Inazuma Shines Eternal

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

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

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

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

His destined lover was blind.

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

A feeble little thing hardly able to fend for herself.

What good was she to a man like Sukuna?

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

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

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

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

Blind and a whore.

Perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

How could you live like this?

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

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

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

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

There was no harm in that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For all you knew you could look like a clown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a shame Sukuna would never know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sukuna had to stop his mouth from falling agape.

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

What would some blind courtesan know of tactics?

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

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

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

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

Were you really so talented?

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

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

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

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

The soulmate thing didn’t matter.

But he needed to meet with you all the same.

Just to sate his interest. That was all.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was more to life than soulmates.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no question in your mind as to who this guest was.

And to call for shogi players had you certain he was looking for you. Would he execute you when you walked into a room so clearly lacking in vision? Put an immediate end to the one person who could potentially stir his cold heart if fate were to be believed?

It seemed like the only reasonable explanation

The request to send another in your place died on the tip of your tongue as you once again tuned in to what the madame was saying. “...make sure you’re in top form, I’ve heard any who lose to him are immediately disposed of, but I’m sure that man will be no match for you.”

You wouldn’t send another to face their death. You were the only courtesan in the house who was any good at shogi, anyone else would certainly perish. This was a meeting dictated by fate and you had no opportunity to run from it. You would face him head on and deal with your death graciously, greet your end alone in the dark just like everything else you’d ever faced.

“I’ll do my best,” you said to the madame, and that was the final moment you had for yourself, your sacrifice sealed by your words.

The rest of the morning was spent in a frenzied rush, dressing you up and perfecting your makeup, turning you into a sparkling beauty ahead of your presentation to a monster. Based on the quiet nature of your handmaid, the experience felt more like she was dressing your corpse for burial.

Neither of you spoke such a thing aloud, but tears dripped from sightless eyes all the same when she led you out to the carriage, the madam trailing behind her, sending you off with a soft farewell filled with a sense of finality.

—

Sukuna had undergone an annoying few months.

Steadily, he had made his way, region by region, up to the north of Japan in search of a blind shogi player whose skill allegedly eclipsed his own. In each area, he would call upon all shogi-playing courtesans to meet with him and join him in a game, in the hopes that one day it would be you sitting across from him.

So far, he’d been unsuccessful, and had left a growing pile of bodies and burnt villages in his wake, utterly irritated that the thing he was seeking still evaded his grasp. No one had beaten him. A few had come close but none of them had been blind, so he could be certain that they weren’t you.

He was beginning to wonder if you’d gone into hiding somewhere, forsaking your courtesan life entirely in a bid to avoid him. It wouldn’t surprise him - you’d been in his body, you’d seen he was a monster, a fragile little thing like you was probably terrified at the idea of ever crossing his path.

Either way, he’d still persevere. He’d kill every shogi player if that was what it took to get to you.

He’d recently found his way into the mountainous region of Miyagi, where winter was in full spring. Taking up residence in the mayor’s home in one of the more populous towns in the prefecture, he once again started his usual process of gathering the shogi players. Word spread fast and droves of them appeared swiftly, waiting to be called before him.

It went much as usual, with boring girls presenting themselves before him and providing him with equally boring games of shogi. These people were painfully predictable with no appreciation for the art of the game - really it was a gift for him to steal their lives from them, because he couldn’t imagine living while being so pitifully unskilled.

The pool of Miyagi courtesans was gradually running dry and Sukuna was preparing himself for another disappointing journey further north when his luck finally shifted.

He knew he’d found you the moment you walked in through the door.

You’d stumbled in meekly, eyes averted down to the floor as you bowed low and shuffled towards the centre of the room. You were taking care not to raise your head for him to look upon, and he quickly realised you were making your best effort to conceal your blindness from him, like you could keep your identity secret that way.

It was a futile attempt, for the very atmosphere around you felt charged, his heart picking up inexplicably at the very sight of you.

To say you were beautiful was an understatement. Everything about you was gorgeous, from your soft hair to the striking intensity of your unseeing eyes. You wore the finest silks and they hung off you well, complimenting your figure. He found himself eager to touch you, to rid you off your lovely gown and have his fingers against your smooth skin.

