnât meanââ He stops. Tries again. âYour dream isnât stupid.â
Your voice is small when you ask, âThen why did you say that?â
âI just⌠When you froze back thereââ His voice is quieter now, almost hoarse. âI thought you were gonna die.â
You swallow hard. He murmurs, âIâve seen people freeze like that before. And they didnât walk away from it.â
âI did walk away,â you whisper, not sure if itâs the right thing to say.
âYeah.â He turns his head, meeting your eyes properly for the first time since the fight. âYou did.â
Thereâs something about the way heâs looking at youâlike heâs seeing you for the first time. Or, maybe, like heâs seeing too much. You donât know who moves first, but his hand is covering yours, warm and solid. His grip is hesitant at first, but when you donât pull away, his fingers tighten around yours. You squeeze his hand back. Neither of you speak.
The fire crackles behind you. The water rushes softly. The moon watches from above.
Gojo Satoru, you think, is an enigma wrapped in glib promises and endless grins. You wonder if itâs his coping mechanism. Heâs intelligent, quick-witted and silver-tongued. Heâs good at fighting. You want to ask him why they sent him away from the palace, but you donât think you have the right to. He always seems torn about it, when heâs spoken to you about it beforeâlike itâs a bittersweet part of his life that heâs not very keen on revisiting.
He must have been something before turning to thievery. You stare at him like heâs a particularly intriguing puzzle, walking next to him. He guides Sukuna loosely by the reins; only Megumi is perched on his back, you and Satoru having favoured your own two feet instead of the back aches and leaden legs that come with extended periods of horseback riding.
âIf you wanted to stare at my face so badly, I couldâve nicked the wanted poster back at Shiuâs inn,â Satoru says, not bothering to look at you.
Your cheeks prickle with heat. âI wasnât staring,â you mumble.
The night air is cool against your skin; the wind carries the scent of damp earth and distant firewood, the kind of smell that reminds you of homeâthough, truthfully, youâre not sure what home even is to you anymore. Maybe itâs the road beneath your feet, the anticipation and uncertainty that comes with weeks of travel. Maybe itâs this: Walking beside a thief who used to be something more, who still is something more, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise.
Satoru doesnât say anything for a long time, but his arm brushes against the side of yours, familiar in a way thatâs almost comforting. The dirt path winds through the trees. The occasional torch flickers in the distance, marking the outskirts of the city. Sukuna snorts softly, and Megumiâs ears twitch as he scans the darkness ahead.
Eventually, Satoru speaks again. âItâs rude to stare and not share your thoughts.â
âI was just thinking,â you huff.
âDangerous pastime.â
You kick a loose pebble from the path. âI was thinking about you.â
He makes a low, amused sound in his throat. âHow nice of you. I knew you liked me, but I didnât think I occupied your thoughts so thoroughly.â
You donât rise to the bait this time. âI was thinking,â you say, âabout what you were before this. You told me once you were from the palace, but you never really told me why they sent you away.â
Satoru is quiet for a moment. The leaves rustle around you, and you tug your cloak tighter around your shoulders.
âThey trained me to be a soldier,â he says, finally, softly. âMe andââ He stops, swallowing the words like they taste bitter.
âAndâŚ?â You prompt. Your steps slow.
His grip tightens around the reins. âAnd someone else,â he finishes. âMy best friend.â
The way he says it makes your chest ache. Satoru clears his throat and continues, âThey trained us young. Said we had a gift for it. A gift for war, for strategy and battle.â He laughs, but thereâs no humour in it. âBut a soldier only has value if he follows orders. And I wasnât very good at that.â
You donât push him to say more, though questions press against the tip of your tongue. The capital looms closer, the distant glow of lanterns casting an orange hue against the horizon. The trees begin to thin, giving way to rolling hills and farmland. In the distance, you can just make out the towering walls that guard the city, their stone surfaces illuminated by torches.
As you near the outer gates, the sleepiness of the countryside fades into the vibrant pulse of the capital. Even at this late hour, the city is alive, breathing, stretching its limbs in the form of flickering lights and distant laughter. You can hear the clatter of hooves against cobblestone, the occasional shout of a merchant still trying to haggle his wares, raucous debates from the inside of taverns. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, of damp stone and burning oil. Itâs overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your chest tighten with something too big to name.
The capital. Your dream.
Satoru slows Sukuna to a halt just before the stone walls of the capital, guiding him off the main road and into the cover of a surrounding thicket. You follow, ducking beneath low-hanging branches. The trail here is narrow and overgrown, winding through the roots of old trees. Sukuna moves easily, his hooves barely making a sound against the packed dirt. When the city walls finally loom ahead, Satoru pulls on the reins, bringing the stallion to a stop beneath the shadows of an ancient oak.
âThis is where we part ways,â the thief says, patting lightly on Sukunaâs saddle.
Megumiâs dark ears twitch, catching every sound, his green eyes narrowing at the imposing walls. The cat hops off the horseâs back. Heâs been tense since you approached the capital; he doesnât like unfamiliar places, and the sprawling city is anything but.Â
Satoru tugs the reins over Sukunaâs head and leads him to a sturdy tree, securing him with deft hands. He runs a palm along the stallionâs neck in reassurance before crouching to do the same with Megumi. The cat lets out a mrow but doesnât resist when Satoru scratches him behind his torn ear.
âYou stay here and watch Sukuna, yeah? Be good,â he says, tapping him once on the head before straightening and unhooking your weather-beaten packs tied to Sukunaâs saddle and tossing them over his shoulder.
âYouâre leaving them here?â you ask, glancing between the horse and the cat. It feels strange to abandon them at the outskirts, but you suppose it would be impossible to smuggle a massive stallion and a stray cat through the streets of the capital.
âNot leaving,â Satoru explains. âJust letting them sit this one out. Sukunaâs too big, and Megumi doesnât care for crowds.â
You hesitate. Satoru doesnât give you time to dwell on it, already striding ahead. You follow him through a break in the trees, slipping past the walls through a hidden opening you never wouldâve noticed on your own. The dirt beneath your feet slowly gives way to stone and lamp-light.Â
By the time you emerge into the streets, the towering stone walls are behind you, replaced by the overwhelming grandeur of the inner city.
You barely notice the way your breath catches in your throat, too preoccupied with taking it all in. The streets are narrower here, winding and twisting, labyrinth-like. The buildings loom taller than any youâve ever seen, their façades adorned with intricate carvings and delicate ivy creeping up the sides. Ornate balconies overlook the streets, their silk curtains swaying with the breeze, and the warm glow of candlelight flickers in every window.
A vendor still lingers at his stall, selling roasted chestnuts wrapped in parchment, the rich scent making your stomach grumble faintly. A group of masked performers twirls in the city square, their laughter bright and musical. A nobleman in embroidered silks strides past with a pretty woman on his arm, their voices hushed as they slip into a gilded carriage.
Itâs stupendous.
You donât realise how close youâve pressed to Satoru, your shoulder pressing into his arm. He notices, of courseâhe notices everythingâbut he doesnât comment. He simply keeps moving, weaving through the crowd with the sort of confidence that only comes with someone who has walked these streets their entire life.
âStick close,â Satoru tells you. âItâs easy to get lost if you donât know your way around.â
The deeper into the city you go, the grander the architecture becomes. The modest stone buildings give way to towering structures of marble, their columns wrapped in flowering vines, their streets lined with lush greenery and carved statues. The roads widen, no longer cramped and twisting, but sprawling and lined with golden lanterns. Thenâ
Your breath stutters as you step into an open courtyard, and there, standing tall and regal under the silver glow of the moon, is the palace.
Itâs massive, far grander than you ever could have imagined. White stone gleams under the warm lights, intricate carvings adorning every arch and column. The banners of the royal family ripple in the cool night breeze, deep blue with the yellow royal sigil against the ivory walls. The golden spires reach towards the heavens, their tips catching the light of the stars, as if they themselves are part of the sky.
Awe roots you to the spot. For years, youâve dreamed of this place; of seeing it with your own eyes. Now that youâre here, it doesnât feel real.
Satoru stops beside you, watching you quietly, blue eyes twinkling. With a smile curling at his lips, the thief tilts his head towards you and murmurs, âWell, sweetheart. Welcome to the capital.â
Satoru says he knows a place where both of you can spend the next three days until the lantern festival commences. You donât believe him, especially after what happened the last time with Shiu and the bounty hunter. He had glared at you, deeply affronted, said, âYour lack of faith in me is appalling,â and then proceeded to lead you back towards the inner city.
âRemember that bookshop I was telling you about?â he asks, rounding a corner.Â
âI remember,â you say.
âThe former ownerâs son runs it now,â Satoru says. âHeâll let us stay there.â
You donât deign to reply, still drinking in everythingâthe towering buildings, the banners hanging from balconies, the cobblestone streets that shine under the flickering lights. Shopfronts boast their trinkets and fine silks, while street vendors call out to passersby, offering skewers of sizzling meat and honey-dipped pastries.Â
Itâs strange. The world you have known until now has always been smaller. Quieter. Even in the busiest towns, even in the places where merchants and travelers gathered, there was never anything like this. The capital, you think, is a city that never sleeps; a city that belongs to people like Satoruâpeople who thrive in movement, in laughter, in places where the streets are never empty and thereâs always something new waiting around the corner.
You tune out the thief talking beside you. Heâs rambling about something, making some quip about your starry-eyed expression. The city is so alive, so rich with colour and movement, that it fills every space in your mind.
A sharp tug at your wrist yanks you back just as a carriage rushes past, wheels rattling violently against the stones where youâd been standing a second ago. The force of it stirs your cloak, wind whistling against your cheek. The shock of it doesnât register right away. You stumble, your body pulled by somethingâsomeoneâsolid and hard.
Satoruâs arm is firm around your waist, his fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist where he pulled you. The warmth of him is undeniable, even through layers of fabric. He holds you against him, close enough that you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Your breath is stuck somewhere in your throat, heart pounding against your ribs. You hadnât even noticed youâd stepped into the carriageâs path, hadnât realised how dangerously close youâd come to being trampled beneath its wheels.
Satoru exhales slowly above you, his grip tightening for a brief second before relaxing. âGawking at the scenery is nice and all, but Iâd rather not have to scrape you off the road.â
âI wasnât gawking,â you mumble, more out of reflex than actual protest. Your stomach flips, though whether itâs from embarrassment or something else entirely, youâre not sure.
âYou were,â he murmurs, but the teasing lilt in his voice is absent. His fingers, still wrapped around your wrist, loosen just slightlyâbut he doesnât let go.
Instead, his grip shifts. His fingers slide down, intertwining with yours, palm pressing firmly against your own. Heâs holding your hand. A warmth unfurls inside your chest, one that you donât quite know how to name.
The two of you weave through the crowd like that, his fingers still tangled with yours, warmth bleeding into your skin with every step.
Satoru doesnât let go until you round the next corner. The streets narrow, becoming quieter. The clamour of the main road fades behind you, replaced by the occasional murmur of voices from dimly-lit taverns and the sound of the wind rustling through laundry lines strung between buildings. The air smells of damp stone, faintly sweet and petrichor-like.
You clear your throat, trying to ignore the persisting warmth of Satoruâs touch even after he lets go. If he notices, he doesnât say anything. Instead, he continues ahead. You wonder how often heâs taken this pathâhow many times heâs disappeared into the quiet corners of the city, both as a thief and as a soldier-in-training.
Eventually, he stops in front of a small, weathered shop tucked between a tailorâs boutique and an apothecary. The wooden sign above the door sways slightly in the breeze, the faint, worn lettering just barely readable. Nanamiâs Books.
It doesnât look like much from the outside. The wooden shutters are drawn, the paint on the door slightly chipped, but thereâs something sturdy about itâsomething dependable, like itâs been here for years, and will remain standing for years to come. A single candle flickers behind the window, casting a warm glow through the glass.
Satoru raps his knuckles against the door. âNanami,â he calls, sing-song.
The door creaks open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man with blond hair, wearing a crisp, white tunic, and an expression so unimpressed, one would think Satoru had just asked to rob the place. âNo.â
âNanami,â Satoru coos, grinning.
âNo,â Nanami repeats, firmer this time, as if sheer repetition will make him disappear.
âYou donât even know what I was going to ask.â
Nanami sighs wearily, bringing up a hand and rubbing tiredly at his forehead. âYouâre going to ask if you can stay here.â
Satoru places a hand over his chest, wounded. âWhat, no warm welcome? No, âSatoru, my dear friend, Iâve missed youâ?â
âIâve never said that to you in my life.â
âThe lack of hospitality here is astounding.â
Nanami does not dignify that with a response. Instead, his gaze shifts to you. His scrutiny is wary but not unkind, expression flickering with mild curiosity. You shift slightly under his gaze, unsure of what heâs looking for.
âYouâre new,â he says.
