cecelia

From your workplace to the bar it takes around half an hour by train and five more minutes on foot. It takes some time, but in the meantime you spend observing the people you pass by.  

There are other people like you—businesspeople commuting and tiredly staring at their phones, checking the time, teenage girls dressed in short skirts and hiding bottles of absolute vodka in their absolutely too small purses, students who look like they’re on the brink of exhaustion and just want to lie down in their beds.

Back in high school, you thought everyone was exaggerating when they told you to enjoy your school and college times to the fullest, because ‘those were the times when you’d see your friends the most.’

Joke's on you, because it turned out to be exactly as people described.

Nowadays, you are barely able to meet most of your friends, work gets in the way, someone’s planning their wedding, and others are travelling the globe.

But there was one person you could always count on: your best friend Tsumiki. After graduation, when everyone started going their own separate ways, the two of you stayed together. 

Despite everything that was happening, the two of you managed to meet every Friday in a bar of your choice and enjoyed a good glass of ‘whatever’ together after an exhausting day of work.

Especially after today, first of all, your alarm didn’t go off, and you barely managed to arrive in time; secondly, the printer decided that today would be a good day to give up, so you had to run to the copy shop down the street during your lunch break and if this wasn’t enough, one of your co-workers called in sick for the beginning of next week, so now you have to pitch in for them during next week’s report. 

The meetings weren’t bad per se; all you had to do was update your superiors about what your department was working on, the good things, the things that are still in the process, and new ideas. What was bad was with whom you had to do them, simply because you didn't know which of his sons your CEO would send this time. 

The Zenin family has some kind of twisted sense of humor, because, yes, they’re one of the most successful companies, but their way of treating their employees? Well, all you can hope for is that not one of the younger sons will be the one to evaluate you.

The train comes to a halt and announces the station's name; your cue to exit. It’s a short walk, but you can still feel the ache in your feet from walking around in heels the whole day. Luckily for you, you arrive in no time.

As soon as the bell, which is strung to the door, rings, Tsumiki turns around and waves you over, delighted that you made it. Except her younger brother Megumi was here this time—his boyfriend Itadori too—along with their best friend Kugisaki. 

Tsumiki slides over to the side to make room for you to set your bag down before sitting next to her. “What's your little brother doing here?” you eye Megumi, although he doesn't seem to pay much mind to it. 

On the other hand, Yuji looks like he’s about to explode from nervousness—Kugisaki too—but from laughter.

“You see,” she pauses for a moment and shoots you a sheepish smile. "He wanted to talk to you about something.”

“So, you're telling me your family is fine with you marrying a man,” you recap what Megumi has just told you, “but they draw the line at you getting married before Naoya?” Your finger traces along the rim of your glass, and you grimace, bewildered.

From your peripheral view, you can see Tsumiki and Kugisaki giggling to one another. “Trust me, I wouldn’t go as far as asking you if I hadn’t already tried everything else.” Megumi deadpans.

There’s a pregnant silence spanning around the room between Megumi's statement and your answer. “And now,” you begin, still not being able to wrap your head around this whole thing going on, “you want me to go out with your cousin?” 

“My condolences.” Kugisaki chirps in, “Maki told me that every time they’re on family vacation together, he listens to these black pill songs in the shower.” She remarks. “Like unironically!”

Although he tries to hide it by muffling his mouth with his hand, Itadori is smiling from ear to ear. “He’s on some crazy looksmaxxing shit.” He adds.

Next to him Megumi lets out an exasperated breath and side-eyes his friend before turning his attention on you again. “I’ve never said anything about going out,” He drawls. “Those are your words now.”

Upon his words, you can’t help but scoff. “Is ‘go on a date with my cousin’ not the same as going out?” you exclaim, but you’ve known Megumi long enough to know that he’s serious about this. “Megumi, he's my supervisor. I can’t afford to lose my position.” A sigh accompanies your words.

“I know that, and I usually wouldn’t even do this, but Naoya knows I want to marry, so he’s purposefully ruining every date his father sets him on.” Megumi furrows his eyebrows in frustration. “Well, he’s also an asshole, so the dates never work out,” Itadori adds offhandedly, before picking up his glass to empty it.

The conversation drifts from Megumi, Itadori, and Kugisaki commenting on the situation. “You just have to pretend to like him, and as soon as he's like ‘yeah, she’s the one’ you can cut out the bullshit.” Kugisaki shrugs as if it were the easiest thing in the world. 

“I’m only allowed to marry when he’s found someone, so please.” If you didn't know any better, Megumi is practically begging you to go out with Naoya.

“But Megumi, my job—“ you interfere to make him stop, but he’s quick to cut you off before you can finish your sentence. “I’ll also pay and handle the consequences. So please,” he frowns.

“Come on, it'll be a good story to tell your kids.” Tsumiki giggles, and you see the way there’s a cheerful smile tugging at her lips. “Yours and Naoya’s kids, by the way.” Kugisaki comments, and Megumi throws her a blank stare. “Don’t jinx it, Nobara.” Megumi mumbles and nudges her arm. 

“Fine, but I can’t promise anything.” You tap your fingers against the wooden surface, already overcome with regret.

In all honesty, you’re not sure what made you agree; maybe it was the fact that the alcohol already took its effect, the pleading eyes Itadori threw at you, or the big stack of money Megumi slid over the table that kept growing every second you didn’t answer.

Megumi sighs, his body visibly begins to relax, and the tension that was residing on his face starts to fade away. It wasn’t obvious, but there was a small smile gracing his lips. “Thank you.”

Okay, so, you lied. There are many things you’d do for your best friend—she’s your better half after all, your soulmate, and unfortunately also the older sister of the guy who dragged you in this situation. 

Sure, you like Megumi a lot and you really tried to give it your best to make this date somehow work, but your body gets a physical reaction as soon as Naoya Zenin dares to open his mouth—you’d rather rip your ears off than listen to him talk any longer.

Honestly, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. For the past 40 minutes, he’s done nothing but pick apart his food, and see if ‘they cooked it to his liking’, glance at his wristwatch to see how much of your time he can still waste, or call for the waiter for the nth time to complain about the wine ‘not being fermented enough’. 

Admittedly, you’re no better. There are a couple of women sitting at the table behind you gossiping, and you can’t help but overhear what they’re talking about. Just as the one girl was getting to the interesting part, complaining about how her ex-boyfriend took his new girlfriend to the same restaurant she recommended to him on their first date, Naoya speaks up, and your eyes widen in surprise as he calls out to you.

“You’re a friend of Megumi?” he doesn’t even look at you as he asks and just continues cutting his food. The metal knife scratches against the porcelain plate and creates an unpleasant shrieking noise. “Friend of his sister,” you correct him and mimic him by dragging your fork along your plate.

Naoya's face contorts into an expression of disdain and finally spares you a glance. “He told me you’re a friend of his, I thought at least someone who’d I knew,” his amused remark, “not some nobody.” is followed by tsk.

You don’t answer, you don’t want to answer, and you know better than to answer him because that’s what he wants—for you to indulge in his provocations. But with every passing minute of him throwing blank stares at you, your resolve crumbles.

Instead, you pick up your glass of red wine that’s been untouched the entire evening, because Naoya was whining left and right about the restaurant being some ‘tasteless tent’ whose food is ‘no better than dog food’.

To your surprise, the wine was really nice; it wasn’t too sour, contrary to the cheap bottle you used to buy at your local corner shop when you and Tsumiki always tried to convince the cashier that you were old enough to buy alcohol.

Additionally, it was also just sweet enough for you to taste out the alcohol. He’s got a good taste—you’ll give him that.

It’s like he’s watching you, because the second you put down your glass—mind you, not even a split second after it sits on the table again—Naoya dares to open his mouth again. 

“What’s your job?” he asks, and you already sense the mocking intent behind his words. “I work at a company,” you say mindlessly and pick up your glass again to take a sip.

Sooner or later, he’d find out anyway—even if you’d prefer not to—but you’ve already decided: this might be one of the top 5 worst dates you’ve ever been on.

Also, it’s not like you’ve lied to him anyway; it’s a white lie at best, and the chances of you ever running into Naoya ever again, in a workplace with hundreds of workers, are little to none. 

Either way, he probably wouldn’t recognise you anyway.

“Not a good paying one,” he smirks and diverts his eyes towards your body, “I can tell by the clothes you're wearing.” 

Well, this date just moved up to the top 4 worst dates ever.

You furrow your eyebrows in annoyance. “What can I say?” you let out a dry chuckle. “My superior is a pain to be around and doesn't know where to invest his money.” Your words are followed by a mere shrug.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, probably intending to interrogate you further. If it weren’t Naoya Zenin asking you, you’d think it was almost a romantic gesture.

Keyword: almost. 

“Yeah.” You give him a tight-lipped smile, not willing to feed into his provocations any further. But, this doesn’t tip men like Naoya off—men who make it their purpose to ruin someone. 

“Hm, you were able to eat everything,” he crosses his arms over his chest, “I’m impressed.” He remarks mockingly, before taking a small sip from his glass. “It’s not often you meet a woman who has such a big appetite.” This time, he simply grins, and you hate to admit it, but his words are slowly getting under your skin. 

Top 3 worst dates ever.

“Yeah, you could learn from me.” You advise. “If you’d actually eat the food they served you instead of whining, maybe you’d shut up for once.”

This finally seems to do the trick because you can see the way his jaw is tightening. “You should learn how to behave like a proper woman.” It’s quite funny seeing him lose his composure over such a measly comment. It’s evident that he doesn't plan on giving up on harassing you. “I wonder who even hired someone like you.” 

Top 2 worst dates ever.

Well, he won’t have to ponder on it too long—should he ever realize you work at the same company. “A woman should know where she belongs, and it’s certainly not at work.” He finalizes.

Well, this date officially took the first place for the worst date you’ve ever been on.

Actually, what if this were your 13th reason? You don’t respond to his comments, not because you want to give him the satisfaction he’s been looking for or agree with him, but because you know where you stand, and actually know what self-respect is. And you certainly know that Naoya isn’t worth putting in effort for.

“Okay, so this isn’t working out. Itadori, right when he said you're an asshole.” You sigh as you lean back in your chair, already hinting that you’re about to leave. Naoya has the audacity to tsk  “That guy just wants to marry his little boyfriend. I don’t even know why you bother so much.” he cocks his head to the side, smirking at you.

There are certain levels of low, and you might’ve actually reached the lowest, because, yeah, this family affair is none of your business, and you shouldn’t meddle in other people’s lives this much, but it seems Naoya never knows when to keep his mouth shut and when not. “Oh my god, would it kill you not to have the last word for once?” you groan, and in the midst of your complaint, your hand hits your half-full wine glass and knocks it over. 

There’s nothing you can do to stop the liquid from escaping the glass; it already ruined the white tablecloth and spilled onto Naoya’s (now once) white dress shirt.

“Fuck, I didn’t plan for this to happen,” you hastily say and attempt to clean the table by soaking up the drink with napkins, unfortunately to no avail. “Can you women even do anything?” Naoya puts his hands on either side of the table and snaps at you. 

His eyebrows scrunch up together in anger, and he tightly grips the tablecloth. This guy’s seriously got some screws loose. “Let's just pay,” he groans, sinking into his chair with his body still tensed up. 

Upon seeing his stretched-out arm, the waitress rushes over almost immediately. “Took you long enough.” Naoya snides under his breath, but loud enough for her to hear, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at his remark. 

“The bill, Sir? How would you like to pay?” The waitress nervously puts down the bill; there are more digits than you can count on one hand, and you hurriedly glance over to Naoya.

A mistake on your side.

Naoya, being Naoya, seizes the opportunity, “You’re so full of yourself, right woman? We’ll split the bill then.” The playful smile that's tugging at the end of his lips doesn't go unnoticed.

For a moment, the waitress is taken aback, but she just nods, knowing it’s probably better not to ask any questions. She simply glances at you, but you’re just as, if not even more, surprised as she was just now and yelp out a loud “What?!”

There’s been a handful of terrible and right out awful dates you’ve been on, but you doubt nothing will ever come close to this one. 

Once there was a guy who stood you up 5 minutes prior to the date, then there was a guy who kept ranting about his best friend and how great she was, basically using you to get over her, and you don’t even want to recall the other incidents; either way, you’re pretty sure that you’ve blocked them out anyway.

Nonetheless, all of them always paid for the first date—it’s basic courtesy and a simple, polite gesture, and you're certain that Naoya—a man who has more money than sense—can afford to pay for a first date.

At this point, you’re already so tired out from this date that you don’t even have the strength in you to talk back anymore; instead, you rummage through your purse for your wallet. It doesn’t take you long to find it, and when you do, you take out a handful of bills and slam them down on the table. 

“Hope you’re happy, asshole.” You feign a smile before taking your leave. 

Well, the massive stash of money that Megumi gave you now didn't seem like such a big exaggeration anymore.

Not even a week has passed—to be precise, it’s been more than one day and a few hours since you’ve seen him on your terrible date on Saturday.

Karma’s a bitch, but so is Naoya Zenin. 

The colleague you were supposed to fill in for still wasn’t back, and now it was up to you, alongside a few other colleagues, to update your superiors on this month's work. Usually, these meetings don’t take all too long; you just hope that this will be over soon and you can return to your cubicle and pretend you’re doing something on your computer.

When you stepped into the conference room, your eyes drifted around the room. The lightning here was unpleasant, bright white lights that illuminated the room, similar to hospital lights. A few people already sat down and chattered with one another, and others were frantically scrolling through their tablets to look over their notes again.

Soon, people started to flood in, and you barely managed to take in the room before finally sitting down yourself. The meeting was about to start, and the crowd that gathered at the front of the room started to scatter in different directions to sit down. Only then, when you glanced in the now empty direction, you spotted him—surprise would be an understatement—your eyes widened in shock when you saw that it was Naoya out of all the people sitting across the room. 

To make matters worse, he was already looking at you, and before you knew it, you locked eyes with him. You didn’t even have to second-guess what he’s thinking, his face says enough—he doesn’t look particularly pleased to see you. 

What a great way to start off your day.

Overall, the meeting went fine, it began with people presenting their achievements and how they wished to improve, but it didn’t even look like Naoya was listening. 

From time to time, he’d let out a tired yawn here and there, not even bothering to hide his boredom; sometimes, he’d also pretend to listen when in reality he was just playing with his helix and glance in your direction.

Considering how irksome this meeting was for him, you thought that he’d stop looking at you after a while, that he’d find himself a new distraction. Still, even as you teared your eyes away from him and concentrated on the colleague who was speaking, you could practically feel the way he was shooting daggers at the side of your head.

When it was finally your turn to speak, you tried to look at everyone but Naoya, which was hard when he was tracking your every move. He looks like he’s just waiting for the right moment—the decisive moment where you slip up and he can attack. Just at the thought of that or Naoya in general, your vision turned green. 

It took every ounce of willpower in you not to let your revulsion show on your face, because knowing how the Zenin family is, they’d punish your whole department for even glancing at Naoya in the wrong way.

After a few other presentations, a round of questions, and a praise from Naoya—which looked like it physically hurt him to say those words out loud—you were permitted to leave.

“You over there, stay here.” You immediately freeze on the spot upon hearing his words, peering at the people beside you to check if he means them, despite knowing that he was directly referring to you, even if you wished he weren’t.

Around you, the people stop in their tracks, curiosity piqued, and you feel all the eyes in the room landing on you. “Were any of you even listening?” Naoya clicks his tongue in annoyance. “I told you to leave unless any of you insist on working more.” As soon as he said the words, everyone disappeared as fast as possible. 

All you could do was helplessly watch after them, wishing that you were them.  

“Turn around, will you?” If being in the same room as Naoya wasn’t bad enough already, you’re now alone with him. You do as you’re told and face him. “What's someone like you doing here?” His words are laced with a distaste that you could only reciprocate. “I work here.” You reply curtly, knowing that that’s not the answer he sought. “You think you’re so funny.” He spits plainly, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to prevent yourself from bursting out laughing on the spot. 

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were working here?” He demands angrily, and this time, you can’t help but let out a small laugh. “Sorry, sorry,” you giggle after a while. “Honestly, at first I had my doubts, but the money convinced me.” You admit giddily, but it doesn’t take long for you to realize that anger has risen to Naoya’s face.

“You want the money so bad?” He exclaims, irritation written all over his face, “Well then, work for it. You have nothing against working more, no?” He states, and that bullshit-eating grin of his tells you that he’s serious.

“But Sir, that’s against the rul–” You say, taken aback by his statement, “I don’t give two shits. For a month, you’ll be working more, and maybe you’ve learned your lesson until then.” And the smile he gives you is eerily similar to the one you gave him on your date—a smile full of condescension.

Yeah, you really hate this guy.

It’s been a week since then, and you can’t recall all the times someone came up to you and attempted to talk to you about you and Naoya. There’s been an absurd wave of rumors surging towards you every day. 

Some claim that Naoya is your ex-husband, now turned superior; others suspect that you slept with him, consequently got pregnant, and he told you to abort the child, and during lunch break, you hear the young interns gossip about how Naoya probably made a move on you.

Obviously, each of these suspicions was false; you denied them every time, accentuating how you would never in your life voluntarily get in touch with Naoya Zenin unless you’d fallen on your head, lost all your memories, forgot his awful personality, and only wanted him for his nice looks.

You dislike Naoya for many things, but there’s one thing you’ll give him—he’s handsome. His eyes are both enticing and sharp, as if to lure you in, but then seize the moment to devour you when you let your guard down. 

It happened to you once that a “he’s kinda fine” slipped out of your mouth, and people immediately started to tease you about how they knew that you liked him. Apparently, there was “the look of love” in Naoya’s eyes every time he walked past you with a loving smile adorning his lips, and how you always returned his gaze fondly with a smile of your own—whatever that’s supposed to mean.

If only they knew that the way Naoya looked at you was to make sure that you were working the extra task he assigned to you, before mocking you, and grinning as he saw you struggling with those tasks that take ridiculously long, and were simultaneously the most useless. 

Also, the way you looked at him was a simple glare and a faux smile that’s supposed to ease his “worries” of you “slacking off at work,” as he liked to call it.

Still, people come up with new, stupid ideas every other hour, and it was embarrassing how easily they got under your skin.

Along with the fact that Naoya does absolutely nothing to stop the rumors makes it ten times worse. (And because everyone’s probably too scared to even approach him.)

Now you were beginning to understand what people meant by corporate-slaves, because this felt like some sleep-eat-work-repeat lifestyle, which you certainly did not want to live. However, it’s just 2 more weeks, and you’re free from this hell.

Although if there was one thing you were looking forward to, it was your weekly meeting with Tsumiki, only this time you came late. When you had the chance at work, you texted Tsumiki that you wouldn’t make it in time today, and she only read and responded to your messages when she was already at the bar, saying that she’d wait for you with a little surprise.

When you finally arrived, it took you a minute to look around and find her—it was a lot fuller than usual. Then, when you finally saw Tsumiki, you hugged her and apologized gullibly. “Hey, Miki. Sorry that I kept you waiting.” You sigh before slumping down on the leather seats.

Tsumiki gives you a warm smile and makes room for you to sit closer. “No worries.” She says sweetly before pouring herself another shot. “What took you so long?” She asks curiously and downs the glass. Once again, Megumi, Itadori, and Kugisaki sit at the table. It’s obvious why they’re here, but you’re not in the mood to talk to them about it.

“Naoya’s ass ordered me to work longer, but please let's not talk about him.” You groan in annoyance, and as if on instinct, Tsumiki pours you a glass and hands it to you, smilingly. “He has the power to do that?” The voice comes from across the table—the one who spoke up was Kugusaki. “Apparently.” You shrug your shoulders before drinking from the glass.

It’s silent for a while, and you notice that the air in the atmosphere has shifted. It’s weird, but you’re not bothered enough to ask—at least not yet. The evening goes by with a couple more rounds of drinks, stalking old classmates on social media, unrealistic “what-if” and “what-would-you-rather” scenarios, and more drinks.

“Okay, okay, I think that’s enough.” Tsumiki asserts after a while and looks to the others for help. “Ugh, seriously.” You utter in frustration. “If he’d stop behaving like some male tradwife, I’d actually go out with him.” 

The others observe you as you rant. “I mean, yeah, I’ll stay by my word, he’s fine as fuck, but someone needs to tell him to shut up, I swear.” You ramble. “He’s actually so my type looks-wise, and you know if he wasn’t him, I'd definitely date him.” When the words leave your mouth, you see how the others are throwing confused stares at each other before they land on you.

“So, who’s ‘he’?” Megumi questions cautiously. “Naoya.” You muffle, voice already feeling hoarse, and Tsumiki hands you a glass of water. “Unfortunately.” You wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your blouse after the admission.

Suddenly, Itadori jumps up and puts his hands on the wooden table. “Well, then it’s your lucky day!” And you can practically see the way his eyes shine as he announces. “Naoya asked you on a second date.”

“A second what?” You cough on your water, and your eyes widen in shock. “A date,” Itadori repeats, all smiley. “No, Itadori, I heard what you said, I'm just,” You pause for a moment, trying to find the right words. “No, sorry, what?” 

For the first time this evening, Megumi expresses his thoughts. “This is the first time Naoya has ever asked someone to go out with him again.” He pauses for a moment and coughs, before he mumbles something under his breath that you almost missed— is he embarrassed? “And if it helps you, he kept blabbering to me about you. Which is weird, cause he usually says talking about people is a waste of breath.” 

“Wow, how charming.” You huff dryly. He glances over Tsumiki before continuing. “My sister already told me that you’d say no, and I don’t want to force you into something you don’t want to do, but,” He pauses and sighs. “He might have actually developed some interest in you, and this is the best chance we’ll ever get. So, would you mind going on a date with him again?”

“Megumi, you do know that he made me work more because I accidentally spilled wine on him, and made me do these tiresome, stupid tasks that he pulled out of his buttcrack.” You exclaim and take notice of Megumi’s frown.

Tsumiki pats on your shoulder reassuringly before glancing at Megumi. “You know, Megs, I know you mean it well, but going on another date with Naoya would actually make me go crazy.” Her hand stays on your shoulder. “But to me it also sounds like you kinda like him.” 

Her words strike you like lightning, and you immediately straighten up. “Tsumiki, what the fuck?!” You screech, and you can feel the way the other customers turn around to look at you. “Well, I don’t know, just a feeling.” She laughs softly. “Maybe just try it, and all of a sudden he realizes you’re like the love of his life and wants to change just for you.” She jokes.

“Yeah, and then we live happily ever after.” You add, and the others join in Tsumiki’s laughter. “I’m not drunk enough for this.” You snort and rub your eyes with the pads of your fingers. “Okay, well, when does he want to meet me?” 

There’s a brief silence before Itadori breaks it. “You’re actually agreeing?” He looks at you in bewilderment. “Like for real, for real?” He questions to ensure that he hasn’t heard you wrong.

“Mhm.” And you nod your head. Actually, you don’t really know what made you say yes. Did you actually develop some feelings? Yeah, no. Was it the thrill of being with him? Or maybe you’ve just become as unhinged as Naoya and accepted your fate; whatever it was, you were still certain in your choice and had no plan of going back on your word—at least not yet.

“Actually, already next Friday at seven,” Megumi tells you, and you stare at him in disbelief. “That’s literally when work ends for me.” Tsumiki turns to you in confusion. “I thought work ended at six for you?”

“Well, Naoya gave me more work, so I also work longer on most days. That’s why I also came late today. He’s practically setting me up.” You deadpan, and you can feel the toll your words have on the couple across from you— how easily Megumi’s and Itadori’s good moods were shattered. 

Naoya’s words replay in your head over and over. I don’t even know why you bother so much. It’s not like he was wrong, maybe you did feel something for Naoya, and this would be the only chance for you to find out without any co-workers interfering—then it’d work out for the guys and you—call it a win-win situation?

“But,” And their heads immediately lifted. “I’ll try my best to find a way.” 

Megumi and Itadori look at each other and smile. “Thank you, I’ll send you the address later. I seriously owe you.” Megumi sighs in relief. “But tell him to pay for it this time.” He furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “What do you mean?” If you weren’t irritated already, you are now. “Well, the last time, he wanted to split the bill.” You explain.

“That’s unlike him,” Megumi states. “He usually always pays for the dates beforehand. Right after they ordered their food. He says it's manly.” If that were the case, then it wouldn’t make sense for him to insist on only paying for his order. “Wait, what?” 

You and Megumi look like two strangers who speak different languages and are trying to explain the same concept to one another, but the language barrier hinders you; in this case, it’s a matter of understanding the situation.

“You know how Naoya is,” Megumi begins and bites his lower lip in the process, contemplating finding the right words.

“Conservative?” Tsumiki recommends.

“An asshole?” Kugisaki laughs. “Stuck up?” Itadori guesses.

He merely nods. “Yeah, that sums it up.” The conversation continues to flow, going back and forth on different themes, and Naoya slowly fades into the background, that is, until you’re about to leave. 

Tsumiki tilts her head to the side and speaks. “Let’s meet up on the weekend then. Can’t believe Naoya is stealing my precious you-time away from me.” She grins. “You’ll have to tell me all about it then!” 

Outside, the rain heavily platters on the concrete, consequently staining the sidewalk with deep gray spots. With each minute passing by, you’re starting to regret this decision more and more.

The raindrops kiss the tinted car windows, blurring your view, almost like the rain is mocking you for blindly going on another date with Naoya.

On one hand, there are hundreds of thousands of excuses running around in your head that you should use to get the driver to stop, turn around, and drop you off at home again.

Then you’d just lie down, watch this one show that Tsumik kept suggesting to you these past few months. 

“Right, so it’s like a drama about this one girl who helps out her best friend to go on dates with potential marriage candidates instead of her, and on this one date, she accidentally catches the attention of her boss!”

Call it contradictory, call it cliché, but maybe it’s also exactly what will hit the right spot and what you need to still process that you’ve just dumped your boss's son.

But that’s the thing: when you think of Naoya, there’s a familiar feeling bubbling in your chest, and twinges at your heartstrings, one akin to nervousness and excitement—you know what it is, this feeling of an enjoyable thrill, filled with pleasure and doubts—and you don’t like it.

Because you know if you don’t stop here, then there’s no point going back.

After a while, the car comes to a halt, hauling you out of your thought-prison. The driver remains quiet in his seat, and it’s only when you bend forward to pay him that he lets out a deep huff of acknowledgement, before driving off.

Technically, you still have the option to run away and never look back, but your feet won’t budge—they’re glued to the ground. It’s like your body knows that you want to be here, despite denying it.

When you step inside, you notice how quiet it is: no rich folks chatter, no fancy live music, and no clattering of plates or anything of that sort. 

At the reception, there stands a young boy, not much older than you, drowsily leaning his chin on the palm of his hand and lifelessly staring into the air.  “Uhm..hi?” You greet awkwardly. Only then does he seem to acknowledge your presence. “Oh, sorry, hi, what can I do for you?” The boy stumbles over his words, his eyes take the form of crescent moons, and his lips twitch with an uncertain smile. 

“I’m here on a da— to meet Zenin.” You cough over your previous words, hoping that the waiter hasn’t noticed your nervousness. “Naoya Zenin.” You manage to choke out, and the boy's eyes widen in surprise. “Mr., I’m so snobby and pay for everything, Zenin?” The boy rambles, talking to himself before realizing that you're still standing in front of him.“Wait, sorry, I’ll bring you to the table right away.” He states and leads you to Naoya, whose arms are shrugged together over his chest, and he has skepticism written all over his face.

His gaze drifts over to the waiter, raising his eyebrow, and before he can say anything, the boy pulls out the chair for you, and you mutter something along the lines of a thank you before sitting down.

“Your food will be ready soon.” He says meekly while bowing down, not daring to meet the gaze of either of you. He excuses himself and rushes to leave.

He disappears, and you turn to Naoya, who looks like he just bit into a sour apple and now has to make his complaints about everyone's problem. “Two minutes.” Naoya holds up his index and middle fingers.

“What?” Confused with his accusation, your eyebrow quirked up. “You’re 2 minutes late.” He seethes and rolls up the sleeve of his shirt to point at his wristwatch. “See, for that behavior, you’d get your pay lessened.”

Right now, you're seriously questioning yourself, and moreover, your taste in men, despite Naoya already knowing the reason—him—why do you feel a glimmer of excitement burning up in your chest talking to him again?

“Very funny.” You remark ironically, and he chuckles quietly before you change the topic. “Why’s it so empty here?” Careful not to make any sounds, you shift in your chair and look around. 

“Huh?” Naoya’s face takes on a look of irritation. “I booked the whole thing,” he tells you as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why would you do that?” 

“Cause I wanted to spend time with you,” He gives you a half-hearted smile. “alone?”

“Which means you want me so bad or what..?” You look at him, dumbfounded, because this wasn't how you expected to play out. When you first arrived and saw the deserted restaurant, you thought this was about to be some big prank, paranoia was crawling up your neck, and you looked for the hidden cameras everywhere.

He doesn’t give you a direct answer and only says something that you make out to be a quiet "Believe what you want.” But the red blush slowly creeping up on his neck doesn't go unnoticed, and for the first time this evening, you feel like you can actually relax.

Maybe it’s out of embarrassment, anger, or perhaps even affection, you’ve come to the point where it doesn’t matter to you anymore. All you want is to spark more of these reactions out of him, ignoring how that makes you just as weird as he is.

A genuine and amused smile musters itself up on your lips, and you start giggling. “The fuck are you laughing about?” He spits, and you just wave him off. 

You’ve learned how to handle his remarks and know how to retort to them, which makes everything funnier—for you at least. 

The whole evening plays out like this: both of you talking over dinner with Naoya making stupid assumptions about you—being all serious about them too, and all you do is tell him off and counter with a question of your own. These are typically followed by Naoya adding his own two cents.

Your face takes on an expression of disgust as you take a sip from your drink. “Ew.” Slightly sticking your tongue on as the alcohol further enveloped your mouth.

“Aww, can’t even hold a little alcohol?” The man across from you coos mockingly and takes a sip of his own. He sets down his glass and gives you a smug grin.

“Nope, just reminded me of this one drink that I had in senior year that made me black out so bad, and in the morning, Tsumiki told me that she had to wipe all my vomit away.” You laugh softly as you recall the night it happened. “Honestly thought you’d be like super against a woman drinking,” You say, glass still in your hand and swirling the liquid inside around. “'Cause you’re like..” You pause for a moment.

Conservative, stuck up, an asshole

Ideas are popping up in your head, but you do your best to shake them off and attempt to find the right words. “Considering you’re so..traditional?” You say weakly.

“Traditional?” Naoya repeats your words, his expression unreadable. “Traditional.” You say again, your lips pressed into a thin line. The man  slowly nods his head, "Traditional." He concludes and shoots you a blank stare.

He’s probably noticed it too, but you’re getting to know each other more over this date, and you’d be lying to yourself if you said that you didn’t enjoy this—not like you’d ever tell Naoya.

His eyes leave yours, and he starts fiddling with his cutlery again. A wall of silence builds up again; it stands steady in its place, and you’re not sure if you’re the one to take the first step to climb over it.

There’s no one else in the restaurant—just the two of you. The only sounds that are being made are when the metal meets the porcelain again, but other than that, you don’t find a way to fend this unbearable quietness away. 

When you take today into account, your first date with Naoya and all the times at work you spent bickering with him, you realize Tsumiki might be right.

You do like Naoya—as absurd as that even sounds. Admittedly, you're not sure yourself why you like him; all you know is that this attraction towards him only seems to grow by the minute.

Maybe you seriously need to check if you’re a masochist or something, because you don’t think any sane person would admit to liking Naoya Zenin. 

Suddenly, the sound of metal clattering against the table plays, and it rips you out of your thoughts. 

“Is it true,” Naoya starts off and looks up from his plate, and with his words, he tears the wall built out of each unsaid word down. “That you wanted to go out with me just to take advantage of my money?”

Once again, no matter how much you try to study his face, only stone-cold eyes meet yours, behind which his emotions are locked. It’s like he’s trying to test you and base his reaction on your response.

Caught off guard, you’re uncertain what you should say at this moment, so you just tell him the first thing that comes to your mind. “No, Megumi gave me money.”

Seeing the way his forehead creases and the way he slams his hand on the table tells you that this wasn't the answer he was hoping for. “Oh, so you're paid to be here?” 

“Well,” you begin, still unsure of what to say. “Yes?” You confirm after a while and immediately regret your words. “No!” You hastily added, but Naoya’s reaction only seemed to worsen with every passing second, so you just kept on talking, hoping that there’d be one answer that satisfied him. “Kind of?”

Naoya is quick to respond with a question of his own. “Oh, is that so?” He asks, voice sharp as a knife's edge. “Thought you were a gold digger, it turns out you’re actually just a lying bitch. Should’ve expected that from you.” He huffs and rolls his eyes. 

Something churns in your stomach. Taken aback, all you can do at this moment is snap back at him. “Sorry?” You shout at him in disbelief. Feet already rising to take your leave. How did talking about embarrassing high school memories turn into him calling you names?

Everything’s happening all at once and too fast for you to comprehend;  the best thing you could do right now is to remove yourself from this conversation. “And here I thought you were actually pretty nice for once.” You don’t tell him that it’s more than that—that you actually considered this—considered him.

As you stand up and walk away, Naoya steadies himself on the table with his hand before stepping forward to grab your wrist, his grip tight on your arm. He stands close now—mere inches away from you—he doesn’t say anything, but the way his hot breath fans against your nape tells you that he’s seething.

You shake his hand off and turn away from him, quickening your pace as you bolt off. “Hey! You still need to pay!” He screams furiously after you.