But that wasn’t the reason he had come, and he would play you before entertaining any other matter.

“Sit,” he ordered, taking great amusement in the shiver that seemed to run through you at the sound of his voice.

You dropped to your knees on the cushion before the board, hands pressing against the edge of the table. It was the first chance he got to take a proper look at your eyes, expecting them to be clouded over, but taken aback by the lovely colour your irises still held beneath that mist.

“You’re blind.” He observed aloud, taking note of the way your teeth caught your lower lip anxiously.

“I see more than enough,” your response was guarded.

He hummed, a sly grin settling on his face. Idly, he wondered if you could sense it, because you seemed to tense up a little, fidgeting across from him in a way his traitorous brain seemed to register as endearing. “Is that so? Do you see enough to know my strategy before we commence? Or will you disappoint me like the others?”

“You tell me.”

Your words had his heart stirring against his will, impressed by your serenity before him, still sitting up straight and calm despite the fear he could sense within you. You were a woman who held confidence despite it all, harboured strength even in the face of your obvious weaknesses. He wondered what you were thinking, if you believed he was there to execute you for the mere transgression of being his soulmate.

It wasn’t a foolish assumption.

He would kill you without a second thought if you were uninteresting to him.

But he’d reserve that judgement until after you had played. He had been promised someone exceptional and that was what he wished to see, anything less and your blood would stain the floor just like every other woman who had sat before him. Would you still be so calm if you could see the bodies littering the room? He assumed not.

He wondered if you hated him, if you cursed fate itself to be paired with a man like him. Nothing about you gave anything away, all your focus fixed on the board in front of you, your hands moving steadily against the wood of the board, as if centring yourself.

“Shall we begin?” He asked.

“Yes.”

Sukuna couldn’t quite comprehend what had transpired in that first game he played against you.

He had approached things in much the same manner that he always would when playing shogi - opening strong and attempting to completely overwhelm his opponent, and yet somehow he found opportunities snatched from him at every turn.

Nothing seemed to catch you off guard. Any attempted play was greeted with an easy answer from you, as though you were battling a child. You were always three steps ahead of him, never hesitating in the shifting of a piece, moving with a certainty that had him transfixed.

He found that he couldn’t draw his eyes away from you, his struggle on the board forgotten at the realisation he’d been well and truly defeated. There was no point in struggling further - you had swatted him aside in the way that he usually defeated others, and you had done it with no glee or brag, nothing more than passive indifference once the games finally came to an end.

Your shoulders were raised, as if awaiting something you wouldn’t be able to see coming. A strike from him, perhaps? Or the neat removal of your head from your shoulders? The same fate of all others he’d played across the last few months.

But he wasn’t in the position to do anything at that moment, lashes fluttering as he stared at you, his heart hammering against his ribcage.

There had been no lie told about your skill - on the contrary, you had exceeded his expectations spectacularly. He wanted to play you again and again, wanted to witness the beauty of the way you played, wished to spend hours lost deep in thought considering how he could even begin to pick you apart in a match.

He could spend years sitting across you, gazing upon your lovely form while you worked away in silence with such unquestionable mastery.

No wonder Sugawara had been disappointed in Sukuna’s ability. He couldn’t hold a candle to what you were.

“How?” He asked, unable to think of another word to offer.

Your head was still lowered, eyes fixed elsewhere. He wished you’d look at him, allow him a clearer view of your face, but it occurred to him that such a request may not be easily granted with your lack of vision. You would never be able to lock eyes with each other - it would be something entirely meaningless for you.

“You aren’t all that good,” you spoke softly, a smile playing on your lips.

Sukuna disagreed with your sentiment, considering he’d never been beaten before, but perhaps you’d consider all his previous opponents to be genuinely pitiful at the game.

“So, will you take my life now? Or is that reserved for the losers?” You asked.

“To take the life of someone I could not best would be cowardly and pointless,” he said with a snort. “How would I ever grow to be better than you if I extinguished you from the world? Don’t be foolish. We will play again.”

And again you played.