You nod. âFirst time in the capital.â
âAnd what trouble has Gojo dragged you into?â
The corners of your mouth lift up in a smile; Nanami seems like someone you can get along withâa kindred spirit in the art of pushing Gojo Satoruâs buttons. The thief, of course, doesnât share the same sentiment. He gasps, offended, and says, âWhy do you assume itâs trouble?â
âAre you really asking me that?â the bookshop owner asks dryly. He sighs, visibly considering whether allowing Satoru into his home is worth the inevitable headache. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, a gesture that suggests this is not the first time heâs found himself in this exact situation. âHow long do you plan on staying here?â
âTwo nights,â Satoru answers. âJust until the festival.â
âFine.â Nanamiâs shoulders slump as he reluctantly steps aside. âBut if you so much as breathe near my ledgerââ
âYouâre the best.â Satoru claps a hand on his shoulder before he can finish, flashing a triumphant grin. Nanami, on the other hand, looks like he instantly regrets his decision.
Inside, the bookshop is lit by candlelight, the scent of parchment and ink thick in the air. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, packed with books that look well-loved and well-worn. The floorboards creak softly underfoot, and a single lamp flickers on the counter beside an open ledger, its pages filled with neath, meticulous handwriting.
âThe loft is upstairs,â Nanami says, rubbing his temples. âTry not to destroy anything.â
âNo promises,â Satoru says cheerfully.
You follow him up the narrow staircase, stepping into the small loft above the shop. The space is simpleâtwo mattresses perpendicular to each other, pushed against the wall, a low table, and a window overlooking the street below. Dust lingers in the corners, the scent of old parchment soaked into the very walls. Thereâs no extravagance here, nothing grand or gilded, but itâs warm and lived-in.
Satoru throws himself onto a mattress with no ceremony, arms spread as he sighs dramatically. âSee?â he says, peering up at you. âTold you I knew a place.â
You roll your eyes, but despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips.
You wake up to the sounds of an argument in the shop below. The mattress is lumpy and a little hard, but it beats sleeping on the forest floor with nothing but your cloak separating you from the cold earth. Satoruâs mattress looks the same as it did last nightâthe covers placed meticulously and tucked into the sides, the pillow not creased, as though he hadnât slept at all. A quick glance around the loft leads you to find a wooden basin filled with water. You pad over to it and splash your face once, twice. The water is cool against your skin. You rub the gunk out of your eyes.
It seems the argument isnât going to abate anytime soon. Nanamiâs voice rises, and, cautiously, you make your way out of the door and pad over to the top of the staircase so you can hear better.Â
âYouâre a fool,â the bookshop owner says. âI told you that months ago, and yet here you are. Again.â
Satoru sounds almost amused when he replies, âWell, hello. What happened to good morning?â
âYouâre going to get yourself killed.â
A beat. You shift onto the first step, careful to keep your steps light.
âI appreciate the concern, Nanami,â Satoru says. âReally. But you should know by now that Iâm impossible to kill.â
âThat isnât the point.â Thereâs the sound of something hitting the counterâa book, maybe, or Nanamiâs palm pressing against the wood as he fights for patience. âYouâre still chasing thisâthis ridiculous theory? After everything?â
Your fingers tighten around the bannister. âIt isnât ridiculous,â the thief says, quieter this time.
Nanami scoffs, dry and unimpressed. âYouâre gambling with your life for a theory you canât even prove.â
âThatâs the point, Nanami,â Satoru counters, sharp. âI have to prove it.â
âYou donât have to do anything,â Nanami says, and thereâs something frayed at the edges of his voice, something that sounds a lot like concern buried under layers of irritation. âYou could leave this alone. Walk away beforeââ
âBefore what?â
âYou know what.â
For a moment, neither of them speak. The words sit heavy in the air, thick enough that you almost feel them pressing against your skin. Nanami exhales. âAnd even if youâre determined to be a reckless idiot,â he says, voice cooler now, âwhat gives you the right to drag someone else into this?â
You stiffen at the mention of yourself. Satoru clicks his tongue. âOh, come on. I didnât drag her into anything.â
âSheâs here, isnât she?â
âShe dragged me here. She made that choice herself.â
âShe doesnât know what sheâs choosing,â Nanami snaps. âTell me, Gojo, did you bother explaining anything, or did you simply try to charm her skirts off and decide that was enough?â
âI can be persuasive if I want, you know.â
âInsane. Youâre insane, and I want nothing more than toââ
Youâre not sure what compels you to move, but you step down the stairs, making your way towards them before the argument can escalate any further. Maybe itâs curiosity, maybe itâs annoyance, maybe itâs the simple fact that youâre irked at being talked about like you arenât standing just a few feet away. At the sound of your footsteps, both men turn.
Nanami regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze. Satoru runs a hand through his hair, but grins at you. âGood morning, sleeping beauty,â he greets. âEnjoy your beauty rest?â
You give him a withering look before turning to Nanami. âWhatâs going on?â
âThat,â he says, lips pressed into a thin line, âis exactly what Iâd like to know.â
âItâs too early in the morning for us to be concerned with all this serious talk,â Satoru cuts in, clapping his hands. He glances at you. âNanami, does Utahimeâs shop open this early?â
âYes,â he replies. âBut I donât think sheâll be very receptive to you barging in and ruining her morning.â
âNonsense! Utahime loves me.â
Nanami sighs. âIâll warn her first.â
âThereâs no need for that.â Satoru waves a hand in the air dismissively, placing his other one on the small of your back and gently steering you out of Nanamiâs bookshop. You bite your tongue, curious to know what they were arguing about, but unsure if itâs in your place to pry.Â
âWhere are we going?â you ask instead.
The thief grins, letting the door to the bookshop swing shut behind him. âTo get you some new clothes.â
âWhatâs wrong withââ You donât bother finishing the question, as Satoru leads you through the winding streets of the capital. The city is slowly wakingâmerchants setting up their stalls, children darting between their parents, the scent of roses and bread wafting from nearby bakeries and flower shops. You can hear the clang of a blacksmith hammering metal in the distance, the occasional neigh of a horse, and people haggling over the fresh produce thatâs just arrived from the surrounding countryside.
You clutch your cloak around you a little tighter, feeling a little out of place. Itâs different, now, in the daylight, when the darkness doesnât obscure your vision and those of others. You glance down at yourself, taking in the well-worn fabric of your cloak, the practical cut of your tunic and trousers. Itâs not like youâre dressed in rags, but compared to the finery youâve seen nobles wearing in the streets, you suppose you do stick out rather like a sore thumb. (So does Satoru, your mind offers helpfully, but unlike you, he moves as if he owns the very streets he walks on, as if the world itself bends to his whims.)
âIs this really necessary?â you ask hesitantly.
âAbsolutely.â
You narrow your eyes. âI feel like youâre just looking for an excuse to spend money that isnât yours.â
âI would neverââ he begins, but you give him a flat look, and his lips curl up into an utterly unrepentant grin. âAlright, maybe I would. But in this case, itâs a matter of principle. Donât you want to look all nice and pretty at the lantern festival?â
You roll your eyes but let him drag you long, weaving your way through the bustling market district. Eventually, he stops in front of a charming little boutique, its windows lined with displays of elegant dresses, rich fabrics draped across headless mannequins. A little brass bell jingles as Satoru pushes open the door. The interior of the shop is warm, bathed in the golden light filtering through the windows. Shelves upon shelves of neatly arranged fabrics line the walls, bolts of silk and brocade in every shade imaginable. The air smells of lavender and fresh linen, with the faintest hint of parchment from the stack of ledgers resting on the counter.
Behind that counter, a woman with dark hair pulled into a loose bun looks up from where sheâs inspecting a sheet of shimmering fabric. Her sharp eyes land on Satoru, and whatever semblance of peace she had this morning is immediately shattered. âOh,â she says, ânot you.â
âUtahime!â Satoru places a hand over his heart. âYou wound me.â
âYou deserve it.â
âIs that any way to greet an old friend?â he simpers.
Utahime arches a brow. âYou are not my friend.â
Satoru wags a finger at her. âBusiness associate, then?â
âBarely.â
You shift uncomfortably, not entirely sure how to insert yourself into this conversation. The two of them clearly have some sort of shared history, similar to Nanami and Satoru. Curiosity prickles in your stomach; you want to know more about them, about Satoruâs life before he became a wanted man.
Utahime exhales through her nose, then finally turns her attention to you. Her expression softens slightly, the corners of her lips quirking upwards. âAnd you are?â
You hesitate, suddenly feeling very out of place surrounded by all this luxury. âUmââ
âSheâs my new travelling companion,â Satoru interrupts, slinging a hand around your shoulders as if that explains everything. âWhich is why Iâve so graciously brought her hereâto make sure she looks the part.â
Utahime stares at him, then at you. Slowly, her grin turns amused. âYou mean, to make sure you donât look like a pauper standing next to her.â
You choke back a laugh. Satoru splutters, âIâhow dare youââ
âYou look like youâve been sleeping in ditches, Gojo,â the tailor says.
âThat is not true.â
âYou have leaves in your hair.â
Satoru blinks, reaches up, and, sure enough, pulls a small, dried leaf from his messy white locks. He flicks it away with a muttered curse.
âI canât stand someone as pretty as her walking around with a man who looks like he lost a fight with a laundry line. Come,â Utahime says, addressing you and already pulling a gown off a nearby rack. âLetâs get you sorted before I throw him out.â
You follow her shyly deeper into the boutique, leaving Satoru to sulk near the counter. The further in you go, the more extravagant the fabrics becomeârich velvets, shining silks, intricate embroidery, lacy tulle. You hesitate, again, feeling out of place among such luxury, but Utahime does not seem to care for your reservations. She studies you with a critical eye, holding up various fabrics against your skin.
You shift awkwardly under her scrutiny. âI donât need anything too fancy,â you say quickly.
Utahime gives you an unimpressed jerk of her chin. âYou think he is going to let you walk around in something plain?â
You glance over your shoulder at Satoru, who is currently inspecting a mannequin in the corner, tilting his head. He doesnât even pretend to be paying attention. You sigh. âProbably not.â
âExactly.â Utahime flicks through a row of dresses before pulling one out. âTry this.â
The fabric is smooth beneath your fingertips, a deep blue that shimmers like water under the sunlight. The embroidery along the neckline is delicate, intricate swirls of silver thread that catch the light. Itâs beautifulâfar more beautiful than anything youâve ever worn before.
âIâI donât know if I should,â you admit.
âWhy not?â
âI mean, Iââ You falter. The words sound silly even in your own head. Iâm not used to things like this. Things this nice.
But Utahime merely shakes her head and shoves the dress into your arms, though not unkindly. âYou should, because you can.â She gestures to a dressing screen next to you. âGo. Try it on.â
You nod, uncertain, before stepping behind the screen, fingers tracing over the soft fabric. It takes a moment to undo the laces of your old clothes and slip into the new dress. The material drapes over you fluidly, the fit surprisingly perfect. The bodice is snug but comfortable, cinching at your waist before flowing down in gentle folds. The sleeves are light, sheer fabric brushing against your skin like a caress.
When you step out, Utahime nods in approval. âBetter.â
You look down at yourself, smoothing your hands over the fabric. Itâs strange, wearing something so fine, something that makes you feel seen. Youâre so used to blending into the background, to preferring practicality over beauty. But nowâ
A low whistle interrupts your thoughts.
You glance up to see Satoru leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his lips. âDamn,â he muses. âI always knew you were cute, but this is something else.â
Your face heats. âShut up.â
âIâm serious!â He pushes off the counter, walking over to circle you, inspecting you from every angle. âYouâre going to have every noble in the capital turning their heads.â
âWhich means you canât go around looking like that,â Utahime interjects, shooting Satoru a pointed glare.
He blinks. âLike what?â
âLike a half-drowned stray,â she says, and before he can protest, she shoves a bundle of clothes into his arms. âGo change. I refuse to let someone as beautiful as her be seen with an absolute pauper like you.â
You laugh, and Satoru pouts at you. âYouâre enjoying this.â
âExtremely,â you agree.
Grumbling under his breath, he disappears behind another dressing screen, leaving you and Utahime in silence. After a beat, she turns to you. âYouâre travelling with him willingly?â
âItâsâŚâ You chew on your lip. âComplicated.â
She hums, as if sheâd expected nothing else. âBe careful.â
You donât know how to respond to that, so you simply nod. A moment later, Satoru emerges, now dressed in something far more refined than his usual attire. The loose, tattered shirt underneath his vest has been replaced with a fitted tunic of dark navy, the high collar emphasising the sharp angles of his jaw. The long coat draped over his shoulders is a deep charcoal, lined with silver embroidery. Even his boots look newer, shinier.
He runs a hand through his hair. âWell?â
Utahime clicks her tongue. âItâs an improvement. Barely.â
Satoru ignores her and turns to you. âWhat do you think?â
âYou look⌠less like a thief,â you say.
âIâll take that as a win.â
Utahime rolls her eyes, thrusting a pair of slippers that match the colour of your dress at you, along with an ivory comb to pin your hair back in place. âTake these and get out of my shop.â
So you do.
The capital, youâve come to realise, is a place of contradictionsâgrand stone buildings adorned with ivy, shadowed alleyways where whispers slip through the cracks, noblewomen in embroidered shawls brushing shoulders with street performers balancing on stilts.Â
Satoru weaves between crowds easily, pausing only when something catches his interest: A vendor selling sugared fruits, a fortune teller shuffling tarot cards at a makeshift stall, a pair of children chasing each other with wooden swords, their giggles ringing bright in the late morning hour. He lingers just long enough to soak in the moment before moving on, as if the city itself is nothing more than an elaborate game designed for his amusement. You try not to stare, but the way he carries himself is captivatingâlike heâs seen it all before and yet, still finds a way to be charmed by it.