“Shut up!” You turn your head around and yell back at him from behind your shoulder. “I know that you already paid, dickhead! That server couldn’t shut up for his fucking life!” Those were your last words before storming off, leaving Naoya alone in the empty restaurant.

Just when you thought this might turn into a serious thing, everything went down the river.

No matter how much you tried to avoid him, he always found a way to seek you out. Whether that was at meetings where his eyes would meet yours as soon as you stepped into the room, outside in the parking lots where he’d just so coincidentally parked next to you, and sometimes you’d even see him during your lunch breaks at the café where you usually go.

One and a half months—you’ve been living like this for a good almost two months, and if it weren’t for the pay, you would’ve already slammed the resignation papers on his desk.

Honestly, you’re not sure why your life has turned upside down ever since you met Naoya—since knowing Naoya, you’ve been stuck in some cliché romcom movie—or a psychological thriller from another perspective.

Because why is it that another Friday night of yours with Tsumiki goes to waste, to meet Naoya? Not that you asked him out for a date—it’s a work celebration dinner, which means there are several other employees with you to fill the awkward silence, because you really didn’t want to engage in a conversation with Naoya.

Unfortunately for you, it was just your luck that you landed at the same table as Naoya.

Usually, six to eight people were sitting together at a table, but a few employees called in sick today, so there was one table that accommodated fewer people than the others, and it just so happened that you and Naoya got assigned together at this table—talk about a coincidence.

Next to you sat a blue-haired girl not much older than you, whom you’ve never seen around—most likely a new employee—and kept sliding against her chair, presumably nervous that she was sitting at the same table as Naoya. 

She keeps shooting hopeful glances at you, hoping you’d open your mouth and say something to start a conversation. Honestly, you felt bad, cause you know how stressful a first-time work dinner can be when you don’t know anyone, but you really didn’t want to talk to Naoya or anyone from work right now.

You’ll make it up to her someday.

Naoya sat right across from you, gawking at you from time to time, and you’d just roll your eyes at him. Next to him sat someone whom you didn’t know, but from the looks Naoya was giving him, you assumed that he didn’t like him much either.

It was plain obvious that the guy was drunk from the way he was talking and continuously threw his arms over Naoya’s shoulder, attempting to act all buddy-buddy with him, to his dismay, Naoya kept angrily shoving him away.

“Say, Mr. Naoya, is it true you wanna marry?” The man slurs over his words before laughing to himself. Naoya shows minimal reaction; only a mere disapproving look tells that he’s not enjoying himself. “What about it?” He eventually says dryly.

Hearing Naoya’s words, the man’s smile widens in happiness. “You already got someone in,” He gulps and mutters a small sorry under his breath, all while laughing and brushes himself over the chest before continuing. “Mind?” He finalises.

His question catches your attention, and for the first time this evening, you fully look at Naoya, who’s already wearing a grin on his face that tells you that he’s up to no good. Naoya sighs dramatically before carding his fingers through his hair. It’s as if he needs to muster up his courage before revealing his answer. 

Naoya takes a good look at you before turning to his side. “Yeah, I’ve got someo—“ You don’t get to hear the rest of his answers, because a scream erupts next to you. “I think my food just moved!” The girl next to you exclaimed as she squats on her chair and points at the bowl in front of her with her chopsticks.

“Miwa, stop messing around.” The voice from across the table half-shouts, and in response, she just frantically shakes her head. “I saw it move just now!” She squeals.“Pinky promise, cross my heart, hope to die, I swear!”

She continues to ramble on for a while, and you can’t help but let an exasperated sigh escape your lips. “You have to put it in the broth, and it'll cook automatically then.” You tell her calmly, taking your chopsticks into your hand, and show her how to do it properly.

Her mouth takes the shape of an o, and she freezes for a moment. “Oh, so that’s how you do it.” She chuckles sheepishly and puts her hand on the back of her hair in embarrassment. Miwa—as you know now—picks up her chopsticks to place the meat in her bowl, but it just so happens that when she reaches over to grab the meat off the plate, the table topples and her bowl loses its balance.

The bowl falls over before you can even process what just happened. The bowl now lies on the table with the broth leaking all over the surface, some of it dripping down on your lap. “Oh my god, I’m so so sorry!” Miwa puts her hands over her mouth and shouts apologetically. 

“It’s fine. This happens to everyone.” You give her a half-hearted smile as you’re reminded of when you spilled wine all over Naoya. “I’ll get some tissues from the restroom.” You slide your chair backwards in order to stand up, but Miwa stops you by holding down your hands.

She keeps them tightly in her hands, as if she needs to keep them in a chokehold, and shakes her head as she looks down at the floor. “No, it was my fault. Let me do this. I’ll clean this up.” She looks up at you with a pleading look, and you can’t help but feel bad for her.

You don’t think she’ll let go of you unless you give in to her request. “Okay,” Miwa’s eyes are practically sparkling as soon as the words leave your mouth, and her hold on your hands tightens. “Still, I'd like to go outside, ” on my own, you think to yourself before throwing a bored glance at Naoya. “So, can you let me go?” You ask her politely, looking down at your intertwined hands.

“Oh,” She yelps. “Yeah, sure, sorry!” She says in a docile tone, and her grip on your hands quickly loosens. “Thanks.” You murmur and smile at her. Miwa hastily stands up and joins you. She mumbles a quiet see you later and disappears into the restroom. 

Before going outside, you make sure to look behind you, ensuring that Naoya isn’t making any moves on following you. Either way, he seems occupied with the colleague next to him, so he won’t be a problem—for now.

Outside, in the parking lot, a cold gust of wind greets you, and you can’t help but regret leaving your jacket inside, but you have no intention of returning back inside right now. You’d rather freeze to death out here than hear Naoya open his mouth once more.

Cheerful, but obnoxious laughter fills the air, and you turn your head to the source of commotion. A group of older male colleagues stands together not too far away from you. You’ve walked past some of them once, bowed your head to show respect, or greeted them out of politeness. 

But the way that all of them were looking at you and exchanged knowing glances with each other made something in your stomach twist. It’s only then that one of the men emerges from the group and makes his way over to you. 

He’s a good head taller than you; from his position, you’re sure he can see the way your neck shivers as he comes closer to your face. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing out here alone?” He asks and reaches out for the strand of your hair that’s been blown away by the wind. 

Goosebumps are rising all over you, met with the fear of not knowing what happens next. I’m just here to catch some air, but I’ll go back in now.” You manage to dodge his touch by a hairsbreadth, and you notice the way his expression immediately sours. “Have a good evening.” You mutter, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you tremble as you nod your head at him. 

“Going already?” The man is quick to latch onto your wrist, and you feel how everything stops for you. “I’m sorry.” You stutter. “But I really have to go now.” Your words just seem to worsen his mood; in response to that, the grip he has on you becomes tighter—suffocating.

The man’s lips curve into a smile. “It’ll be fun, okay?” He assures, but his eyes deceive his words; whatever he plans to do isn’t going to be fun in the slightest. 

“That girl can’t do shit. Help her, will you?” A loud voice shouts over to you, one you recognize in an instant, and for the first time this evening, you’re glad that he’s here.

Naoya strides over to where you are. Simultaneously, the man immediately lets go of your arm and shoves his hands in his pockets, as if that’d help to cover the grip marks he left on your forearm.

“Mr. Zenin.” The man swallows and proceeds to nod at Naoya, who doesn’t plan on responding in the same manner. “Hope you enjoyed this work dinner. It’s your last.” He states and pulls you away, leaving the man baffled. 

He yells after the two of you, but you can’t make out his words from this distance. “Naoya, let me go. I have to get my things and go home.” You demand and attempt to shake him off. 

“Is that how you repay me?” He stops in his tracks and turns around. “Well,” you start, the words lying on the tip of your tongue. “Thanks for just now, but I seriously just wanna get my things.” 

“Woman, listen. I’ll drive you home.” He says, voice nor face betraying him—he’s serious about this.

A beat of silence passes, and if it weren’t for Naoya’s hand holding yours, you’d think this was some sort of dream.

After a while, you manage to say a few words. “Please don’t?” And take a step away from him. “Also, you’re not allowed to drive when you drink.” You remind him, because if there was one thing you didn’t need now was being pulled over and getting a ticket for driving under the influence.

“Being drunk doesn’t make me an idiot.” Naoya retorts, letting go of your hand. “You’re an asshole either way,” You scoff. “With and without alcohol.” 

“Do you want me to drive you home now or not?

If love makes one blind, it apparently also makes one stupid, because why on earth did you agree to sleeping over at Naoya’s place?

When you were in the car, you noticed that he wasn’t driving in the right direction.

Fuck no. I’m not driving across the whole city to bring you home.

He was even being so nice as to drop you off at this 24/7 open convenience store that sells toothbrushes and shirts, and if you didn’t hurry, he’d drive off without you—if that’s not princess treatment, then you don’t know either.

That’s how you ended up sleeping on Naoya’s couch for the night.

Technically, you didn’t agree, more like you were forced, but if this included a cozy couch, a huge kitchen with a kitchen island, and bathrooms as big as your apartment, then maybe you’d consider it. 

Maybe next time.

It must be nice being a nepo baby and having the privilege to spend money on everything, without worrying about ever running out of money. 

Today’s incident still keeps you up, and you feel a shiver running along your body as you remember how close he was to touching your skin. His smile is etched into your memory, and the way he’d talk to you plays over and over in your mind.

It’s a memory engraved in your consciousness, and you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to rid this feeling of disgust and fear.

Trying to distract your head from these thoughts, you notice how cold it actually is. Does this man not heat his house? How does he even expect you to sleep well with a blanket that’s as thin as his patience?

You don’t know what made you decide to walk up the stairs and find Naoya,  but you’re already here. If you’re already at it, you might as well take a look around.

The hallway is dark, and you carefully tread along the polished floors. His house is spacious–it feels big but also incredibly empty at the same time—you wonder if Naoya always spends his nights alone in this cold space.

Before you left the bathroom, you spotted Naoya going into the room right at the end of the hall, assuming this must be his room. As you finally stand in front of his door, you contemplate running, but it’s not like you’re asking for a big favor. It shouldn’t be as difficult as you're making it out to be.

You just want a blanket, that's everything. You're cold, that’s everything. Naoya should help you warm up, that's everything— “

Three times—you knock a total of three times, but there’s no answer coming from the other side of the door. It’s only after the fourth unanswered knock that you enter his room, the door lightly squeaking as you push it open.

As you step in, you’re met with a cold breeze. “Naoya?” You call out his name, but you’re met with no response. “Naoya?” You repeat once more, hoping that he’d notice you know. Seeing that he’s not reacting, you search for the light switch, hands groping at the wall behind you until you find and turn it on.

Unsurprisingly, Naoya isn’t in his bed or in his room at all. You take a look around, but can’t find him anywhere; that’s when you feel the breeze again. Now with the lights on, everything came into view, and it's only then that you notice the door to the balcony being slightly ajar. 

You make your way over to the balcony, open the door, and step outside. “Naoya? What are you doing?” The back of his head greets you, and under the moonlit sky, you can see the way his blond hair gleams. Met with no response, you take another step forward, and now his side profile comes into your view.

It’s eerily quiet.“What is it?” He takes a drag from his cigarette and ashes it down his balcony into the garden, probably hoping that in the morning the wind will blow it away. For a moment, it’s quiet, the wind quietly whistles in your ear, and the smell of smoke lingers in the air, enveloping the two of you. He looks good like this, dressed in casual attire, wearing a relaxed look on his face, and behaving unusually silent.

You can’t take your eyes off Naoya.

Although he always tries to act all distant, Naoya takes everything personally and is always up to confront someone about it, too. “What are you looking at so dumbly?” He growls, and you can feel the corners of your lips twitching. “For someone who’s so traditional, you sure don’t give a shit about your lungs.”

“Do you even inhale…the smoke?” You laugh, quirking an eyebrow, observing him skeptically. “The fuck are you saying?” He ashes off his cigarette again. “Well, you're just taking puffs.” You point at his cigarette and then at him. “Someone knows shit,” he scoffs and turns away from you. “Talk about fucked up lungs.” 

You don’t dwell too long on his words and change the topic. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a terrible host?” You sneer and lean against the railing. “You think it's funny to insult me?” If he doesn’t ash off his cigarette very soon, it’ll go out immediately, but you don’t tell him that. “Well, we’re not at work, so I really couldn’t care less.”

“Why are you even awake? Don’t you need your beauty sleep?” Naoya jokes, tone filled with mild condescension. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” You say dryly and turn to meet him. “I just couldn’t. What about you?”

Naoya finally ashes off his cigarette, so that only the butt of it is burning now, and he smudges it against the railing before chucking it down. “I was thinking about marriage.” He admits and smirks at you.

You ignore the way your heart tightens at his words and laugh it off. “How much?” It doesn’t take a genius to see that Naoya is irritated by your words. “How much what?”

“How much are you paying her to marry you?” You finally say and let out a final laugh. Naoya’s face seems to relax at your words, and he asks a question of his own. “How much are you getting paid?”

“That’s secret information.” You deadpan and side-eye him. “Not like I don’t know already.” Naoya sneers. “Why are you even asking the— Oh my god! Were you hitting on me just now? 

“You’re practically eye-fucking me every time I walk into the room.” He says it like it’s a fact. “Do you hear yourself?” You exclaim in disbelief, taking a step back from him. 

Every time you take a step away from him, he takes a step forward. It goes on so long until your back meets the wall, and your eyes widen, knowing that Naoya has you exactly where he wants. 

He leans forward and presses his hand against the wall, before nudging your ear with his nose. “Just admit it.” He whispers before backing away and smirking. 

It’s in this moment that you just let go of everything—including your sanity, and give in to your desires. You cup his cheeks in your hands and pull him downwards to press your lips against his—an action he quickly reciprocates. 

He tastes of tobacco; usually, you dislike the taste, but there are some exceptions, and Naoya seems to be one of them. On him, it tastes comforting and soothing, although nothing is comforting about the way he kisses you. 

His tongue darts over your lower lip, and before you can even grant him full access, he pushes his tongue in your mouth, and you involuntarily let out a high-pitched sound. Your hands find his hair to yank him down, and his roam beneath your shirt, his hands freezing cold as they press against your warm skin.

Only when you push him off to catch your breath does he stop kissing you, and his hands retreat from your skin.

You don’t even get a full minute to breathe properly before Naoya pushes himself on you again, but you hold him in his place before he can slot his lips on yours again, your eyes warning him not to go any further.

To your surprise, Naoya actually seems to follow your warning and steps back. It’s far enough so that he no longer breathes right into your face, but still near enough for you to see him up close and observe his features.

He seems to have noticed, and a wide grin forms on his face as he raises both his arms into the air, as if he’s been accused of something. 

“Don’t give me that face.” Naoya coos in faux sympathy. “To make it up to you, how does going on a third date sound to you?”

END NOTE: i have an admission to make...i didnt even watch the new season yet...lol

but it’s his nonchalance over the matter that makes something inside yorozu wilt. he is figuratively and literally saturated in your presence, uncaring how much it broadcasts his attachment. she spends her waking hours trying to convince herself that you are nothing but a fleeting fancy. his new toy, she mumbles as her nails bite into her palms. over the weeks, the cycle repeats: skin splits, bleeds, heals, and tears anew, leaving a permanent topography of crescent-shaped scars across her skin. still, she waits for the day she can peer into his chambers and see your remains served on a shikki lacquerware tray, broiled and seasoned with tare.

(look at me. feel me. touch me. gut me. bind me. curse me. hold me. console me. love me!)

driven mad by the agonising wait, she finally confronts him, beseeching him to see reason. how could the king of curses choose a unremarkable nobody over her?

“but she’s not even a sorcerer!”

“and yet, they sate me far more than you and all the other insignificant maggots ever have,”

she’s trembling in rage, backed into a corner by his rejection, but she can’t help but push it.

“you’re smitten. are you in love with her?”

brief as summer lightning, confusion flickers across sukuna’s regal features—a rare disruption that yorozu, viewing him through her rose-colored delusions, finds both cute and increasingly aggravating.

“leave me be,” he rumbles, the deadly calm far more dangerous than a raised tone. “and do not dare burden my peace with your petty tantrum.”

“You couldn’t have picked someone normal to bond with?” you ask the dragon.

Sukuna blinks slowly, entirely unfazed, then shifts his massive head a fraction closer to your shoulder. His scales catch the sunlight like dark, wet marble, but the way he’s leaning into you gives him all the menace of a particularly clingy housecat. A housecat with fire breath, razor claws, and the ability to level a village if he ever got bored enough.

Satoru, stretched out on the grass beside him, grins. “Don’t blame Sukuna,” he says, resting his weight back on his palms like he owns the hill, the sky, the whole bloody island. “He can’t help liking you better.”

“Everyone likes me better.”

“Mm. Bold claim.”

“True claim,” you retort. You scratch absentmindedly under Sukuna’s jaw, right where the scales give way to smooth skin, and he lets out a deep, throaty rumble of pleasure. It vibrates through the ground beneath your feet, a sound that would send most of Berk sprinting for the hills. You barely flinch. He’s impossible not to soften toward—something Satoru has weaponised far too often.

“I’m just saying,” Satoru drawls, “you might be his favourite person on the island.”

“He doesn’t have many options,” you say.

“Wow. And here I thought we were friends.”

You roll your eyes. “We are not friends.”

“Acquaintances?” he tries, silver hair glinting in the sunlight and blue eyes far too bright and mischievous and knowing.

“Barely.”

“Brutal,” he says. “You talk to all your barely-acquaintances this much?”

“Only the ones who refuse to shut up.”

“That’s most people, though.”

“Maybe you’re the problem,” you shoot back.

It’s exhausting, really, how he manages to talk in italics, every word tilted just enough to keep you bristling. He’s the single most aggravating man on the entire Isle of Berk—and that’s saying something, considering the place is full of dragon riders who think personal boundaries is a suggestion, not a rule.

You’d like to say you hate him. Really, you would. It would make things simpler. But hate implies he occupies actual space in your head, and the problem—the infuriating, inescapable problem—is that you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“Why are you even here?” you demand finally, because you’ve learned the only way to deal with Satoru Gojo is to stay on the offensive.

“Sukuna wanted pats,” he repeats.

“Pretty sure Sukuna can find his own way here.”

“Yeah,” Satoru says, grinning wider, “but I can’t.”

You blink. “Are you—are you implying you used your dragon as an excuse to see me?”

“No,” he says immediately, dragging the vowel out. “Definitely not. I have so many better things to do.”

“Name one.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks for a second. “…Patrolling?”

“That’s not better.”

“Depends on who you ask.” He falls back fully onto the grass, folding his arms behind his head, one long leg bent at the knee. The picture of ease, like he hasn’t just dropped the suggestion that he wanted to see you and then refused to elaborate. Like he hasn’t steadily been driving you insane since the day you met him.

The wind shifts over the hill, carrying with it the salt of the distant sea. Berk stretches out below—scattered houses of stone and timber, smoke curling from chimneys, dragons wheeling in the sky above the watchtowers. Out past the cliffs, the ocean flashes silver under the sun, calm for now but never for long.

“Illegal trapping’s been getting worse,” Satory says idly after a moment.

You glance at him. “And yet you’re here annoying me instead of dealing with it?”

“Hey, I’m off-duty.”

“You’re never off-duty.”

“True,” he admits, shameless. “But my boss doesn’t need to know that.”

You roll your eyes. The boss in question is Yaga the Vast, chief of Berk, who has approximately zero patience for stragglers like Satoru and yet, somehow, keeps putting him in charge of things anyway. Probably because when he isn’t being insufferable, Satoru is annoyingly good at his job.

Sukuna shifts closer again, massive head nudging your shoulder with a low whuff. The force of it nearly knocks you off balance.

“He’s so needy,” you mutter, scratching under his jaw again.

Satoru props himself up on his elbows to watch. “You love it.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Do—”

“Finish that sentence,” you warn, “and I swear I will throw you off this hill.”

He smiles, unbothered. “Can’t, gorgeous. Sukuna would just catch me.”

“Shame,” you say.

Sukuna rumbles again, louder this time, as if laughing at the both of you. Which is ridiculous, obviously. Dragons don’t laugh. Probably. You’re still scratching absentmindedly at his jaw when the shout comes from below the hill.

“Gojo! We’ve got movement near the cliffs!”

It’s one of the younger riders—Yaga’s apprentice, maybe. You don’t remember his name. He’s sprinting uphill, out of breath, waving both arms wildly.

Satoru sighs. “And here I was enjoying my day off.”

“Trappers?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah.” He pushes to his feet. “Looks like it.”

The apprentice finally reaches the top, panting. “They spotted nets near the west cliffs,” he manages. “Could be setting up for a catch.”

Satoru dusts off his hands lazily, as though he hasn’t just been summoned to go handle the exact kind of people who would love to get their hands on a Night Fury. On Sukuna. You glance at the dragon, who’s gone very still beside you. His tail flicks once, sharp and restless.

Satoru notices too. “Relax,” he tells him softly, before turning that insufferable grin back on you. “Rain check on the head pats?”

“Not my dragon,” you remind him.

He winks. “Technicality.”

With that, he swings easily onto Sukuna’s back, all long limbs and practiced motion, like he was born in the saddle. Sukuna launches into the sky a moment later, wings snapping wide, dust kicking up in their wake. You watch them go, a dark shape against the sunlit clouds, until they’re nothing but a speck over the cliffs.

You’re still staring at the empty sky when the young rider clears his throat.

“Uh… hi,” he says awkwardly. He’s about your age, maybe a bit younger, with a nervous energy that makes you want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to relax. He’s holding a map, which he’d pulled out of his pocket and now folds and unfolds with frantic hands. “You’re, uh, you’re the mapmaker, right? The one who lives by the sea?”

“That’s me,” you say, forcing yourself to look away from the horizon.

He nods, relieved. “Right. Yaga said to give you this. It’s the new coastline for the north. He said you’d be able to sketch it out better than anyone else.” He holds out the piece of parchment.

You take the map, unfolding it to see the jagged lines and rough sketches of a coastline you haven’t visited yet. The lines are crude, but the general shape is there. “Thanks,” you say. “I’ll get on it as soon as I can.”

“Right,” he says. “So… you and Gojo. You guys are… close?”

You stiffen. The question is innocent, but it feels like an accusation. “No. Not at all.”

He looks skeptical. “He talks about you a lot. Like, a lot lot. Says you’re the only person who can keep up with him.

You fight the urge to groan. “He’s a liar.”

“Yeah, he is.” The young rider laughs, a short, nervous sound. “But I don’t know. It’s weird. He’s always, like, looking for you. Or waiting for you.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. It’s too close to the truth. You just shrug, then look at the map. “I should get going. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Right. See you around, then.” The rider turns to leave, jogging down the hill with a newfound energy, happy to escape the awkwardness.

You look at the map, then at the sky where Sukuna and Gojo disappeared. You can’t stop thinking about the way Gojo smiled when he told you that Sukuna was just an excuse to see you. It was a joke, you know that. He’s always joking, always playing with words. But the way he said it… it felt like there was a kernel of truth in it, a tiny, infuriating admission that you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You trace the lines on the map, but your mind is elsewhere. You’re picturing him, the way he looks when he’s serious, the way he talks when he’s trying to get under your skin. You’re picturing Sukuna, the way he leans into your touch, the way he rumbles with contentment. You’re picturing the two of them, a perfect pair of chaos, a storm of annoying energy.

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. You have work to do, a map to sketch. But you can’t help but wonder if Gojo and Sukuna are okay. You can’t help but wonder what he’ll say the next time you see him.

A soft breeze, smelling of salt and distant rain, carries the sound of Sukuna’s contented rumble. You look up from your work, the firelight from your cottage flickering on the parchment in your lap. The Night Fury, a silhouette against the moon, lands with a soft thud, a dark shadow in the growing dimness. You can’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at your lips. It’s a happy sound, that snort of his, and it’s hard not to feel a little bit of warmth toward the gigantic reptile. The smile vanishes the moment you see Satoru Gojo dismount.

He slides off the dragon’s back and lands on the packed dirt with a huff. His silver hair, usually perfectly styled, is now adorned with a scattering of leaves and twigs. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

“Looks like you had a hard day,” you say, voice dry. You don’t bother looking up from your map, a new survey of the eastern coast that is proving to be a nightmare of jagged inlets and hidden reefs.

“The hardest,” he replies, walking toward the fire. Sukuna follows, a low purr rumbling in his chest as he nudges your shoulder gently. You stroke the smooth scales under his jaw.

“Did you, by any chance, get your head stuck in a bush?” you ask pointedly.

He laughs. “Just a little turbulence. But don’t worry, it was for a good cause.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“Well, you know,” he says, pulling a stray leaf from his hair. “I had to make sure the trappers didn’t get away. Can’t have them messing up the ecosystem, can we?”

“But your impeccable hair and abysmal flying skills get a pass, I suppose.”

“Priorities, you know.” Satoru sits down on a log across from you, the firelight glinting in his bright blue eyes. “What are you up to? Still drawing pretty pictures of rocks and water?”

“I’m creating an accurate navigational chart for the fishing fleet,” you correct. “So that they don’t end up on the bottom of the sea.”

“Right, right. Important work,” he says. “You’d be a lot faster if you had some help.”

“I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

“I’m just saying,” he drawls, “a second pair of eyes could be useful. Especially mine. They’re very, very good eyes.”

You roll your own. “I’m not interested in your help, Gojo. Or your eyes, for that matter.”

Sukuna, who had been contently nuzzling your shoulder, chooses that moment to let out a slow, mournful sound, as if he understood the conversation and is deeply disappointed by your attitude. He nudges Gojo’s head with his own, then your shoulder again. He goes back and forth, like a pendulum. It’s slightly annoying.

“See?” Gojo says, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Even Sukuna agrees. He thinks we should be friends.”

“Sukuna thinks you should be less annoying,” you counter, reaching out to pat the dragon’s large head. He lets out a low rumble, pleased.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Satoru says. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He told me on the way here that he thinks we would make a very handsome couple.”

You snort. “He has terrible taste. You’re lucky he hasn’t left you for a better rider.”

“Impossible,” Satoru scoffs. “I’m the best. And he knows it.”

“And the most modest, too,” you mutter.

Sukuna lets out a deep, throaty rumble, and gently nudges you closer to the fire. The action is subtle, but a piece of your parchment slips off your knee and lands with a quiet rustle on the ground near Satoru’s feet. He bends down to pick it up, his long fingers brushing against yours as he hands it back.

“Clumsy,” he says, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s not talking about the paper.

You ignore him, focusing on the map, but your hand trembles slightly, and the ink bleeds on the line you’re trying to draw. You let out an exasperated sigh, and Sukuna, with a loud huff, settles down between you and Satoru. It’s a deliberate move. The dragon’s nothing more than a massive, scaly chaperone.

“Look at him,” Satoru says, his voice softer now. “He’s tired. Trappers, you know. They’re more persistent than usual.”

“Did you catch them?”

“Most of them. They had nets—one almost got Sukuna. If he hadn’t been so fast, it would have been a rough night.”

You look at the dragon, who is now snoozing with one eye open, the firelight catching the dark, wet-looking scales on his hide. A sudden wave of protectiveness washes over you, a familiar feeling when it comes to the dragon. But then you look at Satoru, and see the deep weariness in his eyes, the faint lines of stress etched around his mouth, and that familiar wave of protectiveness becomes tangled with something else, something you refuse to name.

“You should get some rest,” you say, the words feeling foreign and heavy on your tongue.

He looks surprised. “Worried about me?”

“I’m worried about Sukuna,” you shoot back, and the warmth in your stomach curdles into a familiar acidity. “He needs his rider to be in top form. The last thing he needs is to be stuck with a tired, insufferable oaf.”

He laughs. “You wound me. But thank you. It’s nice to know someone cares.”

“I don’t care,” you insist, and you know you’re lying. You also know he knows you’re lying. It’s a game you play, a tense, stupid dance.

Sukuna lets out a snort. He flicks his head towards Satoru, then towards you, as if to say, just talk to each other, idiots. You want to kick him. Affectionately, of course.

“Well,” Satoru says. “I suppose I should go. Duty calls and all that.” He stands up, stretching his arms over his head before shaking it.

“You’re going back out?” you ask, a note of alarm in your voice that you can’t control.

“Nah,” he says, smiling a little softer now. “Just kidding. Yaga told me to stay put until morning, ‘cause he said I caused enough trouble for one day.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

He reaches down and ruffles Sukuna’s head, though his words are addressed to you. “I’ll be back tomorrow for some more pats, okay?”

Sukuna huffs happily in response.

Satoru turns and walks away, a long, lanky shadow disappearing into the darkness. Sukuna watches him go, then turns his gaze back to you, his garnet-coloured eyes flashing. He nudges your hand again. You know what he wants. He wants you to talk to Gojo. He wants you to go after him.

You sigh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not his keeper. I’m not yours, either.”

Sukuna snorts, a clear, exasperated sound, and settles his massive head on your lap. He’s warm, a solid weight of comfort in the cool night. You don’t bother to shoo him away. You simply sit there, under the moonlight, and stare into the dark where Gojo disappeared.

“It’s a fool’s errand,” you say, dropping the rolled-up parchment onto Yaga’s desk with a resounding thud. The Chief of Berk, a man with a beard as formidable as his temperament, looks up from the horn he’s polishing.

“What is?” he asks.

“This,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at the map. “The north coast. It’s impossible to draw from the ground. I’ve only been there twice, and I spent most of the time trying not to fall to my death. The cliffs are sheer drops. The inlets are jagged and hidden. I need to map it from above.”

Yaga stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. You hold his stare, a silent challenge. You’ve never been one to back down from the Chief, a fact that both annoys and impresses him.

He sighs. “Fine. You’re right. You’ll need a rider.” He looks around the hall, his eyes scanning for a likely candidate. Your heart sinks into your stomach when he lands on the very last person you want to see.

“Satoru!” he bellows.

Satoru Gojo, leaning against a support beam, in the middle of conversation with Yaga’s apprentice, gives you a little wave.

“Yeah, boss?” he calls out.

“You’re taking our mapmaker to the north coast,” Yaga says. “She needs to draw it from the air.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Chief,” he says, sauntering over to the desk. “North coast, huh? A little chilly for you, isn’t it?”

You resist the urge to punch him. “I’ll manage. Let’s just get this over with.”

He claps his hands together. “Excellent! My calendar is wide open.”

The next morning is cold and brisk. A light mist hangs over the village, and the air smells of wet stone and woodsmoke. You’re waiting by the flight academy, a satchel slung over your shoulder and your sketchbook clutched in your hands. You’ve been waiting for ten minutes, which is ten minutes longer than you’d like.

Just as you’re about to turn and leave, you hear a loud, familiar whoosh of wind and the deep, throaty rumble of a Night Fury. Sukuna lands right in front of you. Satoru leers at you, seated on his back.

“Ready to fly, gorgeous?” he asks.

“I’m ready to get this done,” you correct.

You climb onto the dragon’s back, settling behind him on the saddle and placing your sketchbook and charcoal pencils carefully in your lap. Sukuna lets out a low purr, a rumble that you can feel vibrating through your body. He nudges his head back, giving your hand a soft, affectionate lick.

“He’s excited,” Satoru says. “He loves when we all go out together.”

“He’s excited about the snacks I brought him,” you say, pulling a piece of dried fish from your satchel and holding it out to Sukuna. He devours it in one gulp.

“You brought snacks?” Satoru asks. “For the dragon, and not for your very handsome and talented pilot?”

“You are not my pilot, and you are not getting any of this fish.”

He kicks his feet against Sukuna’s side, and the dragon launches himself into the air. You grip the saddle, your knuckles turning white. The wind whips at your hair and clothes, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of flight wash over you. It’s a feeling you’ve never gotten used to, and it’s always a little terrifying, a little exhilarating.

Satoru leans back. “You’re good at this. Not screaming, I mean.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m a mapmaker, not a child. I’m used to dangerous situations.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re the one who saved my ass, remember?”

The memory of that night, of his blood on your hands, of the raw fear in your gut, flashes through your mind. You shiver, a cold feeling that has nothing to do with the wind.

“I’d rather not,” you say.

He doesn’t respond. Sukuna, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, lets out a low, questioning snort. He banks left, heading toward the northern cliffs.

The gentle, rolling hills of Berk give way to a brutal, unforgiving coastline. The cliffs are dark and jagged, the sea a churning mass of white foam. You pull out your sketchbook and begin to draw.

You work for hours, meticulously sketching every rock formation, every inlet, every hidden cove. You direct Satoru to turn this way and that, and he, for once, doesn’t argue. He lets you work, his body a steady, comforting presence in front of you, ensuring Sukuna’s movements are smooth and controlled.

At one point, you get so focused on a particular series of sea caves that you lean too far over the edge of the saddle, and almost lose your balance. A long, strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against a warm, solid chest. You stiffen, your body rigid with surprise.

“Careful,” Satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t want you falling to your death.”

You push him away, heart pounding. “I had it under control.”

“Sure, you did.”

Sukuna lets out a low, knowing chuff, a sound that makes you want to smack him. You ignore him, focusing back on your drawing, but it’s hard to stop thinking about the feeling of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his body against yours.

“You’re quiet,” he says after a while.

“I’m working.”

He hums. “Right. I just thought, you know, we could talk. Get to know each other. Since we’re going to be hanging out more often, we might as well be friends.”

“We are not going to be friends,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time.

“We are,” Satoru says. “We’re a team. You and me. And Sukuna, of course.” He reaches forward and strokes the Night Fury’s head, and the dragon rumbles with contentment.

“He’s your dragon,” you mutter.