Game after game until the sun began to rise in the sky, and Sukuna could sense exhaustion drifting through your fragile form. You were shivering from the cold, and he had Uraume bring in a robe to wrap around you, keenly aware of how sickly you seemed to look beneath all the beauty. You were setting up the board for your tenth match when Sukuna finally put an end to things.

“Enough. I would take no joy in defeating an exhausted opponent.” He rose to his feet, stretching as he moved. He wasn’t keen on remaining still for long periods of time, but you seemed accustomed to it, staying deathly still upon your cushion, uncertainty evident in your posture.

“Then, you will send me to my home?” You asked.

“No.” The word escaped him before he could stop it.

He did not wish for you to go anywhere, lest you slip from his grasp never to be found again. It was because he wanted to play you more, that’s what he told himself, but there was more to it than that, and in his soul he knew it.

He never wanted the image of you on your knees before him to slip away, never wanted to lose the pleasurable feeling of warmth that swelled in his chest with you there within his gaze.

“You’ll accompany me to my home, and we’ll play until I’m satisfied.”

—

Weeks had passed since you’d arrived at Sukuna’s estate in the Hida Mountains.

You’d been given no time to bid goodbye to the women at the only home you’d ever known, swept off in a carriage down south where you had to relearn your surroundings in a totally new environment.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time you’d been in the estate, but that experience made little impact on the ease of traversing around with no vision. You had to move slowly, fingers brushing on blurry objects shadowed in the darkness, hoping you didn’t trip over something or walk into a screen door.

For the most part, you were left to your own devices. Sukuna had spoken little to you on the journey home, opting to ride on his horse rather than in the carriage with you, and he’d been equally elusive in his own estate, leaving you in isolation for days at a time.

You couldn’t complain, for your days were spent in peace and serenity.

You would take long walks in the breeze of his garden, have his servants read aloud to you, and practice playing the erhu. On days where it was particularly cold and the chill seeped into your bones, you would remain in the grand bed he had provided and find greater comfort than you ever had in the old bed you’d laid upon in the courtesan house.

The only obligation you ever had to fulfill were shogi games. And during the times that he wasn’t absent from the estate, those would take place every evening, in Sukuna’s own private quarters.

It was an odd decision, considering that the servants played shogi out in the garden, where a proper table was set up for that purpose. But it seemed that Sukuna took care in ensuring your meetings were private - a decision you didn’t dare read into too deeply.

You didn’t dare read into any of his behaviour too deeply, lest you rip your own heart from your chest.

That first meeting with him had been like nothing you’d ever experienced - genuine desire overcoming you at the deep tone of his voice. Even knowing that he could cause your death with little effort, you couldn’t bury the lust within you, a fire that only burned stronger with each encounter with him.

It was hard to hold it together, to pretend that you wouldn’t fling yourself into his arms given the chance, but you tried all the same, keeping yourself distant and cold, like you didn’t dream of him between your legs each night, imagining the sound of his voice whispering sweet nothings against your ear.

Whether he felt the effect to the same extent you did, you weren’t sure. You were certain you’d never know. His interest in you was surrounding shogi, and shogi alone.

One evening, you were sitting across from him having played a handful of games, finding victory had fallen into your hands even more easily than normal. Sukuna seemed distracted by something, the sound of fidgeting settling in your ears. He hadn’t moved to start a new game, and based on the shadowy shapes in your vision, you could only assume he was leaning forward upon the table, bringing him close enough for his breath to fan your face.

“I killed today,” he said. Those were the first words he’d spoken to you that evening - you always followed his example with conversation, if he was feeling chatty you would indulge him, if he wished for silence you would give him that too.

You weren’t exactly sure where he was going with that statement, nor were you certain what type of response he was seeking, so you offered him a hum of acknowledgement and little more. You didn’t wish to think of the death that stained his hands, but nor did it build your animosity towards him.

To some extent you could understand lashing out at the world when you were someone so desperately lonely as he was. Part of you believed that if you hadn’t been so frail perhaps you’d lash out at the world for your own condition. His primary servant had told you he’d been despised throughout his life, and when you find only cruelty in humans it's difficult to cling to kindness.