âSee?â He nudges your arm lightly with his elbow. âTold you youâd fit right in.â
You press your lips together and say nothing. The fabric of your new dress sways as you walk, softer and finer than anything youâve ever owned. It feels unfamiliar against your skin, but not unpleasant. It makes you feel different, somehow, like youâve stepped into a role that doesnât quite belong to you. People glance at you differently now; not with suspicion or wariness, but with curiosity.
âSo, what now?â you ask instead.
Satoru grins, wild, his blue eyes shining with mirth and excitement. âNow? Now, we explore.â
And explore you do.
He leads you through the winding streets, pointing out interesting stalls and dodging carts and carriages. He stops at a street performer juggling knives and dramatically gasps at every toss, leaning in as if heâs witnessing a royal duel. You shake your head, but his antics coax a quiet smile out of you. When he catches it, his smile softens just a little.
A hidden alleyway tucked between two bustling shops reveals an old woman sitting behind a small table, delicate glass trinkets laid out in neat rows. The figures catch the light, shimmering like captured stardust. Satoru crouches, fingers hovering over a tiny glass cat, its tail curled in mid-motion. His white hair falls into his eyes as he studies it, the briefest flicker of something thoughtful passing over his features.
âDâyou think Megumi and Sukuna are getting lonely?â he murmurs, turning the figurine over in his hands before placing it back, offering the woman a charming wink as he tosses her a coin for her time.
âYou didnât buy it,â you observe. The two of you step back onto the main street.
âDidnât need to,â he replies, slipping his hands into his pockets. âJust wanted to look.â
You make your way towards the bustling heart of the market, where stalls overflow with bright fabrics, glinting trinkets, and fresh produce. The scent of roasted chestnuts curls around you, warm and nutty. Satoru pauses, his gaze flicking to a vendor skillfully tossing chestnuts in a wire pan over an open flame. The chestnuts pop and crackle in the heat. Without a word, he steps forward, tossing a few coins onto the counter. The vendor barely has time to acknowledge him before Satoru is already handing you a small paper pouch, its warmth seeping into your fingers.
âTry one,â he says, grinning.
You peel open the shell of a chestnut, the scent much richer up close. When you take a bite, itâs soft and sweet, the kind of warmth that settles deep in your chest.
Satoru watches you expectantly. âWell?â
âTheyâre good,â you admit.
âOf course they are,â he boasts. âI have impeccable taste.â
You huff a small laugh, shaking your head, but you donât pull away when he reaches out, brushing a stray hair from your face that escaped the confines of Utahimeâs comb. His fingertips barely ghost over your skin fleetingly, but you feel it like an ember catching flame. It stretches between you like a thread being pulled tautâand then he clears his throat and looks away.
âCome on,â he says, tilting his head in the direction of another street. âThereâs one more place I want to show you.â
By the time you arrive at the jewelry stall, the sun hangs high overhead, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. Unlike the market district, this section of the city is quieter, the chatter of merchants distant, softened by the hum of rustling leaves. The stall itself is small but carefully arrangedâdainty chains displayed on dark velvet, rings nestled in silk-lined boxes, gemstones catching the light in a kaleidoscope of colours. Here, the world feels slower, as if it exists in its own pocket of time.
Satoru steps forward, fingers skimming lightly over the jewelry. His expression is uncharacteristically thoughtful. You watch him curiously. Until now, heâs been aimlessly amused by everything, flitting from stall to stall and shop to shop like a butterfly with no real direction, but thisâthis is different. Thereâs an intention behind the seriousness in his eyes.
âWhat are you looking for?â you ask.
He doesnât answer immediately, instead picking up a simple silver necklace with a small blue gemstone embedded in its center. He turns it between his fingers, the pad of his thumb brushing over the stone as he studies it for a long moment. Then, as if coming to a decision, he looks at you.
âThis suits you,â he says.
You blink, taken aback. âWhat?â
He steps closer, the space between you shrinking. âHere,â he says softly. âLet me.â
Your breath catches when his hands lift, brushing against the back of your neck. The metal of the chain is cool against your skin, but his fingersâhis fingers are warm, careful, the touch light enough to send a shiver down your spine. He lingers for just a fraction too long before fastening the clasp, fingertips grazing the nape of your neck in a way that makes heat bloom beneath your skin. When he pulls away, the pendant rests just above your collarbone. You touch it lightly.
âIâI canât take this,â you say, voice quieter than before.
Satoru only smirks, but itâs not his usual brand of tiresome arrogance. Itâs softer. âToo late. No returns.â
Your fingers tighten around the pendant. The stone is smooth beneath your touch, reflecting the sunlight in shifting shades of blue. It reminds you of somethingâof fleeting moments, of oceans youâve never seen, of something vast and untouchable yet undeniably present. The question slips out before you can stop it: âWhy?â
For a moment, he doesnât answer. His gaze roams over you, something unreadable flickering in those too-bright eyes. Then, he shrugs. âConsider it a souvenir,â he says. âSomething to remember today by.â
You want to press him for more, but something about the way he says it is fragile, delicate in a way that makes you hesitant to touch it too harshly. It is a thread pulled just slightly tighter, a balance shifted just slightly off-kilter. He reaches for your wrist, tugging you gently back towards the street.Â
âLetâs go,â he says, ever the one to move before a moment settles. âWeâve still got time before sunset.â
By the time the sun begins its descent, the capital is alive in a different way than before. Where the market had been filled with the shouts of merchants and the clatter of wooden carts, the town square now hums with a different kind of energyâjoyful and infectious.
Colourful paper lanterns have been strung between buildings, flickering to life as the sky fades from gold to dusky violet. Musicians gather in the center of the square, their lively tune spilling into the air, coaxing laughter and movement from the people around them. The scent of honeyed pastries from a nearby stall blends with the perfume of crushed petals from garlands strung over doorways.
âWell, sweetheart,â Satoru says, âitâs your lucky day. Looks like weâve arrived just in time for a celebration.â
You look up at him, slightly wary. âA celebration for what?â
âThe night before the lantern festival, âcourse.â He grabs your wrist and pulls you forward.
âSatoruââ
âHush, weâve done nothing but walk around all day,â he says, meandering through the crowd. âLetâs have a little fun.â
Your protests die on your tongue when you step into the heart of the square. The music swells, a melody of flutes, fiddles and tambourines; it is so rich and lively that it seems to settle beneath your skin, curling around your ribs like something alive. All around you, people spin and sway to the rhythm, moving as if the music is stitched into their bones. Women twirl in dresses of deep reds and blues, their skirts fanning out like blooming flowers, while men clap their hands to the beat, laughing as they switch partners. Children dart between the dancers, giggles escaping their lips, while couples sway together, lost in their own world.
Youâre so caught up in taking it all in that you donât notice Satoru moving until his hand finds yours again. The moment you realise what heâs doing, your eyes widen. âOh, noââ
âOh, yes,â he counters, grinning as he spins you suddenly, catching you before you can stumble. âYou canât expect me to dance alone, can you?â
âI can if I donât know how,â you retort, heart racing at the unexpected movement.
He clicks his tongue. âTsk. And here I thought you were quick on your feet.â
You narrow your eyes at him. âOnly when I need to be.â
The thief only laughs, that bright, boyish sound that makes something warm settle in your chest. âJust follow my lead,â he says, drawing you in.
Against all reason, you do. At first, youâre hesitant, stiff under his hands while he guides you into the rhythm of the dance. But Satoru is nothing if not persistent. He keeps you moving, spinning you into the flow of the music, making the world blur in bursts of colour and light.
Itâs dizzying, the way he movesânot just with grace, but with a kind of unshaken confidence, like heâs never once doubted that the world will bend to him if he asks it to. His hands are steady on yours, his steps sure, and when he grins, itâs the kind of grin that makes you feel like youâre part of some grand adventure, something wild and untamed.
Youâve never met a man like him before.
Somewhere along the way, your hesitation fades. Your body moves with his naturally now, drawn into the lilt of the music. Your laughter bubbles up before you can stop it, spilling into the air between you as he twirls you beneath the glow of the lanterns. Satoru watches you closely, his smile softening, just a little around the edges.
âTold you itâs fun,â he murmurs.
You shake your head, breathless. âWarn me next time.â
âYou do want a next time, then,â he says, and you donât have an answer to that.
Becauseâmaybeâyou do. Something in you, you think, has begun to unravel. Maybe, against all logic, youâre slipping. Maybe, you donât mind. You meet his gaze, heart rabbiting about in your chest. His eyes are impossibly blue, bright even in the dim glow of the lanterns. Your heartbeat is too loud in your ears, your thoughts a mess of tangled emotions, but you canât bring yourself to step away. Not when his grip is this steady, not when his eyes are watching you like that.
The music melts into something softer, the once-rapid twirls melting into something slower, more intimate. Satoruâs hand shifts, resting lightly against your waist, his other still holding yours between calloused fingers. The world feels smaller now, quieter, narrowed down to just the two of you.
When the song finally ends, both of you out of breath and a little bit sweaty, Satoru steps back and bows with an exaggerated flourish. The fondness in your chest betrays you, and you curtsey back. He holds your hand again, and doesnât let go. Even as the music fades and the crowd disperses, laughter trailing off into the warm night, his grip remains firm. You should pull away. Should remind yourself that heâs still a thief, still unpredictable, still frustrating beyond belief.Â
Instead, you let him guide you through the winding streets of the capital once more, past shops closing up for the night, past candlelight flickering through bedroom windows, past lovers whispering in darkened corners. The warmth of the evening settles over you both, the smell of jasmines and roses and summer heat pressing in close.
âYouâll like this,â Satoru says, turning back over his shoulder.
âYou say that about everything.â
âAnd I mean it every single time,â he replies.Â
He takes you through a narrow alley, walking with the surety of someone who has spent their childhood finding all the hidden parts of the city. A wooden ladder rests against the side of a weathered stone building; Satoru lets go of your hand and immediately starts climbing.
You pause. âSeriously?â
âUnless you want to climb up four flights of stairs,â he calls down, teasing. âBut I donât think youâre in the mood for a hike.â
With an exasperated shake of your head, you gather the folds of your dress into your arms, bunching up the fabric. The ladder, thankfully, is sturdy despite having stood in that spot for who knew how long. The climb is easier than you expect, and when you reach the top, Satoru is already waiting, standing near the edge of the rooftop with his hands in his pockets, watching the city unfold beneath him.
Your breath hitches. The view is stunning. From here, the capital is a sea of golden lights, stretching wide until the river that snakes around the perimeter near the far end. The castle looms in the distance, its towers reaching towards the heavens, the marble reflecting all the lights. Beyond it, the countryside stretches endlessly, shadowed hills rolling underneath a sky dusted with constellations. The stars seem impossibly close, as if you could reach out and trace them with your fingers.
Satoru watches your reaction, the corners of his lips curling into something softer than a smirk, something quieter. âTold you.â
You donât reply immediately, too busy taking in the sheer vastness of it all. The castle, the city, the starsâthings that once felt distant and untouchable now seem just within reach. Stepping closer to him, you ask, âHow did you find this place?â
âI used to come up here as a kid. Sometimes, when things gotâcomplicated, I guess you could sayâIâd sneak away, climb up here, and just watch. The world looks different from above.â
You nod, turning back to the view, letting the quiet settle between you. Satoru plops down onto the shingles of the rooftop, inches away from the part where it begins to slope, and motions for you to do the same. You comply, dress rustling as you sit down next to him. After a moment, Satoru shifts, leaning back on his palms, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The cool night air ruffles his hair, the moonlight catching on the silver strands.
âCan I ask you something?â
â...That depends,â you say.
His smile is easy, lazyâbut his eyes are sharp and searching, like heâs trying to peel back all your layers. âBack in the market,â he starts, slow, âyou let me pull you into that dance. You couldâve left. You couldâve made an excuse, walked away, ignored me entirely. But you didnât. Why?â
You suck in a breath, eyes drifting to the city below. The streets are quieter now, the celebrations beginning to wind down. For so long, your world has been small. Not just physically, but in the way that matteredâthe way that made it feel like you were meant to stay in one place, bound by duty, by love, by responsibility.
âMy grandmother,â you begin, softly. âShe was the only family I had left.â
Satoru doesnât move; he just watches you, waiting. âShe got sick,â you continue, wringing your fingers together on your lap. âAnd I had to take care of her. I couldnât leave, even if I wanted to. Even ifââ You pause, exhaling through your nose. âEven if I dreamed about it sometimes.â
The memories come back in piecesâwatching the world pass by beyond the edges of your village, wondering what lay beyond the fields and forests you had never crossed. The way you used to sit by your grandmotherâs bedside, listening to the stories she told of places she had never been either.
âShe passed away,â you say, quieter this time.
Satoru doesnât speak, but the way he looks at you makes your chest tighten. You turn your head, looking out over the city again. The castle towers rise high against the star-streaked sky, the view stretching beyond anything you ever could have imagined from your tiny corner of the world.