“He likes you, too. More than me, I think,” Satoru says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—something soft and genuine—that makes you look away from your sketch and at him instead. His eyes are fixed on you, a strange mixture of warmth and… something else. You can’t quite place it.

You look away, your heart pounding again. You can’t handle this. You can’t handle this man, this dragon, this strange, dangerous intimacy that has sprung up between you.

You land back in the village as dusk is falling. The air is colder now, and the stars are beginning to peak out. You slide off Sukuna’s back, your legs shaky from the long flight. You feel a hand on your arm, steadying you.

“You did good,” Satoru says.

“So did you,” you say.

He smiles, a real smile, one that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It’s a smile that you realise you haven’t seen very often. It’s a smile that makes the hollow cavity inside your chest where your heart lies skip a beat.

You turn away, clutching your sketchbook to your chest. “I’ll bring this to Yaga in the morning.”

“Right,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”

You walk away, but you can feel his gaze on your back. You can feel the warmth of his hand still on your arm. You don’t look back.

You make it to your cottage, but you don’t go inside. You sit on the stone step, your sketchbook still in your hands, and stare at the sky. You think about the north coast, about the cliffs and the caves, but also about Satoru. About the way his arm felt around your waist, about the way his smile made you feel, about the way he wasn’t being annoying for once.

You hear a soft thud. Sukuna stands behind you, a small branch in his mouth. He drops it at your feet. A branch from a Night Fury’s nest. He jabs at your hand with his nose, his eyes fixed on yours.

You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to tell you something. He’s trying to tell you that Satoru is not so bad. There’s a place for you in his life, in their life.

You reach down and pick up the branch, then look back at the dragon. You sigh, a long, drawn-out sound.

“You’re a terrible matchmaker, you know that?” you whisper to him.

Sukuna lets out a low purr and nudges you again. You don’t know what to do. You’re a mapmaker, a person of logic and order, and this man and his dragon are nothing but chaos. There’s absolutely no way anything good could ever come out of this.

“Head pats? Again?” You shoot Satoru an unimpressed glare, though the effect is rather diminished by the fact that you’re hanging upside down, trying to fix a hole in your roof. “At least come up with a better excuse.”

“Can’t. The dragon wants what the dragon wants,” Satoru says. “And what the dragon wants, the dragon gets.”

You grunt, shoving a loose thatch of straw back into place. Your ankles are looped around a wooden beam, your torso dangling over the edge of your cottage’s roof. The world is a strange, inverted place from this angle. The grass is a vibrant green sky, the clouds are a white, fluffy ground. Satoru Gojo’s annoyingly perfect face is floating in the air below you. He’s leaning back, his hands in his pockets, watching you with a smile. Sukuna is a little ways off, chewing on a large branch.

“And what the dragon wants is for me to risk breaking my neck just so you can make a terrible joke?” you ask.

“No, no, the dragon wants head pats,” Satoru corrects, shaking his head. “I’m just here to deliver the dragon to the head pats. A simple go-between.”

“You’re a go-between for your own dragon?”

“Look, it’s a complicated relationship,” he says. “He’s a very discerning dragon.”

You roll your eyes, a motion that makes your head throb. You pull yourself up, muscles straining, and clamber onto the roof. You sit on the ridge, straddling the peak, and pull a loose piece of wood from the hole. The wood is rotten, and the smell of mold and wet earth makes you wrinkle your nose. A sudden gust of wind snatches a loose piece of cloth from the edge of the roof, and you watch as it flutters to the ground and lands directly at Satoru’s feet.

He picks it up and says, “Lost something?”

“It’s just a rag,” you say.

He examines it, shaking it out with a flourish. “Looks like a perfectly good rag to me.”

“It’s not,” you say. “It’s old and worn out. Just leave it.”

He doesn’t. He folds it carefully and places it in his pocket, before walking over to where Sukuna is lying, and pulls out a piece of meat from his saddlebag. He tosses it to the dragon.

“So,” Satoru says. “Roof problems?”

“No,” you say, “I just enjoy dangling from high places.”

He laughs, a clear, loud sound that makes your stomach feel weird. “I get it. You’re a thrill-seeker. It’s one of your many charming qualities.”

“I’m not a thrill-seeker,” you say. “I’m a mapmaker. I prefer quiet, predictable things.”

“Still,” he says, “here you are, hanging from a roof, and here I am, your friendly neighbourhood… well, whatever I am.”

You groan. “You’re a pain. That’s what you are.”

“And you’re my favourite pain,” he says. “You’re the only person on the entire Isle of Berk who doesn’t fall all over themselves to talk to me.”

“That’s because I have a working brain.”

He laughs again, and you find yourself staring at him. He’s leaning against Sukuna’s side, his arms crossed over his chest. His silver hair catches the sunlight, and his bright blue eyes are fixed on you. He’s the most infuriating man you’ve ever met, but you can’t deny that he’s also breathtaking.

You tear your gaze away, a flush of heat creeping up your neck. You turn back to your roof, your hands shaking slightly as you try to hammer a loose piece of wood into place. You miss, and the hammer clatters to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the grass.

“Fuck,” you say, eloquently.

Satoru bends to pick up the hammer, turning it over in his hands. “For someone who claims to like quiet, predictable things, you have a funny way of living on the edge.”

You scowl down at him from the roof ridge. “I’m fixing a hole, Satoru. Not fighting a dragon barehanded.”

“Could be both, if you fall on Sukuna.”

Sukuna, hearing his name, glances up, tail flicking idly. He looks like he’d catch you if you fell. Probably. Maybe. If he felt like it.

“Very reassuring,” you mutter. “Give it back.”

“Come get it,” Satoru says, grinning.

You glare at him. He leans back against Sukuna’s side, one long leg crossed over the other. He looks like he could stay here all day, bothering you from ground level while you slowly lose your mind above him. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The sun’s beating down hard, pressing heat into the back of your neck. Your hands are already splintered from the wood, your hair sticking to your cheeks. You have an entire day’s worth of mapping to do but here you are, arguing with Berk’s most irritating dragon rider over a hammer.

“Fine,” you say. “Keep it. I’ll just tell everyone you bullied me into falling off my own roof.”

“But you didn’t fall,” he says. “Yet.”

You wish you could throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. Like a rock. Or maybe the entire cottage.

Instead, you clamber down from the roof ridge to the small platform just under it, wiping your palms on your trousers. From here, the world tilts alarmingly close. Satoru watches your careful descent with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.

When you reach the edge, you stretch your hand out. “Hammer.”

He taps it against his chin thoughtfully. “What do I get in return?”

“Your continued survival.”

“Tempting.” He tosses it up, easy and careless, then finally lobs it towards you. It arcs through the air, spinning end over end, and you snatch it out of the air just in time, the impact jolting through your wrist.

“Show-off,” you say.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

You don’t dignify that with a response, instead crawling back to the hole and fitting the new piece of wood into place. The hammer thunks steadily as you nail it down, the sound mingling with the wind and the distant crash of waves against cliffs. Satoru hums something under his breath, a lazy, tuneless thing. It carries upward, curling under your skin despite yourself.

You focus very, very hard on the roof.

When the piece finally holds, you sit back, wiping your forehead again. Your arms ache, your knees are bruised, and you can feel bits of straw clinging to your hair. Glorious, really.

“Done?” Satoru asks.

“For now,” you say.

“Good,” he says, pushing off Sukuna’s side. “Because Sukuna’s patience is running out.”

At the mention of his name, the dragon lets out a short, sharp huff, nostrils flaring. The branch he was chewing lies in two neat halves at his feet. His pupils have gone wide, round as coins—his version of puppy eyes.

You narrow yours. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“It’s effective,” Satoru says cheerfully, already strolling over to you. “C’mon, he’s been waiting all day.”

You glance from the dragon’s enormous, hopeful stare to Satoru’s infuriating grin and feel, very distinctly, like you’re being tag-teamed.

“Fine,” you mutter, hopping lightly off the lower edge of the roof. You land in a crouch, knees absorbing the impact, then stand and dust yourself off. “But only because he asked nicely.”

Satoru bows low, one hand over his heart. “As the humble messenger of the dragon, I thank you for your generosity.”

“Shut up,” you say, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Sukuna lowers his massive head as you approach, scales gleaming like wet stone. He makes a low, thrumming sound as your hand comes to rest between his eyes, the tension in his frame melting instantly. It’s absurd, how such a creature—so powerful, so feared—can melt into warmth at something as simple as a touch.

You scratch behind his jaw, feeling the rumble travel through your palm. “You deserve a better rider,” you murmur, just loud enough for Satoru to hear.

Satoru presses a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Absolutely gutted.”

“You’ll live.”

He leans against Sukuna’s shoulder, close enough that you catch the faint scent of wind and leather and something warm underneath. “You always say that like you’re sure.”

“I could be wrong,” you say sweetly.

“Now who’s emotionally blackmailing who?”

You roll your eyes. The wind picks up again, tossing Satoru’s hair into his eyes. He doesn’t move to fix it, just grins at you through the mess like he knows exactly what kind of picture he makes—irritatingly golden in the sunlight, with the dragon at his side and the whole damn world under his heel.

“You really are full of yourself,” you say finally.

He tilts his head. “Takes one to know one. Speaking of which, did I tell you about the trappers that thought they actually had a chance against Sukuna? Even I don’t stand a chance against Sukuna, and that’s saying something.”

“Trappers?” You raise an eyebrow, keeping your hand moving against Sukuna’s scales. “I thought you lot scared them off two weeks ago.”

“We did,” Satoru says. “Or so we thought. But the funny thing about pests—” He leans lazily against Sukuna’s massive shoulder, folding his arms. “—is that they always crawl back when you’re not looking.”

You frown, not at him for once, but at the idea of it. “Where?”

“Southern Coves,” he says. “A little group at first—three, maybe four men. We figured they were amateurs, probably thought they’d make their fortune dragging a few Terrible Terrors back in cages. Easy enough. Send them running, burn a net or two. Job done.”

The way he says it—casual, dismissive—doesn’t sit right with you. It rarely does, when Satoru Gojo talks about problems like they’re inconveniences rather than… well, problems.

“But then?” you prompt.

“But then,” he says, drawing out the words, “we found another group. Bigger. With better equipment. Steel nets, reinforced cages, the whole shebang.”

Your hand stills against Sukuna’s jaw. “Reinforced cages?”

“Mhm.” He tilts his head, watching your reaction like it’s more interesting than the story itself. “Not something you find lying around unless you’ve got coin. Or connections. Or both.”

Sukuna shifts beneath your touch, nudging his head into your palm like he can sense the tension in your shoulders. You scratch harder, both to soothe him and yourself. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence,” you say.

“It doesn’t sound like much of anything,” Satoru counters flippantly. “Could just be a few desperate men pooling what they’ve got. Could be something else. Either way, we’re keeping an eye on it.”

“And by we you mean…”

“The riders. Me, Suguru, Kento, Haibara—the usual.”

You narrow your eyes. “You mean the same group that considers dive-bombing into cliffs a legitimate training exercise?”

“Worked out fine for me,” Satoru says with a shrug.

“Everything works out fine for you,” you shoot back.

That earns you a flash of his grin—bright, boyish, and infuriating. But it fades, just a little, and he says, quieter, “Doesn’t always.”

It’s the kind of admission that makes your stomach twist, because it’s true. Riders don’t always come back. Dragons don’t always survive. Trappers—real trappers, the kind with coin and steel and a hunger that isn’t easily sated—don’t play fair.

You exhale slowly. “You think they’re after Sukuna.”

“Everyone’s after Sukuna.” He says it like it’s a joke. “Last Night Fury, blah blah blah. People can’t help themselves.”

You glance at Sukuna. His pupils are still round, content beneath your touch, but his tail lashes once, like even he knows the weight of those words. A rare thing: fear dressed up as restlessness.

An unease worms its way beneath your ribs. It feels like the calm before a storm, the air just a shade too still, the sea too quiet. The trappers Satoru described don’t seem like scavengers chasing scraps. They’re organised. Equipped. Waiting for something—or someone. You hate it. You hate that Satoru can stand opposite you, hands tucked in his pockets, as though the world isn’t about to tip over its edge.

“You should be more worried,” you say finally.

“I worry plenty.”

“You don’t act like it.”

“Would it help if I wrung my hands and wept dramatically at your feet?”

“I’d pay good money to see that,” you say automatically. Sukuna nudges you again, harder this time, nearly knocking you off your feet. You steady yourself with a laugh that comes out thinner than you’d like. Satoru watches the two of you, his smile softened into something that almost looks like thought. Then, just as you’re about to ask another question, a shrill whistle splits the air from somewhere down the hill.

“Show time.” Satoru straightens, stretching his arms overhead. “Sounds like they’ve spotted another group near the coastline.”

Your stomach sinks. Already?

Satoru clicks his tongue, turning back to Sukuna. “Up, big guy.”

The Night Fury rises in a smooth, graceful motion, all coiled muscle and gleaming scales. His wings snap open, blotting out the sun for an instant, and you step back instinctively. Satoru sings into the saddle. He doesn’t look at you until Sukuna’s already crouching low, ready to launch.

“Don’t worry too much,” he says. “We’ve got it handled.”

“You don’t know that.”

He grins down at you. “Sure I do. I’m me.”

“Again?” You stare at Yaga the Vast like he’s sprouted another head—which, considering the man’s already broad shoulders and beard thick enough to hide a small family of sparrows, would be quite a sight. “You want me to map out the north coast again?”

“Yes,” Yaga’s voice rumbles, his arms crossed over his chest. The firelight in the great hall casts half his face into shadow, making him look even more immovable than usual. “But this time, you go deeper. Past the cove, beyond the breakers, to the inlets we’ve yet to mark. Unless we map out our neighbouring areas, how will we be able to defend Berk?”

You blink slowly, as if stalling will make the task shrink back into sanity. “Defend Berk from what, exactly? The world’s deadliest flock of puffins?”

“From anyone who thinks Berk is ripe for the taking,” Yaga replies. His thick fingers drum against his arm. “We can’t pretend we’re isolated forever. Already, the trappers sniff at our borders.”

You mask the prickle of unease that shivers down your spine with a scoff. “So your solution is to send me to traipse along the most dangerous stretch of coast known to dragon or man?”

“You won’t be alone. Take that scoundrel of a dragon rider with you.”

You groan, dragging both hands down your face. “Not him.”

“As if there were any other scoundrel I could mean,” Yaga says, almost indulgent.

“Satoru Gojo,” you say, lowering your hands and scowling, “is less of a companion and more of a—what’s the word—parasite. Loud, obnoxious, impossible to get rid of once he latches on.”

“He’s effective,” Yaga says.

“He’s insufferable,” you say.

“Both can be true,” he says. “And if you want Berk defended, if you want us to have some place to safely hide, or if you want your precious maps to mean something, you’ll take him with you. End of discussion.”

You gape at him, outrage coiling hot in your chest. But before you can muster a reply sharp enough to singe even Yaga the Vast’s vast beard, a familiar voice cuts through the hall.

“Did somebody say my name?”

Of course. Speak of the devil and his Night Fury, and both shall appear.

Satoru Gojo strolls in; his hair is a windswept mess of silver, his tunic is half-untied, and there’s a cocky grin already plastered on his face. Sukuna pads in behind him, the great black beast moving silent as shadow, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim hall light.

“Perfect timing,” Yaga says. “You’ll be escorting our mapmaker along the north coast. Deep waters. High cliffs. Dangerous territory. See to it that she comes back alive.”

“Yes, boss,” Satoru replies. His gaze slides to you, and his grin widens. “Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Believe me, if I had a choice between this and swimming naked through eel-infested waters, I’d be halfway to drowning by now.”

“Romantic. You always know how to make a man feel wanted.”

Sukuna rumbles low in his throat, the kind of sound that could be a laugh if dragons were capable of such a thing. You swear he’s mocking you, too.

Yaga heaves a sigh. “Enough. The pair of you leave at dawn. Supplies will be waiting at the stables. Make sure you chart everything—caves, currents, shoals, nesting grounds. The more detail, the better.”

You open your mouth to argue, to plead, to hurl one last desperate objection into the flames. But Yaga fixes you with the kind of look that ends battles before they begin. You clamp your jaw shut.

“Fine,” you mutter. “At dawn.”

“Looking forward to it,” Satoru says brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. “You, me, the sea, a few deadly cliffs. It’ll be fun.”

You glare at him. “You have the worst definition of fun I’ve ever heard.”

He leans down, so close you catch the faint scent of leather and salt. “That’s because you haven’t tried my kind of fun yet.”

Before you can throttle him, Yaga clears his throat. “Gojo,” he says. “I want your usual post-mission report for this one as well. How Sukuna flies, how he fights—everything. Not a single detail should be omitted.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Satoru says. “Wingspan, firepower, mood swings. Got it.”

“Not just that,” Yaga presses. “Every maneuver. Every burst of speed. How he responds under pressure. The trappers are adapting. If they’ve learned to counter one type of dragon, they’ll learn to counter another. We need to be ready.”

“Of course, boss.”

Satoru says it so confidently that it makes you want to hit him with the nearest tankard. He doesn’t care about reports—he’s probably never written anything down properly in his life—but somehow Yaga keeps trusting him with “observations” and “evaluations.” And somehow those “reports” always end up getting him exactly what he wants: more freedom, more lenience, more time spent to annoy you.

“I’m serious,” Yaga says. His gaze sharpens, sliding briefly to you before returning to Satoru. “I want precision. Not exaggerations, not flourishes. If there are trappers along that coast, I want to know how they move, what they use, where they hide. If Sukuna faces them, I want to know every reaction. Understand?”

It’s subtle, that pause on Sukuna’s name, but it hooks in your gut like a barbed fishing line.

“Your last report,” the chief continued, “was ten pages of what Sukuna ate, and a drawing of your own face in the margins.”

You can’t help it—a bark of laughter escapes you. Satoru grins wider, like he’s proud of the memory.

“Historical accuracy,” he defends breezily. “Someday, bards will want to know I was the handsomest man alive while Sukuna was saving lives.”

Yaga doesn’t look amused. In fact, the firelight catches on the hard planes of his face, casting the deep creases at his brow into shadows that look almost like cracks. “Enough,” he says, but this time there’s a finality to it—like stone slamming into place, sealing a tomb.

You should probably let it go. Keep your head down, accept the assignment, and try not to imagine all the ways you might die tomorrow. But Yaga’s words stick in your ears like thorns. He’s always been thorough, sure, but the way he said it makes something twist uneasily in your gut.

Why does it feel less like he wants a record of Berk’s defenses and more like he wants a catalogue of its weaknesses?

You frown, shoving the thought down before it can root itself. Paranoia. That’s all it is. Spending too much time around Satoru Gojo rots the brain.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Satoru says, snapping a salute. “We’ll chart your cliffs, your caves, your currents, your… cozy little hidey-holes. And if the trappers do come sniffing around, we’ll have a nice little map all drawn up for them, won’t we?”

It’s meant to be a joke. You know it is.

Yaga’s eyes cut to him, sharp and assessing, but then—to your surprise—soften into something close to approval. “Just bring me the report.”

You’re dismissed. Or maybe exiled. Hard to tell with Yaga.

Satoru stretches like a cat as you both step out into the night air, his hair catching silver in the moonlight. Sukuna slips behind him, shadow melting into shadow, only the gleam of his garnet eyes betraying him.

“This is gonna be fun,” Satoru says.

You snort. “You heard him. Reports, details, flight maneuvers—like you’re some glorified scribe. What’s he going to do, publish a book?”

“Who knows? Maybe Yaga just really likes bedtime stories.”

“You’re going to fall if you keep bending over like that.”

The words brush the back of your neck, almost lost to the roar of the wind. Satoru’s voice, of course, because if anyone was going to ruin the thrill of flight over the North Sea cliffs, it was going to be him.

“I’m not bending over,” you snap, leaning forward on Sukuna’s broad back to adjust the rolled parchment strapped at your hip. “I’m securing the maps so they don’t blow away. Some of us actually care about documenting this trip.”

“Mm,” he hums, far too close behind you. “You say that, but it looks a lot like you’re presenting yourself to me.”

You jerk upright so fast you nearly throw yourself off balance. “I will throw you off this dragon.”

Sukuna rumbles beneath you, wings slicing through the wind. The cliffs roll past below—jagged teeth rising from the sea, waves smashing themselves to froth at the base. A treacherous coast, all jagged rocks and narrow inlets, the sort of place even seasoned dragon riders avoided unless they had a death wish. But, you remind yourself, you’re riding with Satoru Gojo. Death wishes are practically stitched into his skin.

“Relax,” he says lazily, shifting so that his chin rests on your shoulder, bold as anything. “If you fall, Sukuna will catch you. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Eighty percent sure.”

You elbow him hard in the ribs. He laughs. The wind whips against your face, tugging at your hair and lashing past your chin. You should be focusing on the coastline, on the cliff formations and hidden coves Yaga wanted mapped. Instead, you’re stuck with Satoru practically wrapped around you like an overgrown barnacle.

Below, the sea shifts from deep sapphire to frothing white, currents curling against each other in unpredictable swirls. You sketch the outline hastily, balancing parchment on your knee, your fingers stiff from the cold. The smell of salt, the tang of brine—it all presses sharp in your nose, mixing with the faint smoke curling from Sukuna’s nostrils as he exhales.

“You’re making that bay too small,” Satoru says, peering over your shoulder. “It’s at least twice that size.”

Your head snaps towards him. “You’re a dragon rider, not a cartographer. Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he says. “If you want this to be accurate, maybe listen to the guy who’s actually looking down at it.”

You jab your charcoal against the parchment with unnecessary force. “I am looking down. You think I’m staring at the clouds?”

“Wouldn’t blame you. They’re very fluffy today.”

You grit your teeth. It’s either throw him off Sukuna’s back or commit to your map and pretend his voice doesn’t grate against your ears.

The coastline curves sharply, forcing Sukuna to bank hard. The sudden tilt knocks your knee against the saddle, the parchment slipping sideways in the wind. You swear under your breath, catching it just before it can flutter away.

“Careful,” Satoru drawls. “Wouldn’t want all your precious squiggles to drown.”

“They’re maps,” you snap, tucking the roll more securely under the leather strap. “Not squiggles.”

Sukuna lurches again, this time with a force that wrenches you off balance completely. One moment you’re clinging to leather straps, the next, you’re weightless—dangling over empty air, your stomach dropping out as the sea roars up to meet you. Your scream is swallowed by the wind.

Cold air slams against your face, your limbs flailing as the ocean surface rushes closer, white spray licking like fangs. You think, absurdly, that this is it. Yaga will get his precious map back water-stained and half-torn, and Satoru will laugh at your funeral pyre.

The sea devours you whole. Salt scorches your mouth, icy shock steals the breath from your lungs, and the water closes like a fist around your ribs. You kick, thrash, but the waves drag you under, tangling your limbs. The North Sea swallows you whole, dragging you down, down, down. Your maps slip free, parchment dissolving into sodden clumps as the current claws them away. Panic claws harder.

Through the blur of bubbles, a shadow streaks above—massive wings cutting the sky. Sukuna. You can just make out the gleam of his scales as he dives, but the current twists you sideways and drags you deeper.

You feel hands.

Hot even through the freezing water, strong fingers hook beneath your arm and haul you against a solid chest. Your head knocks against leather and chainmail. You cling without meaning to, nails biting into Satoru’s sleeve as he kicks upward, legs cutting the water with terrifying strength. The world tilts again, the suffocating weight of the sea giving way to open air as he breaks the surface.

You cough, choking up brine, the cold biting so deep it feels like your bones are splintering. But there’s air—ragged, salty, glorious—and Satoru’s arms are still wrapped around you, keeping you afloat.

“See?” he says, breathless. “Told you one of us would catch you.”

“Shut—” you hack, spitting seawater in his face, “—up.”

With one arm, Satoru signals upward, and Sukuna swoops low, skimming the waves. The dragon’s vast shadow falls over you both, wings slicing the mist. With a smooth, practiced motion, Satoru boosts you toward the saddle. You land gracelessly, half-sprawled, coughing into your sleeve. Sukuna steadies his flight. Moments later, Satoru swings up behind you, water dripping from his hair.

You twist, glaring, salt-stung eyes narrowing. “You dropped me!”

“I saved you,” he says.

“If you’d stop distracting me, I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.”

“Aw, admit it,” he says, tugging you back against him as Sukuna banks into the wind again. “You wanted me to play hero.”

Your jaw locks. You want to scream, punch him, and shove him straight off Sukuna’s back. But the truth sticks bitter at the back of your throat: without him, you’d be a corpse rolling in the tide right now.

Instead, you grit out, “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m too cold to kill you.”

“Sure, gorgeous,” Satoru says, far too cheerfully for someone who just dove into the North Sea like a loon. He pats Sukuna’s neck. “Land over there, big guy.”

Sukuna banks again, wide wings slicing through the mist as he angles toward a rocky shelf jutting from the cliffs. It’s not much—a spit of grass clinging stubbornly to stone, slick with sea spray and battered by wind—but it’s flat enough for a Night Fury to perch. The dragon’s claws scrape against the stone before he settles down.

You peel yourself upright, every muscle trembling from the cold. Water streams from your hair and sleeves, soaking into the saddle leather, dripping in miserable rivulets down your legs. You feel like a half-drowned cat.

Satoru swings off Sukuna and immediately shivers, shaking out his hair. Droplets fly everywhere.

“Ah!” You swipe your face with your sleeve. “Do you mind?”

“Not even a little,” he says.

You clamber down less gracefully, boots squelching against stone. The moment your feet hit solid ground, the wind slices through your wet clothes. Your teeth chatter so hard it feels like they might rattle loose.

“Right,” you say, hugging your arms around yourself. “Let’s make this quick. I need to salvage what I can of the map before—”

“Before your hands freeze off?” Satoru interrupts. He crouches to scratch Sukuna’s chin, even though he’s dripping seawater like a broken barrel. “Sorry, cartographer, but your squiggles can wait. We’re both shaking. That’s a fast track to hypothermia.”

“I’m fine.” Your voice wobbles with a shiver. “We don’t have time to—”

“You’re not fine.” He straightens, eyeing you in that annoyingly perceptive way of his. “Your lips are purple. You’re shivering so hard I can hear your knees clacking. Don’t make me be the sensible one here, sweetheart—it feels unnatural.”

You glare. “If I die of cold, I’ll haunt you.”

“Oh, you already haunt me.” His grin softens the jab. “Now, strip.”

“I— Excuse me?” you splutter.

“Your clothes are soaked,” he says matter-of-factly, already tugging at the laces of his tunic. “Wet fabric sucks the heat right out of you. The best thing we can do is get ‘em off, huddle together, and hope Sukuna doesn’t roast us in our sleep.”

You blink at him, scandalised, even as another violent shiver racks your body. “You’re insane.”

“True. But I’m also right.” He pulls his tunic over his head in one easy motion, tossing the dripping cloth onto the stone. The setting sun’s light catches across his bare skin—broad shoulders, pale scars scattered across his abdomen, lean muscle shifting as he moves.

You pointedly do not stare.

“You’re ogling me,” he says.

“I’m glaring at you.”

“Your glare looks a lot like ogling.”

“Die.”

“Already almost did,” he says lightly, wringing out his sleeves. “Your turn.”

Every inch of you bristles at the command. Still, the damp fabric clinging icily to your ribs argues louder than your pride. You peel off your own tunic with stiff fingers, ignoring his wolf-whistle, and spread it on a rock to dry. The wind hits your bare skin, covered only by the slip you’ve worn inside, cold and merciless, goosebumps rising instantly.

Satoru’s eyes flick toward you, lingering longer than you like. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. The curve of his mouth says enough.

“Don’t you dare say a word,” you warn, hugging your arms over your chest.

“Not one word,” he promises. “Plenty of thoughts, though.”

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “This is torture.”

“No, this is survival.” Satoru pats Sukuna’s flank, and the dragon obligingly lowers himself, curling his massive body into a crescent. His wings arch inwards, a living shelter against the wind. Heat radiates from his scaled belly.

“See?” Satoru gestures grandly.

You want to argue. You really, truly do. But your legs wobble under you, and the promise of warmth tugs at you. So you crawl into the nook of Sukuna’s body, pressing against his side. Satoru follows, sprawling next to you, then tugging you firmly against him. His skin is startlingly warm, even damp as it is, and his arm slides around your shoulders.

“Move,” you grumble, trying to twist free.

“Nope,” he says, tucking his chin on top of your wet hair. “You’ll freeze.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“So you’ve said. Multiple times.”

You want to snap back, but the heat of him seeps into your skin. Sukuna’s breathing is a thunderous rhythm behind you, the rise and fall of his chest as steady as the tides. Satoru’s warmth presses into your back, his heartbeat steady against your spine.

The shivering ebbs. Your eyelids grow heavy.

You think, just before sleep drags you under, that maybe it isn’t so bad—being held like this, the storm kept at bay by dragon wings and an irritating idiot who refuses to let you drown or freeze. You’d rather die than admit it out loud.

“Oh, my Gods.”

The voice snaps you awake like a slap. Your eyes peel open blearily, gritty from salt and sleep. The first thing you see is scales—Sukuna’s broad, ridged side, still warm beneath your cheek. The second is pale dawn light seeping over the horizon, turning the sea into hammered silver. The third, and the worst by far, is Yaga’s apprentice standing ten paces away, gawking at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.

You jolt upright so fast your skull cracks against Satoru’s chin.

“Ow—fuck!” Satoru lurches back, clutching his jaw. His hair is sticking up in ten different directions, his chest bare, his arm still heavy across your waist. He blinks owlishly, still half-asleep, then follows your line of sight.

“Oh,” he says. “Morning, kid.”

The apprentice—gangly, freckled, barely old enough to grow a proper beard—turns a shade of crimson so bright it could signal passing ships. His dragon, a lumbering Gronckle, looks pointedly in the other direction as though it, too, is practicing modesty. The apprentice’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—uh—you—Chief Yaga sent me—”

You scramble upright, hugging your damp tunic to your chest as though it might shield you from the apprentice’s wide-eyed horror. “It’s not what it looks like.”

The boy squeaks. “It looks like you and Gojo—”

“It doesn’t,” you snap. Heat crawls up your neck, sharp as the morning chill.

“Actually,” Satoru drawls, still lounging half-naked against Sukuna’s side, “it’s exactly what it looks like.”

You kick him in the shin. He hisses through his teeth but grins anyway. Bastard.

The apprentice makes a strangled sound and stares very hard at the cliffs instead. His ears are scarlet. “Chief Yaga said—he said it was urgent. Two dragons were stolen last night.”

“Stolen?” you ask.

He nods quickly, eyes still fixed anywhere but at you. “By trappers. They slipped past the watch posts by the southern coves. Took a Nadder and a Zippleback. Riders tried to give chase, but they were gone before dawn.”

You freeze, cold in a way seawater could never manage. Images slam unbidden into your head: chains biting into scaled hides, muzzles forced over mouths, wings bound and flailing. Dragons screaming as they’re dragged into cages.

“Shit,” Satoru says, the first hint of sharpness cutting through his lazy tone. He pushes to his feet, water-dark trousers hanging low on his hips. Sukuna rumbles beside him, wings twitching restlessly.

The apprentice swallows, wringing his hands, as his Gronckle hovers above the ground. “The Chief sent me to find you. He said you’re needed immediately—both of you. He was… angry that you weren’t at the watch last night, Gojo.”

You flinch. Angry. Of course he was. You were out here, tangled up in a mess of salt, warmth, and sleep, while dragons were dragged away into darkness. Your stomach knots.

Satoru’s hand brushes yours. “Not your fault,” he murmurs.

You want to believe him. You don’t.

“Which direction?” Satoru asks crisply.

“East,” the apprentice answers. “Towards the mainland, we think. Scouts found broken nets on the tide and claw marks on the rocks, but… there were too many tracks. More than just one ship. It’s—bigger than usual.”

You hug your tunic tighter, your unease curdling into something colder. Too many tracks. Bigger than usual. And Yaga, always conveniently aware of where the trappers struck, always pushing for maps that stretched further, deeper, as though he wanted Berk’s vulnerabilities laid bare on parchment. Something ugly stirs at the back of your mind.

“Great job finding us, kid,” Satoru says. “Go on back, tell Yaga we’re on our way to Berk.”

The apprentice nods and urges his Gronckle away. Silence stretches after his wings vanish into the horizon. The only sound is the crash of waves and Sukuna’s low, restless growl.

You finally tug your tunic over your head, the fabric clammy against your skin. “Two dragons. Gone. While we—” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “While we weren’t there.”

Satoru’s gaze flicks to you. “We’ll find them.”

You want to argue. Want to spill the unease clawing at your ribs—that this isn’t coincidence, that someone is feeding the trappers information, that Yaga’s heavy insistence on maps and watch-posts feels less like defence and more like design. But Satoru swings into the saddle, his hand extended down to you, and all you can do is shove the suspicion somewhere deep down where it won’t choke you.

Later. You’ll think about it later.

The ride back to Berk is wordless. Sukuna cuts through the dawn sky with a speed that makes your bones rattle, the wind lashing your damp hair against your cheeks. The village comes into view—first the crooked rocks of the cliffside, then the smoky thatched rooftops, and finally the wide stone courtyard where riders and dragons gather in knots of uneasy conversation.

Yaga waits at the centre of it all, arms folded across his massive chest. His scowl alone could ward off a sea storm. You’ve seen him angry before, but this—this is something else.

Sukuna’s talons scrape stone. Riders hustle across the square, tightening harnesses, checking saddlebags, shouting clipped reports to one another. Dragons bristle and shift, their restlessness bleeding into their humans. You slide down from Sukuna’s saddle, boots hitting the stones. Satoru follows, rolling his shoulders once.