Sukuna wasn’t so simple as a mere monster. You’d understood that in the day you’d spent in his body, and had only further confirmed it by the intelligence he displayed when you’d speak over games of shogi. He had a great admiration for art and skill, and had seemed rather taken when you’d recited poetry, responding with verses of his own.

He was a multi-faceted man, and much of what you saw only seemed to further your attraction to him, even knowing it was wrong, even knowing you’d be hated for it. For once, you felt you’d found someone who understood what it was like to be you, to be cut off from the easy lives lived by most others.

A soul that entwined so perfectly with yours, even if he’d never be aware of such a thing.

“Do you wish to know who I killed?” He asked.

“I know few people, my lord. I doubt a name would mean anything to me.”

“This one might. I’ve heard you’re familiar with Officer Sugawara? He’s one of the Shogun’s men?”

Thoughts of your regular flickered through your mind. If you were being honest with yourself, you were glad to not have to see him anymore - him or any of the other clients you’d been forced to take. Courtesan life had been difficult for you, forced into it thanks to the conditions of your birth and kept there by a disability that made it hard to escape the life for something better.

Life in Sukuna’s estate had been easier, especially as the weeks passed and you grew more comfortable in the belief that Sukuna wasn't going to steal your life from you. You’d lived in fear of Sugawara buying you out, of being forced to live like some doll in the house of a terribly boring man whose voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard to your ears.

“I know him.”

“Knew him, would be more apt. His body lies at the foot of the mountain.” Sukuna spoke matter-of-factly. “He came to claim you from me. I refused and we couldn’t reach an amicable agreement, so I dealt with it another way.”

You weren’t sure how to react, struggling to process the words. That Sugawara would follow you down to Hida already came as a surprise, you hadn’t known how deep his devotion ran. But somehow, you found yourself rather taken by Sukuna’s decision, by the certainty in his choice to keep you.

To kill a man whose death could cause him issues with the Shogun might as well have been an outright confession of love.

Sugawara’s death meant little to you. Men like that died all the time, and they saw women as little more than pretty objects to own. Sugawara had seen you as an impressive party trick, a clever cat rather than a human with depth and desires of her own. You hadn’t wanted to be his, wouldn’t have liked for Sukuna to surrender you to him.

“Are you irritated with me? When I controlled your body you seemed repulsed at his presence. Perhaps you have a heart too soft for blood and death.”

“No- I-” You hesitated. “Did you do this to protect me?”

There was silence for a moment, and you longed to see his facial expression, but were forced to settle for the hint of confusion in his tone. “Of course. I’ve protected you since bringing you here. You can hardly protect yourself.”

You couldn’t find it in you to be offended - he’d been in your body, he knew of your frailty better than anyone.

“Why? Just because you enjoy shogi so much?”

“Somewhat. Though I must confess, lately I have been losing interest in the game. I feel I’ve come up against an insurmountable wall.” Panic filled you immediately, mind running at a million miles a minute as you analysed his statement. If he was growing bored of playing would he cast you aside? What use did he have for you if not shogi?

But then again, why would he kill Sugawara if he was moments from disposing of you?

“Perhaps it is the fault of my own discipline, for I’ve found it hard to focus on the game for quite some time now.” He hesitated, and you found yourself flinching at the feeling of a soft hand caressing your cheek, leaning into it once you overcame the initial shock of touch. “It is difficult when you have a beautiful woman sitting across from you. It’s even harder when my soul calls for you whenever you're near, drowning out any thoughts I might gather of strategy.”

“Oh.” You weren’t sure what to say, wondering if you should pinch yourself, for many of your dreams centred themselves around such a confession. But the touch had never felt so real before, large fingers brushing against the soft skin of your face.

“I wonder if I’d be more focussed if I admitted fate might make some sense after all. I have never denied myself anything before now, and I’m tired of denying myself you. You have captivated me thoroughly, and I believe the hole in my chest was carved out to allow you to one day settle there.”