âI spent so long staying in one place,â you admit, âbeing careful and doing what was expected of me. But nowâŚâ You trail off, searching for the shape of the feeling thatâs been unravelling inside you since the moment you first stepped beyond the life you thought you were meant to live. âNow, I think I just want to see whatâs out there.â
A slow smile tugs at Satoruâs lips. Itâs not the cocky smirk youâre used to, nor the grin that comes with a teasing remark. Itâs softer, something almostâfond. âAnd now that youâre here, is it everything youâve dreamed of and more?â
âYes,â you breathe out. âItâs incredible.â
âIâm glad,â he says, then, after a beat: âAlright, my turn.â
âYour turn?â
âTo answer a question.â His eyes flicker to you, playful. âYou want to ask me something, donât you?â
You pause. Then, before you can overthink it, you ask, âAre you still only with me because you want the crown back?â
The teasing edge in his expression falters, just for a second. He doesnât answer right away. Instead, he shifts, fingers tapping idly against the rooftop, his eyes fixed on the distant castle. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, more thoughtful.Â
âAt first, yeah,â he admits. âThat was the plan.â
You wait, sensing thereâs more. Satoru lets out a breath, a faint chuckle escaping him, though thereâs a strangeness to the soundâlike heâs amused at his own thoughts, still figuring them out. He says, âBut youâre not exactly what I expected.â
You frown. âWhat is that supposed to mean?â
He shifts, turning to face you fully now, the golden lights casting shadows across the side of his face. âIt means,â he says, âthat I figured youâd be like everyone else. Predictable. Easy to manipulate. Someone whoâd either slow me down or get in my way.â
Satoru smiles, tilting his head, but this time, itâs differentâless teasing, more like heâs studying you, trying to commit you to memory. âBut youâre not.â
Your heart stutters. You donât know if itâs the words themselves, or the way heâs looking at youâintent, unrushed, like you are something worth decipheringâbut something shifts, something fragile and terrifying in its certainty. You should say something; you ought to shake your head, roll your eyes, scoff at him like you always do. But the night air is wrought with something you donât have a name for, and the weight of his gaze pins you in place.
âYouâre stubborn,â he continues, voice dipping just slightly, low enough that you feel it more than hear it. âSmart. Quicker than I expected. You surprise me.â
The breath youâve been holding releases in a slow exhale, but it doesnât make the feeling in your chest settle. âI donât know if I believe you,â you murmur.
Satoru leans in, not touchingânot yetâbut close enough that the heat of him brushes against your skin. âYou really should.â
You barely have time to process what he means before he moves, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to stop him. Some part of you registers thisâbut you ignore it, because somewhere along the way, you stopped wanting to.
His hand lifts first, fingertips ghosting along your jaw, barely there, a touch so cursory, it could be mistaken for hesitation. He doesnât rush, doesnât pull you in like a man desperateâhe waits, breath mingling with yours, gaze flickering down to your lips, then back up again, watching. Itâs agonisingly slow, and maybe thatâs what makes your pulse hammer in your throat, makes your fingers tighten at your sides as if fighting the instinct to reach for him.Â
And thenâthe faintest brush. Featherlight; testing. A breath of a kiss, a question rather than an answer. You could pull away now, but the moment his lips meet yours, something inside you caves.
Itâs soft at first, uncertain, but the second you respondâjust the smallest tilt forward, the slightest press of your lips against hisâhe becomes more insistent. His hand cups your jaw more firmly, his other coming to rest against the small of your back, drawing you in as though the space between you is something offensive and unbearable.
You gasp against his mouth, but it isn't surprise. Itâs relief; like something that had been threatening to snap inside you has finally, finally broken loose. His lips move slowly against your, unhurried but devastating, a contradiction of softness and something deeper, something unjumbling beneath your skin. You donât even realise when your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like he might slip away if you donât.
You donât think. You donât breathe. You just fall.
Itâs easy enough to fall into Gojo Satoru like this. Too easy, really. It should be harder. It should be something that gives you pause, something that makes you second-guess yourself. But you donât, because right now, on this rooftop with the whole city stretching out below you and the stars scattered across the sky like crushed diamonds, it doesnât feel like a mistake. It doesnât feel like something youâll regret. It just feels like him.
Satoru pulls away and watches you carefully, the way he always does when heâs waiting for you to make a move first. His hands rest loosely on either side of him, deceptively relaxed, but his gaze tells a different story. Thereâs something in his eyes tonightâsofter, expectant, something that makes your stomach twist in ways you donât entirely understand. Maybe youâll never understand him fully. But you think, maybe you donât have to.
You reach for him first this time. A brush of your fingers against his wrist. He doesnât move, doesnât speakâjust watches, as if memorising the moment. You shuffle closer, until your knees touch where heâs sitting, until his breath stirs the air between you. When you finally lean in, when your lips graze his in something that isnât quite a kiss yet, you hear the sharp inhale of breath he takes. Then, finally, he moves.
Satoru kisses like he does everything elseâsure of himself, but not impatient. He takes his time, lets you press in closer as his hands find their way to your waist, his touch steady and warm. The rooftop is quiet except for the distant sounds of the city and the faint hum of the night air, but all you can hear is himâthe way his breath blows on your cheek, the way he exhales softly when your fingers slip into his hair.
You let him kiss you deeper, let him tilt his head and pull you closer and melt into him as easily as breathing. When he pulls you into his lap, hands firm on your hips and his lips trail lower, brushing along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, you decide you donât want to stop at all.
The inn is a modest place, tucked between streets. Its wooden beams creak, and the scent of old bookshelves and candle wax wafts through the air, mixing with something sweetâhoney, maybe, or the remnants of a forgotten perfume. Satoru had brought you here so quickly and paid for a room that, despite the knowing look the innkeeper gave you both, you didnât have the time to feel embarrassed before he was whisking you away.
Itâs quiet here, away from prying eyes. The bed beneath you is softer than youâd expected, sheets worn but clean, warmed by the heat of your bodies. A single melting candle in the corner lights up the room, its glow casting shadows along the rough-hewn walls, pooling in the hollow of Satoruâs throat as he hovers over you.
Thereâs a momentâjust a momentâwhere uncertainty creeps in. Youâve never done this before. Somehow, Satoru seems to know that without you even saying anything. His hands, steady and warm, never wander too far, never push for more than what youâre willing to give. Even as his lips move against yoursâslow, coaxing, patientâthereâs an unspoken question between every kiss; an invitation rather than a demand. It makes it easier. Easier to melt into him and to follow the way his fingers map careful paths down your spine.
You barely register when he tugs at the hem of your clothes, when fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling somewhere unseen. His gentle fingers unclasp the comb in your hair, letting it fall down loose. He leaves the necklace on, though, the blue pendant just above your collarbone, reflecting his own blue eyes. They darken when he sees you like this. His hands are on your bare skin, and itâs differentâmore real, somehow. More intimate than anything else before this.
Satoru leans back, exhaling as he takes you in, eyes dragging over every newly exposed inch of you. His gaze is heavy, reverent in a way that makes you shiver. âYouâre beautiful.â
Your breath catches. Heat pools low in your stomach, spreading through you in slow, curling tendrils. Then heâs pressing his lips to your throat, his hands gliding down your sides, settling on your hips. His touch is firm but never rough. Still, the anticipation builds.
Your skin feels too hot, too sensitive, aware of the way his mouth drags lowerâover your collarbone, down the center of your chest, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Then, lower still. You shudder. âSatoruââ
He hums against your skin, one hand sliding beneath your knee, urging you to part for him. âLet me take care of you, sweetheart.â
You hesitate for only a moment before nodding. Thatâs all the permission he needs. His hands settle on your thighs, parting them gently. His lips ghost over the sensitive skin, teasing and testing, before he presses a kiss where youâre already aching for him.
The first touch of his tongue is tentativeâjust a slow, languid drag against you, as if savouring the taste. Like heâs learning exactly what makes you tremble. You do tremble. A quiet, broken sound slips from your lips before you can stop it, your fingers tightening instinctively in his hair. Satoru groans, low and pleased, and the vibration of it makes your stomach tighten.
He doesnât rush. Doesnât overwhelm you. He simply moves with purpose, unravelling you piece by piece, lick by lick, until the pleasure builds into something unbearable. You donât know when your eyes flutter shut and your body melts into the sheets. His grip tightens just slightly to hold you in place. When he drags his tongue over that one spot, when he sucks, slow and deliberate, pleasure licks up your spine like wildfire. You gasp.
âThatâs it,â Satoru says, a tad proud. âJust let go.â
Your fingers tangle in his hair, your thighs tightening around him as he coaxes pleasure out of you with maddening patience. The tension builds, winding tighter, higher, and when he rubs your bundle of nerves with his thumb, you moan. Warmth spills through your limbs; your breath catches and everything around you blurs, reduced to nothing but the feeling of his mouth, his hands, his name falling from your lips in a whisper. Satoru stays there for a moment longer, pressing one last kiss to the inside of your thigh before moving back up. He kisses you again, slow and deep, and the taste of yourself on his lips makes your head spin.
âHow was that?â he asks.
âYou talk too much,â you say, and slant your lips against his again.
Satoru pulls away, though reluctantly. Kneeling between your legs, his hands move to his belt. You watch, still dazed, as he undoes it and kicks his trousers off, then pulls his tunic over his head in one smooth motion. You swear you forget how to breathe.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for him, pressing your hands against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. He shudders at the contact, and something about thatâabout the way you affect himâsends a thrill through you. Wordlessly, he leans back, watching you carefully.
You meet his gaze, and, slowly, slide your hands up, over the defined lines of his collarbones, over the faint scars that mark his skin. You take your time, tracing the firm places of his stomach, the ridges of muscle beneath your fingertips. He has a scar cutting through his torso, a jagged line that should look unseemly, but on Satoru it does not. You donât think anything ever could.Â
âHow did you get this?â you whisper, running your fingers along the line.
âFailed assassination attempt on me,â he whispers back. Youâre not even surprised anymore.
Satoru is beautiful. Itâs a thought that strikes you suddenly, like a realisation that had been waiting for the right moment to surface. Heâs all long limbs and lean strength, a body built for running and fighting and surviving. The sight of him, bare before you, makes something warm bloom in your chest.
âYouâre staring,â he teases, but his voice is quieter this time, almost breathless.
You hum, letting your nails drag lightly down his torso, watching the way his stomach tenses in response. âMaybe.â
His breath comes out uneven. Then, as if he canât help himself, he leans down, pressing his weight against you, caging you beneath him. The heat of his body is overwhelming, the feel of bare skin on bare skin sending a shiver through you. Even then, when he presses his lips to yours, he asks, âAre you sure?â
You donât hesitate. âYes.â
He exhales sharply, his forehead dropping against yours. âYouâre going to kill me.â
You laugh, breathless, tilting your head just enough to kiss him again. âThen die quietly.â
His answering grin is crooked. He nudges your nose with his, and his hand finds yours against the sheets as he laces your fingers together. Slowly, he moves.
The first press is slow, careful, an unfamiliar stretch as he eases himself inside you inch by inch. Your breath hitches in your throat, fingers tightening around his while your body adjusts to him. Thereâs a sting, a deep pull of discomfort that makes you tense, but he stills immediately, exhaling a shaky breath against your temple.
Satoruâs lips ghost over your skin, pressing soft kisses to your cheek, your jaw, murmuring quiet praises in between. âYouâre doing so well,â he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. âSo fucking perfect.â
The ache fades gradually, melting into something warmer. You take a slow breath, then shift your hips slightlyâjust enough for him to move. His sigh is shaky, his grip on your hand tightening.Â
He starts moving, and the world narrows to nothing but him. Itâs slow at first, every movement measured, as if heâs trying to memorise every little reaction and gasp that spills from your lips. He watches you the entire time, his expression softer than youâve ever seen it, like heâs seeing you for the first time. The pleasure builds gradually, a slow burn spreading through your veins. Each roll of his hips, each press of his body against yours sends another wave of heat through you, until the discomfort is nothing but a memory. Your legs tighten around him instinctively, pulling him closer, deeper. Satoru groans, his head dropping into the crook of your neck as he curses under his breath.
âFuck,â he murmurs, voice strained. âYou feelââ He shakes his head, unable to finish the thought. His teeth graze lightly over your shoulder. His pace quickens slightly, pulling breathy moans from you with every movement. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your stomach, winding like a thread about to snap.Â
And then he angles his hips just right, hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur. A broken sound escapes your lips. Your grip on his hand tightens, nails digging into his skin. âThere?â he asks, voice thick with something you canât quite place.
You nod, unable to form words, and he groans, pressing deeper, chasing every little reaction you give him. Itâs overwhelmingâthe warmth of him above you, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, the way he whispers your name like itâs something sacred.
When you finally reach that peak, when the pleasure crests and crashes over you in dizzying waves, your entire body shudders beneath him. The thread snaps, leaving you weightless and drowning in sensation as he follows soon after, his movements growing erratic. Satoru pulls out just in time, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he spills onto your stomach, one hand gripping your waist as his body trembles above you. His breath is ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly; he takes in the sight of you beneath himâflushed, panting, utterly wrecked.
For a long moment, neither of you move. His breath fans over your collarbone, fingers fiddling with the silver chain around your neck. He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder, and his grip on your hand loosens just slightly, but he doesnât let go. Eventually, Satoru shifts, rolling onto his back and searching for something to clean you up. He finds a wash basin with a cloth placed nearby; wetting it gently, he pads back to you. The thiefâyour lover, now, you supposeâis gentle, wiping you down with slow, careful movements before tossing the cloth aside. Then, without hesitation, he pulls you against him, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing his lips against your temple.