“Come,” Yaga’s voice booms from the centre. “Where were you?”

“Taking the north coast maps you wanted, remember?” Satoru says. “Thought you’d be proud I was finally listening.”

Yaga’s jaw ticks. “While you wasted time drawing cliffs, two dragons were stolen from right under our noses. A Nadder and a Zippleback. Good, loyal beasts, now likely in chains.”

You open your mouth—an instinctive we didn’t know, we would have been there if—but Yaga’s eyes cut to you, and the words wither in your throat.

“And you,” he says, quieter but no less cutting. “Distracted.”

Your cheeks burn hot as a furnace. You force yourself not to look at Satoru, not to flinch under Yaga’s disappointment.

“Careful, Chief,” Satoru says, stepping forward. “Sounds almost like you’re blaming us instead of the ones who actually stole the dragons.”

Silence. Riders shuffle uneasily at the edge of the square, pretending to busy themselves with tack and gear. Yaga exhales. He gestures with a curt hand, and says, “Enough. We’ve no time for excuses. Gojo, you’ll take Sukuna east. Track the trappers. If they’ve gone towards the mainland, we need to know which paths they’re using. Don’t engage. Don’t be reckless.”

“Reckless?” Satoru echoes. “Chief, that hurts me.”

“It’s meant to.”

Yaga turns to you. You think—hope—he’ll send you with Satoru. You’ve flown the coasts enough times now, you know the currents, the cliffs, the possible landing points. Together, you’d be faster.

“You,” Yaga says instead. “Stay here. The maps you made—finish them. Copy them properly, mark all the coves and hideouts. We’ll need every detail if we’re to tighten our defenses.”

“But—” You start. “With all due respect, I should go too. I was with Satoru when we—”

“No.” Yaga’s eyes harden, the finality in them brooking no argument. “We need accuracy more than we need an extra set of hands in the sky. Your maps will serve Berk better than you will.”

Heat floods your chest: anger, shame, suspicion all jumbled together. The same suspicion that had gnawed at you when the apprentice spoke of too many tracks, bigger than usual. The same suspicion that whispers now: why does he care so much about these maps?

Satoru’s hand brushes yours again, quick, almost hidden. When you glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but his mouth quirks, almost imperceptibly, in reassurance.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he says aloud, stretching his arms. “I’ll bring your lizards back safely. Maybe even some extra, if they’re feeling friendly.”

“Go,” Yaga growls.

Satoru vaults back into Sukuna’s saddle. The Night Fury launches skyward in a storm of wings and air, climbing so fast your stomach flips just from watching. He doesn’t look back, but you feel his absence immediately, like the ground beneath you has shifted.

“Chief,” you try again, forcing the tremor out of your voice, “if there are more ships than usual, if this is bigger than—”

“Finish your maps,” Yaga cuts you off, turning away.

You stand there for a long moment, your fists clenching around nothing, as riders murmur and scatter and dragons snort restlessly at their sides. Something in your gut twists again, sharp and certain. Yaga doesn’t just want you out of the mission. He wants you blind, and you don’t know why.

Satoru Gojo doesn’t arrive back with the rest of the riders and it takes you about four hours to swallow down your pride and admit that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.

At first, you tell yourself he’s late because he’s lazy. Because he got distracted chasing a gull or decided to nap on Sukuna’s back somewhere over the cliffs. That’s his style, isn’t it? Careless, infuriating, utterly impossible to pin down. But when the other riders return—faces set in grim lines, dragons shuffling uneasily on the packed earth—there’s no trace of him.

The knot in your stomach hardens into stone.

The courtyard empties slowly, mutters and wary glances trailing after you as you linger by the dragon pens. You can’t ask them where he is, not when your throat is tight with fear. You can’t ask Yaga either—at least, not openly, when you already suspect he doesn’t want you to know the answer.

Instead, you find the apprentice.

He’s lugging a basket of fish towards the Gronckle pens, shoulders hunched. You stride over and plant yourself in his path.

“Where’s the Chief?” you demand.

The boy nearly drops the basket, mackerel slopping over the edge. “Wh-what?”

“Yaga,” you say. “Where is he?”

He stammers. “He—uh—he’s in the great hall, I think. With some of the elders. I’m not supposed to—”

You move before he can finish. The great hall looms at the centre of Berk. Its roof rises steeply, carved dragon heads snarling from the beams. The heavy double doors are shut, but a warm glow seeps from the cracks—torchlight, flickering against the chill dusk. You shouldn’t be here. Yaga will flay you alive if he catches you sneaking where you don’t belong. But the thought of waiting, sitting idly while Satoru doesn’t come back doesn’t sit right with you.

You slip inside.

The hall stretches wide and long ahead of you, the walls lined with shields and old weapons that gleam in the light. Long tables stretch out across the floor, empty, a few littered with tankards and scraps of parchment. The far end is dominated by Yaga’s chair, carved from mahogany, massive enough to dwarf even him.

It’s empty.

You turn away from the chair—because on the nearest table is your map.

Or rather, it should be there. The stack of parchment you left after your last session of furious sketching is gone, only a faint smear of charcoal dust staining the wood. The straps you’d used to tie them together still sit at the edge of the table, neatly coiled, but the maps themselves have vanished. Your stomach lurches.

The map of the north coast. The one you risked half your life to sketch, nearly drowned for. Every cove, every inlet, every hidden path marked out in careful strokes of charcoal—gone.

Your hand curls tightly around the strap left behind, the leather cutting into your palm. The room spins, your thoughts snarling into one conclusion: if Yaga has the maps, he didn’t take them to protect Berk. And if he doesn’t have them, then someone else does. And Satoru still hasn’t come back.

You hurry out of the hall, past the empty pens, past the wary stares of villagers who pull their cloaks tighter as you barrel through. The sky is already bruising into night, gulls wheeling overhead in harsh cries that grate against your nerves. You don’t think. You just turn—towards the cliffs, the only place that makes sense. The north coast, where your maps pointed. Where Satoru isn’t supposed to be.

The path narrows as you climb. The wind rises, sharp and cold, tugging at your tunic. The sea roars below, white foam smashing itself against black rock. Each gust shoves at your balance, each step rattles your teeth. You know these paths—you’ve sketched them, charted them—but tonight they feel alien, hostile.

Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. Still, you push forward, clutching your side, muttering curses under your breath.

A shadow moves above you, massive fast, cutting across the purpling sky. The figure drops lower, angling towards you. You stumble to a stop, heart hammering, and tilt your head back.

Sukuna.

The Night Fury flies through the dusk, scales glinting dark blue where the light catches. His cry rips through the cliffs—sharp, haunting, enough to send a flock of puffins exploding from their nests. The wind from his wings slams into you, sending you staggering backwards.

He’s alone. The dragon banks sharply, almost skimming the sea, and you see a saddle still strapped tight, leather dark with seawater, reins dangling loose.

He lands on the cliffs just ahead of you, talons tearing furrows in the stone. His wings flare wide before folding in, each movement rippling with tension. He’s restless, furious, his chest heaving and his tail lashing like a whip.

“Sukuna,” you breathe, your voice cracking.

He turns at once, those twin rings of garnet eyes locking onto you. Recognition flares, but it’s not soft. It’s sharp, wild, like he’s on the edge of bolting right back into the sky. His nostrils flare, smoke curling as he huffs out a growl.

Your legs move before your mind catches up. You rush towards him, arms out, words tumbling uselessly from your mouth. “Where is he? Where’s Satoru?”

Sukuna lowers his head, nostrils flaring again as though scenting the wind. His scales are slick with salt, his wings ragged from the flight, his whole body coiled tight with an agitation you’ve never seen in him before. He paces, restless, claws scraping sparks against the stone. The saddle’s empty. Satoru’s gone.

The thought claws at your skull, frantic and ugly, but you push it down, shove it away, refuse to let it root. “Take me to him,” you say. “You hear me? Take me to him!”

Sukuna freezes. His head tilts, eyes narrowing, sharp and assessing. You think he’ll refuse, that he’ll vanish into the sky without you. But he shoves his massive snout against your shoulder, hard enough to nearly knock you flat. His wings flare again. It’s not an invitation. It’s a command.

Your hands fumble with the saddle’s straps as you clamber up, fingers numb, stomach twisting. The moment you’re seated, Sukuna surges forward, leaping into the air and spreading his wings. The world drops away beneath you, cliffs shrinking, sea spreading endless and merciless below. Wind tears at your face, your hair, your clothes. You clutch the straps tightly, the air freezing your cheeks, your heart slamming so hard you can’t tell if it’s fear or relief.

Sukuna doesn’t soar, doesn’t play with the air currents or bank lazily just to terrify you the way Satoru likes to. He cuts through the night like an arrow, wings beating ruthlessly, each downstroke flinging you forward until your stomach lurches. The North Sea yawns before you, and the cliffs crawl past in uneven shadows.

“Where are you taking me?” you shout, though the wind steals most of it away. Sukuna’s neck stiffens, his flight angled low, purposeful.

The further north you go, the rougher the landscape grows. The cliffs rise higher, crueler, sharpened by centuries of waves gnawing at their base. The moon breaks through the clouds in flashes, silvering the rocks. You’ve charted these shores on parchment, every inlet and alcove, but in the dark, they look unfamiliar.

Sukuna dives. The drop rips the breath from your chest and tears your stomach into your throat. You can only cling and pray as he folds his wings tight and plummets. At the last possible instant, he flares his wings wide, landing with a shuddering crash onto a stretch of uneven stone, claws biting through moss and shale.

You scramble down, your boots skidding on slick rock as Sukuna growls. Ahead, the cliffs hollow into a cove, a natural amphitheatre of stone and sea. Torches burn inside, small orange flames that lick against the rock, wrong against the wild dark.

In the centre of it all: Yaga.

The Chief of Berk stands with his arms crossed, broad shoulders squared and cloak snapping in the wind. His great beard glints ruddy in the torchlight. But it isn’t him that makes your heart stutter. It’s what’s at his feet.

Satoru.

He’s on his knees, wrists bound in thick rope, head tilted at an insolent angle that doesn’t quite hide the blood streaking down his temple. Even half-slumped, gagged with a strip of cloth knotted cruelly between his teeth, he radiates infuriating carelessness—eyes narrowed, expression hovering between boredom and mockery.

You make a sound—something strangled, something useless—and stumble forward, only for Sukuna to block you with a sweep of a wing. He growls again.

“Finally,” Yaga says. His voice booms off the rock, heavy, immovable, the kind of voice that fills halls and commands loyalty. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned him.”

“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.

“What I should’ve done the moment that creature set foot on Berk.” His eyes cut to Sukuna. “That dragon is too dangerous to be left in the hands of a fool. Or worse, shared between fools. Give him to me, and I may let Gojo live.”

Satoru makes a muffled noise behind the gag, rolling his eyes so hard you half-expect them to stick. You can almost hear his voice anyway: Don’t listen to the old man, gorgeous. He just wants my dragon ‘cause he doesn’t have one of his own.

Your chest feels too small, your pulse hammering against your ribs. “You—you can’t mean that. Sukuna’s not a weapon. He’s not—”

“He’s a Night Fury,” Yaga says. “Do you have any idea what that means? The power he carries? No village could stand against us if he were ours. No trapper would dare threaten us. Berk would be untouchable.”

“He’s not yours,” you say.

Yaga’s gaze flicks past you. “And yet here he stands, listening to your commands. Think, child. You’ve seen the cliffs, the danger at our borders. Berk is one storm away from ruin. I won’t gamble its survival on the whims of a dragon who answers only to Gojo.”

Satoru gives a muffled, derisive laugh that earns him a kick to the ribs. He tips his head back, gag muffling whatever clever retort he tries to spit out.

“Is that why you funded the trappers to surround your own village, Yaga?” you ask, mustering up all the courage you own.

Yaga stills. His boot rests against Satoru’s ribs, his shadow thrown long against the cove wall. His lips twitch beneath his beard—not surprise, not shame. Annoyance.

“You shouldn’t know that,” he says slowly. “The apprentice talks too much.”

“You set them on us. You set them on him.”

A sound splits the night—metal ringing against stone, boots crunching over gravel. From the shadows at the edges of the cove, men appear. Rough-spun leather, ragged furs, nets rolled thick over their shoulders. Their faces gleam with salt and grease, their eyes hungry. Dragon trappers. You know them by the stink alone: fish oil, blood, old smoke. They slip from the dark like wolves, more than a dozen, their movements practiced, circling.

The torchlight catches iron chains coiled in their fists. Hooks. Bolas. Shackles built for wings, not wrists.

“You’re working with them?” you say.

“I’m using them,” the chief says. “They have the means, the tools that I don’t have.”

You think of the maps gone from the hall, the apprentice’s trembling mouth, the sidelong glances of riders who returned without their strongest, without him. Pieces snap into place with a sickening clarity.

“You sold us out,” you whisper again. “You sold him out.”

“I did what I had to. Berk survives because I make hard choices. You, girl—you make sketches. You play at your little maps, but I—I see storms on the horizon. Dragons beyond counting. Trappers fattening themselves on our weakness. Do you think a village of fishers and smiths can stand against that? No. But with a Night Fury—with that beast, Berk rules the seas.”

Sukuna’s growl reverberates through the rock beneath your feet. His pupils pinprick, his wings hitch upward, every line of his body coiled to strike. You know he understands enough: tone, intent, threat. He does not know, yet, how to forgive.

“Tell me,” Yaga says, low and inexorable, “what’s one boy’s life against the safety of a whole people?”

Satoru chooses that exact moment to lurch upright against his bindings, muffling something sharp and entirely unhelpful through the gag. You catch the roll of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin. One boy? Try national treasure, old man.

You almost laugh.

Chains rattle. The trappers are closing in. Their boots scrape the shale, torches lifting higher, nets poised to fly. The scent of pitch and iron stings your nose. There aren’t raiders in passing—they’re hunters, professional, and they’ve been waiting.

You step forward, planting yourself between them and Sukuna’s flank before you even think it through. “If you think he’ll ever obey you, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” you bite out. “Sukuna isn’t a weapon. He isn’t yours to wield.”

“He will be.”

The nearest trapper lunges. A net arcs through the air, weighted corners sparking as they whip forward. You throw yourself sideways, but you needn’t have bothered—Sukuna’s blast rips it to cinders mid-flight. The explosion lights the cove for a split-second, dazzling white, searing afterimages into your vision. Rock shatters, smoke plumes, men scream.

The Night Fury roars.

The sound is primal, thunder given flesh. Sukuna surges forward, plasma bursting from his jaws in ragged, relentless blasts. Trappers scatter like startled crabs, some diving for cover, others spinning their chains desperately to keep him back. One man screams as his bolas ignite mid-spin, molten metal splattering his arm.

You drop to Satoru’s side in the chaos. He turns his head sharply, eyes catching yours, blue in the firelight, furious and alive. Your fingers fumble at the knots. The rope is soaked with seawater, swollen tight, cutting into your palms as you fight with it.

“Hold still,” you hiss, though he’s hardly moving.

He snorts through his gag. The knot slips at last. The rope slackens, and Satoru jerks his wrists free with a hiss. He tears the gag from his mouth, coughing once before grinning up at you, that same insufferable smile that somehow hasn’t dulled even after being tied and bloodied.

“Miss me?” he drawls.

You shove his shoulder. “Get up.”

“Oh, I plan to.” Satoru’s gaze flicks past you, to Yaga still looming at the centre of it all.

Sukuna lashes his tail, knocking two trappers flat, and whirlls his head back towards you both, plasma building in his throat again. The trappers rally, more of them pouring from the shadows at the mouth of the cove, their nets glowing with oil to withstand fire, their bolas gleaming with sharpened edges meant for wings. Their shadows jitter grotesquely against the cove walls, wolfish and endless. Sukuna’s blasts have rattled them but not broken them—they circle tighter, nets at the ready.

A horn splits the night.

It’s high and keening, rolling down from the cliffs above: Berk’s call to arms.

Shapes tear through the dark sky. Dragons. Not one, not two—a little less than a dozen, wings beating hard, riders silhouetted against the clouds. Their cries cascade through the air—the iron thrum of Nadder wings, the heavy, beating thunder of a Gronckle, the shriek of a Zippleback.

The riders dive. Bolas meant for Sukuna snap backward, suddenly tangled in fire. A trapper screams when a Deadly Nadder’s spines pin his arm to the cove wall. Yaga’s apprentice clings desperately to his dragon—far too small for this fight, a Gronckle, wings buzzing frantically—but his horn blast keeps sounding, rallying the others.

“Traitors!” Yaga bellows. His face is red with fury, veins bulging in his temple. “Do you side with him over your own chief?”

“Over a traitor, yes!” the apprentice shouts back.

The cove fractures into chaos—dragons wheeling, trappers shouting, nets burning in mid-air. Sukuna tears through them, plasma lighting up the night. You turn towards Satoru, only to freeze.

Yaga’s hand clamps down around your arm, thick and brutal, yanking you off your feet. The world spins; your back slams against his chest, his arm like an iron band around you. He drags you towards the cliff’s edge, gravel skittering into the black maw of sea below.

“Stop!” His roar drowns even the dragon cries. “Or she falls!”

Sukuna halts mid-pounce, talons gouging sparks in the stone. The other riders hover, their dragons’ wings beating the air in slow, heavy pulses. Even the trappers hesitate, chains slack in their hands. The sea crashes below, white foam gnashing against the rocks, a drop so sheer it makes you feel nauseous.

Yaga’s breath rasps against your ear. “The Night Fury, girl. Give him to me or you’re gone.”

You twist, fighting against his grip, nails digging into his arm, but he’s immovable, a wall of muscle and conviction. He jerks you closer to the edge, and the heel of your boot slips on loose gravel. Your weight tilts towards the abyss.

Somehow, impossibly, you make eye contact with Satoru—astride Sukuna. His white hair gleams in the torchlight. Sukuna crouches beneath him, plasma pulsing faintly in his throat, tail still twitching.

Satoru’s lips move.

Eighty percent.

You blink, barely comprehending. “What?” you croak out.

Eighty percent.

Suddenly, you know. He wants you to trust him. He wants you to fall. It’s insane. It’s impossible.

The apprentice screams your name from somewhere above. The riders shout warnings. The trappers lunge forward, seeing their chance. Yaga tightens his grip, preparing to hurl you like discarded cargo into the sea.

You make the choice first.

Your knees buckle, and you let yourself go slack. His grip loosens in shock—just enough. You wrench sideways, twist hard against his hold, and throw yourself forward into the air.

The sea roars up to meet you. Wind tears your scream to shreds. There’s only the black water yawning wide, jagged rocks slick with foam—until Sukuna dives down, his wings folded tightly. He rockets down the cliff face, plasma sparking in his jaws. You glimpse Satoru’s silhouette against the stars, leaning low in the saddle, eyes locked on you.

The air sears past your skin, the spray of the sea already stinging your face. Claws close around you.

Sukuna’s talons scoop you from the air. The force of it nearly rips the breath from your lungs, but the relief, the sheer surge of it, blinds you more than the wind. He angles upward in a steep climb, wings snapping wide, hauling you clear from the rocks and the ravenous waves.

You’re pressed tightly against his chest, his claws curled just enough to cage you without harm, his scales hot with exertion. Above you, astride the saddle, Satoru twists in his seat, grinning down at you.

“See?” he calls. “Told you. Eighty percent.”

You want to kiss him. You also want to scream. Instead, all you manage is a hoarse, furious, “You’re an idiot!”

Your first kiss with Satoru Gojo occurs because of Sukuna.

Not because you wanted it to. Gods, no. You’d rather have wrestled a Gronckle with one arm tied behind your back than admit you were even remotely tempted by the smirk plastered across Satoru’s stupid face. But Sukuna, traitorous beast that he is, decided that enough was enough.

It starts when the Night Fury refuses to let either of you down. You’re sore from the fight, ribs aching where Yaga had grabbed you, salt still drying and sticking to your skin. You’ve been through enough for one night, and all you want is the ground. Just solid ground beneath your feet.

Sukuna, it seems, has other ideas.

He lands not on the village cliffs, not near the dragon pens, but on the highest bluff overlooking Berk. A windswept place where he knows neither of you can escape quickly. He lowers his head, eyes narrowing with that calculating look he always gets when he’s three steps ahead of everyone else.

You try to slide off the saddle. His tail lashes, blocking your path.

“Really?” you snap, shoving at the scaled wall of muscle. “I’ve had enough for today.”

“He just doesn’t want us to leave,” Satoru supplies. “Can you blame him? We make such a great team.”

You whirl on him. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

“Nearly. Keyword.”

Your teeth grind. The wind snaps your hair into your eyes, the sea growls far below, and Satoru is—well, Satoru. All flippant grins and infuriating calm, as if Yaga’s betrayal, the trappers, the near loss of Sukuna, none of it left so much as a scratch on his spirit.

You jab a finger at his chest. “You think this is funny? You were gagged and tied and—”

“—and you swooped in and saved me,” he says. “Admit it, you couldn’t stand to see me suffer.”

“You—” you splutter. “I— That’s not—”

Sukuna rumbles, wings settling around you both like a barricade. His eyes gleam faintly in the dark, twin garnets pinning you where you sit. You realise too late: he’s cornered you.

Satoru tilts his head. “You hear that? He’s saying we should kiss and make up.”

“He is not,” you say flatly.

“He definitely is,” Satoru insists. He leans in just slightly, enough to test the boundaries, enough for your heart to betray you by stumbling over itself. “C’mon. Wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s had a rough day too.”

You glare, but the problem is that Sukuna seems to agree. He nudges the both of you closer with the blunt force of his snout, nearly toppling you into Satoru’s lap. The dragon huffs smoke, satisfied, before curling into the stone and laying his head flat as though to say, Now behave.

You should shove Satoru away. You should storm off, make the climb down the cliffs yourself, risk the dark. Anything but this.

The adrenaline of the fight still thrums through your veins. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since you saw him bound on his knees, blood dripping from his temple, smirking like a madman even then. You remember the feel of the ropes cutting your palms as you freed him, the wild terror that maybe you’d been too late.

Maybe that’s why you don’t shove him away. Maybe that’s why you let him close the distance, why your lips meet his halfway in a kiss that’s less a decision and more a consequence, inevitable as the tide.

It’s clumsy, at first. You’re too angry, he’s too smug. But he softens into it, just a little, and you hate the way the ground seems to tilt under your feet, how the world narrows to salt air and warmth and the reckless promise of him.

When you finally break apart, breathless, Satoru grins like he’s just won a war.

“Knew you liked me,” he says, blue eyes sparkling.

You shove him hard in the shoulder, though your face burns. “That was for Sukuna,” you say.

The dragon rumbles again, smug as any beast can be. Satoru only laughs, tipping his head back, and pulls you in for another kiss.

It’s ecstatic, the feel of Satoru’s tongue lapping at your folds.

His tongue is wet and hot as it laps over the sensitive nerves, and you can feel the way he hums happily as he laps at the juices that drip onto his waiting mouth. You’re sure his face is going to be covered in your slick by the end of this, but it seems like he couldn’t care less, if his moans and groans are any indication. Your fingers tangle in his white strands of hair, gripping hard to keep him where you want him. His arms are wrapped around your legs, keeping them open as he feasts on your cunt. You can see the muscles in his back flexing as he tries to get closer, get deeper, and you can only hold on for dear life, feeling the way he drives you higher and higher towards your orgasm.

Satoru is making a mess of himself, and you know he has a thing for being covered in your slick.

The moment the thought passes through your head, you can’t help the cry that escapes, a full-body shiver wracking through your body. He groans into you, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you feel his tongue move in a way that you know has him spelling his name, over and over again. You tug at his hair, trying to move him, but his arms tighten and he doesn’t budge.

You let out a moan, trying to speak. “Satoru, I—I need you. Inside me. Now.”

He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking harshly. “One more, gorgeous. Give me one more, and then I’m all yours.”

You whine, feeling the heat in your stomach build, and Satoru continues to eat you out. Your back arches off the bed, and you grip his hair tighter. Your thighs start to close around him; he lets go of one of your legs to press two fingers into your heat, pressing right into that spot that has you crying out his name, curling his fingers as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your body shakes, and you cry out his name, feeling the way your cunt tightens and throbs around his fingers.

Satoru groans, moving his face away from your core and watching as the aftershocks of your orgasm make your body tremble. He pumps his fingers slowly, prolonging your pleasure, and you whine at the sensitivity.

He smiles softly, kissing the inside of your thigh, before removing his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking the juices that cover them. He lets out a pleased moan, eyes locked onto yours, and moves to kiss you.

His lips are warm, and you taste yourself on his tongue. It only serves to rile you up more when you feel the way his cock throbs where it presses against your thigh. You raise your legs to wrap them around his hips, and you push him lightly. Satoru moves willingly, letting out a moan as he lies on his back. He grips the sheets in anticipation, watching as you straddle his lap. He groans, feeling the way your cunt settles on his thighs. You smile, running a finger down his chest, and he bucks his hips in response.

You let out a gasp when the tip of his cock rubs against your folds. He moans.

Satoru’s hands grip your hips tightly, and his thumb rubs circles on your skin. You can feel the way he trembles under you. Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping lightly; he whines. You position the tip at your entrance, rubbing it against your clit, and moan.

“Stop teasing,” he groans, and you grin.

“Or what?” you taunt, grinding against his length. “Are you going to punish me, Satoru?”

He growls, hips jerking upwards. You gasp, feeling the tip rub against your folds, catching at your slit, and try to lower yourself. But Satoru tightens his hold, not letting you sink further onto his cock. You glare at him.

“I should,” he says, and suddenly his arms are around you, flipping you onto your back.

He settles between your thighs, his arms framing either side of your head. His hair falls into his eyes, and you can feel his cock brushing against your folds. You move your arms to wrap around his shoulders, nails scratching lightly down his back.

Satoru groans, burying his head in your neck, nipping lightly.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, feeling his hips jerk.

The tip of his cock rubs against your clit again. He lets out a breathless laugh.

“I will,” he responds—only to be interrupted by a loud, keening wail from outside your cottage door.

The sound is so piercing, so demanding, that for a moment you think some villager has wandered into mortal peril right outside your door. But no—no, you recognise that guttural, almost petulant cry. You and Satoru both freeze.

“Was that—” you start.

Another wail, louder this time, rattles the hinges of your cottage, followed by the unmistakable scrape of claws against wood.

Satoru drops his forehead against your collarbone. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

The Night Fury wails again, insistent, tail thudding against the doorframe. You bite back a laugh, half-giddy, half-exasperated, and say, “I think someone wants attention.”

Satoru lifts his head, hair mussed and eyes narrowed. “He’s the worst cockblock in history,” he mutters. “Tell him to go hunt some haddock or terrorise the chickens, or—Gods, literally anything else.”

The next sound isn’t just a wail. It’s a low, mournful croon that slides under your ribs and squeezes. Sukuna isn’t just loud—he’s lonely.

You soften, even as Satoru makes a strangled noise of despair above you. “Satoru…”

“No,” he says, rolling off you onto his back. “No, no, don’t you dare give him those eyes. He doesn’t deserve those eyes. I was right there, gorgeous—right there.”

You’re already tugging your tunic back over your shoulders, laughing despite the ache in your belly. “He’ll tear the cottage down if we don’t.”

Satoru throws an arm over his face, groaning into the crook of his elbow. “I hate him. I actually hate him.”

But when you slip to the door and crack it open, Sukuna is there, his massive head lowered to the threshold, those garnet eyes glowing with expectation. He snorts the moment he sees you, bumping his snout against your chest.

“Alright, alright,” you murmur, your hands automatically smoothing over his warm snout. “Head pats. Happy?”

Sukuna rumbles, pressing harder into your palm. Satoru groans again. “Unbelievable. My dragon just stole my girl. I’m doomed.”

You glance over your shoulder to find him sprawled on the bed, hair a disaster, chest heaving, the blankets thrown over the lower half of his body. He’s sulking. You grin.

“Maybe he just knows when to step in,” you tease, scratching gently at Sukuna’s scales.

“Step in? He barged in.”

Sukuna lets out a little huff and nuzzles harder against your hand.

Satoru groans once more, louder this time, dragging the pillow over his face. “I’m moving out.”

he didn’t mean to find you, really. heaven knows he was only on the way to the bathroom, snapchat map clearly not open to your location. at the desk you have your knees to your chest & a marker in your teeth as you frown at your textbook, and sato has to swallow the ache in his throat because your lips are all pouty & glossy & bruised against the marker-cap. fuck.

he strolls over, smile easy & hands in his pockets like you don’t make him shed nerves by the pint.

“y/n l/n,” he grins, leaning over the chair across from you. “fancy seeing you here.”

“don’t make me reject you twice in one week, sato.”

sato gojo bites his lip. your eyes don’t care to meet his as you speak & sato can only watch as you twirl your marker in your teeth. god, you’re so pretty. and god, you’re so mean, shutting him down every time he tries to speak to you because of his ‘playboy reputation’. bullshit.

he’s silent for a beat. “you have sharpie on your nose.”

you blink, hands slowly lifting to your face to rub at your nose. your fingers come back stained in black, & sato gojo can only bite back a smile as you frown at your palms.

“oh my god,” you groan.

“cute,” sato chuckles, pulling out the chair to sit across from you. you’re frowning at him now, lips curled in distrust. but sato doesn’t miss the heat in your cheeks, the glint in your eyes. he makes himself comfortable & leans forward over the table:

“so what’s got you so mad you’re drawing on your face?”

you frown, but sato still gazes at you with that stupid grin & a twinkle in his eyes. you sigh, licking your molars, eyes flitting back to your textbook.

“my group mates,” you tap your marker. “they dumped all the work on me, again. something about me being the ‘smart one’ anyways.”

sato nods, but his attention is split. half of his mind is on the way your gloss spoils in the heat. the other half’s focused on how your lashes flutter even though you’re grumbling. his stomach aches.

“i get that, y’know.”

you blink up at him. “you do?”

he misses the snark in your tone. “people expecting stuff from me, it’s exhausting.” he leans forward, takes the marker from between your fingers & taps it against your knuckles. “for me, it’s girls.”

“…girls?”

“mhm,” he’s still playing with your knuckles, tapping the marker-cap to the bone, lifting each finger & cocking his head like he’s inspecting them. “tons of ‘em, blowing up my phone just because i was nice to them once,” he tugs your thumb wistfully before leaning back. “it gets tiring.”

“…girls.”

“yeah,” sato nods. “girls.”

it’s silent for a beat, sato’s eyes boring into yours. his gaze is tender, nose red, & the marker that was once in your hands is somehow between his lips. his lashes flutter in the light.

you can’t believe he’s deadass.

you’re packing your books now, orgo chem & other textbooks shoving into your book bag. sato watches with his brows knit in confusion. “hey, hey—where are you going—?!”

you leave the library and don’t look back.

NANAMI’S REMARK : WHAT KIND OF MISCOMMUNICATION TROPE IS THIS…?

NICE GUY TACTICS #2: PLAYBOY? NAH, PAYBOY !

taught by: toji zenin

“girls like you for your face but stay for the black card. stop talking and start spending.”

ΣX

it’s tuesday again, and toru gojo’s room is filled with practically everyone but himself. sukuna’s palming his dick with his phone in one hand & toru’s bedsheets covering the other. sato’s twirling a beach ball even though it’s the peak of spring. toji zenin is tugging black tights over his thick thighs, upper half already covered in an equally tight black leotard.

“so,” sato hugs the beach ball to his chin. “new job?”

“dance instructor for katseye,” toji grumbles, struggling to fit the tights over his ass. sato bites his cheek.

“what happened with skai jackson? thought you were working as her personal AI prompt writer.”

“fired. and the brat says AI is bad anyways.”

sato nods. on the bed beside him, sukuna has blown his load & is laid back against toru’s sheets. he has a hand behind his head & the other resting lazy against his cock. “nice ass, zenin.”

toji doesn’t look up, still shifting the tights over his buttocks. “don’t talk about my ass with your dick in your hands.”

sato drops the ball to his lap and groans. “can you guys believe i’m still having no luck with y/n?”

“oh, brother.”

sato shoots sukuna a glare. he slumps against the wall, “i’ve tried listening to her, just like kento suggested. no fucking luck.”

in front of the mirror, toji zenin has succeeded in fitting the tights over his taut ass. sukuna asks him to do a spin & toji tells him to fuck off. sato watches the exchange with a slight pout before his eyes drop to toji’s crotch. damn. he was no expert in print catching, but that dick was definitely a D+.

he shakes the image of toji’s dick away. “i really don’t know what to do about y/n.”

toji picks up his duffel bag. “you’re a gojo, right? you got money?”

“yeah?”

“then use it, dumbass,” toji grunts. “pull out that black card and pay your way into her good books.”

sato only frowns. “y/n doesn’t seem like the materialistic type, though.”

“all women are materialistic,” toji mutters, fumbling through drawers for his keys. sukuna throws them at his head, & toji’s smart enough to pick them up with a tissue to avoid getting precum on his hands. “i’m not gonna ask why you were with my keys. and sato, take my advice if you want a chance with this chick.”

toji exits the room. sukuna has his dick out again, and sato contemplates his next steps as sukuna moans in pleasure beside him.

# SHOW TIME !

at the campus bookstore, there’s a line of 20 students glaring holes into your back.

four textbooks, a lab coat, & five other things you’ll use for class & never touch again. at 214 college street, there’s a heat in your cheeks & an ache in your stomach as the cashier hands you back your card. declined.

“sorry, can you just try again? or could i split the total between two cards—?”