The words were by far the most romantic statement anyone had ever uttered to you. In your time as a courtesan you’d heard plenty of cheesy and affectionate lines, ones you’d brush off and forget by the time the client was done with you. Sukuna’s words would burrow into your heart and remain there for as long as you drew breath.

Could anyone fault you for loving a monster who would speak such beauty to you? Could you be hated for finding one who had been cursed by the world just like you had?

“I have no care for the Shogun’s men,” Sukuna continued, “in my eyes they are little more than flies most of the time, an annoying thing to be ignored unless they brush too close. Would it amuse you to know I killed Sugawara out of jealousy? To hear that my chest tightened at the idea of you being taken from my side?”

“Because you enjoy having such a capable rival in intelligence?” You asked, a wry smile creeping onto your face.

“Because I enjoy you.”

It was clear he was waiting for you to say something. The words that had poured from his mouth were unlike any he’d spoken before, and although you couldn’t see him, you could feel the sense of restlessness that gripped his body.

You would not leave him in uncertainty.

“I have only ever seen the world through your eyes,” you confessed shyly, “the only face I see in the endless darkness is yours, and I dream of it every night.” Sukuna’s fingers twitched against your face. “If you’ll have me, I am yours.”

“Even though I’m a monster?” He asked. There was no remorse in his tone, nothing to suggest that he was pained over who he was, it was just an honest question for you to answer as you wished. “You were scared of me when we met. I know you hid yourself from me after discovering our connection, eager to ensure our paths would never cross.”

“Because I believed you would kill me. I thought you to be a man who would stamp out any notion of love and eliminate me along with it.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, failing to deny your statement. You knew it to be true - if you had lost your shogi game on that first meeting, he would’ve done exactly that. It was in his nature to love only that which piqued his interest.

“Especially to be paired with someone so weak, I thought you would consider it an insult.”

He scoffed. “You are far from weak, I’ve found it impossible to best you.”

“I meant physically,” your voice went small. “I did not imagine the King of Curses would favour a sightless woman, nor one so easily broken.”

He was silent for a moment, seemingly processing your words. “I was small and frail once. Perhaps frailer than you. I wish someone had valued me then for my other virtues. I’m big enough and sharp enough to make up for your failings and you are clever enough to cover mine.”

Your mind was reeling at the idea of him admitting to having failings. Your heart stirring at his affection, and his easy desire despite your condition.

“I had not imagined a soulmate to be so well suited to me, for my tangles with fate have always been cruel,” he said. “But you’re something different, something I need at my side, and I will be your eyes, your protector, whatever it is you want in order to keep you there.”

“Oh.” You were positively blushing, whole body trembling beneath the weight of lovely words spoken in that deep voice of his.

Your soulmate wanted you.

A man hated by the world and filled with hatred in return had a space carved out for you, a space for love you hadn’t known him capable of.

You’d loved him from the first time you’d met him, drawn to him by an inexplicable force which seemed to grip him just as hard.

Soulmates really were wonderful.

Silence had settled between the two of you, only broken as the table screeched across the floor, the barrier between you removed. Sukuna shifted forward and an arm came to rest around your smaller body, pulling you towards him. His lips pressed against yours in a kiss you could only describe as sweet.

He didn’t dominate you in the manner you believed a man like him would, instead he took his time, mapping out your lips and drawing you closer to him, letting you bathe in the warmth of his body against yours. It was almost like he was trying not to scare you, aware that you couldn’t see anything he was doing and trying to move slowly as a result.

You wouldn’t have minded either way, your fingers clinging to the biceps of his upper arms, desperate for more of a touch you’d only ever dreamed of.

People always said that to finally touch your soulmate was a euphoria like nothing else, and you truly believed them to be right. Your head felt like it was swimming, chest swelling as if Sukuna’s own soul had wriggled beneath your skin to intertwine with your own.

It was a little overwhelming.

“How I long for you,” he murmured against your ear, breaking the kiss. “I was foolish to have not had you the moment I laid eyes on you, I’ve ached for your touch longer than I care to admit.”

His fingers moved down to your robes, and your breath hitched at the touch. You were no stranger to sex, your job had required it, but the feeling as he undressed you wasn’t like any previous encounter you’d had. What regulars thought of your body was insignificant to you, sex was nothing special with them, just something you had to do if you wished to make a living wage.