His fingers trace absentminded patterns along your spine, his touch featherlight. You feel his lips press against your hair, and the gesture makes your chest ache. You curl into him. He rests his chin on the top of your head. âSleep,â he says.
You donât say anythingâjust let your eyes slip shut, and let yourself sink into the warmth of him and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Satoru coaxes you out of bed with the promise of buying you a honey-dipped pastry from one of the vendors youâd been eyeing the day before. You grumble about his methods, saying he has an unfair advantage knowing your weaknesses so well, but truthfully, you donât really mind. You dress quickly, smoothing your hands over the creases in your gown and pulling your hair back with the ivory comb, while Satoru lounges against the doorframe, watching you with that easy, lopsided grin of his. The sunlight catches in his hair, and when he tilts his head at you, something warm curls inside your stomach. You shove it down.Â
The two of you leave the small inn just as the sun begins to rise, the golden light spilling over the rooftops. The streets are still mostly empty, save for a few vendors whoâve begun setting up their stalls. You walk beside Satoru, your hands brushing against each other now and then, though neither of you makes a move to pull away. He fills the quiet with his usual chatter, talking nonsense, teasing you about how you hogged the blankets, about how you snored (you did not). You roll your eyes and shove at his shoulder, but he only laughs, catching your wrist and spinning you in a quick, playful circle.
When you finally reach Nanamiâs bookshop, it looks the same as it did the day beforeâquiet and unassuming, its worn wooden sign creaking slightly in the breeze. You push the door open.
Nanami is at the counter, as usual, a book open in front of him. But you can very quickly tell something is off. He doesnât look up right away. His hands are still, fingers pressed against the page, unmoving. When his gaze finally lifts, it lingers on Satoru first, then flickers to you. He exhales and gives you just the faintest shake of his head. A warning. Leave.
You blink at him, confused. Satoru, oblivious as ever, only grins. âMorning, Nanami,â he sing-songs, stretching as he strolls further inside.
Nanami doesnât answer. You hear footsteps, slow and heavyâthe sound of hard boots against wooden flooring. Not from the entrance. From the back of the shop.
A man steps into view. Tall, with broad shoulders, his dark hair pulled into a high knot, leaving a few loose strands to frame his face. His clothing is different from the soldiers youâve seen beforeâblack and deep blue, his vest embroidered with the sigil of the royal family. But what strikes you most is his expression: Blank and unreadable; the kind of stillness that feels dangerous without needing to try. His eyes, dark and steady, scan the room methodically before resting on Satoru. Heâs flanked by two soldiers on either side of him, standing in metal-plated armour with their faces hidden by the visors on their helmets.
âAh,â the thief says. âSo thatâs why Nanami was looking at me like I was already dead.â
The room is still. Satoru doesnât move. Neither does the man at the back of the shop. Nanami, ever composed, keeps his fingers pressed against the pages of his book, though you can see the tension in his shoulders. He knows exactly who this man is. You donât.
âYouâve gotten sloppy,â he remarks, as if he was simply commenting on the weather. âI had multiple reports of you wandering throughout the city yesterday. You werenât even subtle about it.â A small pause, and then: âFrolicking, they said. With a girl.â
His eyes slide towards you. Your stomach tightens. You donât recognise him, but something about his presence makes your skin prickle. Itâs the way he carries himselfâthe way his posture is lazy, the way his voice is even and smooth, but not emotionless. He reminds you of Satoru, but less flamboyant and raucous.
âI should introduce myself,â he continues, âto our friend here who appears visibly confused. Geto Suguru, captain of the Royal Guard, at your service, madam.â
Satoru merely shakes his head. âYou really ought to pay your soldiers more,â he drawls. âImagine sending them on a wild goose chase to find me. Surely there are more pressing matters to attend toâbut I am flattered about the attention youâre very generously bestowing upon me.â
The man hums, unimpressed. âThey do their jobs well enough. Unlike you.â
His gaze flicks to a low table pushed to the side. To the crownâthe crown that was supposed to be tucked underneath your mattress back in your cottage. Your pulse quickens. Satoru follows his gaze. âHm,â he says, like itâs all very unfortunate, âI suppose thatâs how you found us.â
âYouâre different,â the man says. âYou never used to be this careless.â
Familiarity bleeds into his tone when he says it. They have a history, the thief beside you and the soldier opposite him, that much is clear. Your fingers curl into your palm.
âIs this the part where you tell me Iâve gone soft?â Satoru grins but it doesnât reach his eyes.
Captain Geto lifts a brow. âIf the boot fits.â
Satoru snorts. You stay quiet, your mouth drying up. You donât know how deep their history runs. Youâre not sure if you want to, anymore, even though, earlier, your curiosity about Gojo Satoru knew no bounds.
âYou found me, Suguru,â Satoru says simply, grin vanishing.
The captain inclines his head. âYou always make things difficult,â he says, lifting a hand.
The soldiers step forward. Satoru doesnât fight when they grab him. He stays motionless, doesnât even flinch as they wrench his arms and wrists, twisting them behind his back. He doesnât move, but you do. âSatoruââ
He turns his head towards you, and you swear you see something shutter in his expression. But as quickly as it comes, it goes, replaced by a grin that looks more like a sneer.
âI assume you wonât struggle,â the captain says.
âWouldnât dream of it, Captain Geto,â Satoru says.
You open your mouth, but before you can say anythingâbefore your brain wraps around whatâs happeningâSuguru turns to you. His dark eyes sweep over you, assessive. âYouâre from the villages, arenât you?â
You freeze. His voice is calmânot unkind or threatening. Just certain. There is nothing that suggests immediate condemnation about the way he says it, but it sends a prickle of something cold down your spine. You force yourself to square your shoulders and look him in the eye when you confirm his question.
Suguru nods at your reply, something thoughtful about the way he regards you. âThen you have a choice,â he says.
âA⌠choice?â Your pulse thunders against your skin.
He tilts his head once more, slightly, and for a moment, you could almost call him composedâgracious, even. His words are anything but. âEither you come with us, as his accomplice. Or you return to your village and pretend this never happened.â
The words drop between you like stones. Your throat tightens. You know what heâs offering. A way out. A chance to walk away and go back to the life you left behind. You can let these past few weeks become nothing more than a bitter memory, something you can tuck away and bury deep. But if you leaveâ
You find yourself looking at Satoru. He grins at you, looking for all the world like he doesnât have a care. Like he isnât standing there, bound, with soldiers at his back and chains ready to be locked around his wrists. But you also see the way his shoulders have gone taut, the way his fingers twitch, just slightly, like he wants to reach for you. Before you can think to answer, Satoru cuts in.
âI lied to her.â
Your heart hammers in your chest at his sudden declaration. Captain Geto raises a brow, waiting.
Satoruâs grin widens, careless and easy. âShe didnât know who I was. She didnât know about the crown or any of this. I played her the fool, and charmed my way into her good graces. Can you blame her?â
You feel like the ground beneath you has vanished. Heâs lying. You know it, Suguru knows it, Nanami knows itâbut he says it anyway, as if willing it into truth, daring Suguru to challenge him.Â
âYou never change,â the captain murmurs.
âNope,â the thief agrees, popping the âpâ sound.
Thereâs a silence; a slow, quiet sigh. Suguru shakes his head. âTake him.â
The soldiers move. You react on instinct, lurching forward, reaching for himâbut rough hands seize your shoulders, pulling you back. Nanami, you realise. His sturdy armsâtoo muscular for a simple booksellerâhold you in place no matter how much you squirm in his grip.
Satoru, on the other hand, merely presses his lips together when they fasten the iron cuffs around his wrists. You feel the sharp sting of panic rise up your throat. âNoââ Your voice cracks, but no one is listening. Your limbs feel useless, weak, as the soldiers push past you. âWaitââ
Captain Geto steps forward, blocking your path, his presence an immovable wall of black and blue. His dark eyes settle on yours, calm and resolute. âWe found the crown at a cottage.â
His words feel like ice water down your spine. You swallow hard. Suguru doesnât look triumphant, doesnât even look like heâs enjoying this. He states it as an inevitable fact. âThe entire village was searched,â he continues, measured and unhurried, like heâs laying out the pieces of a story so that you understand. âWe found the stolen heirloom hidden there. And if it was there, then that means whoever lives in that cottageââÂ
He pauses. You donât dare to breathe.
ââwas harbouring the kingdomâs most wanted criminal.â
A leaden weight settles in your chest. No. No, thatâs not true. I didnât know. But the words donât come. Because you did know, right from the start, when you stole the crown from him. It was already too late, then, and it is too late now, because nowânow, you know the shape of his smile, the sound of his laugh, the calluses on his fingers. Satoru was protecting your secret, and the realisation burns. Your nails bite into your palm. You want to say something, to fight back and demand an explanation from Geto Suguru. Satoru turns his head towards you.
The soldiers pull him to the door, and you watch, your throat tight and your breath shallow. Your feet wonât move, your body feels frozen, like some part of you believes this is the last time youâll see him. Like some part of you is already mourning. Satoruâs grin doesnât slip. His white hair falls over his eyes, and for a brief second, you swear you see something thereâsomething reassuring. Heâs telling you itâs going to be okay. Heâs telling you not to follow.
âGojo Satoru,â the captain announces, âas the Captain of the Royal Guard, as per the First Commanderâs decree, I hereby arrest you for the cases of looting, thievery, causing bodily harm and injury, failure to repay your debts to the capital, stealing the royal familyâs most precious heirloom, and betrayal to the Royal Crown. Do you object to any of these claims?â
âNo, Captain,â Satoru says.
âVery well. Your punishment for the following acts of treason is death. The execution will be tomorrow, at sundown. Do you have anything you wish to say?â
His blue eyes find yours. âNo, Captain,â he repeats, quieter this time.
Your vision blurs. Gojo Satoru, the menace, the thief youâve journeyed with, the man who knows you more intimately than anyone else, smiles at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, as the guards lead him away.
âThereâs a history, isnât there?â You cross your arms over your chest. Nanami and Utahimeâwho had arrived almost as soon as Nanami had sent wordâlook at each other. âBetween the captain and Satoru, andâand you two and Satoru. Tell me.â
Itâs been two hours since Satoru was arrested. Two hours of restless pacing, your mind running in frantic circles and your hands clenching and unclenching as you tried to come up with a planâany planâthat didnât result in you standing at the end of a sword.Â
Nanami had stopped you before you could even try to follow the captain and his soldiers. âThatâs suicide,â he had told you, his voice low but firm. âYou wouldnât make it past the castle gates.â He had barely convinced you to stay. But the truth was, you wouldnât have made it far. Not when Geto had given you just one day to gather your things, buy what you needed from the capital, and leave. Leave. The word itches under your skin. You had nodded shakily when Captain Geto had told you as much. But even as you agreed, you knew. Youâre not leavingânot while Satoru is to be executed.
Nanami sighs. âItâs not something you need to involve yourself in.â
âI donât care,â you argue. âSatoru is in a cell somewhere, waiting to be executed, and youâre acting like itâs already over.â You take a step closer. âBut itâs not, is it? Because if it were, you wouldnât be here.â
âFine,â the tailor says. Nanami opens his mouth to protest, but she gives him a look and he stays silent. She leans against the table, fingers drumming on the wood, and takes a deep breath before she starts:
âWe were all soldiers once. Me, Nanami, our friends Shoko and Haibara, Geto, and Gojo. We trained together. We fought together. We thought weâd die together. And some of us did. Haibaraâhe was the youngest of us. Too kind, too trustingââ her jaw tightensâ âand he shouldnât have been sent on that mission. Gojo and Geto were the best of us. The strongest. That strength made them invaluable, but it also put them close to the former captain of the Royal Guard.â
âThe First Commander?â you ask.
Nanami nods, his expression darkening. âAfter Haibaraâs death, Geto and Gojo⌠They changed. Geto became more distant, more dissociated from all the blood and the killing. Gojo became more reckless. At first, we thought it was just grief. Losing Haibaraâit did something to all of us. But Geto and Gojo⌠they were different. They knew something we didnât.â
Utahime shifts uncomfortably. âThey spent more and more time with the First Commander. We didnât think much of it. He was a brilliant strategist, and they were his best soldiersâit made sense that heâd favour them. Then, one day, while we were busy sparring at the training grounds near the east wing, Geto and the First Commander came up to us. They saidâthey said that theyâve entrusted us with a new mission: To find and kill Gojo Satoru.â
Your blood runs cold. â...What?â
âWe didnât know why,â Nanami says, grimly. âWe still donât. But we didnât have a choice, so we played along. We followed his trail, but we never got too closeâwe made sure of it. Geto was the only one who really cared; the rest of us couldnât stomach killing our friend.â He lets loose a breath, shoulders slumping. âEventually, we got sent away for being too incompetent. I took over my fatherâs shop. Utahime became a tailor. Shoko moved to another kingdom to practice medicine.â
âAnd Satoru became the kingdomâs most wanted criminal,â you finish for him.