“miss, i’m afraid you’re holding up the line.”

your lips are already bruised & half-bitten when someone sighs loudly behind you. you’re scrambling for another card with too many books in your hands but before you can find one something hard presses against your back.

“she’s with me. put everything she has on here.”

gojo sato has his chest smushed against your back & lalique’s encre noire pricking at your nose. he leans over you to hand his black card to the cashier, who takes it from him with glee.

you tense from the feel of his skin. you bite your lip as you watch the cashier swipe the card, & you’re fiddling with your fingers as your cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“relax,” sato murmurs in your ear. “i’ve got you.”

and you do. your shoulders slump into him. your breathing steadies. you don’t even mind the way sato’s hair tickles your ear as he leans over you, or the way his palm has climbed up to meet your hip. he mumbles a sorry as he presses you closer to the counter. his palm doesn’t fall afterward, & your spine tingles when his thumb brushes your side.

“here you go!”

the cashier hands you the bags with a smile as stretched as plastic. sato takes the bags instead, and you watch, wide-eyed & stupefied, as he carries the heavy load all in one toned hand. he walks slightly ahead for a bit before he reaches out his palm behind him. he makes a grabby hand & you take it with a blink.

he gently tugs you forward to walk beside him. he’s grinning, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

his smile grows. you’re peering up at him with wide eyes & god you’re so cute, you’re always so fucking cute, and god. his heart’s all swollen & sticky in his chest.

his hand shifts to your waist now, brushing up & down gently. “good thing i was close by, right?”

“thank you—“

“no need to thank me, sweetheart.” he hums, pressing you flush against his side as you walk together. “i know people like you are usually impoverished. that’s why you study so hard, right?”

you blink, “what?”

sato doesn’t hear you. “i saw you struggling to pay,” he sing-songs, eyes shut & grin pleased. “so i generously thought to step in. pretty girls like you shouldn’t have to pay anyways.”

you stop in your tracks. his thumb is still rubbing slow circles on your hip. “sato.”

“hm, baby?”

“don’t ever show your face to me again.”

you leave him on the street with your books in his hands & his heart in his throat.

TOJI’S REMARK : 🤦🏿‍♂️

NICE GUY TACTICS #3: LET HER COME TO YOU !

taught by: geto suguru

“you’re doing too much. sometimes you gotta give girls space and let them come to you.”

ΣX

“i’m actually creasing!”

it’s thursday again, and sato gojo is sitting cross-legged on his bed with sukuna’s head resting lazy on his lap. through his macbook screen geto suguru is laughing hysterically, tears in his eyes as sukuna snickers on sato’s leg with a palm clutched over his mouth.

they’re all wheezing—with the sole exception of sato gojo, of course.

suguru wipes his tears on his cashmere knit sweater. he’s looking all neat & proper, hair tied back & the picture of perfection. suguru is away in manchester for a study abroad semester. sato misses him badly.

till he opens his mouth again.

“i can’t lie, yeah,” suguru dabs at his eyes. “you’ve absolutely bottled it.”

“can you drop the british accent? you’re a first gen japanese immigrant.”

“allow it,” suguru shakes his head. sukuna is throwing up peace signs at the camera so balloons rise up on the facetime screen. “to call the girl you like impoverished…” suguru says through balloons, “just pack it in, mate.”

sukuna props his head up so his face is on the screen. his smile is clumsy: “your boy’s a proper wasteman.”

suguru grins, “is he?”

sato groans. “i was being a provider. following toji’s advice.”

“mind you, the man can’t even provide for himself.”

suguru snickers at that. “not too much, ryomen. and sato, don’t you think you’re trying too hard?”

“i don’t think i’m trying enough.”

“i think you’re trying in the wrong direction,” geto leans back, all calm & cashmere soft. “give her some breathing room—some space. let her come to you.”

sukuna bends his hands into a heart & a heart bubble appears on-screen. “might be your only option at this point. suguru, can i play on your sims 4 save file?”

“absolutely not.”

sukuna breaks the heart.

sato gojo has his back slumped over, brows knit, & lips twisted in concentration.

“let her come to me…got it.”

# SHOW TIME !

sato gojo is stalking you.

you’re on the way to class with a pen in your ear & a patience worn thin. he was three seats away at the local café. two in the campus library. now you’re walking through the courtyard & sato gojo is leaning back against a bulletin board like his eyes aren’t following your every move.

he has your books in your hand from the other day. is he wearing your lab coat?

you shake the thoughts away & keep walking. you’ve got a test in two hours. a project due in three. screw sato gojo & his rich kid privilege & clumsy smile & bright blue eyes and—

sato scurries behind you just to lean back coolly against yet another bulletin board. what the hell is his problem?

you snap, whipping around. “sato! what are you doing ?!”

his eyes widen. he’s still leaned against the bulletin board, your books in his arms & his hair messy-cute. there’s red on his cheeks & his eyes widen before he fixes his face & plasters on that smooth smirk:

“i’m letting you come to me.”

you blink. “no, i’m going to class.”

“and then you’re coming to me afterwards.”

“no, i don’t fucking think i am.”

he slumps forward as if your words are a weight on his shoulders. he’s pouting now as he walks up to you, your books hugged tightly to his chest. “i owe you an apology.”

“do you?”

“yes—god, yes i do.” he’s close now, too close. “y/n, i’m so fucking sorry. i wasn’t thinking straight. i was trying so hard to impress you and look like a provider but ended up sounding like some classist prick. you’re fucking amazing—strong, smart, independent—god, you’re my inspiration. please don’t make me stay away from you,” he clutches his chest. “my heart can’t fucking take it.”

sato gojo looks like an idiot.

your lab coat shrugged lazy over his shoulders, thick books pressed to his chest & a gaze too tender. he keeps his eyes on yours but his pupils shift like they’re heavy with nerves. you bite your lip. fuck.

“i forgive you,”

he blinks, straightens up. “really?”

“yes, really,” you murmur, picking out each book from his hold. he watches as you pluck them into your arms, your nose flushed & lashes fluttering, & his gaze is all misty. his heart goes sticky in his chest.

“i really like you.”

oh fuck. he didn’t mean to say that. he meant it, oh god, he meant it, but he didn’t mean to fucking say it and—

“i know,” you peer up at him, voice soft & gaze gentle in the heat. “walk me to class?”

he takes your books back into his arms. your lecture is two hours too long but sato gojo waits outside the whole time.

GETO’S REMARK : NEAR DISASTER; BUT CHEERS, MATE !

NICE GUY TACTICS #4: ACT LIKE YOU’RE THE PRIZE !

taught by: ryomen sukuna

“act like you’ve already got her, and you finally will. law of assumption or whatever.”

ΣX

in toru gojo’s room, ryomen sukuna is playing the sims 4 because he has no respect for suguru’s wishes.

sato gojo is on his bed, cheeks flushed & head dizzy. he’s still brushing a thumb over his palm, heat prickling at his skin as he remembers the way you held on when he picked you up after class. your hands were so soft, & you’re so pretty, & gojo sato is utterly fucked.

you’d frowned up at him when you found him waiting but let him hold your hand & guide you to the library regardless. sato tries to breathe. the air goes sticky in his lungs.

at toru’s desk, sukuna is drowning geto’s sim. “why are you smiling like an idiot?” he mutters.

“ryomen,” sato exhales. “i think i’m in love.”

sukuna scoffs, then grins when suguru’s sim kitchen catches fire. “so? you guys are dating now?”

“not yet,” sato sighs, easing into the covers. “to be honest, i’m not even sure she likes me. at least, not the way i like her.”

“mm. i think she just tolerates you.” / “shut the fuck up.”

“listen,” sukuna’s typing cheat codes into the game now. “you want her to be yours? act like she already is. it’s the law of assumption.”

sato blinks. “you believe in manifestation?”

“i use subliminals. how do you think i got my dick so big?”

sato doesn’t comment. “by the way, suguru’s sim asked yours for a divorce. just thought you should know that.”

sato sits up, suddenly serious. “new save file. now.”

# SHOW TIME !

sigma-chi’s frat house is blaring speakers & bodies pressed together on a friday evening.

sato gojo has a cup in his hands & liquor in his teeth. beside him sukuna’s on a chair chugging beer, porn playing in his headphones so he can have a dick print. his technique seems to be working—two bodies to the left, there’s a girl & her friend. sato overhears them conclude sukuna must be a D.

in sato’s ears, however, he’s playing an attract your crush! subliminal—hand-picked & recommended by ryomen sukuna, of course. he has his hands in his pockets, cap slumped & limbs lazy—until he spots you.

glossed hair, glazed lips & your tongue in your cheek. you’re wearing a skirt too short to be sweet & now sato has his tongue in his cheek too. you’re shifting around as if nervous—as if you’d rather not be here, & sato’s heart aches with something akin to want.

he doesn’t realize when his body starts moving.

you’re faced away from him, lips bitten, so he takes your hand from behind. you jolt, “oh—hi.”

“hi, baby,” he mutters, guiding you closer. “you look pretty.”

“thank you,” you murmur, breathless. sato’s arms loop around your hips. you only lift your palms to rest on his chest.

“have you had anything to drink?”

you shake your head, and sato’s hands are climbing higher now, under your top & grazing your spine. his hands are cold, so cold.

sukuna’s subliminal is still buzzing in his ears. he’s always been a daring boy, so he takes the leap. cups your cheek with a palm. brushes your waist when you shiver. “i can get you something.”

“that would be nice.”

he nods & guides you towards the bar.

——

sato gojo’s not sure how he’s done it.

you’re so pliant today. soft & unguarded, warm edges & caramel-sweet. even now he has your back pressed against his chest at the bar, hands on your hips, your perfume in his lungs.

you look up at him, “sato?” and he wants to kiss you because your eyes are too big & your voice is too pretty.

“mm?”

he leans down to hear you & his nose brushes your neck. his thumb is brushing circles on the dip beneath your waistband.

“do you…um. do you actually like me?”

oh god.

sato wants to say he’s never liked anyone more. that last night he dreamt about the shape of your frown, that his ribs ache when you ignore him, that his heart scraped against his throat the day he tried to pay for you but he messed up & you left, that he practiced his apology in the mirror till his throat hurt & if you ever said you liked him back he’d swallow his pride & cry.

but the subliminal still hums in his ears. sukuna’s words are still a ghost in the heat. ‘act like you’ve already got her!’

so he clears his throat. puts on that fake confidence like frat boys do.

“dunno,” but his hand grips your hip. “why? you want me to give you a chance?”

you still in his hold. sato gojo has fucked up once again.

SUKUNA’S REMARK : DAMN.

NICE GUY TACTICS #5: EGO IS THE ENEMY !

taught by: toru gojo

“i’ve played these games before. trust me when i say to just be yourself.”

ΣX

that evening, sato gojo has his knees against the tile & acid in his jugular.

he’s bent over the toilet seat, tongue curled & bone in his stomach. toru gojo has his hand in sato’s hair, holding it back as his twin brother spills his guts into the toilet bowl.

“i fucked up,” he rasps, then pukes again. “toru—toru. i fucked up,”

his nerdy brother bites his lip. it’s a sight for sore eyes—his twin on the bathroom floor with split lip & bruised knees, babbling over a girl with red cheeks & eyes watery. toru picks up a towel to wipe his brother’s face. “you need to calm down—you made a mistake. it’s not the end of the world.”

“it is, fuck, it is.” sato’s tears fall faster than toru can wipe. he’s shaking, “you know this isn’t the first time? that i called her poor?” toru winces. “and she let it go like a fucking saint and—hic—i still fucked up. i hurt her again.”

sato’s nose is blotchy red & his eyes are swollen puffy. the tears don’t stop. “i always hurt her. toru, why do i always hurt her?”

toru kneels down to his brother’s shaking figure, one hand on his cheek & the other dabbing his tears. “because you keep trying to perform. keep acting like something you’re not.” toru pauses. “like i was doing before i finally got my girlfriend.”

sato remembers—how he and his frat brothers gave toru a bunch of ‘playboy tactics’ to woo over his girl. sato shakes his head, sniffling. “i’m not pretending. i’m not fucking pretending.”

“you are,” toru wipes sato’s nose with his sleeve, then quickly regrets it. “i’ve been busy with projects but i know how you get, sato. acting all suave like you don’t overthink everything she says. like you don’t ask for advice on reddit forums. like you don’t make geto roleplay with you so you can decide exactly how to approach her.”

toru pauses, takes in his brother’s sore eyes & tear-stained cheeks. he hugs his brother’s head: “i know how you get.”

sato goes limp in his arms. “i really, really like her.”

“i know,” toru squeezes. “we all do.”

sato lets his head fall limp in his brother’s neck. he can’t help but wish that it was you.

—-

sato gojo has typed your name four times into his notes app because he likes the way it looks on his screen.

then he deletes it, then types it again, then deletes it with tears in his eyes. there’s still alcohol in his throat & his head is too fucking dizzy. it hurts to breathe & sato gojo can’t fucking think.

y/n.

it takes him three tries to spell your name into his contacts. not because he can’t spell, but because there are tears clouding his eyes & his throat hurts whenever he tries to sound your name out. y/n y/n y/n. no search results. then he finds your name saved under ‘baby :)‘ & he’s finally able to breathe again.

he’s still half-drunk, and he can’t really see, and there’s a wound in his chest & his thumbs are shaking so he prays to god for strength as he types. sato gojo hasn’t been to a church since he was eleven. he can’t even spell the word messiah.

SATO:

Hy [deleted]

Hi

y/n i’m so sorry

for everything

ikm such a fucking idiot

when u asked me if i reallly liked u and i said idk and u froze in my arms i felt my heart fucking stop in my chest y/n i’m so sorry

i like you i like you so bad

i don’t have the confudence to say it out loud to your face im so sorry

*confidence

i want to be a better man for you

i’m sorry for always hurting you i try not to i swear i do but i always think too hard and say the wrong things i swear i never ever mean to hurt you never ever

i liek you so much i’ve never liked any girl the way i like you ever in my life

i take acantability

accowntabikity

accountant

accountabity

i’m sorry im accountable

sato’s eyes blur. he’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the tears. his hands are shaking but he prays again and he’s able to type just one more message.

SATO: ilikeyouilikeyouilikeyouilikeyou

the typing bubble pops up in the chat. he passes out before he can see your message.

——

“where is he?”

sato gojo has his nose beneath the covers, lashes sticky with dried tears & want. his hearing is muffled & his head is dizzy so when the lights flick on he retreats further into the covers.

toru gojo kneels in front of him. “sato. wake up.”

“mmrrnnhhhh.”

toru sighs. you walk up next to him and kneel in front of the bed. “sato?”

he stills. he knows that voice anywhere.

slowly, agonizingly, he pulls down the covers. just a little, just an inch—just because his nose is still blotchy & his eyes are still puffy & he doesn’t want you to see him like this. he opens his eyes & god. if this is a dream—messiah. please don’t wake him up.

you are so beautiful & your eyes are so big & sato gojo can’t believe you’re right here in front of him.

“sato. hi.”

he tries to say hi back. his lips part but he can’t seem to get anything out.

toru rises to his feet. “i’ll get him some water. be right back.”

it’s just you and him now; sato gojo and the only girl he’s ever loved. is it too early to use the word love? you’re resting your chin on folded arms right in front of him & sato does think he’s in love. he hasn’t even properly told you he likes you. he has to hurry up and say it.

you’re so close your noses are touching. you’re so pretty & you smell so sweet. “sato.”

“hi, baby—” but then he coughs. “hi, y/n.”

you giggle at that. sato realizes he’s never heard you giggle before. he wants you to giggle again. can you giggle again?

“i got your messages,”

ah. he swallows. “i texted you back and you didn’t respond. i got worried so i came here.”

sato can’t believe his ears. you worried about him?

he blinks. “i love you.”

your brows furrow.

“i’m sorry for saying it,” his voice is small, shy, slightly muffled beneath the covers. “but i think it a lot. and i’m sorry for loving you because i know i’m not worthy of your love, or of you in general, but if i said i like you that wouldn’t be correct, because the way my heart feels when i think about you is more than ‘like’,”

he breathes. “so i’m sorry for loving you. but i still love you. i’m sorry.”

you don’t know what to say to that. sato gojo is still peering at you—lashes sticky, blue eyes dim yet brimming with light. he’s retreated further into the covers now so all you see is white wisps of hair & those bright blue eyes.

you tug down the covers. he freezes, breathing heavy, eyes wide with both fear & adoration as you climb on top of him.

“say it again.”

“i…like you.”

“no, the other one.”

oh. “i love you.”

sato gulps. “i love you. i love you i love you i love you—“

you press your lips to his own as he holds your hips. he still says ‘i love you’ between your lips.

BONUS #1 — Y/N’S MESSAGES !

——

baby :)

😂😂 lol

you don’t expect me to acc believe this right?

do you know how many times you’ve hurt me these last few weeks and i let it go because my dumbass was in love with you?

*liked you

i was vulnerable and asked if you truly liked me and u said u don’t know and some other dumbass shit

that’s so fucked

you’re so fucked

you’re not fair to me that’s not fair sato

you say you’re sorry and you like me but you can’t even say it to my face? how is that fair? huh sato?

sato

sato?

are you okay

sato

i’m coming over

BONUS #2 – EPILOGUE !

it’s friday again, the end of the week, and sato gojo is at the airport with a grin on his face. his best friend is finally back in town & sato is practically vibrating.

“well, if it isn’t our casanova.”

“suguru!” sato tackles him in a hug. geto laughs, feet wobbly, patting at sato’s back affectionately. “you’ve got a girl now, mate. back up a bit, yeah?”

sato pulls back, frowning. “no more british accents.”

suguru smiles, “no more.”

in the car they talk about everything. sato should be driving but instead he plays passenger princess, recounting the last few weeks without him.

“so you’ve finally gotten the girl.” geto hums.

“yup.”

“and you told her you loved her before you even started dating.”

sato bites his lip. “yes.”

“you’re down bad.”

“i know.”

“i’m glad you’re happy, y’know,” geto is talking but sato’s phone dings in his lap. that special notification sound he’s set up only for you.

mine🫀: are you still picking up geto?

sato grins.

—

sato: you miss me, baby?

mine🫀: shut up

i’m still at the library

sato: i know babygirl i’m omw

mine🫀: nooo don’t come here

i need to study and u won’t let me focus

sato: thought i was your favorite distraction? 💔

mine🫀: ha. ha. don’t come here

sato: too late already at the exit

mine🫀: SATO

—-

“sato? are you listening?”

“sorry,” sato mutters, locking his phone. his knee is bouncing & his chest feels light. god, he’s so in love. “take the next left. suguru, do you know ryomen fucked with our sims’ marriage?”

“he what?”

“i need you to make a sim for y/n. i want to marry her instead,” sato hums. he’s clicking his phone on & off now, clearly not waiting for your next notification.

“i told that fucker not to touch my game.”

sato licks his canines. “that boy doesn’t listen.”

suguru’s grumbling now, something about a ‘good for nothing porn addict’ and ‘fuckass exhibitionist kink’ but sato only hums along in the passengers seat. then his phone dings again.

mine🫀: [Image Attachment]

he clicks on it way too fast.

and it’s a picture of you, phone in your lap & pouting down at the camera. your hair’s all messy in your face & your lips are bent in the cutest frown. god, you’re so beautiful. god god god.

he licks his lips. types back: ‘i love you my baby.’

“sato—? sato? what the fuck, man.” suguru’s still gripping the wheel, eyes on the road. “i’ve been talking for two minutes. who’s got you smiling like that?”

his phone dings again.

mine🫀: i love you too, idiot 💖

sato smiles. “my girlfriend.”

SIGMA-CHI’S REMARK : WE’RE HAPPY FOR YOU, BRO.

# SIGMA-CHI STORIES !

© HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.

Food!

Both men almost run that way, with stomachs squirming in hunger and sweat dripping down their backs. Nanami dreamed of sitting down with a drink and meat, while Suguru foolishly wished that the villagers would know something about their Marquis.

After all, the battle was not that far away from here, and there was a chance that someone might've seen a wounded soldier wandering around the meadows.

When their horses passed the small, wooden gate, the little child immediately ran up to them.

"Can I pet, can I pet?" his small hand reached out towards the raven horse, brushing its massive leg gently before Suguru could even nod.

He got off the mare, squatting down to be on the same level as a kid.

"Tell me, boy, do you have any nice restaurants here in the village?" he asked, and the child hummed.

"Of course we have! The best noodles in the whole region, pretty lady!" he chirped, oogling Suguru's long hair smooching his cheeks.

Nanami scoffed, while Suguru only smiled gently. "Well, could you maybe take us there? You see, these two soldiers are very, very hungry."

The boy didn't seem to care about Suguru's pressure on the soldiers and simply nodded. He left the horse and pointed a finger at the small, two-level house, with multiple people sitting outside on little stools and grey smoke twisting around its roof.

"Thank you, dearest," Suguru said warmly, placing a sliver coin in the boy's hand.

Well, it should help his family last for at least a month.

"Do you think someone may've seen him?" Nanami asked while tying the horses to the fence outside the small restaurant.

"I hope so. But firstly, let's eat. I'm ready to collapse any second," Suguru mumbled, passing the wide-open doors.

The inside was rather simple but homely, with multiple families chirping joyfully over their noodles. The delicious smell of spices immediately hit Suguru's stomach, and long-withheld hunger suddenly became even worse.

They sat at the small table near the open window, enjoying the serene view of the slowly running river, with a few children playing at its crystalline water. Their laughter filled the stuffy air, and the gentle wind brushed Suguru's tired cheeks, bringing him a slight comfort. Birds chirped sweetly, and passing girls giggled under their noses, seeing two handsome, strange soldiers sitting politely in the restaurant.

And while they were waiting, with minds enjoying the peacefulness of this place, someone's voice suddenly brought them back.

"What can I get for you, gentlemen?"

Suguru turned his head, ready to order a bowl of spicy noodles and–

Oh.

Oh!

His knees went weak, and if not for the stool, he would surely fall miserably on the wooden floor. Blood immediately rushed to his head, fingers started to tremble, and if Nanami didn't grab his hand, it would surely curl around Gojo Satoru's neck.

Because why, dear heavens, the Marquis himself was standing before him perfectly fit and cheeky, with healthy rosiness blooming on his face and muscular body dressed in simple, commoner robes?

"M-Mar–" he stood up, but Satoru quickly pushed him back down.

The smile wasn't coming off his face, but his voice rolled out low and irritated. "Why are you here?"

"Why are we here?" Suguru almost burst. "Marquis, what do you mean by why are we here?!"

He couldn't quite believe it – the Marquis, man announced by the ministers themselves as surely dead, was, in fact, looking as if resurrected. His eyes, usually hued in deep ocean colour, looked rather... alive. Light and shiny, resembling the cyan paint spread over the canvas, soft and wet, glimmering under the warm beams of sunshine. His always so pale skin brimmed with healthy rosiness, usually suitable for most dearest birdies. Wet forehead was tied with milky cloth, keeping the snowy hair away from the brazen eyes.

Creamy robes hugged him loosely, with a few chilli oil stains bussing its grainy material.

He looked so... not noble. Not Marquis-like.

But much happier.

"Marquis, if we could talk–" Nanami started, but before he managed to finish, another voice chipped in.

Loud and angry, with a tired sigh and in the company of a fat finger knocking on the wooden table. "Hey, pretty boy! I ordered seconds a while ago!"

Suguru straightened up, jaw visibly tensed. He was ready to pull out his long sword and cut the man on the spot. "How dare you to talk to Ma–"

But before it, Satoru quickly smacked the back of his head.

"Sure thing, just give me a minute," he chirped politely, and Suguru almost fainted.

Never in the thirty years of his life has he ever heard the Marquis being polite to... anyone. Truly.

And so obedient at that, with a gentle smile curving his lips and a little nod of his head. The man, however, didn't seem to be satisfied, rambling under his breath and throwing a few curses every few seconds.

Six months ago, Suguru would see his head rolling on the wooden floor, with a Marquis slashing it off in a single, clean cut.

But now? Now his massive hand was keeping Suguru in place, not allowing him to stir up any trouble.

"You both eat first. I'm sure you must be hungry," he said warmly, patting the shoulders of his most reliable commanders. "We'll discuss it later."

"Marquis, but–" and, once again, before Nanami could finish, the rude customer decided to strike again.

"Pretty boy, I don't see you walking back to the kitchen for my seconds!"

Satoru sighed. His palms squeezed their shoulders, long fingers digging deep into the armour. Suguru, for a fleet moment, saw this familiar frown and blue veins popping on the Marquis's forehead, as if ready to burst with a merciless fury.

He's going to strike, Suguru thought. He won't let that bastard trash his good name.

Satoru rolled up the wide sleeves of his creamy robes, tying them with a thin rope around the elbows. Bulging muscles of his forearms glistened in sweat, with the sun cruelly smooching his pale skin.

And when he thought that Marquis, finally, finally, will deal with a man, another voice filled the heavy restaurant's air.

"Hey! Stop being rude to my husband unless you want to deal with me!"

It drove Suguru into the wooden stool, with its honeyed sweetness marked by an authoritative tone. Not many people were able to put someone into their place solely with a voice, but a fragile woman who came out from the kitchen, with a heavy chopper in her hand – could.

Husband?

Suguru's head started to spin. He looked up, seeing Marquis's lips curving in a gentle smile. Eyes cheeky, like two pale moons, while glancing back at the woman storming through the small restaurant.

"Think you can bully my husband while I'm here?"

Man's cheeks washed in embarrassment before he coughed. "My apologies, miss. If I knew he was your husband–"

"Even if he wasn't, you shouldn't be rude! He's too polite and won't harm a soul, but me?" she took a step, but Satoru quickly grabbed her. "Try me!"

She surrounded herself with an imposing aura, although standing next to Satoru, her head barely brushed his chest. Hair curled around the hearty face, with a light robe and dirty aproan hugging warmly plush hips.

"What a menace," she scoffed loudly, cleaning the chopper with a cloth, before glancing up at the Marquis. "And you should get more assertive. Must you always be so obedient?"

Obedient?

"Stop acting like a pushover, what if someone attacks you, hm? We have lots of bandits these days, and I won't always be there to protect you."

Pushover?

Protect Marquis?

Suguru sighed, grabbing his head. It pulsed with a malicious headache, and the more you talked, the more he felt like fainting.

"My dearest," Satoru smiled, looking down at your fuming cheeks. "Have I ever told you how beautiful you look with this little crease on your forehead?" he lifted up a thumb, placing it right between your eyebrows.

He started massaging it in gentle circles, rolling a sweet giggle out of your lips and finally getting rid of the frown.

"There she is," he whispered, cupping your cheeks stained in reddish oil. "My beautiful, ferocious wife. You need to stop threatening everyone with a chopper. What if one day you come upon imperial soldiers?"

You tsked, nuzzling into his warm hands. "I'll chop them too, if they try to bully you."

Suguru just couldn't listen to it anymore. Not only the intimate tension between Marquis and... you... was unbearable, but he also simply couldn't comprehend the sudden change that bloomed inside the most ruthless, powerful general of the empire.

He coughed quietly, finally getting your attention.

"Oh," rolled politely, before you quickly hid the chopper behind. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, too many people like to bully my husband and, well, you know how it is..." your hand unconsciously waved with a chopper again, and Suguru barely dodged its sharp steel. "Sometimes the wife needs to step in. You see, my husband is a scholar, so he's, hm, the more compliant one in this marriage."

Nanami laughed, but Suguru quickly threw him a cold stare.

He brought back a polite smile to his face, still slowly massaging the buzzing temple. "Miss, my friend and I have travelled a long way to meet with Mar– your husband. I hope you don't mind, we'll take him away just for a moment."

Your eyes bulged in surprise, looking up at Satoru's warm gaze.

"I didn't know Satoru had... friends," you giggled, hearing a soft scoff coming from your husband. "Of course you can, but eat first, please. You sure must be tired. If you wish, you can stay a few nights in our house too. Right, darling?"

Satoru grimaced when you looked back at Suguru, and his eyes narrowed. "Sure, baby. If that's what you want. But aren't you rather busy, my dear friends?"

It sounded like he was giving Suguru a choice, but the coldness of his gaze and slowly shaking head were enough to convey that both of them were forbidden from agreeing with his wife's idea.

Suguru, however, was furious as it was, and if staying a day or two meant taking Marquis down to size – he would be more than happy to do it.

Before Nanami murmured that they are, in fact, rather busy, the strategist quickly chirped in.

"My precious friend, I would be more than happy to stay under your roof," he said, standing up and bending down politely your way. "Miss, we're grateful for your priceless hospitality."

You giggled, waving gently with a chopper. "There's no need for courtesy. Stay as long as you want," your eyes moved back to Satoru, his arm curling around your waist. "Darling, just remember to pick up the vegetables from Fang's restaurant. Oh, and Miss Hua needs to write a letter to the magistrate, help her with that too, hm?"

You chirped while Satoru was looking down at your rosy face with a bizarre caress behind his serene eyes. As if gazing on the most precious, loveliest little nymph. In fact, he looked as though he wasn't listening at all, with fingers climbing up to your plush cheek, and a thumb brushing over the red, oil stain.

"Right, and come back before supper. You know that at that time I usually–"

"I know, the little brat makes her mommy nauseous," he smiled softly, and Suguru suddenly lost his appetite.

Wait a moment.

"Little brat?" Nanami chipped in first, with brows almost brushing his hairline. "Mar– Satoru, do you mean that your wife is..."

You looked at them, then at Satoru, then back at them, with a little tsk and hand patting his shoulder. "Truly! You didn't even tell them that you're going to be a father? What a good friend you are."

There was a second of silence, with Satoru trying to coo you sweetly and Nanami standing there like a log. With a slightly hazy gaze and mind trying to comprehend how a Marquis – the strongest man in the whole empire – got himself entangled not solely in a marriage with a commoner, but also in parenthood. His bloodline was precious, and his family would surely not accept the child whose mother was a simple noodle shop owner.

But then the three of them heard a loud thud, and a dark shadow of a man slowly hit the wooden floor.

Suguru, finally, fainted.

❀ ❀ ❀

He woke up a mere hour later, with a wet compress on his forehead and skull buzzing from the heat. The air felt sticky, like honey, sliding down his coarse throat and cumulating somewhere deep in chest. His head felt heavy, and warm beams of sun slipped through an open window, brushing his slightly wet forehead.

He noticed that heavy armour was removed from his body and replaced with thin, navy robes, with wide sleeves and a narrow, open collar.

The smell of boiled meat went straight to his stomach, although he wasn't in a restaurant anymore.

No, this room was neat and brimming with warmth, although rather small. The soft bed dipped under his weight as he slowly stood up. The wooden floor was cold against his feet, and he noticed a small table right in front of him, with a bowl of cold noodles and a cup. His knees hit the floor, and when eyes looked inside, he noticed a weird, lush mixture of herbs – probably something to help with overheating.

He inhaled noodles in a few seconds, with salty soy sauce dripping gently down his throat and into stomach, finally filling it with a delicious, homemade meal.

Suguru felt like crying, tasting something carried as if straight from the heavens. Something worthy of an emperor himself, with a perfect seasoning and spongy texture bouncing under his teeth.

The herbal mixture followed next, and he saw a small milky candy wrapped in paper, right next to the cup. When the bitterness of a drink struck his mind, he immediately took the candy and chewed on its creamy sweetness.

Although the meal made him a bit lazy and he wanted nothing more than to return to bed and sleep like a baby – the case of Marquis still hasn't been closed.

So he stood up, dusting off his knees and quietly went outside, covering eyes from the sun. It seemed that the restaurant was right below, with a few customers pottering around and your sweet laughter once again filling his mind. Going down the wooden stairs, he noticed your small figure through the window – with half-pinned-up hair brushing your cheeks and a warm smile, when another customer hummed deliciously over your noodles.

Your eyes met his lavender gaze, and you gasped, quickly going outside to meet his pale face. "Are you alright–"

"Suguru."

"Right," your hand landed on his cheeks, squeezing it softly as if kneading a bun. "You look much better now. The travel must've been tiring."

You took him by surprise, but something warm spread in his chest, feeling your gentle caress and thumb brushing over the rosy skin. Not many people treated him kindly, with care, and he tried to suppress an urge to nuzzle into your hand.

"If you're looking for Satoru, he went with your friend that way," you pointed a finger towards the small hut on the other side of the river. "This village is not big, so surely you'll find him somewhere."

Suguru nodded, still tracing the softness of your hearty face, with the kindest eyes he had ever seen. Truly, no noblewoman could be compared to the loveliness you carried like a second skin.

He strolled around the sandy paths, kicking the little stones that rolled under his feet. Curious villagers oogled him shyly, and each time he nodded politely, sending humble smiles and greeting a few children on the way. They followed him around the village, with little heads sweating under the sun and chubby hands reaching out for long, raven hair brushing his hips.

The smell of jasmine flowers filled the air when he crossed the small bridge, and a few petals slipped away from the fragile branches. A young girl laughed cheerfully in the house next door, and two old men sat calmly near the river's bank, trying to catch the splashing fish.

The village truly was... calm. Serene, almost idyllic, as if painted by the gods themselves, with the peaceful faces of the villagers and their cooing voices greeting Suguru on every corner.

He finally noticed a flash of snowy hair and quickly moved its way.

Satoru sat in the garden with a young woman and a little boy snuggling on her lap, while Nanami... dearest. Nanami was fixing the roof.

Never in his life would he have thought of seeing the first army general nailing the wooden planks with such a focus.

"I also want at least two taels of silver," the woman sighed, and Satoru politely wrote down her request. "But one is also enough. If that bastard decided to leave me, then let him pay."