This was the first time you’d ever been touched for free by someone you desired, and you felt suddenly nervous at your frail body being judged beneath his crimson gaze - especially when you couldn’t look upon him in the same moment. There was no distraction in the darkness to keep you from worrying about how his gaze might burn through you, imagining discontent on his handsome face.

A cold chill caught you once your robes fell, leaving you kneeling and exposed in front of him. A soft breath fell from his lips, fingers moving delicately from your shoulders down to your breasts, as if checking you were truly real and there before him. More heat flooded you as his finger brushed over your peaked nipple.

“Beautiful. If I didn’t despise the idea of sharing you with another I would paint you like this. Your body is worthy of that reverence.”

“I think my mind is probably more splendid.” You confessed. You had no eyes for awareness of your appearance, and had subsequently never really relied on it. People had said you were lovely, but you could never quite believe it, assuming that they were taking pity on you for your blindness.

“Your mind is exceptional. If I cannot beat you at shogi soon I have half a mind to ask you to assist me with real life strategy,” he said with a chuckle, fingers still trailing a slow path down your body. “But it doesn’t make your body any less lovely, and you cannot deny such things since you’ve never seen yourself. Let me be your eyes and tell you that you are breathtaking.”

A shyness overcame you at those words, head angled downwards as if it would hide your blushing state from him. He raised your chin with a finger, his nose bumping yours before capturing your mouth in a kiss once more, bringing you close against his bare chest. You were so lost in the comfort of the kiss, that you found yourself completely caught off guard when something wet swiped against your stomach and breasts.

Flinching in surprise, you drew yourself back in an attempt to understand what was happening. Sukuna laughed, a hand moving into your hair comfortingly. “It's my tongue,” he spoke easily.

Frowning, you found that his answer didn’t make sense, because still the wet appendage explored your breasts, sending your heartrate flying as it flicked against your nipple with impressive accuracy. How could he be speaking but also doing that?

“There’s a mouth on my stomach. Perhaps you didn’t notice when you controlled my body.”

You were ashamed to admit you hadn’t noticed such a thing. Sukuna had been naked when you’d awoken in his body, and you’d been quick to dress him up in robes, feeling rude to intrude upon the body of another without consent. You’d very intentionally not paid too much attention to the workings of his body, not when the first thing you’d seen was the oddity he sported between his legs.

The memory that he had two of what most men only had one, suddenly had you feeling a little nervous in your position. You had no time to voice such nervousness before he was picking you up, allowing his second tongue to continue its onslaught while he carried you over to the bed, depositing you down upon the silk.

His weight moved on top of you, and he swallowed a gasp with his lips as his monstrous tongue shifted its attention from your breasts down to between your legs, dexterously finding a path between your things and lathering your pussy with attention while Sukuna consumed your mouth. Tears pricked in your eyes at the sensation, unaccustomed to a feeling like that.

In all your years as a courtesan, you’d never been eaten out. Men didn’t come to brothels to serve women, they came to have their own needs attended to, and you’d done that in whichever manner they desired. You were grateful to have never experienced that feeling before, because it was a blessing to have Sukuna be your first.

Pressure built in your stomach over a series of minutes, overwhelmed by the way he seemed to be everywhere. A tongue between your lips, another between your thighs, hands squeezing your breasts, tweaking your nipples, more hands gripping your hips, pulling you up onto his secondary tongue to allow it a better angle to overwhelm you.

For the first time, you started to understand how Sukuna must feel whenever he played you at shogi - stumbling blindly in the dark whilst overcome from all angles with no means of knowing what was going to come next. It was pleasure in its highest form, and you were quick to cum with a yelp of his name, tears dripping from the corners of your eyes.

Sukuna broke the kiss, breathing heavily against your ear. It was a sound you enjoyed, one you could listen to all day if he’d allow you. “I have imagined you beneath me like this every night this week,” he mused, “my imagination is hardly as pleasant as having the real thing. You taste much sweeter than my mind could conjure.”