âYes.â The man sounds tired, resigned when he says it. âThe former captain of the Royal Guard became the First Commanderâhe is the current kingâs elder brother, after allâand Geto rose in the ranks to become the new captain. The late queen passed away, and the kingâs health deteriorated rapidly, until the First Commander was forced to rule in his name.â
Your head spins with all this information. There must be more to this storyâthere has to be. Satoru couldnât have become a notorious thief for no reason. Geto Suguru couldnât possibly have still been hunting for him if there wasnât something Satoru knew. Something invaluable. How does the crown tie into this? Satoru must have stolen it for a reason. What could he gain from stealing the royal familyâs most priceless heirloom, other than a grand amount of money? You know Satoru wouldnât have stolen the crown just for the fun of it.Â
Youâre missing something. Something crucial. You just need to figure out what. But first, you need to save the thief who showed you the world beyond the borders of your village.
Nanami exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. His expression remains blank, but thereâs something tense about the way his fingers curl into a fist before he forces them to relax. Utahime has her arms crossed, her fingers gripping the fabric of her sleeves. They had hesitated before, unwilling to speak of the past, but you are nothing if not determined and stubborn.
âDo you guys know your way in and out of the palace?â You shift on your feet. The words leave your lips with urgency, and you donât dare let yourself hope.
Utahime answers without hesitation. âOf course. I couldnât forget it even if I tried.â
The certainty in her voice makes your chest loosen just the slightest bit. You chew on your lip, mind racing. The execution is set for tomorrow at sundown. The timing isnât a coincidenceâif your hunch is right, Captain Geto has chosen to use the lantern festival as a veil for the event. A celebration of light and joy to mask the bloodshed.Â
Your fingers twitch at your sides, the beginning threads of an idea weaving together in your mind. Itâs reckless and dangerous, but what other choice do you have? âI have,â you say slowly, âa horse and a cat waiting for me outside the capital.â
Nanamiâs brows furrow. âWhat does that have to do with anything?â
You allow yourself a small, wry smile. The plan forming in your head is far from perfectâitâs borderline absurd, reallyâbut the best distractions are often the ones no one expects.
âWhat better way to cause a disruption at a crowded event,â you say, leaning forward slightly, âthan by letting a massive warhorse go rogue?â
The lanterns havenât been lit yetâthere are still hours to go for thatâbut the festivities begin with pomp and affair, much like the evening before, when Satoru and you had danced in the town square. Laughter rings out in waves, warm and unrestrained, carried through the crisp summer air laced with the sweet scent of spiced cider and roasted chestnuts. Music swells from the centre of the town square, a lively melody played by nimble hands on well-worn strings, and for a moment, the festival feels untouchableâlike something out of a dream.
Until a scream splits through the dusk. The first crack in the revelry appears as festival-goers stumble back, their joy crumbling into confusion, then alarm. The cobblestone streets tremble beneath the furious pounding of hooves, and the festivalâonce so bright and goldenâerupts into chaos.Â
Like a demon birthed from light and flame, the beast arrives. A massive white warhorse, his snowy coat gleaming beneath the lampsâ glow, surges into the square, his reins flopping about his sides with no one there to ride him and his mane whipping about with the force of his gallops. His powerful frame barrels through the market stalls, hooves kicking up a storm of dirt and debris. A merchant barely dives out of the way as a cart of oranges topples over, spilling fruit across the street in a surge of gold and tangerine. The scent of crushed citrus only seems to amplify the panic.
Sukuna. Warhorse, menace, and a walking natural disaster. He rears up, hooves cutting through the air, and lets loose a shrill, defiant neigh that sends festival-goers scrambling. Children clutch at their mothersâ cloaks. Guardsâonce lazily stationed at their postsâsnap to attention, hands flying to their weapons. Merchants abandon their wares, shouting frantically instead.
From the alleyway, you watch, heart hammering against your rib cage. The plan was simple. Let Sukuna loose. Create a distraction. Slip into the palace unnoticed. You were not, however, expecting this. Your eyes drift to where Nanami and Utahime stand, safely behind a water fountain, observing to make sure no real harm is caused and no one is actually injured. Utahime looks mildly shocked, while Nanami looks a little green.
Sukuna swings his massive head to an unfortunate vegetable vendor, plucks a perfectly round cabbage from the wreckage, chews it once, twiceâand then hurls it full force at the nearest guardâs nether region. The cabbage makes impact with a resounding thud. The man crumples instantly. You slap a hand over your mouth to keep yourself from laughing, holding Megumi tightly against your chest with your other one. Youâve replaced Utahimeâs gown with your tunic and trousers from before and a pair of sturdy boots; itâs easier to move and hide the cat against your chest by covering him with your cloak. Your pack rests against your shoulders, filled to the brim with all your supplies.Â
The horse pivots, tail lashing as he sends a stack of pastries flying with a single, well-placed kick. Cream-filled tarts arc through the air, and one particularly unlucky festival-goer takes a hit directly to the face, stumbling backwards in stunned silence. The panic spreads like fire through dry brush. Flower stands topple as people shove their way through the square, knocking over barrels and baskets in their desperate attempts to flee. Musicians abandon their instruments, their once-lively tunes now replaced by the erratic clang of an overturned drum.
You press further into the shadows, gripping Megumi a little tighter. âAlright,â you whisper, gaze darting to the now-abandoned palace gates. âThis is our chance.â
The cat flicks his tail against your arm, but doesnât resist when you set him down. He slinks forward, paws silent against the stone. You take one last glance towards the town squareâwhere Nanami and Utahime are watching Sukuna with the expressions of a duo questioning every single life decision theyâve ever madeâbefore slipping out of the alley.
The plan had been reckless from the start. Nanami had called it suicidal. Utahime had looked moments away from smacking you when you first suggested sneaking into the palace alone. But when it became clear you wouldnât be swayed, sheâd relented, pressing a map into your hands and tracing a single, hidden path with her fingertip.Â
âThe old passageway beneath the garden wall,â she had told you. âHardly anyone remembers it existsâexcept for Geto, maybe, but he wonât be looking for you. It leads you straight through the kitchens and towards the prison underground.â
From this distance, the palace looms like a beast sleeping beneath the stars, its many towers and arching spires silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky. The golden sconces hanging from its walls cast a warm glow, creating long shadows that dance across the stone. Behind you, beyond the square, the festival rages on despite the commotion Sukuna caused. With a population this big, a simple horse wonât stop the people from celebratingâno, Sukuna had done his job well. You donât hesitate in front of the palace. Hesitation means death.
The main gates are impossibleâtoo well-guarded and exposed. But Utahime had spoken of another way, a smaller side entrance used for deliveries that leads you straight to the garden. Itâs tucked away in the farthest corner of the palace grounds. The guards stationed there have been pulled towards the chaos in the square, just as planned. Still, you move carefully.
The shadows are your only ally as you press yourself to the outer walls, each step as silent as you can be. Megumi slinks beside you, nothing more than a wisp in the darkness with a half-torn ear, his sharp green eyes scanning for movement. You follow the curve of the stone wall, past ivy-covered archways and gushing marble fountains, untilâ
There. A wooden gate, half-hidden behind overgrown vines. You reach for the iron handle, fingers curling around the cool metal. You push against it with your shoulder, and it gives. The gate swings open just enough for you and Megumi to slip through, and then youâre inside the palace.
The palace gardens stretch before you in a maze of hedges and stone pathways. White roses bloom in the moonlight, petals pale as ghosts, their sweet scent thick and cloying. Marble statues of forgotten kings stand in silence, their hollow eyes seeming to follow you as you move. Somewhere beyond, you hear the distant murmur of voicesâguards perhaps, manning the main halls. But here, amidst the leaves and the flowers, you are alone.Â
You weave through the bushes, careful not to let your cloak catch on thorns. The path Utahime described had been clear in your mind before, but now, with the pressure to get Satoru out as quickly as possible increasing with every beat of your heart, the details feel hazy. A fountain, an old tree, and then the passage.
The fountain comes first, its water glimmering like molten silver under the moonlight. You crouch low, pressing yourself against its cool stone base, scanning the area. Thereâs no one around. A few paces ahead, a twisted oak rises from the ground, its gnarled roots stretching across the earth like reaching fingers. Its bark is scarred, and its branches are half-bare despite the seasonâjust as Utahime had said.
Your pulse quickens. At the base of the tree, partially covered by weeds and wildflowers, a patch of stone juts out at an odd angle. Unlike the rest of the carefully arranged stone tiles in the garden, this one looks out of placeâcovered by dirt and worn by time. You drop to your knees and press your fingers against the surface. There is a slight shift, a breadth of space where there should be none.
This is it. With a careful push, the stone gives way, revealing a dark opening beneath the roots. The air that rushes out is humid and damp, as though it has not been stirred in years. You glance at Megumi. âWell,â you whisper to no one in particular. âThereâs no turning back now.â
You drop legs-first into the hidden passageway. The moment your boots hit the ground, the world above seems to shrink away, muffled by layers of soil and stone. The darkness here is absolute. It presses in from all sides, thick and mawkish, the kind that swallows light and sound alike. For a moment, you do nothing but breathe, your fingers braced against the rough tunnel walls. The air is damp and stale, carrying the scent of moss, old stone, and something faintly metallicâlike rain-soaked iron.
In front of you, Megumi lands soundlessly, his lithe form slipping into the darkness easily. You hear the soft thump of paws against dirt, then nothing. If not for the glint of his sharp eyes, or the way he presses his body against your leg, he might as well have disappeared.
Your fingers find the small lantern strapped to your belt. You turn the wick as low as it will go before striking the flint. A tiny ember flares, then blooms into a soft, flickering glow, just enough to illuminate the path ahead. The tunnel stretches forward, curving out of sight, its ceiling low enough that you have to crouch slightly to keep moving.
The walls here are oldâolder than the palace above, maybe even older than the kingdom itself. Stones worn smooth by time line the passage, their edges softened by centuries of damp air and creeping roots. In some places, cracks have formed, letting in faint sounds from the world aboveâthe distant echoes of music and cheering from the lantern festival. Each sound feels impossibly far away, as if the tunnel exists in a world entirely separate from the one above.
You move forward carefully, your steps light on the uneven ground. Megumi pads ahead, his tail lifted in the air. The path narrows, forcing you to squeeze between the crumbling walls, and then widens again.
The passage spits you out into a vast, cavernous room, its ceiling arched and lined with thick wooden beams. Dust floats in the lanternâs dim glow, stirred by your arrival. Wooden barrels sit stacked in rows along the far wall, their formerly pristine surfaces marred by age and neglect. Bottles of aged wine and forgotten casks of ale sit upon the rotting shelves, relics of a time when this place had been used for more than secrecy. You drag your fingers across one of the barrels as you pass, feeling the rough texture of splintered wood beneath your touch.
Somewhere above, a faint creak echoes through the ceilingâa floorboard shifting beneath weight. Your breath stills. Someone is walking the halls above. You and Megumi freeze in place, listening. Silence.
Whoever it was is gone now. But the reminder is clear: Youâre inside the palace now. You are running out of time. Exhaling slowly, you move to the far end of the cellar, where Utahime had said the servantsâ door would be. The wood is warped with age, but when you press your shoulder against it, it gives way with a quiet groan. Beyond it, a narrow stairway spirals upwards. At the top lies the palace kitchensâand beyond that, the key you need to free Satoru.
You unsling your pack, shifting it in your arms, and step cautiously into the palace kitchens. The air is thick with the scent of past mealsâroasted meats, cinnamon, and something rich and spiced. The massive hearth smoulders with dying embers, glowing orange.Â
The kitchen is deserted, just as Utahime had said it would be. Most of the palace staff must have gone to watch the festival, orâmore conveniently for youâto see whatever disaster Sukuna had caused in the square.
Still, you donât take any chances. You straighten your back, undo the strings of your pack, and heft it in your arms like a sack. Striding forward, you lift your chin as though you belong here. Megumi flits past your feet, disappearing underneath one of the heavy wooden tables.
The ruse almost worksâuntil just as you near the door leading out of the kitchen, footsteps sound from the far hallway. You freeze for only a moment before forcing your limbs to loosen. With a quick breath, you throw a mild look of annoyance onto your face, shift the pack higher onto your hip, and march forward. The door swings open and you nearly collide with a harried-looking cook. Heâs a broad-shouldered man with a walrus moustache, apron stained with what looks like a dayâs worth of work, and he stops short when he sees you.
âYouâwho are you?â His moustache quivers. His eyes flick to the open bag in your arms, filled with a hastily gathered of carrots, leeks, and a single sad-looking turnip.Â
You let out an exasperated huff. âFinally,â you say, injecting the right amount of irritation into your voice. âDo you have any idea how hard it was to get these here?â
âWhat?â
âThe town squareâs a disaster! Some lunatic set a warhorse loose! I had to take the long way around the outer walls just to get here, and by the time I arrived at the usual gate, no one was there to let me in.â You shake your pack for emphasis. âThought I was going to have to eat these myself. Youâre lucky I even bothered.â
The cook eyes you suspiciously, but your complaint sounds mundane enough to be true. He rubs a hand over his face, sighing heavily. âThe gods are testing me tonight. Fine, fine, put them on the table. But be quick about it.â
âYes sir,â you mutter under your breath, making a show of stomping towards the long wooden table in the center of the kitchen. You set your pack down with a decisive thud, dusting your hands afterwards for good measure. The cook is already distracted, grumbling to himself as he turns towards the fire. You take the opportunity to scan the room, eyes landing on a rack of pots and pans hanging next to the hearth.