"Two taels may be too much, but I'll try to bargain for you. Let's see," Satoru muttered, placing neat characters one under another. Little brush scrubbed slowly against the delicate surface, and only Suguru knew how skilled a calligrapher the Marquis was.

Truly taught by the best masters in the whole empire!

But the woman couldn't care less, for she never learnt how to read, and small characters reminded her of nothing but cute little bushes. Bending and curving under Satoru's steady hand, before he finished the letter and left it to dry under the sun.

His light eyes noticed Suguru's figure, and their cheerfulness was immediately replaced by a stroke of irritation.

What a bastard!

"Thank you, Satoru, I truly don't know how to repay you," the woman said shyly, gripping the letter in her hands.

The boy wriggled on her thighs, tugging on his mother's loose hair. Satoru lifted up a hand and pinched his chubby cheek, rolling a little giggle out of his lips.

"No worries, it's nothing. Just come to me when they reply, and I'll read it for you."

Nanami finished his little job too, and all three of them strolled outside through the wooden gate. Suguru didn't say anything for a while, taking in the rosy cheeks of his Marquis and oogling with curiosity all his exchanges with the villagers. They strolled around, picking up side jobs Satoru supposedly did every day – placing an order for vegetables and getting freshly delivered ones, checking the assortment for a little pharmacy, or giving short reading lessons to the local children.

People greeted him with this kind glimmer in their eyes, and kids hugged his legs, placing little stones, flowers and candies in his hands. He thanked them each time, ruffing silky hair, pinching their chubby faces and hiding every little, dirty stone in the sleeves of his robes.

On their way back to Satoru's house, Suguru finally managed to ask.

"Marquis, are we going to discuss it or just ignore the fact that you faked your death for six months?"

Satoru slowed his pace before finally stopping. Three men stood near the bridge, with light petals of the jasmine tree falling down on Satoru's milky hair. With no villagers around, he finally sighed.

"I didn't fake my death," he murmured, sitting near the riverbank.

The sun was slowly setting over the tall mountains surrounding the village, with tender hues of purple and pink and orange brushing the evening sky. Birds were slowly preparing for sleep, and villagers coming back from work in the fields. Big ox strolled behind them, tugging a little cart loaded with fresh fruits.

Satoru's eyes glanced up, reflecting the last rays of tangerine beams.

"After that battle, I fell into the river. The water must have thrown my body on the bank, because she saved me and took me back to her house. When I woke up, she was already there – tending my wounds and trying to stuff me full with noodles," he laughed warmly, as if remembering the first days spent in your presence. "I really wanted to heal up a bit and go back, but..."

Nanami and Suguru sat next to him, looking up at the fragrant jasmine branches hanging over the river.

"But I couldn't. You both know I never wanted to marry and have a family, but back there, after hearing her laugh the first time, something panged in my chest."

"Maybe your wound has opened," Nanami mumbled, and Suguru pinched his arm.

Satoru laughed, eyes still tracing the changing sky. "After meeting her, I finally understood what it truly means to be happy. To seek the next day and live in peacefulness, with nothing but her touch waking me every single morning."

Suguru hummed, remembering how warm you felt when your hand pinched his cheek. So kind and lovely, as if you honestly cared about this stranger you've met just an hour ago.

"She was constantly worried about people gossiping about her marriage, so I decided to use this chance and marry her. She wanted a husband, and I wished for nothing but to stay with her as long as I could," he continued, taking a white jasmine petal off his head. "But she was constantly afraid I would leave her one day, so to prove my devotion..."

Oh dearest god.

Suguru almost fainted again. "You decided to trap her with a baby? Are you crazy?"

He was crazy. So, so miserably crazy, and Suguru could see it in his eyes. In his hands, grabbing your waist in an almost possessive manner, and his always oh so gentle gaze, as if nothing else but his dear wife mattered in this world.

"I didn't trap her... well. At least she doesn't feel that way," he coughed, smiling like a fool. "She always wanted to have a family, so I decided to give it to her. What's wrong with it?"

"Marquis, are you hearing yourself?" Suguru almost hissed. "Just a year ago, you declined the most beautiful women offered to you by an emperor himself. And now you're telling me you decided to marry a simple commoner after knowing her for a month?"

"Well, he never offered me her," Satoru giggled. "And it was a week. She asked me to marry her after a week."

"She asked you?"

"Yes."

"And you agreed? Just like that?"

"Of course, it was love at first sight."

Suguru looked at Nanami, as if trying to make sure he wasn't the crazy one here. That Marquis truly went mad, and he lost all his senses.

Maybe while falling down, he hit his head? Maybe you bewitched him and forced a marriage?

But no one in this world could possibly force a tyrannical Marquis to do anything. Well, at least that's what Suguru have thought.

"Marquis, does it mean that... she doesn't know who you are?" Nanami asked, and everyone suddenly held their breath.

Including Satoru, who scratched his head sheepishly.

Oh.

Oh!

"She doesn't. You didn't tell her?!" Suguru once again almost shouted, and Satoru quickly shushed him.

"How could I? She thinks I'm a simple scholar who can do nothing but sweet-talk and read," he brushed another jasmine petal, and Suguru noticed a bit of worry behind his ocean eyes. "If she knew my real rank... There's a chance she would leave me. She's alone in this world – no parents, no family. If revealing my situation would mean losing her, I'd rather live as a commoner."

Suguru couldn't simply comprehend the weight of his words. For living as a commoner was everything people of their sort feared. To lose a status that could save your head in turmoil times such as this one was almost like a death sentence.

And Marquis was ready to do it solely for a fleeting tenderness.

"Does it mean you're not planning to go back?" Nanami asked quietly. "Do you want to stay announced as dead?"

Satoru was silent for a few minutes, with rays of sunshine slowly leaving his face. The moon lurked shyly from between jasmine branches, reflecting his wandering gaze. Suguru has never seen Marquis so quiet, so calm. As if his soul truly healed up from all the bestiality he needed to suffer just to float above anyone else.

The cold, sharp Marquis was no longer here, replaced by a man who tasted love for the first time. He was like a child learning how to walk, but at the same time, constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure his mother was watching over him.

And for Satoru – it was you.

You showed him the kindness of this world, and life deprived of the wrath he has felt for such a long time.

Marquis didn't say anything, but stood up instead and laughed under his breath. "It's almost supper time, let's go back. My wife always gets nauseous around this time, so I'll be the one cooking."

Suguru and Nanami simply nodded, following the Marquis back to the warm house.

They found you in a kitchen, humming softly and cutting the vegetables. The restaurant was already closed, and nothing but a soft beam of candles and a little buzz of crickets filled the small room.

Suguru has only now noticed your little bump, and he smiled when Satoru hugged you from behind.

"Sorry we took so long," he murmured, placing a wet kiss on your cheek. "There was simply too much to talk about."

You hummed, nodding head softly, till a few strands slipped away from your pinup. "It's okay, Satoru. Spend as much time as you need," you said, before looking up towards two men standing in the doors. "The room for you is ready. The supper will be, as soon as Satoru starts cutting the meat."

Marquis laughed, taking a heavy chopper and a fat piece of flesh. Suguru has never seen him in the kitchen, so he looked with pure curiosity at the way the iron blade slashed the tender meat.

What a bizzare sight, truly!

The supper wasn't anything special, but sitting together, talking and drinking – well, aside from you, of course – was the first time Suguru saw Marquis so relaxed.

Cheerful, free, with his head lying softly on your thighs and smooth locks caressed by your fingers. He was getting drunk faster than usual, babbling carelessly under his breath and peppering your little swell with kisses, till you flushed like the sweetest cherry and pushed him away. He joked and laughed, reminiscent of the days spent in royal academia with Suguru and Nanami (apparently, all of them met there, absolutely not on the battlefield) and delighted himself in stories about your first meeting.

About the moment he opened his eyes and saw an angel itself, to which you flushed feverishly and mumbled oh stop. Drunk Satoru was like a teenage boy boasting about his first love, and Suguru couldn't help but feel warmth spreading all over his chest every time Marquis peeked up at your lovely face.

When the night came, and it was time to part your ways, Suguru...

Dear heavens.

Suguru wished for nothing more than to be anywhere but right next to your room. For he heard everything.

Every sloppy kiss, every giggle, every shuddered breath of yours and silent Satoru, we can't, they're going to hear us. But Marquis, who was nothing if not madly in love, promised that don't worry baby, they won't, it will be fine, just let me taste you.

Fortunately, it seemed that you slapped his nosy hands away, because for the rest of the night, Marquis stayed silent.

Suguru and Nanami decided to stay for a few more nights, enjoying the idyllic charm of the village. Nanami would help in fixing the houses after the recent flood, and Suguru devoted his time to helping Satoru teach local kids. Marquis was the only person in the whole village who could read and write, thus local folks gladly attended his short, daily classes.

When Suguru came, the kids took a deep breath as if charmed by the gentleness and vigilance of his face. Satoru liked to fool around with little brats, but Suguru immediately put them in place, imposing a harsh, hour-long lesson as worthy of the most prominent strategist in the whole empire.

They sat with focused foreheads and beams of sweat glistening on their temples, while chubby fingers tried to draw clean, straight strokes.

Later that evening, Satoru told him that children liked the new pretty lady teacher, and you burst out in the most melodic laughter he's ever heard.

During the days, they fooled around, helped at the restaurant and did odd jobs for villagers, but the nights...

The nights were always reserved for you and Satoru.

And Suguru never dared to impose this gentle time between the two spouses, closing himself and Nanami off in the bedroom.

But he heard every little word rolled intimately between the two tender souls.

He heard the soft creak of the mattress as Satoru shifted closer to you, as if even sleep demanded less distance between your bodies.

He heard your quiet laughter, muffled into pillows, as though you didn't wish to disturb your guests.

He heard of your simple dreams and plans and all the worries you seemed to always have at the back of your mind.

He heard your quiet I love you and his trust me I love you more, followed by a silent kiss.

He heard the gentle splash of water shifting in the tub, followed by your quiet hum, almost absent-minded, while Satoru moved around you with careful hands.

He heard the faint press of lips against your temple.

The whispered goodnights that always sounded like promises.

And sometimes, he heard nothing at all.

Just silence.

But he knew that even during the most hushed nights, Satoru was always keeping you close – to his heart and soul and eyes. For he has never seen anything more precious than the peacefulness haunting his wife's forehead. And if a little, worried crease would appear between your brows, his thumb would gently massage it away. Lips would kiss it off, and you would snuggle up even closer, as if your body unconsciously yearned for your husband's touch.

There was a special kind of intimacy between the two lovers, whose odd fates and minds mixed in one lifeline. A bond most could be jealous of – in the way Satoru seemed to have you at his fingertips and you somehow always curled around them, floating near like a little goddess.

If Satoru was a believer, he would pray to nothing but the giggling eyes of his wife.

A few days later, when they were getting ready for the road, Suguru would look back at the young couple with a swelling heart.

For Marquis, who suffered enough in his short life, deserved nothing more than to gleam under the warm sun like a fair child, with his bright laughter forever carried through the mountains and meadows of the great empire.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

I know, I know, I'll start writing the Alexander the Great Satosugu... just let me be happy for a moment before diving into the angst.

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Your legs rested over his shoulders while he held you beneath him, broad hands gripping your thighs as he thrust slowly into your pussy. The room was warm, filled with soft breaths and the occasional creak of the bed beneath you both,

And then the anklets jingled.

A tiny delicate sound.

Sokka froze.

Your brows lifted slightly. “Sokka?”

Another thrust.

Jingle.

His pupils visibly widened.

“Oh no,” you whispered, immediately realizing what was happening.

Sokka looked down at you with the expression of a man discovering religion. “You wore them.”

“You made them!”

“You wore them during this.”

The jingling happened again when he shifted your legs higher onto his shoulders, and the sound dragged a groan straight from his chest.

“Oh spirits,” he muttered weakly. “That’s…that’s unfair.”

You burst into laughter, your head turned to the side to stiffen your giggles but unfortunately for you, Sokka enjoyed your laughter all a bit too much too.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, already sounding breathless.

“Yes?”

“Okay. Cool. Great.” He nodded once. “I’m about to become the most annoying man alive.”

“You already are!!! ah!” You cried out as the rest of the sentence dissolved when he suddenly thrust deeper, forcing another chorus of tiny jingles from the anklets.

Sokka made a sound somewhere between a groan and a whine. “There it is again,” he muttered.

Warmth creeped up your neck as he deliberately moved your ankle slightly just to hear the charms chime.“Sokka!”

“I made these with my own two hands,” he informed you seriously while rocking his hips again. “I deserve this.”

“You’re insane.”

“You love me.”

Another thrust.

Another jingle.

Sokka’s head dropped dramatically against your thigh that was rested against his shoulder as he placed a kiss to the exposed skin. “I’m never surviving this.”

You were laughing again now, though it kept breaking into breathless little gasps every time he moved. The position had him deep, his cock dragging against that sensitive spot inside you while the metal charms sang softly with every shift of your legs.

And Sokka was obsessed.

“You have no idea how pretty you look right now,” he muttered, eyes flicking constantly between your face and the anklets around your ankles. “Spirits…”

His hands slid up your thighs slowly before he kissed one of the anklets directly.

Your stomach flipped, one of your hands gripping his bicep as the other clutched the sheets.

“Sokka,” you breathed softly.

“Hm?”

“That was weirdly attractive.”

He grinned immediately. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

“Good.” He kissed your calf this time before dragging his gaze back up to you. “Because I’m about to get worse.”

And he did, of course he did.

Every little sound from the anklets made him more worked up. He’d shift your legs just to hear them. Roll his hips slower so the charms chimed softly against each other. Sometimes he’d pause entirely just to listen while you whined beneath him.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you accused breathlessly.

“Oh I Absolutely am."

“Sokka—”

“You sound so pretty when these little things jingle,” he groaned, gripping your thighs tighter. “How am I supposed to act normal?”

“You’ve never acted normal a day in your life.”

“That’s fair.”

The laugh that escaped him melted quickly into another moan when you clenched around his cock.

“Spirits..…” His forehead pressed against yours as his pace finally started breaking apart. “You’re gonna kill me.”

The anklets chimed again.

Sokka visibly suffered while you couldn’t stop giggling.

“Stop laughing at me while I’m inside your pussy,” he complained weakly.

“No.”

“Cruel woman.”

But his grin betrayed him completely as he kissed you again, hips snapping harder now that he’d finally lost whatever composure he started with.

“The scar is rather difficult to miss,” the woman sighs.

“Oh.” Sokka shrugs. “Right. Forgot about that.”

Behind him, Zuko lets out a deeply offended sound.

“I told you this was not enough!” Zuko snaps sharply, glaring at his friend while tugging irritably at the dark fabric around his shoulders.

“Hey, it matches your outfit, alright?” Sokka defends himself quickly. He gestures between the cloak and his own belongings as if making a brilliant point. “Just like my bag matches my belt.”

Zuko stares at him silently, already regretting allowing Sokka anywhere near this plan.

The mistress clears her throat loudly, cutting through the argument.

“How may I help the Fire Lord?” she asks, now directing her full attention towards Zuko alone.

For a moment, Zuko says nothing.

His jaw instantly tightened beneath the shadows of the hood. He had faced armies, faced his father,and the worst of all — faced Azula. Yet somehow this felt worse. Because lying to his uncle was so unfair… he knew his uncle would be happy either way with any decision in the end. Yet, he still felt guilty for not being able to make at least one of his wishes come true. He didn’t want for Iroh to die with a heavy heart.

Still, he forces himself to step closer to the desk, then he takes a deep breath before speaking.

“I need to find a woman to be my wife,” he says finally.

The words sound absurd the moment they leave his mouth.

The mistress blinks once... twice.

Her pipe slips from her fingers and hits the wooden table with a loud clatter. For several long seconds, she simply stares at him as though she expects him to laugh and admit it was some sort of joke.

But Zuko’s expression never changes.

And the woman’s surprised expression slowly fades into skepticism as she straightens in her chair.

“You came to a brothel,” she says carefully, “to search for a wife?”

Even Sokka winces slightly at how ridiculous it sounded aloud.

Zuko feels heat crawl up the back of his neck beneath his collar as he nods once.

“When you say it like that, it sounds strange,” he agrees.

“Because it is strange,” the woman replies without hesitation. Her sharp eyes narrow as she studies him more carefully now, suspicion mixing with curiosity. “Most men come here seeking pleasure, not marriage.”

“I am not looking for love,” Zuko says quickly, almost too quickly.

The woman hums softly, leaning back again. She watches him the same way one might observe a wounded animal deciding whether or not to bite.

“I am certain many noble women across the nations would gladly marry the Fire Lord,” she continues. “You could choose any daughter from any wealthy family and have a wedding arranged before sunrise tomorrow.”

“I know.” Zuko exhales heavily through his nose before closing his eyes for a brief moment. “That is exactly the problem.”

His voice lowers quieter after that. Less defensive — more tired.

“I do not want to promise devotion I cannot give,” he admits. “I do not have time to become someone’s proper husband. I barely manage to rule my own nation correctly some days.”

The woman’s skeptical expression softens slightly, though not entirely.

“And yet you are still searching for a wife.”

Zuko’s gaze drops towards the wooden floorboards.

“It is important to my uncle,” he says quietly. “He wishes to see me settled before…”

The sentence dies in his throat unfinished and a sudden understanding flickers briefly across the mistress’s face.

Still, she remains cautious.

“So,” she says slowly, “you want a woman willing to stand beside you, wear royal robes, smile for the court… while knowing the marriage itself is not real.”

Zuko nods once again.

“Yes.”

The mistress studies him for a long moment after that. Not with judgment anymore, but disbelief, as though she still could not decide whether the Fire Lord standing before her was foolish or painfully sincere.

“That is strangely noble of you, My Lord,” she says at last.

“Are you saying that so he will not feel guilty before giving you money?” Sokka interrupts suddenly.

The woman turns towards him with such a deadly glare that Sokka instantly raises both hands in surrender.

“What kind of woman are you searching for?” the mistress asks, ignoring him completely.

Zuko pauses. Truthfully, he had not thought that far ahead.

Mai had been the only woman truly present in his life before this. He had loved her once, in his own difficult way, but they had never understood one another fully. Half their conversations had ended in silence or frustration.

“Appearance does not matter,” Zuko says after a long pause. “I only need someone who will listen to me… and understand me.”

Sokka gasps loudly beside him, visibly emotional.

“Oh, Zuko,” he says dramatically while clutching his chest. “But I am right here.”

He throws himself forward for an embrace, only for Zuko to plant an annoyed palm directly against his face before he can get close.

The mistress watches the two silently before shaking her head with faint amusement and a hint of doubt. Rising from her chair, she gestures towards the narrow hallway deeper within the building.

“My Lord, I will bring you our finest women,” she says calmly, not fully believing he actually means his words, “come with me.”

Before Zuko can protest, a dull thud echoes somewhere in the back of the establishment.

All three of them immediately turn towards the noise only to realize nothing was there.

“Are there… you know, ghosts here?” Sokka asks under his breath while nervously scanning the shadows around them.

“None that I know of. Only rats,” the mistress replies dismissively. “They are always finding their way inside. Ignore it.”

Zuko gives a small nod before stepping past Sokka and following after the woman. The wooden floor creaks beneath his boots as he steps towards the hallway.

“Wait here,” he tells Sokka over his shoulder just before vanishing around the corner.

“Are you leaving me alone in here with rats? The possible Ghosts!?” Sokka asks scared, while looking around, but Zuko is long gone.

***

The room she brought him into was dimly lit by dozens of candles, their warm glow dancing against the deep red walls and golden details carved into the architecture. Expensive silks draped elegantly from the ceiling, and the scent of incense lingered faintly in the air. Every part of the room spoke of luxury and exclusivity.

This was clearly reserved for the wealthiest clients.

Or, perhaps, for the Fire Lord himself.

Yet despite the comfort surrounding him, Zuko felt restless.

His fingers tapped quietly against the arm of the cushioned seat beneath him before stopping abruptly. He exhales slowly through his nose, shoulders tense.

He disliked this.

He disliked sitting here, waiting to choose a woman as if he was selecting fine jewelry from a merchant’s stall. He had clearly asked for someone easy to speak to, someone capable of understanding him, yet the mistress had looked at him with obvious disbelief the moment he claimed appearance did not matter.

She had agreed politely enough.

But Zuko was not foolish.

A woman like her, one who had spent years surrounded by men and their desires, clearly did not believe him. In her eyes, men always wanted beauty first. Everything else came after.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the sliding door opening softly behind him.

“Forgive my late arrival, My Lord.”

The voice was warm and gentle.

Zuko turns with a slight frown, only to see a woman around his age bowing respectfully near the doorway.

You were dressed in flowing white robes that hugged your figure, the silk expensive enough to shimmer beneath the candlelight. Red fire lilies had been embroidered along the hem of your sleeves and near the bottom of your robes, their crimson threads standing out against the fabric. Your hair had been pinned up carefully, with a flower pin, exposing the elegant line of your neck, while your nails were painted a dark shade of red.

Zuko studies you quietly for a moment.

By your appearance alone, he could already tell you were likely one of the women the mistress had proudly spoken of earlier.

“Did the mistress send you?” he asks at last.

“Yes, My Lord,” you reply before bowing once more.

Zuko sighs quietly and lowers his gaze.

His reaction does not escape your attention.

Silence settles briefly between the two of you, heavy yet strangely calm. Then you lift your eyes towards him carefully.

“Is something troubling you, My Lord?” you ask hesitantly, noticing the shift in his expression, as you make small steps towards him.

Zuko offers a faint smile, though it does not feel real.

“Everything is troubling me,” he admits with another tired sigh. “The council. My generals. My advisors. Everyone is constantly telling me what I should do.”

You remain quiet for a moment before speaking again.

“If I may ask…” your voice softens further, “what is it that you wish to do?”

The question makes him still completely.

Zuko’s lips press into a thin line as his gaze slowly lifts back on you, unreadable confusion flickering across his face.

What did he want?

The question felt so simple, ordinary.

And yet… he could not remember the last time anyone had asked him that. Or anything that is.

All his life had been spent serving others. First his father’s demands, then his nation’s expectations, then the burden of restoring balance after the war that his nation started. People had always decided his path for him long before he could even think to choose it himself.

Nobody had asked whether he wanted to become Fire Lord.

It had simply become necessary for peace — for the world.

Nobody had asked whether he was strong enough to carry the shame left behind by his father’s actions. Nobody had cared how deeply his mother’s disappearance wounded him, nor how much Azula’s madness haunted him still.

Even now, sitting in this place, he was not here because he desired marriage. He was here because of Iroh. Because every time he looked at his uncle, guilt coiled painfully tighter inside his chest.

If he refused this final wish…He knew he would regret it forever.

The realization leaves him staring at you silently, almost startled by the emotions rising inside him from such a small question.

“My Lord?” you ask gently once more.

Another pause follows.

Then finally—

“I…” Zuko exhales shakily. “I do not know.”

The confession comes quieter than he intended.

“I never really considered that what I want matters,” he continues after a moment. “People have always decided those things for me.”

The words leave him before he can stop himself.

You look at him differently after that. Not with fear, nor admiration reserved for royalty, but with something softer and somewhat understanding.

Carefully, you lower yourself onto the other seat beside him.

“If I may speak honestly, My Lord…”

Your voice wavers slightly.

“I think what you are doing is honorable. Choosing the happiness of others before your own is something very few people can truly do.”

Zuko’s eyes shift towards you again.

“I think,” you continue carefully, fingers tightening slightly against your robes, “that perhaps you have sacrificed so much for everyone around you that choosing something for yourself now feels selfish.”

Your gaze lowers briefly.

“But I do not believe it is.”

There is something painfully personal hidden beneath your words. As if you understood the feeling far too well yourself and you your words weren’t shallow.

Perhaps you, too, had spent your life placing the desires of others before your own. Perhaps that was how someone like you ended up in a place like this — serving, smiling, listening, while quietly abandoning every want of your own along the way.

Zuko simply stares at you. For once, he feels understood.

Not as the Fire Lord.

Not as Ozai’s son.

Just… understood.

The silence between you becomes strangely comforting.

Then suddenly—

The door slams open harshly.

“What are you doing here, you insolent girl?” the mistress’ sharp voice cuts through the room immediately.

Your body jerks violently at the sound. Startled, you quickly turn your head towards the entrance just as the older woman storms inside, fury written clearly across her face.

You instinctively get up and step back, but she reaches you quickly. The mistress grabs your arm harshly before beginning to pull you towards the exit.

Zuko moves before he can fully think.

He rises abruptly from the cushions, crossing the room in only a few steps before catching your wrist firmly.

The mistress turns to him in surprise.

“Wait.”

His voice comes sharper than expected. His fingers remain wrapped around your arm protectively.

“What are you doing, My Lord?” the old woman asks, confusion and disbelief mixing together. “You cannot possibly be interested in her,.”

She gestures towards you dismissively, making you look down.

“I summoned the finest women in this house. Women even nobles compete for. She is nowhere near what I prepared for you—”

“I do not care about those things,” Zuko interrupts firmly. “I already told you that.”

The mistress lets out a humorless laugh.

“My Lord, I know men,” she says while narrowing her eyes. “I have watched them all my life. I know how ruthless and insatiable they become.”

“You do not know me,” Zuko replies immediately.

The mistress tightens her grip around your arm before offering Zuko a strained smile. One clearly meant to remain polite despite the irritation hidden beneath it.

“You are simply overwhelmed,” she says carefully. “This girl only got in your head. Allow me to present the others I prepared instead.”

You lower your gaze immediately, remaining silent as her fingers pull more insistently at your arm.

Zuko’s hold loosens slightly.

Not because he truly wished to let go… but because uncertainty suddenly settled heavily inside his chest.

Perhaps the mistress was right.

He barely knew you.

You had only spoken for a few moments, yet somehow your words had reached places inside him most people never managed to touch.

The mistress begins leading you towards the doorway.

You stumble slightly before regaining your balance, the silk of your robes brushing softly against the wooden floor. Then, just before disappearing beyond the sliding doors, you turn your head towards him one final time.

Your eyes meet his.

The look on your face is calm, yet there is something quietly wounded hidden beneath it. Not surprise. Not anger.

Just… disappointment.

As though you had allowed yourself to hope for something, only for it to vanish moments later.

Something twists painfully inside Zuko’s chest. His lips part slightly, the urge to stop you rising suddenly in his throat, but the doors slide shut before he can say anything at all.

Silence settles around him again.

And for the first time since entering this place, Zuko feels as though he has made a mistake.

***

The room feels colder afterwards.

Or perhaps emptier.

Zuko sits stiffly against the cushions, one elbow resting against the carved arm of the chair while his fingers press absently against his temple. Candlelight flickers across the gold details decorating the walls, while soft music drifts faintly from somewhere deeper within the establishment.

Then the doors slide open once more.

The mistress enters first, followed by five women.

Each one was strikingly beautiful.

Their robes shimmered with expensive silk and fine embroidery, colors rich enough to rival royal garments. Gold jewelry rested elegantly against their necks and wrists, delicate chains glimmering beneath the candlelight. Their hair had been arranged carefully, adorned with jeweled pins and fragrant flowers, while subtle makeup highlighted their features perfectly.

Every movement they made appeared graceful and refined.

Exactly what someone would expect beside the Fire Lord.

The women spread themselves carefully throughout the room, some pouring tea while others smiled softly towards him. One begins turning slowly before him, allowing the silk layers of her robes to fan beautifully, showing her figure. Another kneels elegantly nearby, adjusting a golden bracelet against her wrist as though making certain he noticed it.

Zuko watches all of it in complete silence.

He should have been impressed.

Instead, he only feels tired.

At one point, his gaze drifts absentmindedly towards the doorway where you had disappeared earlier. Without meaning to, he begins comparing them to you.

The realization unsettles him immediately as he finds himself comparing those women to you.

You had worn no heavy jewelry. No complicated hairstyle. No bright gemstones or elaborate perfumes. Your beauty alone was enough. Your robes had been exquisite yes, but simple compared to these women. And yet somehow… your presence lingered in his mind far more strongly than theirs.

One of the women settles beside him gracefully, offering him a sweet smile.

“Fire Lord Zuko,” she says softly, fingers brushing delicately along the sleeve of his robes. “These garments must be worth a fortune. The craftsmanship alone is extraordinary.”

Zuko glances down briefly at the dark fabric before giving a small nod.

“The royal tailors work very hard,” he replies politely.

“How many tailors serve within the palace?” she asks curiously. “I heard even the servants there wear finer silks than nobles from other nations.”

Before Zuko can answer properly, another woman speaks eagerly from across the room.

“The Fire Nation palace must be enormous,” she sighs dreamily. “I cannot even imagine living surrounded by such luxury every day.”

A third woman leans forward slightly.

“Do you truly possess treasure vaults beneath the palace?” she asks with visible interest. “I once heard the royal family keeps enough gold hidden away to feed entire kingdom.”

The women laugh softly among themselves.

Zuko forces a polite expression onto his face, though discomfort slowly tightens in his chest.

Every question sounded the same.

The palace. Wealth. Status. Luxury.

None of them looked at him as though he were simply a man sitting before them. Only the Fire Lord. Only the crown resting invisibly upon his head.

One woman begins speaking excitedly about royal ceremonies while another asks about banquets held within the palace halls.

Zuko barely hears any of it.

Instead, his thoughts drift unwillingly back towards you.

Back to the way your voice had shaken slightly while speaking to him.

Back to the understanding in your eyes.

Back to the simple question you had asked him.

What is it that you wish to do?

No one else here had asked him anything remotely close to that.

One of the women laughs softly beside him, touching his arm lightly to regain his attention.

“My Lord?”

Zuko blinks faintly, pulled from his thoughts.

For the first time that evening, he realizes he does not wish to remain in this room at all.

“Call the mistress,” Zuko says simply as he rises from the cushions.

The women pause immediately.

One lowers the cup she had been holding while another exchanges a confused glance with the others. The soft laughter filling the room dies almost instantly, leaving only the quiet crackling of candle flames behind.

Zuko remains standing near the center of the room, shoulders tense beneath his dark robes. His expression is unreadable once more, though exhaustion lingers clearly behind his eyes.

One of the women bows quickly before slipping outside to obey his command.

The silence afterwards feels unbearably long.

Zuko exhales quietly and turns his gaze towards the flickering candles lining the walls. He had tried. Spirits knew he truly tried to convince himself this was reasonable. Easier.

Yet every conversation left him feeling emptier than before.

His mind kept drifting back towards you no matter how hard he attempted to focus on the women standing before him now.

The mistress arrives only moments later.

The moment she steps inside, a pleased smile already rests upon her face. Her sharp eyes briefly sweep across the room, taking in the elegantly dressed women surrounding the Fire Lord. Clearly, she believed the evening had finally gone as expected.

That Zuko had simply needed time to remember what men truly desired.

And that he had long since forgotten about you.

But the smile falters almost immediately the moment her gaze lands properly on him.

Zuko looked neither entertained nor impressed.

He looked tired.

His face remained blank, though there was a heaviness lingering that caused the mistress’ confidence to slowly waver.

“My Lord?” she asks carefully now, the certainty from before no longer present in her voice.

“I would like to speak with the girl from earlier again.”

The room erupts in gasps and whispers from the women, while the mistress goes still. For a brief moment, genuine disbelief crosses her face.

“…her?” she repeats slowly.

“Yes.”

The answer comes immediately this time.

The mistress studies him carefully, as though still attempting to understand whether this was merely stubbornness or something else entirely.

“My Lord,” she says cautiously, “surely one of these women would suit your needs far better. They are accomplished, elegant, admired even among nobility—”

“I know.”

Zuko’s voice remains calm, but firmer now.

“They are all very beautiful.” His gaze briefly flickers towards the women gathered around the room before returning to the mistress. “But none of them have spoken to me as though I were a person.”

The words cause several uncomfortable glances to spread through the room.

The mistress narrows her eyes slightly.

“And that girl did?”

Zuko grows quiet for a moment.

His thoughts return unwillingly to the look in your eyes when you were dragged from the room. That small, wounded expression he could not seem to forget.

“…Yes,” he answers softly.

Something shifts in the mistress’ expression then.

Not agreement, but understanding.

The mistress remains silent for a long moment, her sharp gaze lingering carefully on Zuko’s face as though searching for hesitation. And she finds none.

Still, her lips press together slightly before she finally speaks again.

“My Lord… that girl is not exactly free to leave this establishment whenever she pleases.”

Zuko’s brows furrow faintly.

“What do you mean?”

The mistress folds her hands neatly before her robes.

“She owes this house a rather significant debt,” she explains carefully. “Food, clothing, training, accommodations… the amount spent over the years was not small.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “And unlike these women, she does not bring nearly enough profit to repay it quickly.”

His gaze lowers briefly towards the wooden floorboards.

Of course there was a reason.

Someone like you — quiet, thoughtful, strangely sincere — never truly belonged in a place like this. Yet perhaps belonging had never mattered. Perhaps you had simply never been given another choice.

Zuko slowly lifts his eyes again.

“Money will not be a problem,” he says calmly.

“My Lord…”

“I will repay whatever debt she owes,” Zuko continues. “In full.”

A quiet murmur spreads among the women still gathered around the room, though Zuko pays them no attention.

The mistress studies him carefully now, disbelief slowly replacing her earlier confidence.

“You would spend such an amount for a girl you spoke with only once?” she asks cautiously.

Zuko falls quiet.

Truthfully… he did not fully understand it himself.

Maybe it was because you had spoken to him without fear. Maybe because you didn’t see his wealth only, but his feelings too. Or maybe it was because, after years of being surrounded by demands and expectations, your words had felt painfully honest.