Again, you were flushing red. “Y-you can taste me through…that?”

“Of course.” You were certain he was grinning, “And I’m glad that I can.” His secondary tongue was still moving slowly through your folds, lapping up the remnants of your first orgasm, teasingly flicking against your clit and making your shudder.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, breathing quietly together. You weren’t sure what Sukuna wanted to do next, but for a moment you were happy to savor the warmth of his heavy body, twitching while he lazily continued his attention to your body. How you longed to see him, eager to witness the expression he was wearing while he attended to you.

All you had to go off was the erratic beating of his heart where his chest was pressed against you.

“Let me have you,” he murmured against your ear. “Let me make you mine.”

“I’m already yours.”

“Is that so? Then let me make it official.”

He shifted atop you, withdrawing his secondary tongue. In the absence of that heat between your thighs, you grew suddenly aware of a heavy pressure against your leg. Your mind jumped to the image of his cocks that you’d filed away in the back of your mind, gut twisting at the thought of either one of them pressing into you.

Sukuna chuckled from above you, a hand coming to stroke your hair. “You’ve seen them, haven’t you?”

You nodded.

“I can tell, you’ve got that scared little look on your face. It’s fascinating, when you play shogi you’re unreadable, but outside of that? You’re practically an open book with your emotions always written across your face.”

Pouting, you let humiliation wash over you. Nobody had ever told you that before. It was hard to guard one's emotions when you had no measure of how the faces of others looked. That was something you’d have to work on. At least you had the good sense to give nothing away when you played shogi.

Another laugh echoed from his lips. “Even now I can see your panic. It’s very endearing.”

Any protest or response you had for him faded away into the recesses of your brain as he shuffled on top of you. He maneuvered you carefully into a new position, raising your legs and placing them up atop his broad shoulders. You were grateful for your flexibility in that moment, because the size difference between the two of you made that no easy task.

Sukuna was watching you from above while he positioned one of his cocks between your legs, running it steadily through your wet folds in a way that had you shivering with desire, still not fully recovered from the actions of his tongue. You were quick to discover that his focus was on his lower cock, as the upper one bumped pleasurably against your clit.

“You know,” he mused, stilling his movements. “I’m surprised you struck no deal with me. It is what I had imagined you would do.”

“What?”

“I’d assumed I would ask for more and you would refuse me. I’d thought your respect was tied to shogi, that you would refuse anything from me unless I was capable of beating you.” Your mind moved to Sugawara as you connected the dots. Sukuna believed you’d made that deal before, as if that tiresome Official hadn’t dictated those rules of his own choosing.

Shogi was a game you adored, mainly because it was an activity you could excel at even without sight, unlike many other courtesan pastimes such as painting, which would forever be an impossibility for you. But it was by no means something you made all your decisions on, nor were you particularly interested in the skill of others.

If someone could defeat you, you would congratulate them for their win and move on, it would ultimately mean little.

To you, it was little more than a game. To various men, it seemed to be something held in much higher regard - a true mark of intelligence rather than a game for which one could learn and remember strategies to allow them a win.

It mattered little to you whether Sukuna could defeat you or not. Your affection for him wasn’t tied to it in any manner.

“To make such a demand would be wasting my own time. Why would I turn down a man I desire over something so trivial? Besides, my bet with Sugawara was made to ensure I never had to lay with him, that is not the fate I want for us.”

“So you believe I am incapable of winning?” He asked, with greater disappointment than you’d been expecting.

“I do,” you said with a giggle, “just as I am incapable of emerging victorious in a battle. We all have our strengths.”

A yelp fell from you as he pushed the tip of his cock into you, catching you unawares. “Yeah?” He asked, pressing deeper into you, his fingers tangling tightly into your hair. “Rather sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t help but laugh again - even in the midst of the dull pain of him driving into you, there was something so endearingly pathetic about his words.

“I am. But you’re free to challenge me whenever you like.”

He was silent as he bottomed out inside of you, his face falling to your neck and leaving a trail of kisses and bites along your skin while he allowed you some time to adjust. You were grateful for his consideration of your wellbeing, fingers digging into his skin, your gut aching as he leaned forwards over you, pushing your legs higher on his shoulders.