A weapon. Your fingers itch. Itâs not that youâre planning to hit someone, but itâs always good to be prepared. And you wouldnât exactly be the first person to use a frying pan as a last-minute means of self-defense; youâve heard of tales of the princess of a neighbouring kingdom escaping her tower where she was kept imprisoned with nothing but a chameleon for company and a frying pan for safety.
Without hesitating, you grab one from the rack, testing its weight in your hand. Itâs sturdy. Heavy enough to knock a man out cold if necessary. You slide it under your arm, keeping it close as you edge your way towards the door.Â
âOi.â
You stop. The cook is watching you again. You lift the pan slightly. âBorrowing this.â
His moustache quivers again. âFor what?â
âTo use,â you say vaguely. âSurely I deserve it after having brought you your vegetables despite all the trials and tribulations I faced along the way.â
âYou know what? I donât want to know. Just get the Hell out of my kitchen.â
You donât need to be told twice. With a slight nod, you make your way towards the hall, Megumi slipping out from his hiding place to follow at your heels. The moment youâre out of sight, you tighten your grip on the pan and let out a slow, relieved breath.
Youâve done it. Youâve infiltrated the palace.
The halls stretch before you, long and gilded, lined with tapestries and portraits. The marble beneath your feet gleams even in the dim torchlight, and the walls are carved with intricate patterns of swirling gold, catching the flicker of flames like veins of molten fire.
It really is beautiful. A shame you donât have the time to appreciate it.
Satoru had spoken of this palace with an almost begrudging sort of fondness, describing the soaring ceiling and the endless hallways. Heâd said that it was too grand and gaudy, but his voice had betrayed him. Maybe, if things were different, youâd have let yourself stop for a moment; might have run your fingers over the carved archways or peeked behind the heavy velvet curtains just to see if what he had said is true.
But right now, Satoru is locked in a cage beneath all this finery, and if you didnât move fast enough, heâd stay there.Â
So you force your gaze away from all this grandeur and press forward, Megumi keeping pace beside you. The entrance to the underground prison is right where Nanami had explained it would beâtucked away at the end of a long corridor, next to the life-size portrait of the late queen. A single guard stands watch, leaning lazily against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
Itâs almost insulting. Youâd expected some kind of resistance, but clearly, the festival is a grander affair than you thought itâd be, given the fact that the entire palace is mercifully empty. (Take that, Gojo, you think. Itâs not just some stupid, fucking dream.)
The guard is young, barely older than you, and his helmet is tilted back on his head like he doesnât expect to actually need it. A ring of keys hangs from a nail on the wall beside him, just out of his immediate reach. You exhale slowly. It has to be fast.
You step forward, letting your footfalls become just loud enough to catch his attention. The guard startles, straightening as his hand drifts to the sword at his hip. âYouâre not supposed to beââ
You donât give him a chance to finish. Before he can react, you swing the frying pan. Thereâs a thunk as the cast iron connects with his temple, and his expression shifts from alarm to blank surprise before his knees buckle beneath him. He falls to the floor, out cold before he even hits the ground. For a moment, you just stand there, blinking down at his unconscious form.
âOkay,â you mutter. âThat actually worked.â Megumi lets out an unimpressed meow.Â
You shake off the momentary shock and step over the fallen guard, reaching for the keys. Theyâre cold in your hand as you lift them from the nail, heavier than you expected.. You kneel, looping a thin cord youâd kept in your pocket through the keyring before carefully tying it around Megumiâs neck. The metal dangles against his dark fur, catching the light as it sways with the felineâs movement. Megumi flicks his ears.
âDonât look at me like that,â you whisper, scratching behind his ears in silent apology. âYouâre the only one small enough to slip through the bars. Go save Gojo, yeah? Iâll let you use him as a mattress for the rest of your life if you do.â
You glance toward the heavy wooden door leading to the prison. You can already feel the cold draft seeping through the hinges. Satoru is waitingâand youâre almost there.
The moment Megumi slips through the prison door, you press yourself against the cold stone wall, every muscle in your body coiled tight. Now comes the hardest part: Waiting.
The silent stretches, suffocating. The distant echoes of the lantern festival feel like they belong to another world entirelyâone where people are laughing, dancing, reveling underneath lantern-lit skies. But here, away from all the joyousness, in the belly of the beast, the air is still. You tighten your grip on the frying pan, the only weapon you have, though youâre not sure how much use itâll be if someone really finds you. The minutes drag, each one more agonising than the last, and you fight the urge to start pacing.
Whatâs taking so long? Did Megumi make it inside? Did Satoru get the keys? Did somethingâ A sudden, ear-splitting clang echoes from the prison depthsâand then, footsteps. Heavy, fast, running. Before you can brace yourself, the door bursts open.
Gojo Satoru is a blur of white and shackles and laughter, stumbling forward as if he canât believe the oxygen heâs breathing is real. Megumi bounds after him. The thiefâs hair is a mess, his clothes rumpled from captivity, and the iron cuffs that once bound his wrists now dangle uselessly from one hand with the lock wrenched open.
He stops, just for a moment, breathing heavily, and thenâ âOh.â
He reaches for you. Strong arms reach around you, lifting you clean off your feet before you can protest. He spins you once, laughter bubbling from his chest, the sound bright and alive and so him that your heart lurches.
âYouâre brilliant, did you know?â he says, breathless, grinning into your hair. âMy beautiful, clever girl.â
Heat rushes to your face, but before you can come up with anything resembling a response, he pulls back just enough to look at you. His hands settle firm at your waist, fingers pressing into you as if he needs to ground himself, needs to believe that youâre real.Â
âYou actually did it,â he murmurs, voice softer now, as if the realisation is still settling in. His eyesâso much brighter now that heâs not sentenced to imminent deathâroam your face, searching. âYou came for me.â
âOf course I did,â you say, and thereâs a conviction to your voice that you didnât know you were capable of. âWhat, did you think I was going to leave you in there?â
Satoru lets out a breath that could almost be a laugh. His fingers tighten just slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. âNah,â he says. âYou love me too much for that.â
You would have smacked him for that, but Megumi hisses in warning, andâ
A slow, deliberate clap shatters the moment. The sound echoes through the empty corridor. Satoru stiffens. You twist in his arms, and there, standing at the entrance to the corridor, framed by torchlight, is Geto Suguru.
He is calm. He is composed. His uniform is pristine, untouched by the madness of the outside world. Something about the way he standsâthe way his eyes glintâtells you that he had been expecting this.
âOh, my,â Geto says, dark amusement curling at the edges of his voice. âWhat a touching reunion.â
He doesnât lunge, doesnât rushâsimply tilts his head, fingers shifting ever-so slightly around the hilt of the sword sheathed at his waist. But that is enough. Satoru reacts immediately.
âTime to go,â he says, and before you can even register it, his hand grips yours and pulls.
You break out into a run, Megumi bounding alongside you both. Your feet barely touch the polished marble floors as you tear through the hallway. Satoruâs grip is firm, unyielding, tugging you forward even as your heartbeat roars in your ears.
The palace corridors blur past in streaks of gold and shadow. The vast, open walls, formerly filled with the hum of courtly affairs and the soft shuffle of silk-clad nobles, now echo with the rhythm of your own footsteps. The grandeur, the impossible opulenceânone of it matters now. The only thing that does is putting as much distance between you and the man behind you.
Geto does not rush, but you feel him there, just beyond the edges of your vision. He moves like inevitability, his steps unhurried, the soft tap of his boots against stone barely audible over the breathless pace Satoru sets.
Left. Satoru veers sharply, nearly yanking you off balance as he takes a turn down a narrower passageway. The walls here loom closer, lined with paintings depicting long-forgotten wars and rulers whose names history has nearly erased. Megumi races ahead, his black fur a blur against the dim light, navigating the twisting hallways with a hunterâs instinct.
âWhereââ you barely manage, lungs burningâ âare we going?â
Satoru doesnât answer immediately. His grip tightens around your wrist, fingers warm despite the chill in the air. Then, finally: âThe throne room.â
You nearly stumble. âThe what?â
âBest place to corner him.â He doesnât sound the least bit winded, despite the speed at which youâre moving. âNo exits. Just him and me.â
âThatâs a terrible plan!â
âOh? Got a better one, beautiful?â
You donât. Not one that doesnât involve getting caught. Another turn. Another impossibly long hallway. The walls here are differentâsleek, dark stone rather than marble, lined with towering pillars that stretch high into the vaulted ceiling. This is the heart of the castle, you realise. The oldest part. The place where power has been passed from one ruler to the next, where history has been carved into the very foundations. The entrance to the throne room looms ahead. Twin doors. Impossibly tall, made of dark oak reinforced with gold filigree. The sigils of the royal bloodline are carved into them, worn smooth from centuries of rule.
Megumi reaches it first. He doesnât slowâjust slips through the narrow gap left ajar. Satoru doesnât stop running, either. He shoves against the heavy doors, and they groan open, the vast chamber beyond yawning wide to swallow you whole.
The throne room is silent. No guards. No nobles. Just tall stone columns, high windows that cast fractured moonlight against the polished floors, a row of swords hanging on the far end of the wall, and the lone, empty throne that sits at the far end of the chamber. Your stomach drops when you see whatâs placed on the throneâs seat.
The crown. Geto Suguru has expected this to happenâhad planned for it, even. All for what?
Satoru releases your wrist just as the doors slam shut behind you. The sound of approaching footsteps makes you whip around so quickly, you nearly lose grip of the handle of the frying pan. Satoru turns, unhurried, a smile curling at the edges of his lips even before Geto steps into the dim light.
âHow predictable,â the captain drawls. His fingers roll the hilt of his sword idly, his gaze sweeping from the empty throne to Satoru, to you. âWell played, Satoru. But Iâm afraid this game is already over.â
He doesnât move in a rushânot in the reckless, desperate way of a man eager to end a fightâbut with slow steps. The grip on his sword remains loose, casual, as if heâs hardly concerned. As if this is nothing more than a simple conversation. Satoru backs up, just as measured, retreating step by step towards the far wall where the swords hang in an orderly row. You stay still, carefully stepping away, Megumi hiding behind your legs. This is not your fight to partake in; you know this because the captain barely glances your way.
âYouâve always been stubborn,â Geto says, tilting his head as his boots click against the floor. âAll those years, running in circles, chasing shadows. Looking for something that was right in front of you the entire time.â
âI donât know,â says Satoru, almost lazily. âI think I was more preoccupied with avoiding your assassination attempts.â
Geto chuckles. âCome now, old friend. I gave you plenty of warning.â
âOh, sure. That time you nearly poisoned my drink?â Satoru grins manically. âTell me, was that your idea, or were you merely using the First Commander as inspiration?â
Your breath hitches. The First Commander?Â
The laughter in Getoâs expression doesnât quite reach his eyes. âI was doing what I had to do. Look at me now, Gojo. Iâm the Captain of the Royal Guard, while youâre just a fugitive with no place to call home. This couldâve been your position, had you not decided to be so fucking righteous.â
âRight. Itâs my fault for finding out that the First Commander murdered the late queen.â
Everything clicks into place. Nanami had mentioned that the First Commander was the current kingâs older brotherâthe current king, who has been severely ill for the past decade, who hasnât been seen in the public eye ever since, because he was supposedly on permanent bedrest. Your heartbeat quickens. Just how much rot is this kingdom hiding behind the rubies?
âAh,â Satoru continues. âIâm forbidden from speaking of it, arenât I?â
The captainâs jaw ticks, but his smirk remains. âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
The thief scoffs. âOf course. Because it wasnât you who told me to shut up about it instead of confronting the old man. To turn a blind eye, to let it happen âcause it wasâwhat did you say?âbigger than us.â He laughs, sharp and humourless. âHowâs that working out for you, Suguru?â
âStill so naĂŻve.â
âAnd youâre still so blind,â Satoru throws back. He reaches behind him, grabbing the nearest sword from the wall, and swings it down. âWhat was it, again? The commander deserved the throne because he was older? Because the king was too soft? Because it was for the good of the kingdom?â His voice drips with mockery. âCome on, Suguru. Give me that speech again. I loved that speech.â
Getoâs fingers shift on the hilt of his sword. âYou never understood.â
âOh, I understood perfectly,â Satoru snaps. âThe commander couldnât sit on his hands and wait for fate to hand him what he thought was his. So he took matters into his own poison-stained hands. And you let him.â
Silence stretches between them, thick as fog, pressing against the walls. You swallow hard, watching the way Getoâs jaw sets.Â
âWeâve had this conversation before, right before you decided to rat me out,â he continues. âWe both knew. We knew he was killing them.â
Getoâs eyes flash. âAnd what was I supposed to do, Satoru? Fight back? Get myself executed like you nearly did? The commander had already won the moment the queen died.â
âThe queen,â Satoru seethes, âwho had a son, Suguru. The trueborn heir to the throne. The very thing the commander feared most.â
Getoâs lips partâthen press into a thin line. There. There it is. The missing piece, the lock to the key.