Whatever the reason was, he could not force himself to ignore it.

“Yes,” he answers at last.

The mistress exhales slowly, almost amused despite herself.

“You truly are a strange man, Fire Lord Zuko.”

He says nothing in return.

After another long pause, the mistress finally inclines her head slightly.

“…Very well.”

She turns towards the doorway before stopping once more.

“But before making such arrangements official,” she says carefully, “perhaps you should speak with her properly first.”

“That is exactly what I want,” Zuko replies immediately.

“I do not wish to force her into this,” he explains more quietly. “Bring her back. I would like to speak with her again… and ask whether she would even want to be part of my plan.”

Something unreadable flickers across the older woman’s face then, but she gives a slow nod.

“As you wish, My Lord.”

The mistress leaves the room soon after, the women following quietly behind her until Zuko is finally left alone once more.

Silence settles around him again, softer this time.

Zuko lowers himself back against the cushions slowly, his gaze drifting towards the flickering candlelight dancing against the walls.

Usually, he ignored what he wanted. Usually, he buried those feelings beneath duty, responsibility, and the endless expectations resting upon him.

But this time…

This time, he thinks he would rather listen to himself.

“I’ve got nothing.” You placed your hands to the back of your head, slugging back at your desk chair with a groan. Even after hours of thinking about your next issue, nothing came to mind. Utahime leaned over, peeking at the blank screen, watching as the cursor blinked. “Oh sweetheart, you’ve got writer's block?” You nodded, poking your tongue against your cheek. 

“I just wish I could write about something other than how to properly wax your armpits, or how to lose weight in 5 days. There’s real world problems out there that I would love to bring awareness to.” 

“Yeah well, this is a chic magazine, not a political magazine. Once you have your career and you’re out of this hell hole, write all about what you want.” Utahime reasoned. She was right, this wasn’t a job, it’s just a club that writes for the school. 

“Where’s Miwa when you need her?” Your voice came out in a whine, slamming your fingers at your keyboard. Utahime glanced around the room, looking for the familiar blue hair. “She’s late. The meeting began over half an hour ago.” 

She sighed, stepping back when you pushed off your desk. “Look what came into my mail this morning.” You grumbled. Utahume’s ears perked up, reaching for the envelope. Inside were two tickets to the world cup. USA versus Paraguay, middle seats, perfect view. “Woah ho-ho, what are these?” 

“Remember that editor from the sports magazine I had a drink or two with last week? Guess he mistook my kindness for flirting or maybe he really appreciated me being the sweet girl I am.” 

“Must be nice.” 

You both turned to the voice behind you, making you and Utahime jump in fear. 

“Miwa! Jesus.” Your hand grabbed onto your chest, feeling your heartbeat accelerate. There were dark circles underneath her eyes and the ruined mascara evidence of tears. “What happened to you?” 

“What didn’t happen?” She sniffled, dragging his hand over her stuffy nose. “He dumped me. Oh my god, he dumped me.” 

“Get her a cigarette.” Utahime whispered. You hurriedly digged into your purse, taking out the box of cigs, handing them over to Miwa. “You guys didn’t make it past two weeks.” You hit Utahime’s stomach with your elbow, making her wince. 

“I know. And it was the best goddamn week and a half of my life.” 

“What even happened girl?” You opened up your arms to comfort her in a hug that she happily accepted. “I don’t really wanna talk about it.” 

You nodded, rubbing her back. 

Then, she broke down again. “He said I was ‘too much’ and I didn’t understand because I thought everything was going great! It was great and I blew it all up because I moved too quickly.” 

“What do you mean?” Utahime rested against the desk after trying her long hair into a ponytail in hopes of escaping the hot weather. “Don’t tell me you said ‘I love you’, that’s common sense.” She snickered. 

“Well..” 

“Miwa.” You and Utahime scolded. 

“The sex was really beautiful!” Miwa added, as if that made matters better. “And I cried and I said it, it just slipped out!” 

“That’s why he ended it?” 

“I think. Or maybe it was because of the amount of times I called him while he was “busy” or y’know, it’s probably because I’m fat.” 

“You’re not fat.” Your voices came out in unison once again. As you continued scolding Miwa for her poor choices in the ephemeral relationship, a lightbulb turned on inside Utahime's head. She clapped her hands in order to get your attention. “There it is. There’s your page.” 

“My page?” 

“Uh huh. Think about all those girls on this campus who are struggling just like Miwa. Ones that have problems hanging on to relationships. You can write about these classic mistakes most women do that drive men away.” 

You stood up straighter, all kinds of ideas popping into your head. “That’s not bad at all. I can ‘date’ a guy and see how long it takes until he snaps.” 

Your friend nodded, squealing. “Yes!” She clasped her hands with yours, jumping up and down. “It’ll be titled ‘How to lose a guy in 10 ways..” Utahime looked over to her fourth wall, moving her hand to the side to picture the title. 

Miwa blew her nose loudly, reminding you that she was still here. 

“How about ‘How to lose a guy in 10 days?’ That’s the total you guys were together right?” You cringed when Miwa threw her used tissue on your desk. “Yes, that’s right.” 

“Perfect. Now all that’s left is to find the guy.” 

The windows in the classroom were open, letting the slight breeze pass in. Outside, a whistle blew along with some yelling. “I can’t focus with all the chatter, what’s even going on?” You all made your way towards the window, peeking out. The soccer team was lined up, some doing reps while others stood by, discussing some very serious matter. 

“They’re getting ready for an upcoming game.” You leaned forward, hair blowing all over the place. The field was buzzing with energy, cleats full of the freshly cut grass. Miwa walked away, crying once again. “I saw him just now.” 

“Oh my god Miwa.” Utahime followed after her. 

You stayed put, skimming through the small crowd until someone stood out. His white hair almost blinded you from the sun’s reflection. The guy was tall and well built, you could tell even from a distance. “What about him?” 

“Who?” 

“Number 10.” 

Utahime immediately groaned. “Oh absolutely not. He’d drive you insane before you even got to try your little experiment first.” 

“Do you know him personally?” Your eyes never left him. 

“Satoru Gojo. Went to high school with him, worst guy ever. He never knows when to shut up.” You finally left the window, deep in thought. “Then I guess I’ll be the one to change him up.” 

⋆˚꩜｡

The team was still outside having practice games, taking turns shooting at the net. A boy with hair thrown up into a bun kicked harshly only to miss, earning a groan from others. “Yo man, it’s like you've got two left legs!” 

“I’ll shove them both up your ass if you don’t shut the fuck up.” 

Yikes. You lingered a moment before going over to the bleachers. There he was, standing with both hands on his hips, getting ready to catch the ball. 

“How do you plan on talking to him?” Miwa leaned over to whisper into your ear. You hushed her, about to scold her for her attempt at whispering when suddenly, the ball came flying directly at you, hitting you straight in the face. 

A sharp pain struck across your nose, making you bring your hands up to cover it. 

“Oh my god!” Miwa’s voice jumped an octave, grabbing your arm to gently tug it off your face. “Hold on, let me see!”

Another voice appeared, one that was breathless and panicked. “Shit, I’m so so sorry! Are you okay? I have a super bad aim today for some reason.” Your eyes widened when they met him, it was Satoru, looking down at you with a worried look on his face. 

He was even more oddly beautiful up close. 

“Uh.. it’s fine.” You managed out. 

“Are you sure? You don’t look fine.” He chuckled, wiping the small drop of blood that dripped out your nostril. “That’s gonna leave a bruise.” If it wasn’t for your article, you would've punched him repeatedly to break his nose. “I’m sorry again.. Uh I can go get you ice-”

“No, no it's fine, seriously.” 

Miwa gave you a look, one that was urging you to ask him for his number or anything. “You can make it up to me some other way..” Your words slipped out suddenly. Satoru’s brows lifted. “Yeah? What way are we talking here?” 

A grin was slowly morphing its way onto his face. 

“.. By taking me out.” 

“Out?”

“On a date.”

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The thought was a dangerous one. You knew once you went into that rabbit hole, there was no coming back. But even though you were aware of the possible issues, you still plugged in your earphone one night and opened Twitter.

You didn't have the faintest idea on where to begin, blindly searching up 'porn' in the search bar.

There was no doubt about it — you got plenty of results back, enough to make you gasp aloud and fling your phone across the bed. Your earphones popped out of place and a fierce heat blooming across your cheeks. The four second clip of a man sloppily jerking off looped on repeat.

With a hand to your mouth, you shuffled forwards and grabbed your phone again. A different video played, and you settled against the pillows propping you up against the headboard.

This time — you checked the tags of the videos that came after. Clicked on a few. Cocked your head in confusion.

"PAWG…? Goonette," you mumbled to yourself, entranced by the new world you had exposed yourself to. The terminology was foreign, but by the time you were ready to get yourself off, having worked up quite the appetite for an orgasm — you knew them like the back of your hand.

And so you leaned back at last, thighs parting as the sensation of your hand slipping between eased you into relaxation. Your thumb hovered a thumbnail, pressed down.

Lo and behold — tentacle porn.

"Are you really getting of to that?"

"Hush, Ryomen. I want to see if she touches herself."

"Pah! Of course she will, can't you smell—"

You let out a piercing shriek. The sound of two distinct voices, one on either shoulder filled your ears. "Nonono, get off of me, get off of me—"

"Woah, now," the one adorned in white yelped, clutching onto your earlobe. His white wings ruffled against your skin as he hung on for dear life. "That's no way to treat an angel, is it?"

The apparently named 'Ryomen' scoffed, barely moving an inch as you swiped your hands over your shoulders in a poor attempt to rid yourself of the intruders. "No one gives a shit about your kind, Satoru. Now stop panicking, woman. We aren't going anywhere."

"Please go somewhere else. This is majorly freaking me out right now."

You were hyperventilating, eliciting a groan from 'Ryomen'. Satoru had fluttered his way onto your right shoulder again, peering at your face as you tried making sense of all of this. "What, don't tell me you're new to the whole concept of having an angel and a devil on your shoulder."

That earned the white-haired man a sidelong glare from you. His body was adorned in a silky robe, the right side of his body exposed. There was a certain mischievous look in Satoru's eyes, however — which led you to believe that there was more to the being than what lingered on the surface.

"No. N-no, I'm not," you murmured, rubbing at your temples. "But you're not— I'm not supposed to see you."

"Who said?" 'Ryomen' retorted, scowling up at you. The devil was also wearing a robe, but it only covered his lower half, whereas Satoru's looped around his shoulders. Strands of pink, dishevelled hair stuck up from his head in messy angles, and for some peculiar reason — he had four arms and four eyes.

You exhaled slowly and slumped back, trying to reason with the debacle. "You have a point but… this is not normal. Can't you go back to, I don't know, being invisible?"

"No can do, pretty lady," Satoru grinned. "We want to watch."

"Watch what?"

"Watch you masturbate, of course! That devil Sukuna over there has been waiting for a moment like this," Satoru cackled, rubbing his two hands together. Sukuna nodded in agreement, and it was at that moment you wondered who really was the devil between the two.

"No can do, this is my private time. Go back to where you were before."

"We have always been here," Sukuna chimed in, his pointed black tail swirling behind him. "You were simply unaware this entire time."

You froze in your place. Then, your face paled.

This… entire time?

As in, through your failed first dates? Through that one time your ex Naoya rubbed at the crease of your upper thigh instead of your clit? Through the numerous times you've gotten off to the thought of seemingly nothing?

You shrieked again, Satoru joining you as you flopped onto your stomach. Your pillow heaved under your weight as you almost sobbed into it out of sheer embarrassment. Sukuna, sick of both of your antics, tugged at a stray piece of hair. "Get up. Where is your dignity?"

"Gone," you wailed, nails digging into the cotton. "Gone like my will to live."

Satoru cooed, stroking the side of your neck and ignoring the way you shrank under his tiny touch. "Theeere, there. I don't know why you're so upset. There's nothing we haven't seen before."

"That's the problem! Oh, I wish you hadn't revealed yourself to me."

"Quit your sulking and get used to it," Sukuna grunted, now peering inside of your ear — just because he could.

You huffed, defeated. Why now, out of all possible times did they choose to appear — when you were at your most vulnerable? Did everyone have their own set of angels and demons? There were simply too many questions, and some you didn't want to know the answer to.

Satoru was still stroking your neck, pleased to see that you had calmed down somewhat. "Now, are you going to, y'know… get back to what you're doing?"

"Reeaal subtle." Sukuna shook his head.

"No. Not until you've both disappeared. Until then, I'm not touching myself."

"Bit dramatic, no?" Satoru sighed, clearly in disappointment. No pussy today, it seemed. "If we go away after you're done, will you touch yourself?"

Sukuna grinned inwardly at the lie.

…

"You promise?"

"I promise. I'm an angel, aren't I?" Satoru murmured deceptively soft into your right ear, lulling you into a false state of comfort. You nodded, chewing on your lower lip as you grabbed your phone and leaned back yet again. Sukuna was elated, leaning forward to look over your left shoulder. Then, his face soured.

"Tentacles," he spat. "My natural enemy."

"What, don't tell me an octopus kicked you out of heaven," you snorted, unplugging your earphones out of the port. Satoru tightened his lips, stifling a laugh.

"Do not bring that up around me, insolent girl."

"She struck a nerve, did she?" Satoru taunted, leering at the devil.

The two went back and forth for a while as you willed your heart to slow down. The initial shock of the two beings had worn off somewhat, but there was still a part of you that was so terribly conflicted — refusing to accept anything beyond the explainable boundaries of science.

Click, click!

"You think too much, seriously." Satoru snapped his fingers in front of you in an attempt to grab your attention. You glanced down, then at Sukuna. "This world came from plants and berries, and somehow we have Bluetooth — yet you want to question the existence of two beings who have existed in religious scriptures for millennia?"

There was no arguing when he put it that way. Even the gruff Sukuna seemed to agree, nodding thoughtfully. "Well put, pest."

"Thanks, sweetie."

"Okay, okay. Fine, you can watch but you gotta disappear after," you bargained, reminding them of Satoru's promise.

"Deal," they both said in unison.

With a swallow, you played the video. Hentai, it seemed to be — with a female lead already gagging around a slimy tentacle as another wiggled its way into her drooling cunt. She was stuffed full a beat later, eyes rolled back until the whites showed for dramatic effect.

Schlick-schlick-schlick!

As if having forgotten about the three pairs of eyes on you, your fingers were already circling around your clit, toes clenching as you stared at your phone — hypnotised.

"Look at her go," Satoru whispered, loud enough for Sukuna to hear. The latter's face screwed up a tad, in pleasure rather than annoyance. As if the mere sight of you making yourself feel good was getting him off.

Which it was.

There was a movement, two under Sukuna's pale robes. His lower cock twitched, followed by the upper one — until both stood tall, hot and leaking.

Satoru was warm in the face, refusing to let go of skin-on-skin contact with you. He leaned against the side of your throat, pretending as if he wasn't peppering the flesh with soft kisses that were too small for you to notice.

"Hah— shit," you mumbled sluggishly, letting your head fall back with a dull thud against your headboard.

One of your fingers slipped in, turning into two and causing your shoulders to tense in response. With a frantic rhythm, you thrust your fingers in 'n out of you — a chorus of garbled mewls leaving you

Safe to say, the hentai was long forgotten. The real show was you, and both the angel and devil were entranced.

"Atta girl," Sukuna grunted, eyes growing lidded when your hips jerked into your hand. "Keep fucking yourself like that for me."

"For us," Satoru croaked, but not before throwing the other man a glare.

You nodded, thumbing at your clit again before renewing your efforts inside of yourself. They watched as your eyes screwed shut, fingers desperately searching for that one spot inside of you that'd make you—

"Gah—"

"Crook your fingers now. Keep pressing."

Sukuna guided you through the fierce orgasm, Satoru having chosen to nip at your neck. Your cunt spasmed uncontrollably, body wracked with unbearable pleasure that sparked behind your eyelids.

After the endorphin rush had finished its round through your body, you lay there utterly spent. The two on your shoulders had enough of a mind to not jerk off in fears that you'd scream again — but they were undoubtedly pent up, ready to stick their cocks into either you or each other.

"Yeaaah, that was something. Phew," Satoru laughed, like he hadn't been on the verge of rutting his boner against the dip of your collarbone. "We should do that again sometime."

You grumbled, brows furrowed as you pulled your fingers from out of your panties and cleaned your hand on some wipes you kept on your bedside table. Satoru gasped in awe, eyeing the wetness that coated your pruning fingers.

"Fat chance. You promised you'd leave, so leave."

"If you thought he was serious, you are greatly mistaken," Sukuna said bluntly. You turned to look at him, one corner of your lips lifting in what resembled a grimace.

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not," Satoru beamed, as if the halo on top of his head was nothing but a farce.

"You're a pain in my ass, both of you," you snapped, hirling the balled-up wad of tissue into your waste basket across the room. Satoru merely hummed, quite pleased at the fact he managed to draw an orgasm out of you under his tactical manipulation.

Sukuna adjusted the robe over his crotch, not even bothering to hide his twin erections. "Not yet," he promised, for real this time. "Now go wash your hands, they smell like the tentacles you got off to."

"Shut the fuck up."

════════════════

It had been days, weeks, centuries, since you had gotten off since that day. That bastard of an angel was no worse than Sukuna, slithering around his words like the snake that got the demon kicked out of Paradise itself.

"Touch yourself," he'd coo in your ear. "You know you want to."

You would vehemently deny his allegations, turning to Sukuna for help. But he proved to be useless as well — dragging the tip of his forked tail down against your collarbone until you were twitching in mild discomfort.

"So what if he wants a show? You have given us one already, may as well give another. Slutty girl."

You wanted to tear your hair out.

That promise Satoru lingered in the back of your mind, broken as the two became a permanent fixture in your life despite your protests. At work, they'd run their tiny mouths, egging you on to get off. Stick a pen inside, Satoru would snicker. Sukuna would tell him to shut up, before offering to dive between your legs himself.

There had been one too many occasions where your coworkers would walk in you cursing at yourself, to which you'd have to laugh off the odd behaviour with a shitty excuse. "Flies. Headache, right?"

Disregarding the social aspects of your new dilemma, you also had no privacy. Using the restroom or even taking a shower proved to be a task more difficult than it should've been, with flirtatious comments thrown your way without a second thought.

"What big breasts you have," Satoru gasped, ogling over the front of your shoulder. "Are they for me?"

"No, me. Half-wit," Sukuna scowled, looking at you to see if you'd agree.

"They're for no one, actually. Now silence yourselves before I attempt to drown the two of you." You couldn't, you found out — after almost taking yourself out in the process.

A shame, indeed.

Somehow, your biggest worry had to be the fact that you hadn't masturbated in a while. Prior to the appearance of Satoru and Sukuna, you were able to get off a few times a week. Now, you were face to face with a dry spell that seemed like it wouldn't go any time soon — unless you gave in and touched yourself regardless if they were watching or not.

You were prone to snapping more at them both, and Satoru spoke out one day, confirming both of their suspicions about you.

"Jeez, someone's antsy that they haven't had time to stroke their pretty clit in a while."

"It would be a lot easier if you just went at it," Sukuna retorted. "You bought a cucumber, no? Just use that."

"My lack of apparatus isn't the problem," you bit back, flopping onto your bed. "I'm able to orgasm well enough with just my fingers."

"Yeah, we know," Satoru sang, reminding you yet again of how they had always been here at your side — even when you were masturbating alone.

Sukuna pondered for a second, seating himself atop your shoulder, legs dangling down. "Are you getting performance anxiety? We can look away."

His words were followed by a noise of protest from the white-haired angel, who was adamant on seeing your face screw up in pleasure. You shook your head, thighs pressing together. The desperation was becoming unbearable at this rate.

"I can't get off when you're both here, watching like two little voyeurs who have positively ruined my life," you vented, half sitting up now. "Every little thing I do is turned into something sexual and I can't have a moment's peace."

"…okay, but you literally moaned sliding in a sausage between a hot dog bun yesterday—"

"That is irrelevant."

"Is not."

"Is too."

Sukuna groaned, rubbing at his temples with two of his four hands. He saw a simple solution, yet neither of you two were able to shut up for a single moment. So he cleared his throat and spoke, voice bellowing louder than you had ever heard it before, commanding both of your attention. Satoru swooned. You gulped.

"Now if both of you are done, I would like to propose a way to amend your ... sexual frustrations."

He paused for dramatic effect, causing your face to fall into a deadpan state. "On with it."

"We both fuck you."

…

"And how do you propose you both do that, exactly?" You snapped at the devil. "Because that second get down there, my pussy is swallowing you both whole and you're getting lost in there."

Satoru sighed, eyes fluttering shut at the prospect. "Wouldn't mind that, pretty lady."

"Quiet."

Sukuna went on. "I mean, we could both show you. As long as you are up for it."

"Never. Not in a million years."

Satoru shrugged, leaning back on his hands. He knew all he had to do was do a little sweet talking, and you'd be putty right under his angelic little hands. "Suit yourself, baby. But… is it so wrong of us to want to make you feel good? To give you that orgasm that you've been craving for so, so long?"

You didn't answer, slumping against the warm sheets.

"I know you want it. Just let us take over, get rid of that silly ache between your thighs."

"You are far too easy on her," Sukuna rumbled, joining in on the fun. His breath was warm against the shell of your ear, causing your own breathing to deepen. "I am sure she would rather listen to how much I want to ravage her, stuff her full with my twin cocks and leave her screaming—"

"Tch. No thanks," Satoru butted in. "You have to be gentle with a fine thing like her. Make her sing out instead of scream, you brute."

Meanwhile, you were too busy getting hot in the face. You tugged at the collar of your tee, denying the fact that your pussy was probably clenching their names in morse code.

B r e e d m e … she seemed to say.

The devil and the angel noticed your silence, casting each other a knowing look.

"So what's the verdict? Ready to see what we have in store for you?"

With that, you nodded — albeit somewhat reluctantly. Curiosity seemed to win after all.

The slight weight on your left and right shoulders seemed to disappear. It was odd how any sense of relief you should've felt meagre, and you could only blink in the emptiness of your bedroom.

Before they returned again, of course. Bigger, better. The mattress creaked, and the sound of feathers ruffling grew louder.

The pair loomed in front of you, rather predatory grins on either of their faces. Sukuna's muscles seemed to bulge out, a whoosh of air leaving his flared nostrils as he seemed to flex the taut skin. Satoru was slimmer in comparison, but by no means small. His feathers spread out before him in full, ample pecs rippling with the movement.

"Wasn't expecting this, were you?"

Your jaw sagged. Not only were the men at full size, but their voices had changed from that incessant, tinny buzz in your ear to something much deeper, taunting.

Now, you weren't easy by any means — but the speed at which your legs spread was obscenely quick.

"Eager little thing," Sukuna crooned first, situating himself between your parted thighs. He was still standing, and his sheer height forced you to lay down on your back. Two of his four arms braced the sides of your head, and no porn could amount to the sheer lust present on the devil's face at that moment. He had been waiting a long while, and he wasn't about to shrink until he finally had a taste of the sweetness between your thighs.

Of course, so did Satoru. The angel's face turned, and he attempted to barge Sukuna out of the way to no avail. "Fuck— move, you oaf. Are we not sharing?"

"She has two holes, I have two cocks. You are deluded if you think you are getting a taste of her cunt any time soon."

"Sure," Satoru mumbled, moving around the bed and clambering onto it. He sat gracefully on his knees, manoeuvring your head onto his lap as he smiled down at you. "Hey there, sweet thing."

"…Hi."

"You want both of us, right? Tell me it's not just him."

You opened your mouth. closed it, felt something long twitch underneath your head. Suddenly, everything felt right, as if you were where you were meant to be with your angel behind you and your devil in front of you. It was only inevitable that you felt this way sooner or later — after all, they had been with you for your entire life.

A shaky sigh left you. "Yeah," you uttered. But that wasn't enough for the duo.

"Say it with conviction, little one," Sukuna hissed. "Say it as if you mean it. As if you would die without our cocks bulging you out from the inside."

"Please, 'kuna. Want your cocks in me," you began to whine, tone taking on a higher pitch you didn't mean to adopt. Satoru thumbed at your face, stroking your cheeks and raking his fingers through your hair — like he wasn't leaking under you.

He shook his head, speaking up. "And not mine? You wound me, precious."

"N-no, please. Need both of you in me. Please."

"Greedy thing."

And then everything shifted. Your head was flat against the bed, Satoru having straddled your face after shifting his robes to the side. Easy access, he claimed, giving you the full view of his smooth balls and veined cock — long and stiff to the touch. His tip was flushed, dripping steadily over your parted lips. "Say 'ah', pretty."

You opened your mouth, willing your throat to relax as Satoru slipped in. He let out a breathy groan, head tipping back and halo tilting on its axis once you hollowed your cheeks around his aching cock. Sukuna watched with greedy, red eyes — wanting the same treatment.

Satoru looked down fondly, hips moving on their own accord as you swallowed around his cock like it was almost nothing. You gagged here and there, throat constricting when he pushed in too deep. "Ah, sorry. You can h-handle it, can't you, pretty?"

A wet gurgle left you, your body rocking as Satoru used your mouth to get himself off. Sukuna was busy shucking off your undergarments, muttering to himself about how wet your panties were in his grip.

There your pussy was, bared out in the open and glistening with the result of the pair's dirty talk. Sukuna unconsciously licked his lips, lowering himself to a puny human's level just so that he could have a taste.

A fat, wet stripe of his tongue lathered your pussy in his saliva, causing you to jerk at the sudden sensation. The movement lodged Satoru's cock further down your throat, the bulge visible for anyone to see. He keened, whimpering as you slurped down what you could manage — breathing heavily through your nose. "Gonna cum if she keeps this up, ngh…"

"Already, Satoru?" Sukuna chuckled throatily between gulps. He was eating you out with vigour, spitting onto your pussy before diving back in. His tongue plunged in and out of you, lapping up each and every ounce of wetness you had to offer. "I did not take you for a premature ejaculator."

"Sh-shut up," the angel keened in response, covering his face with a large hand. His wings ruffled, as if imitating the twitches of his cock. Sukuna found the sight begrudgingly endearing, peering up through thick lashes at his partner in crime. Then he dipped his head down, letting out a huff of laughter at the shrill squeal that left you.

Sukuna had plans, which was why he was kissing your puckered hole. It was so utterly debauched, the way he circled around your rim before pushing inside with even the slightest warning. Two fingers scissored your pussy open with a squelch, digging around like you had done the first time Satoru and Sukuna had manifested in their physical form. Meanwhile, another two hands kept your thighs open, and a third joined in on prepping your ass.

"M-mmph!" You spluttered around Satoru's thrusting cock. Your holes tightened and loosened sporadically at the foreign intrusion, which you couldn't decide if you enjoyed or not. Ultimately, the sensation of the dual penetration had your cries of protest dulling down to something more husky, more receptive. "Tho pfthfull—"

"Can't understand a word you are saying, woman," Sukuna tutted, slapping meanly at your thigh. You winced at the pain-turned-pleasure blooming across your flesh. Satoru had your back though, kind of.

"Easy on the poor girl," he somewhat purred through his ragged pants. His hand was loosely on top of the bulge in your throat, hips still rocking feverishly. "How is she meant to speak when you're ravishing her cunt with your tongue?"

Sukuna pulled off of you with a resounding pop, tongue darting out to clean whatever wetness he could reach that had accumulated on the lower half of his face. "You sound jealous, foolish angel. Would you rather have my tongue in your tight little pucker instead?"

"You are vile," Satoru spat, stuttering through an orgasm. Sukuna watched, entranced as your throat worked to swallow each drop of the angel's seed. The dirty talk proved to be too much for him to handle, causing him to bow above you as he rode out the aftershocks of his sudden orgasm.

He pulled out of your mouth eventually, mumbling out a weak apology for the abuse he had laid on your poor throat.

"Compensate me for that, by the way. I think I hurt the pretty thing," Satoru sighed, stroking your forehead dramatically. You coughed, dizzy as the men stripped you of all clothing. An onslaught of stimulation made you shudder, breasts moulding to the shape of their greedy hands. Your back was against Satoru's firm chest, and Sukuna had taken it upon himself to sandwich you in between them both.

"Had you not cum at the thought of me eating you out, she wouldn't be hurt," Sukuna simpered, leaning over your shoulder. You gripped his biceps, eyes wide as the men 'bantered'. They were nose to nose, breaths mingling with each other until—

mwah!

You gawked at the sound, the sight of Satoru initiating a cheeky kiss first with the devil. Sukuna withdrew, shocked, before diving back in with double the enthusiasm. Lips collided. Teeth gnashed against each other, a sudden power play initiating where there was no clear victor.

There would've been complaints at the lack of attention you were seeing if not for how arousing this all was, seeing two contrasting beings make out sloppily, until webs of spit connected them both when they separated. Satoru pressed forward, chasing the strings until he was kissing Sukuna once more. "M-mmh…"

You leaned forward yourself, ass pushing back into Satoru's crotch as you nipped at Sukuna's throat — leaving a plethora of hickies he'd have fun showing off the next day. A guttural grunt left him when they finally broke apart, dazed as he focused his lidded eyes back on you.

"Won't you give me it now? I've been so patient," you pleaded, interrupted when Satoru turned your face to meet his.

He pecked you teasingly, squishing your cheeks with his set of long fingers. "Be specific now. Tell your dear Satoru what you needed from me properly." Sukuna nodded, disrobing. You tried to look, but Satoru's hand kept you in place. "Say it."

"Give me your cocks. Fill me up, any… anything. Please, I've been waiting," you continued, almost tearing up at how painfully empty you felt all of a sudden.

And then, a sudden pressure, smooched at your pussy. It glided up to your clit first, then back down before pushing in. A choked gasp tore out of your throat, nails digging into Sukuna's arms, shoulders, back as his upper cock pushed in. At the same time, Satoru eased his tip into your ass, a new sensation that had you wailing into the crook of Sukuna's neck.

"Shh, you can take it, can't you?" The angel rasped, shaking as your virgin hole tried milking him dry. He wasn't a cruel angel, mostly — which was why he waited, why he didn't push in any further. You nodded to the best of your ability, holding on for dear life.

Sukuna didn't wait, however. Your pussy was greedy, swallowing up his length which definitely had a thicker girth than Satoru's did. The veins were plump, angry as they bullied their way inside you. The devil's lower cock rubbed between the sensitive space between both of your holes — but you barely noticed when Satoru pushed the slightest bit deeper inside of you.

"Stop prodding my dick with yours," he breathed, fondling your breasts with the little space he had between you and Sukuna's flushed bodies. "You'll give a man ideas."

"You only getting ideas after your lips were against mine? You jest, surely," Sukuna questioned, perplexed. He thrust into you at a languid pace, the tendons of his neck stretching as he rolled his shoulders back to prop you up against him properly. Satoru merely shrugged, peppering your bare shoulders with affectionate little pecks.

"Talk about this when we're done fucking our lady. Look at her, sulking at the lack of attention."

"S-stop, 'm not sulking," you denied, folded in half now as the men fucked you at the same time. All words were thoroughly pushed out of you, pleasure brought to the forefront of your mind — until your eyelids drooped and the soft uh's that left you were the only thing you could bring yourself to say.

"The look on your face is rather— shit, erotic," Sukuna teased, throat bobbing when your pussy convulsed with an impending orgasm. "You're close, I can feel it."

"Already?" Satoru let out a quiet whine, coaxing another inch inside of your ass. "I haven't even bottomed out yet."

Sukuna had, though — balls slapping against the curve of your rear as he fucked you to the very hilt. The wet patch of hair at the base grazed against yours, the devil's hips gyrating in a circular movement. It stimulated your clit, making your muscles tense and relax repeatedly.

Satoru was shaking his head, almost to the point of tears when your ass clenched, refusing to let go. "Gonna cum, baby. Gonna cum in this sweet hole 'n lick it aaalll up after. You want that, baby? You want me to—"

"Quit your rambling and make her cum, fool," Sukuna gritted through his teeth, thumb rolling your clit with purpose. Satoru huffed, but eventually relented — sucking at your earlobe as his hips plapped against your ass. "She's there, she's nearly there. Theeere we go, see?"

"Cumming, ohmygod—!" You squealed, toes curled and a burst of moisture spraying Sukuna right in the chest. His pert nipples glistened with your wetness. It dripped down his chiseled stomach, all the way down until it splattered down both of the men's cocks and onto the ruined sheets below.

Only then did Satoru spill a hot load inside of you, eyes rolling back like he had been possessed.

It triggered Sukuna's orgasm, who had bit down onto your throat to hold his husky groans back — to no avail. Ropes of cum, bitter to the taste, filled you up from both ends. Cursed creampies, the devil would joke, had he been in an appropriate state of mind, but your pussy was hot and Sukuna was a goner for the way you clung onto him like a vice.

You didn't know who recovered first, only dimly aware the three of you were lying down. Satoru was barely conscious anyway, mumbling about how good you felt around him. Sukuna hovered over you, all four eyes on his release spurting out of you in thick globs. It took everything in him to look away, to not fuck you again when you were so clearly spent.

"Apologies, dove. I will have you cleaned."

But his words fell on deaf ears as unconsciousness gripped you tight — much like the way you clung onto Sukuna's hands, refusing to let go.

════════════════

"This one?"

"No, put that other one on, the one with the— yeah."

"Again, you glorified chicken? Homosexuals do not arouse me."

You sighed for the nth time that night, cosied up beside the two nuisances that had admittedly made your life much more interesting. Sukuna fucked you. So did Satoru. Sometimes they fucked you at the same time. Hell, they even fucked each other.