Satoru takes a step forward, lifting the sword in his hand. âThatâs what broke you, isnât it?â His voice is softer now, but not kind. âYou could stomach the poison. You could stomach the lies. But when he tried to kill the baby, that was when you hesitated.â
âI thought you were dead,â Geto says, almost conversationally. âWhen you ran. The first few months when they declared you a fugitive, I thought you wouldnât make it. And yet, here you are.â
âI am very hard to kill.â
âThat, you are.â
They move at the same time. Steel clashes in a burst of sparks, the force of the impact ringing through the cavernous throne room. Satoru twists, parrying the next strike with ease, but Geto presses forward, forcing him back towards the dais. They circle each other, two hunters hunting each other. You tighten your grip on the frying panâthough it might be rendered useless given the situation.
âYou were so convinced you could save him,â Geto murmurs, keeping his blade pointed at Satoruâs chest. âThat you could find the heir, put him on the throne, and somehow make this kingdom right again.â
âAnd you were so convinced that I wouldnât,â Satoru says. âIt took a while, but I managed to steal the crown, didnât I? The late queenâmay she rest in peaceâwas clever. It was tough trying to figure it outâthat the clue rested upon what belonged to the true heir.â
âClever, indeed. But not clever enough. You see, Iâve already figured it all out.â Geto lunges again, blade flashing. Satour meets him mid-strike. They push against each other, each testing the otherâs strength, neither giving way.
âYou think youâve won just because you found the crown?â Geto taunts. âBecause you figured out the queenâs little riddle? It changes nothing.â
âNo, Suguru. It changes everything.â Satoru grins, eyes alight with someone reckless. He shifts his weight, twisting free of Getoâs grip, and swings his sword in a sharp arc. Geto blocks it, but just barelyâhis foot skids slightly against the polished marble, his balance momentarily off. Satoru seizes the opening, pressing forward with quick, calculated strikes.
The clang of their swords echoes, the only sound save for your own shallow breaths. You inch closer to Megumi, keeping him shielded behind you, even as you cannot tear your eyes away from the fight.
âYou were there that night,â Satoru bites out in between strikes, âwhen the commander told us of his plan for the queenâs son to be killed.â His blade swings, forcing Geto another step back. âYou heard the order.â A sharp clash. âYou almost let it happen.â Another blow. âAnd you knew I wouldnât.â
Geto parries the next attack with more force, forcing Satoru back. âI told you to let it go. I told you it was too late.â
âAnd I told you to go fuck yourself!â Satoru fires back. He dodges another strike easily, as though his years of training as a soldier have not left his body despite the disuse of sword-fighting.
âYou shouldâve joined me,â he says. âWe couldâve risen the ranks together. Fixed things together.â
âFixed things? You wanted to erase the truth. I wanted to bring it back.â Satoruâs eyes narrow. âThatâs why you never killed me, isnât it? Because some part of youâsome part of youâwanted me to prove you wrong.â
A flicker of something crosses Getoâs face. A hesitation. A second too long. Satoru moves. His blade sweeps low, and Geto barely has the time to block before heâs forced back again, this time nearly stumbling. His boot scrapes against the first step of the dais, right in front of the empty throneâmere paces away from where youâre standing, clutching your frying pan like itâs a lifeline. Satoru stops, standing just a few feet away, his own sword lowered slightly, his breathing steady.
Geto exhales slowly, eyes shadowed, and thenâfinallyâhe laughs. Low; amused; dark. âYou always were the best, Satoru,â he says. âIâll give you that. But Iâve figured it out too. The queenâs secret. The heirâs true identity.â
Satoruâs expression doesnât waver. âOh?â
A slow smile spreads across Getoâs face. âOkkotsu Yuta is his name,â he says.Â
You take a step forward. Geto continues, âThe last remaining royalââ
Another step. ââwas raised asââ
Another step; this time, you raise your arms over your head. ââa low-life peasant on the border between our kingdom and the next.â
CLANG!
Geto Suguruâs mouth slackens. His eyes go cross-eyed before he crumples to the floor, unconscious. Satoru blinks. His eyes dart up to meet yours.
You stand over the captain of the Royal Guardâs stupefied body, the frying pan gripped so tightly in your hands, the handle digs into your palms. â...Oops?â
Satoru exhalesâa sound caught between disbelief and sheer delightâbefore throwing his head back with a bark of laughter. âYou,â he says, stepping over Getoâs unconscious form, âare fucking amazing. And here I was, thinking Iâd have to duel him for longer.â
You lower the frying pan, shoulders sagging slightly as the adrenaline ebbs. âYeah, well, you were taking too long.â
He drops the sword; it falls to the floor with a resounding thud. You grimace. Satoru wraps his arms around you, melting into you as though drained of all his energy. You lean against him, as well. Itâs not over yetâthe First Commander is still alive, the kingâs health is still failing, the heir is still unaware of his royal lineage, and the kingdomâs fate is uncertain.
âHey,â he murmurs after a while, after Megumi weaves about in between your legs. âWe might be able to catch a glimpse of the last bit of the lantern festival if weâre lucky.â
You pull back slightly, brows knit together in a frown. âArenât you tired? You should be resting!â
âNah.â He grins. âWhat sort of man would I be if I brought you all the way to the capital and didnât let you see your dream?â
âButââ
âTomorrow. Weâll figure it all out tomorrow.â
âOkay.â You give in. How could you not?
The river glows with the reflections of a thousand golden lanterns, each one a drifting star against the darkened water. Somewhere beyond the riverbanks, the kingdom rejoices, but hereâadrift in a tiny wooden boat, far removed from the noise and the worldâit is quiet. It is just you and Satoru, bathed in the warm glow of floating light. You trace your fingers along the delicate paper lantern in your lap, the thin parchment almost translucent beneath your touch. Satoru watches you, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. âMake a wish,â he tells you.
You let your lips turn upwards, closing your eyes. The lantern lifts into the air. It floats upwards, joining the sea of golden light that drifts towards the heavens. Beside you, Satoru releases his own, head tilted back to watch it rise, the glow reflected in the blue of his eyes. For a long while, you donât speak. The world has never felt so hushed, so suspended in time.Â
Then, he turns to you, the shimmer of the lanterns casting his face in soft gold. âI think,â he says, âI have a dream too.â
âReally? Tell me.â
He leans in instead, and his lips press against yoursâwarm, certain, like the promise of something endless. Overhead, the lanterns continue their slow, drifting ascent, rising higher, higher, until they are nothing but distant constellations in the dark.
It feels like stardust.
⢠a/n: @mahowaga & @admiringlove, you both know who you are. thank you, as well, to kae, @ylangelegy, for beta reading this fic, giving me invaluable feedback, and letting me ramble about this fic to them; i appreciate you endlessly. and, of course, thank you, dear reader, for reading this behemoth of a fic :) i hope you have a wonderful day! sidenote: due to tumblrâs paragraph limit, several paragraphs that were written as separate word blocks had to be combined into one in order to make it fit in one post. to read it with the original formatting, as it was written in my google docs, ao3 would definitely offer you a better experience!
summary: the jjk men tell you how they really feel
tags: angst, they sexualize reader, insults, kinda slut shaming in a few, lowkey mean, 18+ minors and ageless blogs do not interact, not proofread
incl: gojo, geto, nanami, toji, shiu, sukuna, choso, ino
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Imagine someone making mama reader cry and minisukuna is just roasting who man her cryâs ass, while sukuna is trying to hold back from murder
i didn't wanna make the mamakuna's reading this cry, so have a bit of banter instead. i hope this is what you were requesting for!
rule number 1 in a sukuna family barbecue is to kiss the cookâaka mamakuna, aka you.
rule number 1.2? only babykuna and sukuna can kiss the chef. no exceptions.
but the most important ruleâthe one etched in stone, the one more sacred than sukunaâs secret steak rub recipeâis rule number 2:
never. insult. the cook.
so when yuki, chosoâs plus one, decides to run her mouth at the absolute wrong time, saying, ânot gonna lie, this chicken is kinda dry,â there is an immediate, deafening silence. choso, sitting next to her, freezes mid-bite, eyes darting around like heâs witnessing a live execution. nanami takes a slow sip of his beer, very wisely deciding he wants no part in whatever is about to happen. gojo, ever the shit-stirrer, grins and leans in. âoh-ho-ho, you done fucked up.â meanwhile, you? you just blink.
"oh?"
itâs just one word, but itâs enough to send chills down the spines of everyone within earshot. sukuna, who had been manning the grill (read: standing around looking important while you did all the real work), slowly sets down the tongs.
his jaw twitches. his veins pop. he looks two seconds away from committing murder.
"who made the food, yuki?" he asks, voice dangerously calm. yuki, still blissfully unaware of the shitstorm sheâs just walked into, shrugs. "i dunno, the caterer?"
sukuna exhales through his nose, like heâs actively trying to keep his soul from leaving his body.
"your caterer is literally sitting right there," choso hisses under his breath, eyes darting to you. yuki, now finally putting two and two together, has the audacity to look sheepish. "oh. uhhâŚ"
but before she can say anything elseâ
"DODOHEAD!!"
everyone turns to look at babykuna, who is fuming, tiny fists clenched, eyes ablaze with unwavering rage. "how dare you," she huffs, looking as offended as if yuki had personally spit on a framed picture of you.
"iâitâs not that deepâ"
âSHAME ON YOU, POOPIEHEAD!!â babykuna stomps her foot, dramatically clutching her heart like sheâs a widow in a soap opera. "mamaâs food is the best in the whole world!"
"i didn't meanâ"
"take it back!" babykuna demands. yuki blinks, caught between disbelief and fear.
"uh�"
"TAKE. IT. BACK."
babykunaâs arm lifts. her grip tightens around the precious stuffed labubu in her hand. and before anyone can stop herâ
"oh, hell no," sukuna mutters, finally snapping.
"you listen here, you ungrateful shitâ"
"okay!" choso interjects, physically holding his brother back before this barbecue turns into a crime scene.Â
"yuki," he hisses, âapologize before you get us both killed.â yuki, now 100% convinced she is not leaving this barbecue alive, raises her hands.
"okay, okay! iâm sorry!"
"say it like you mean it!" babykuna shouts, labubu still armed and ready.
"i mean it!!"
yuki, now sweating bullets, looks at you.
"your food is great. i love it. iâm sorry."
babykuna narrows her suspicious little eyes.
"hmph."
after ten long seconds of dramatic silence, she finally lowers labubu.
"...i forgive you."
yuki exhales in relief.
"but donât do it again, dodohead!"
sukuna grumbles under his breath, still looking like he wants to throw hands. but then you, grinning, lean over and kiss his cheek. "down, boy," you tease. "i donât need you getting blood on my good plates."
he grunts. âwhatever.â but he still sends a glare yukiâs way.
ânext time, i will let babykuna throw the labubu.â
career day at the sukuna household is not for the weak.
at the tender age of five, your daughter is no longer just a visitor at her fatherâs company. no. today, she is there for work. she arrives at the office in her best outfitâtiny blazer, tiny briefcase, tiny attitudeâready to take on the corporate world. sukuna, ever the supportive father, plays along.
"alright, kid," he says as they step into his office, adjusting the little lanyard around her neck that says junior executive (custom-made, obviously). "first day on the job. you ready?"
"mm-hmm." she nods seriously, clutching her briefcase like it holds state secrets. "good," sukuna smirks, ruffling her hair. "first order of businessâdonât let the idiots boss you around."
"idiots like uncle gogo?" she asks.
"especially uncle gogo."
things go smoothly at first. your daughter sits in sukunaâs big chair, scribbling on documents (coloring books), occasionally nodding as if she understands corporate jargon. employees pop in to say hello, bringing little giftsâstickers, snacks, an absurdly large teddy bear that now sits beside her like an honorary executive.
but then, he arrives. a mid-level manager with a smile just a little too fake, eyes that linger just a little too long. your daughter, ever perceptive, immediately stiffens. the man kneels beside her chair, trying to look friendly. "and who is this little boss?" he asks, voice dripping with condescension. your daughter stares him down, face blank.
"âŚweird man," she declares.
the entire office goes silent. sukuna, who had been checking emails, slowly looks up.
"what?"
his daughter turns to him, completely unbothered.
"i donât like weird man."
the manager laughs awkwardly. "kids, huh? always saying the darndest things." sukuna barely spares him a glance. "yeah. they do."
your daughter, meanwhile, has already moved on, humming as she arranges her teddy bear like itâs the new CFO. sukuna doesnât think much of it at first. kids have weird instincts. but a few hours laterâ
"boss," one of his executives says, looking grim. "we have a problem." sukuna doesnât look up from his laptop. "when donât we?"
"itâs about him."
the name that follows is the same weird man his daughter had called out earlier. sukuna finally looks up.
"what about him?"
"heâs been embezzling funds. we just caught the discrepancies in the accountsâtens of thousands missing. and, uh..." the executive hesitates. "heâs also been at the center of multiple employee harassment complaints. HR covered it up, butâ"
CRACK.
everyone in the office flinches. sukuna has broken his pen in half.
by the end of the day, weird man is ex-employee weird man. security drags him out kicking and screaming, and the company lawyers are already preparing a case. sukuna, meanwhile, sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he watches his daughterâhis psychic daughterâmethodically stacking staplers like itâs part of an intricate business strategy.
"so," he says, tapping his fingers against the desk. "you got anything else for me, little oracle?"