Long weeks had passed since your first time with the two, and honestly? Despite your initial apprehension, all of the embarrassment you felt had disappeared, and they no longer felt like a nuisance in your life.

Letting them introduce you to a new world of pleasure was certainly the best decision you had made in a long time — and all it took was a little bit of tentacle porn to get that started.

and you knew that that probably annoyed the shit out of him… but you couldn’t help it. 

megumi was written to be your shadow from the moment satoru took the both of you under his wing, and you looked for him everywhere you went.

“okay…” you pouted. “so are you.”

megumi snorted.

“m’not.” he mumbled, plopping down on a lonesome wooden chair that sat across from where you were standing, where it is every training session, a singular piece of furniture placed specifically for him to watch you fumble techniques, succeed at techniques, or if he was simply just tired and over what you were doing— your practices sometimes set in a dingy basement underneath castle grounds. 

“you know i’m not.”

“what? you are though—”

“does it look like we’re related?” megumi squinted his eyes at you. “the man’s hair is white.”

you pursed your lips and looked to the side, crossing your arms and huffing again.

“so.” you walked a little bit closer to him, defiance evident in your body language. “doesn’t mean you’re not a gojo—”

“you share his blood.” he slumped back against the chair. “i don’t.”

“yeah… but he raised us both, didn’t he?” you tilted your head, peering up at him. “made us both ice cream sundays for breakfast and french toast for dinner?”

his eyes flickered to yours with a blank and unreadable face, the two of you holding eye contact for a moment before he eventually looked away and crossed his arms, giving a singular shake of the head that read a hard ‘no.’

“he’s your uncle. not mine.”

megumi’s always kept you at a distance.

“so are you also saying you’re not my other half and i should scram? hehe?” you gave him a silly grin, one that made his line of sight slowly cross back to you.

you knew in your right mind that he was not a gojo like you were, that he was no where near being anything shared with you… and in moments were megumi denied every aspect of love and care that he received from both you and your uncle, in moments where he tried to keep you at an arms length, and you always stubbornly dodging his attempts to and agitatingly throwing your arms around him, somehow always finding ways to stay by his side like a piece of sticky taffy?

you were grateful to be tied to him still, for you knew that if it weren’t for satoru simply taking megumi in just before taking you in years later… 

you wouldn’t be tied to him at all.

and you couldn’t— wouldn’t imagine a world where megumi wasn’t yelling at you. weirdly so.

“again.”

“man!” you threw your head back and groaned, dropping your arms and letting them loosely swing at your sides. “i thought i was on break megs i thought we were having a conversation—”

“we’re taking this long because you keep blabbering.” he grumbled. “hurry up y/n.”

“can you say please—”

“now.”

“alright!” you spun around and began walking to the other side of the basement. “fuck man…”

“if you get it this time—” he called from across the echoey room, and you turned. “i’ll bring you something tomorrow. from home.”

“yeah like what.” you grumbled while lifting your arms, your fingers folding and hands quickly moving to try at a technique, all of your attempts still failing and ending up with you repeating them over and over. “how about you take me home instead of leaving me here—”

“nope.”

you were currently enrolled in jujutsu academy, a prestigious university that taught their students the academics and skills required to master all kinds of jujutsu sorcery, an institution that’s been around for god knows how long and ran by a bunch of old fart higher ups (as satoru would say) that dictated the future of the school and its students, and it was an absolute requirement that all students dorm on castle grounds for all four academic years. 

they dictated your future in particular because you were a gojo… for you showed exponential mastery in jujutsu sorcery that exceeded the level of skill the rest of your classmates took up until now to learn, when you had it down at the age of fifteen with little to no effort at all, the elders voting unanimously years ago during a hearing with them behind doors and megumi and satoru standing in the middle, that megumi would be the one to train you and bring your gifts up to proper fruition, for he was gifted in adaption and teaching.

because while jujutsu sorcery came naturally to you, megumi’s effort put him to almost the same level you were. 

your grandparents went to jujutsu academy, your parents went there, satoru went there, and megumi did as well before he graduated two years ago, now serving as an assistant professor as well as your private mentor.

“megggssss!” you whined, dropping your arms. “who’s even gonna find out i went home anyways? no one. no one cares.”

“gojo does.”

“just hide me.”

“it’s not even that bad.” megumi rolled his eyes. “i was away from home too.”

and you missed him everyday he was gone.

just like now, you looking forward to holidays and extended breaks so you could just be home again under the same roof as your uncle and megumi.

and you wondered if megumi missed you when you were gone too…

“okay…” you spoke sadly, lifting your arms again to restart the technique megumi taught you today. 

he sighed softly through his nose at your tone and stood, taking slow steps towards you while watching your form with a blank face, arms still crossed.

he stopped right as he got beside you. 

“push your elbows out more.” he tapped lightly underneath your elbow to get you to raise it. “hands closer together.”

you listened, adjusting your stance and trying again. 

“you’ll be home for a week next month.” he mumbled.

“shh megs. i’m focusing.”

the corners of megumi’s lips twitched upwards, his extended arm retracting back and crossing over his chest again with the other, taking large steps back as he watched you repeat the technique a total of six additional times before it finally came into fruition, a gust of whirling wind that damn near replicated a tornado with bright purple electric bolts twisting out from your hands, the cobblestone basement unrecognizable while you were both embedded in the effects of your sorcery.

your techniques were always way bigger and stronger than his… and he preferred it that way, so it would come in handy whenever you needed it.

though he hoped you never would.

you snapped your arms outward and the effects seized, quiet filling your surroundings the moment the wind and lights dispersed from your fingertips, your chest moving quickly.

“good.” megumi walked over to you, his footsteps crunching underneath loose gravel that no doubt crumbled due to the force of not just by todays technique, but previous ones as well. “you’re done.”

the technique megumi taught you today— one you learned and performed successfully in a day, was one that took him three months.

you dropped your hands with an exhale, exhausted from hours of doing the same exact damn thing.

“finally...” you mumbled, your tired gaze following megumi as he crossed you and sat back in the wooden chair, him leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

he nudged his head to signal you over, and you listened, happily taking little skips in his direction and stopping once you got in front of him.

“i’ll bring you red bean rice cakes.” he spoke lowly. “i’ll make gojo make them for you.”

you gasped, your eyes twinkling as you thought of your favorite dessert in the entire fucking world, a specific kind that satoru rarely made because each time he did he’d almost burn the freaking house down, but nevertheless came out oh so yummy and delightful.

“yes! thank you!” you gushed with a big smile, and megumi stared. “watch him though megs last time he actually almost set the kitchen on fire even though he’s supposed to just flip the—”

you felt a little tug at the hem of your jean skirt and you stopped, head dropping down to see megumi fiddling with it.

“you’re wearing a skirt.”

“eh?” you spoke softly, stilling once you felt one of megumi’s fingertips poke at your knees, heat rising to your cheeks immediately.

“y—yeah i am—”

“i told you not to.”

the bashfulness dropped from your system and your eyes narrowed, leaning your weight on one hip and crossing your arms.

“but i love skirts megs you know that—”

“your knees y/n…” he mumbled, sighing through his nose as his index finger lightly ran over the skin on your left knee, his eyes trained on your mini scars that you got from all the times you’ve ate shit, or carelessly ran about without any means of protection or awareness. “you keep scraping your knees.”

your heart fluttered a bit, fondness creeping around your insides.

he always did this.

“they’re just little cuts...” you softly spoke, megumi’s eyes switching up to look at you, and you sending him a sweet closed-lipped smile in response. “it’s all good i haven’t fallen recently—”

he poked at a particularly fresh one and you winced, a squeak slipping past your lips as he rolled his eyes and leaned back against the chair, digging in his pockets.

“yeah and what’s that dingus...” he muttered, pulling out a bandaid and proceeding to roll up the sleeves of his white button up, tearing the packaging open after. “stop wearing skirts.”

“no.” you spoke firmly as you watched him peel the backing and carefully stick the bandaid over the new scrape on your knee, stuffing the wrapper back in his pocket once he was done. “take me home today and i’ll consider it.”

“you’re annoying me.”

“you’re annoying me—”

megumi stood, the chair scraping against the ground as he stepped to the side and began walking toward the exit, you staring flabbergasted before you quickly scoured for your bag and ran after him, swinging it over your shoulder.

“heyy!” you pouted. “where are you going?”

“m’walking you to your dorm.” he plainly stated as you both stepped out through the doors, going down the long dark corridor that led to the main grand hall of the school, both of your shoes clicking against the marble flooring. 

oh.

“already..?” you asked disappointingly, walking a few steps behind him. “are you coming tomorrow?”

“it’s my day off.”

“are you coming the day after tomorrow?”

“dunno.”

“wha—” you gawked. “are you not a professors assistant? what do you mean ‘dunno’—”

megumi looked at you from over his shoulder before turning his head forward again.

“when they need it. i’m here every couple of days y/n.”

“yeah well i always have a crap ton of homework to do every time you are here so i don’t even get to see you.” you grumbled, rounding the corner with him and stepping onto the main foyer of the castle, the ambience quiet and dim with only a few students still out and about studying or chatting. “how do you get away with working like— below minimum wage hours? you’re gonna get sacked you know…”

megumi snorted.

“and you’re gonna annoy me again if you’re wearing a skirt next time i’m here.”

“bite me.”

he quickly turned his head to the side and pursed his lips, stifling a laugh as you both walked up the grand rounding staircase that never seemed to fucking end, and one you never got used to either no matter how many times the two of you have trotted up and down these steps.

megumi’s well aware that you’re too stubborn for your own good to listen to him,  knowing that the next time he sees you, you will be wearing a skirt with another new cut on your knee that he’ll need to bring a bandaid for.

“you need to work on your clinginess.”

your jaw ran slack, stopping dead in your tracks on the staircase.

“hah?! what the hell do you even mean?!—”

but megumi didn’t even bother to turn around, you hurriedly hopping up the stairs again to catch up with him, finally arriving to your floor and going down the familiar pathway to your dormitory, several students recognizing their professor’s assistant and greeting megumi as they passed by.

“m’not clingy…” you muttered, looking off to the side as you rounded another corner. “go ahead and go back home. see if i care.”

he peered at you from the corner of his eye, slightly amused.

“i’m joking.” he spoke flatly. 

“you’re not funny.”

“neither are you.”

“hey!—”

he stopped in front of your dorm and you faltered, having not even noticed that you were already there, and kicking yourself for complaining and fighting with him the entire time rather than spending it having actual conversation with him, not knowing when the next time you’d see him would be.

there’s been instances where you don’t even see him for weeks at a time… 

and it was then that you realized that maybe you were just clingy…

“stop.”

you snapped your head up just as embarrassment bubbled up in your cheeks, an evident pinky vibrant shade that only intensified the moment he plopped a heavy hand on top of your head, you flinching a bit.

“you always do this when i leave...” he mumbled, bored half lidded eyes staring straight at you. 

“…do what?” you asked softly.

“get sad.”

“oh—” you felt your cheeks warm up again, you blinking up at him. “s—sorry.”

he huffed a little breath through his nose and looked off to the side. 

“i’ll come soon.” he dropped his hand. “just wait.”

“…right.”

megumi flicked your forehead and you flinched once more.

“ow!—”

“stop.”

“what?!” you rubbed the patch of stinging skin as you peaked an eye open. “what did i—”

“you’re doing it again—”

“bite me!”

he choked out a laugh and you stopped, him covering his mouth with the back of his hand and leaning forward a bit, shoulders shaking and the corners of his eyes crinkling, the vision taking you by surprise.

how pretty…

it was rare when he laughed, and each time you were lucky enough to catch it was like ingesting ample fuel that served to get you through the rest of your damn life.

you giggled softly alongside him, leaning up against the door of your room as your eyes literally glimmered up at him, megumi settling down himself and lowering his hand, meeting your gaze with that same expression of just— nothing, but somehow it being just enough for you. 

because even though those expressions and looks of nothing were grumpy and strict… they were familiar. 

they were kind. 

in his own special way.

you gently leaned your head against the door and gave him a thin lipped smile.

“leave before i cry.”

he rolled his eyes.

“you’re fine.”

you quirked a brow and raised your index finger, wagging it in his face in warning.

“don’t forget my red bean rice cakes okay? whenever the fuck i get them…”

he watched you— the way your shoulders drooped a little more than usual, the way the crease between your brows hadn’t gone away since the end of your training session, and the way you still made no attempts at reaching for the doorknob to go inside for the night, all made his eyes soften ever so slightly and feel a feeling he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“tomorrow.”

your head snapped up from being on the door.

“hm?”

“i’ll come tomorrow.” he spoke quietly, reaching up to absentmindedly move a few strands of hair over your shoulder before retracting his arm, clearing his throat and looking away. “with the rice cakes.”

you stared at him dumbly for a few seconds, doe eyes blinking and cogs turning until your face broke out into the biggest smile he had ever fucking seen, you jumping up and down and squealing and throwing your arms around his neck, him letting out a little ‘oof’ in response.

“yayyyy!” you cheered. “thanks megs! i’m so excited! just text me what time so i can make sure i finish my stupid homework beforehand and also tell gojo i said thank you in advance for the rice cakes—”

“get off.”

a smirk slowly crossed your lips, and megumi swallowed.

“no.”

he placed his hands on your waist, and barely so… just there on the surface like he was afraid of allowing himself to fully touch you for whatever reason, and yet— knowing exactly the reason at the same god damn time, another thing he refused to acknowledge and only triggered irritation towards himself.

“off y/n.”

“make me.”

“i won’t come tomorrow.”

your hands shot out and you pushed him back, your eyes wide and pleading as you knew that whatever megumi decided he was going to say or do, was bible.

“alright i’m off! i’m off...”

you sighed, dropped your arms and reached for the doorknob, rotating it and just stepping inside before turning back around, half of your body behind the door as you leaned your head against the edge of it, peering up at him.

“bye meggy megs.” you spoke gently. “don’t forget to eat a little before bed… i know you’ve been here for a while.”

and amidst megumi’s trial and tribulations about whatever the fuck was going on in his head, and amidst all of his agitating thoughts that were everything just— you… his eyes softened, and he sent you the teensiest little smile that quickly made your cheeks buzz and blush, him giving you a singular nod.

“oh!” you perked up. “and water my plants please i forgot to tell you.”

he had been. 

since you moved into the academy two years ago he’d been watering your plants.

“okay.”

you nodded. “…okay.”

and without another word megumi turned and left, walking down the quiet dark corridor with his hands in his pockets and shoulders tall, his footsteps echoing throughout and getting farther and farther away, you watching him until he eventually turned a corner and left your sight, the familiar feeling of loneliness and missing being anywhere outside of castle grounds creeping up on you like little relentless bugs.

megumi always kept you at a distance for reasons he didn’t want to acknowledge.

and as he grumpily trudged through campus with his head down and mind preoccupied with thoughts that he couldn’t fully register… his annoyance for you only grew.

because it was like a block in his brain— stubborn and angry all of the time, and clogged up with fleeting replayed memories of the way you did your hair everyday, or the way you smelled like strawberry poundcake that was exceptionally intensified during the summer time, all notions that only further solidified his reasons why megumi wanted to stay the fuck away from you.

he wanted to stay away for reasons he didn’t even want to think about, opting instead to snapping orders at you, ignoring you, or just straight up being mean, it always earning him a smack upside the head or a scolding from satoru since he was a kid, and leaving behind a pit of guilt in his chest that he mistook for aggravation.

“how was the little miss?”

megumi placed his shoes on the rack by the front door and nudged his slippers on upon arriving home, eyes bored as he tossed his keys in a fish bowl and began making his way to the kitchen, crossing satoru as he went.

“fine.” 

satoru happily bounded close behind. 

“great! and how was training today?”

“slow.”

“slow?” satoru quirked a brow. “why—”

“because she wouldn’t stop talking and complaining.” megumi mumbled, bending down and opening the cabinets underneath the sink, rummaging through until he pulled out a little green watering can— setting it under the faucet sink and turning the water on.

satoru crossed his arms. “okay… but i take it she got todays technique?”

he nodded.

“you didn’t yell at her?”

megumi’s face twitched but he nodded again, switching the faucet off and trying to ignore that familiar pit in his chest.

“did you tell her she did a good job?”

megumi looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowing at satoru.

“i don’t need to tell her that—”

“okay so you gave her a little hug and a kiss goodbye?—”

megumi whipped around fully, mortified by whatever the hell was coming out of satoru’s mouth as he took a kitchen towel from the counter and chucked it at his face, satoru snickering and dodging.

“what?!” satoru pouted. “i’m just asking… can’t a handsome poor old man ask?”

“no.”

“okay but did you..?—”

“no!”

he sighed heavily and slumped against the kitchen island. “oh gumi…”

“what.” he grumbled, grabbing the watering can and beginning to walk out of the kitchen.

“if you keep being mean to her and treating her the way you do, she’s gonna end up hating you.”

megumi slowed.

should he even care about that? why would he…

why did he.

“let her.” he spoke, voice monotone as he made his way down the hall and up the steps to your room.

satoru sighed again and followed after him.

“i don’t think you want that.” satoru called out. “she looks up to you megumi she loves you and you need to be nicer before she finds herself another megumi.”

he scoffed, stopping and turning slightly. “the fucks that supposed to mean—”

“you’re without a care in the world right now because that girl puts you on a pedestal and you barely have to lift a finger.” satoru scolded, icy blue eyes staring straight at him. “and if you keep pushing her, she’s gonna find someone else eventually who treats her better than you do.”

“i don’t care what she does.” megumi spat, satoru faltering. “and im done having this conversation.”

“meanie…” satoru muttered through pursed lips, looking off to the side. “fine! suffer and lose see how that feels.”

megumi turned his back to him and continued walking when a sudden grab to the ankle staggered him forward, the sound of a loud heavy thump on the ground making him snap his head around to see satoru laying flat down on the hardwood floor, eyes desperate with a quiver to his lips.

“please gumi! let the light in! you’re the only man i’m okay with my niece being with please just give her a little hug—”

“—you made me spill water—”

“— or tell her she did a good job or give her a present for a successful training sesh anything!-”

megumi shook him off his ankle and satoru whined, face dropping flat to the floor as he sniffled.

“it’s no use it’s no use—”

“can you make red bean rice cakes.” megumi mumbled. “the ones y/n likes.”

satoru stilled.

“why…” he muttered, face still down and voice muffled. “you hungry megs? there’s food in the fridge—”

“it’s not for me idiot it’s for y/n.”

satoru’s head shot up.

“you’re going to the university tomorrow?”

“yeah.”

“but it’s your day off?”

“i had to bribe y/n for her to get the technique down—”

“yiiippeeeee!” satoru flew up and stood, arms out and extended as he cheered and bounced up and down on his feet like a madman. “i absolutely can my little gremlin! i’ll get started on it now—”

gremlin?—

“— and when you see her tomorrow and give them to her you’re gonna give her a little smooch and confess—”

megumi choked on his own spit and coughed, fist hovering over his mouth and cheeks burning as he stood there wide eyed.

“gojo what the fuck are you on?”

“oop—” satoru froze, gaze slowly locking on his. “did i say that out loud—”

megumi threw a hand out, exasperated. “yes!”

“who did?”

“you!”

“no i didn’t… heh.”

“yes you fucking did—”

satoru waved him off. “nonsense! go to sleep it’s late megs i’ve got cooking to do—”

“—watch the stove—”

satoru knew deep down that megumi did care.

because although through the years he’s watched megumi yell at you, ignore you, boss you around and sometimes straight up belittle you… he loved you. and satoru hoped he wasn’t mistaken about that.

megumi scolded you constantly but patched up your knees with fruity bandaids whenever you fell, megumi insulted you for being a scaredy cat but held your hand through whatever it was that you were afraid of, megumi huffed and puffed over every request you had for him and yet he’d do it— even if it was asking for a piggy back ride when you were too tired, another cherry bomb pop ice cream when you’d already had three, or taking you to the lake by the train tracks just a block from the house to catch fireflies— all through rolling of eyes and mutterings of ‘you’re stupid.’

he always did it. 

and satoru was a testament to all of it— watching behind cracked doors or hallways or secretly following you both for your safety when you snuck out in the middle of the night to the lake… and yet met with the sight of the purest form of love each time.

megumi keeping you safe.

satoru never had to lift a finger because megumi beat him to it. all of the time.

you: goodnight megs!! :D i hope you ate!! also bring enough rice cakes tomorrow so we can share >:3

megumi stared at your text message before placing his phone on top of a drawer, him stood by the window sill where you kept all of your succulents and plants, watering each of them like he did every night before bed, the sound of trickling water from the can the only thing heard in the room besides satoru’s banging of pots and pans downstairs, him placing the watering can to the side once he was done and trudging over to your desk chair, plopping down on it.

megumi: ok.

your response was almost immediate.

you: DAYUM

you: dry as always meggy megs… <//3 

you: but i still love you HEHEHEH

he swallowed, gaze trained on your last sentence as his thumbs hovered over the screen of his phone, his brain unable to compute a response.

annoying.

his eyes lifted to the picture frames you had next to your desktop then, photos he’s looked at a million times already, and not a single one that was without him as they consisted of the two of you throughout the different stages of your lives— megumi with a blank or irritated expression in all of them, and you with the silliest fucking grin next to him— his mind having difficulty admitting that you were inexplicably pretty and doe eyed and lovely, something that was obvious… but yet blocking each and every thought that tried to slip past the slimy barriers of his brain, him rubbing at his temples as he hunched over on your desk.

you were exhausting to think about, and it was even more exhausting to know that megumi had slipped up during training… when he succumbed to feeling bad for you over him leaving and proceeding to brush your hair over your shoulder— to touch you, the feeling of its silkiness still remembered by his fingertips as he slowly flexed and retracted them where he sat.

he shouldn’t have. 

he should’ve told you to suck it up.

megumi: go to sleep.

you: omg i thought you were ignoring me

you: hi :PP

megumi: go to sleep y/n it’s late.

you: BOO YOU WHORE

you: tell me you love me and i will.

heat rose up megumi’s neck and he rolled his eyes.

megumi: you’re gross.

megumi: go to sleep.

you: brat.

you: okay fine i will. see you tomorrow gumi :) <3

you: goodnight!

megumi stood from your desk chair and snatched the watering can from your window sill, quickly making his way out of your room and slamming the door shut, feeling like he was suffocating in there over his own stupid head.

megumi: night.

even though it was a well known fact that you were extraordinarily gifted and a gojo— something that was a rarity in itself since satoru chose not to pass down his lineage, megumi was the only one who knew that you were actually the weakest fucking person he had ever had to train, and the last person who should ever be put in battle to protect anything.

and that’s what he feared the most.

you were a crybaby, whiny, and too emotionally involved to the point where any time megumi manifested a faux curse to train your combat abilities, you screamed and ran two minutes in without even performing any techniques of your own to try and fight it off, him having to be the one to drag you back or kill the curse himself just to get you to calm down and listen.

your techniques were powerful, yes, but you weren’t— mentally, emotionally, and even sometimes physically, you simply lacked adequate conviction and resilience to be someone worth putting in the front lines, to protect an entire flock of your community and be the saving grace you’d been trained since five years old to be.

but instead of being put on this path of sparkling reputation, your family name had doomed you from the moment you opened your eyes at birth, and again when your parents died by members of the zen’in clan, you cursed with the burden of expectation.

because while everyone else saw you as a golden prodigy— the higher ups, your classmates, satoru himself… megumi saw a girl.

a girl too silly for her own good.

“don’t run!” megumi yelled, his booming voice echoing across the grassy open field as he heard you scream and hiccup, scrambling to your feet just as the curse managed to fling you back.

“kill it! kill it! kill it!—”

“no! i’ve given you enough free passes—”

“—eeeekkk!—” 

you squealed and flew across the lawn again, megumi watching in utter disbelief as anytime you raised your arms to perform a technique, literal pathetic sparks would electrify through the air and fucking disappear just as soon as they came, megumi’s frustration only growing.

at this rate, if the higher ups ever decided to throw you in battle, you’d die.

and the thought only made him angrier.

“y/n!” he barked. “get up!”

“i’m trying!—”

“try harder!” he manipulated his hands and brought out another faux curse, this time in the form of his demon dogs. “get up!”

you shakily got to your feet and coughed, sweat dripping down your face as you raised your hands again to flimsily try to form a technique, your chest erratic and palms trembling.

“megumi please we’ve been at it for hours i fucking can’t!—”

“do it!”

you were completely worn out, panting and stomach aching from all of the running and dodging you’ve had to do, you having only successfully gotten rid of one curse out of the eight that he presented you with, shame gripping your throat as you moved your hands and fingers again and again, dodged every blast again and again, and ran for your life for the millionth time that night.

“stop running!” he yelled. “how many times have i told you never run!—”

“but i’m gonna die if i don’t!—”

“on your left!”

you screamed and threw yourself across the grass, tumbling down a few feet before quickly stabilizing yourself and popping your head up, seeing the curse coming at you at full speed without any means of mercy or pity.

you hated how much you had to train, feeling like the higher ups completely robbed you of your college life as you had to do this almost every night for hours at a time, the only good thing about it being that megumi was your mentor and the one you spent those exact suffering hours with, even if you embarrassed yourself in front of him each time because you just couldn’t do anything right.

and you were scared… so god damn scared and nervous that the day would come where you had to face whoever the fuck in battle, you yourself knowing that you were too much of a wuss and just plain bad at combat to fight off anyone, your mind reeling with the constant fear of death that at this point seemed like a given for you, a lump creeping up your throat everyday that you thought of your sealed fate and leaving this world faster than you could ever think of.

you were ashamed all of the time, especially in front of megumi… knowing he’d put so much time into you just for you to get thrown around like a rag doll by manifestations of nothing.

why couldn’t you do it? why couldn’t you simply be brave? like megumi?

you shot a hand out and tried a technique one final time, the curse closing in on you and lame little sparks of purple emitting from your palms just before the curse suddenly screeched out a roar and flew to the side, disappearing into a mist of black until the air finally settled into silence— your hair brushing through the breeze and the sound of crickets ringing faintly in the distance.

your eyes slowly moved to look in front of you, your gaze met with megumi standing over you with the most pissed off look you’d ever seen on his gorgeous face, his hands balled tightly into fists at his sides that flickered with turquoise blue sparks.

he had killed the curse for you. again.

“get up.”

you sniffled and stood, your knees trembling as you did so.

“m’sorry gumi—”

“why do you keep running.”

you peered up at him.

“…i’ll die if i—”

“then so be it.”

your eyes widened, lips slightly parted in shock.

huh?

“i’ve told you this already y/n.” his voice was clear and stern, a difference from his usual moody mumbling and huffing, and you didn’t like it at all. “even if you get hurt, even if you die, you never run.”

he snatched your wrist and began walking with you across the field, his grip tight.

“it’s pathetic and you’ll die for being a coward and not someone worth remembering.”

you felt a pang to your chest and you looked down, tears brimming your eyes.

“you’re weak and your family name does nothing for you—”

you knew that.

“—you’re too emotionally fucking involved you cry about everything and i don’t know what else to say to you—”

you knew that as well.

and ironically if anyone else ever told you what he was telling you in this moment, you’d laugh and blow a raspberry in their face, not giving a single shit and going about the rest of your day as if nothing ever happened, as if no one ever insulted you.

but it was megumi. and your body stung all over with zero means of relief.

you didn’t deserve relief.

the sound of your little hiccups and sniffles made megumi slow, his long legs gradually stopping as he looked at you from over his shoulder, his eyes met with the sight of you hunched over and silently crying, you quickly wiping your tears but the attempts proving futile as the waterworks kept going, your frame trembling.

his gaze automatically trailed down to your knees, and his eyes widened at the sight of them battered and bruised, more than usual and injuries he knew a simple banana designed bandaid wouldn’t be able to fix.

fuck.

megumi’s shoulders eased from their tense position, and his eyes softened, letting out a little sigh through his nose.

“i’m s—sorry—” you sobbed. “i wish i could fight and— and listen to you but i’m scared all of the time and i don’t know how to— hic! not be—”

“y/n—”

“but i promise you i’m trying and i hate that i keep disappointing you—”

“hey—”

“and i’m so sorry that i can n—never get it right-”

megumi gently tugged you in and you paused, your face colliding softly with his chest.

he wouldn’t allow himself to hug you, as painful as it was. and he wouldn’t allow himself to let you stand there crying when he was the reason for it either.

so he allowed himself the closest thing to it— your face in his chest and the side of his cheek just barely grazing the top of your head, the hold on your wrist gentler… secure as he let his senses be engulfed by the scent of you.

of strawberry pound cake.

“stop crying...” he mumbled. 

you hiccuped.

“s—orry—” you sniffled and wiped your eyes, burying your nose back into his chest after.

he almost never did this— ever. only on rare occasions, and you tried your best to hold onto the moment for as long as you possibly could, committing it to memory and trying to bask in what it felt like to be so close to him, all of it setting a reminder off in your head of how much you actually loved him, as if you already didn’t know.

you loved him so much that it was ridiculous.

the way the two of you stood there in the middle of the open field, unawarely taking in each others scent that had always been achingly familiar to the both of you— 

like summer grass. like playdates by the lake. like melting cherry bomb pop ice creams.

like childhood.

the low ricketing of cicadas and crickets in the distance filled the air around you, light winds that rustled through the grass by your feet, through the strands of your hair and megumi’s, and through your tear stained cheeks, all playing a part in surrounding the both of you with the feeling of each other, of how you grew up as one singular unit, regardless if one was more bubbly and forgiving than the other.

it was always you and him.

“you’re too emotionally involved y/n.” he murmured, and you nodded against him.

“i know.”

“and you’re weak.”

“i know.”

“and you keep running when i tell you not to.”

“yeah.”

“but—” his grip on your wrist tightened a little, megumi’s self control bursting at the seams as he swallowed. “you’re not disappointing anyone.”

“yeah i am.” you pouted, nose digging further into his button up, your voice muffled. “i’m disappointing you.”

“you’re not.” he muttered. “you’re just irritating.”

so completely and utterly irritating that he wanted to keep you locked away— distanced from the higher ups and anyone else who wanted to throw you in battle.

but he shouldn’t fucking care about that he shouldn’t let himself. it was your will and what you were supposed to do and yet— he always ended up caring every time he saw you… one way or another.

“as long as you’re not disappointed in me… i’m okay.” you murmured.

megumi’s heart twisted in his chest then, and he nuzzled his nose further into your hair, eyes closing and heart beating out of his fucking ribcage, allowing himself again to relish in who you were… even if it was just for now.

“y/n.”

you shifted in his hold.

“hm?”

“heal your knees please.”

you laughed softly and went to look up, chin propping up on his chest as he reluctantly detached his cheek from your head.

“heh… you do it.”

megumi’s eyes trailed down to you and slightly narrowed, you giggling at his reaction.

out of all types of techniques there were— defense, combat, stealth, manipulation, it was healing that megumi lacked the most, spending hours of his schooling life studying his ass off trying to get the basics down, spending day after day practicing different restoration rituals and recovery spells, purposely getting paper cuts or bruises to test out his abilities and yet failing every fucking attempt, you stepping in instead regardless of his huffing and puffing to heal his little wounds.

that was the reason why megumi was almost to your level of jujutsu sorcery, because he couldn’t freaking fix shit, and ironically in more ways than one.

“ow!”

megumi had flicked your forehead and you whined, your fingers coming up to rub the reddened irritated patch.

“heal it.”

“obviously i’m gonna heal it megs the ball is tomorrow.”

he quirked a brow.

“the ball?”

“mhm!” you cutely smiled, your own brows coming to a furrow after a few seconds. “what… it’s literally the same every year how do you not know—”

“no i know.” he mumbled. “i never went.”

your jaw dropped. “never? not even once?”

he shook his head and you scoffed.

“laaameee. you’re missing out meggy megs! i heard the junior year ball is the best hehe.”

“i’m good.”

you sent him a silly little mischievous grin then.

“…that’s why you’re coming with me tomorrow.”

his eyes snapped down in your direction, a bewildered expression on his face.

“don’t be stupid.”

“i will be stupid.” you cheesed. “pleeeaaaseee gumi ill be bored without you… and i need a date…”

he shook his head. “you’ll be bored regardless those events are a waste of time.”

you pouted and attempted to pull away, but megumi’s grip on your wrist tightened and you faltered, your eyes locking with his for a moment before you gave him a gradual sweet little smile. 

“you don’t wanna see me in a dress?”

he paused.

“why would i want to see that.”

“it’s dark blue! with little flower beady things on it.”

“so.”

“so?” you pouted, your gaze trailing down to the grass beneath your feet. “i wanted your opinion on it…”

megumi swallowed, silence emitting between the two of you until he hesitantly lifted a hand, his index finger timidly tapping underneath your chin to get you to look up, you complying with wide eyes and a pounding heart.

you realized that megumi lately had been more affectionate with you on multiple occasions, something you immediately noticed anytime he did something that he normally wouldn’t do, tonight being one of those examples where he was kinder with you, more lenient, and cutting you slack over things he absolutely fucking should not.

where before he would put you on a time out for not killing curses like he told you to, or give you the silent treatment if he found out you were skipping lectures to sleep in, now for the past couple of months he was ignoring every sin you’ve committed and instead letting them go, which only made it harder for you to keep your big mouth shut and contain the doomed feelings you had for him locked up— especially when he paired his mercy with little pats of the head, wrist holding, or slight mini caresses of affection that could easily be misinterpreted as two people who were together. in love.

you were convinced he’d bite your head off, chew a bit, and spit you out if you ever told him how you felt.

but maybe… maybe he wouldn’t.

selfishly… stupidly… you hoped megumi loved you just as much as you loved him.