There was no question that he was the largest man you’d ever had inside you, practically tearing you apart with his intrusion, but after a few minutes of stillness you found yourself able to relax, the panic exhibited by your body slowly dissipating as you accommodated his size.

“I will challenge you whenever I like,” he whispered against your ear. “After this, the cloud of lust you’ve placed in my mind will be thinner, and I will beat you with ease.”

“Oh, I’m sure-”

Your snarky response was promptly cut off as he withdrew himself from you, only to swiftly fill you up once more, pulling a desperate cry of his name from your lips. There was no second adjustment period given, instead you found yourself clinging on for dear life as he filled you over and over again with swift and deep thrusts that had your eyes rolling back.

One of his hands moved to your stomach, pressing down against the bulge where his cock would press up inside you. It was clear he was fascinated by it, finding great enjoyment in you being claimed by him. You were certain he was no virgin, but it seemed that you were the first woman who meant something to him, the first one who was worth something beyond carnal pleasure.

Legs quivering beneath the weight of his thrusts, you appreciated the way two of his hands came to rest on your thighs, keeping you steady with each brutal snap of his hips. You were crying and whining, your hands blindly reaching for him but finding him just out of range in this position. Seemingly to appease you, he leant further forward, really testing the flexibility of your legs as he practically folded you in half.

Lips pressed against your forehead affectionately, and you enjoyed every single second of his attention, mind floating off on a cloud as your gut tightened with each careful stroke, your walls flexing around his cock. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, a feeling only heightened by the erratic contact of his higher cock rubbing up against your clit.

“You feel so good, fuck. I can’t last like this,” he grumbled, never losing pace. It stroked your ego to know of his desire, to understand just how much he’d been holding back since your first meeting. It was everything you imagined the joining of two soulmates would be - desperately euphoric and overflowing with pleasure.

Sex had never felt so good, it had never really felt good at all, and yet you could spend eternity with Sukuna buried inside of you, your bodies and souls joined just as they were always meant to be.

He was yours and you were his. It was just as fate had decreed.

There was nothing stopping the scream that ripped through you as you finally teetered over the edge, your body convulsing in pleasure and clamping down on Sukuna’s thick cock, eager to milk him for all he was worth. You were sobbing his name and writhing against the silk sheets, your hands gripping them desperately in an attempt to anchor yourself to something in the throes of pleasure.

Sukuna couldn’t hold on long after that either, spilling into you with a warmth that only heightened your pleasure. His other cock found its release at the same time, cum dripping down onto your stomach in a manner that you’d usually find disgusting, if it weren’t your soulmate who was doing it to you. He groaned your name quietly, and let your legs fall from his shoulders.

Without the barrier of your thighs, he settled himself down on top of you, pressing kisses all over your face, his cock still twitching inside your exhausted pussy. You let him lather you with affection, still trying to come to terms with this side of Sukuna. It had been what you’d wanted, what you believed he was capable of, but you hadn’t dreamed it would truly happen.

The most you believed you’d get from him was a lifetime of shogi matches, in which the two of you would remain close but never cross the line you’d been so desperate to leap across.

“Has the fog of lust lifted?” You teased. “Do you believe now you can defeat me?”

Sukuna let out a low, rumbling chuckle. “Perhaps we will have to do that a few more times for it to fully ease.”

“Oh is that so?” You giggled, reaching out for his hair. He gripped your wrist and moved it into position, allowing you to play with the soft locks you’d been so eager to touch since the first time you’d seen them upon his head.

You wished you could gaze upon that lovely shade of pink once more, but it was enough to know he was there before you, yours to touch as you pleased.

“Mmm, I think it would help,” he purred.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”

You’d give him whatever he wanted. You were his and he was yours for as long as he’d have you.

a/n: I had so much fun writing this one! thinking about doing one soulmate au for each of the jjk men because I find them so enjoyable to play with <3

anyway, for any crazy in love fans, the next chapter will be out towards the end of this week!

perma taglist: @calicatzz @suzunu @winkii @sukubusss @bobis-notmylover @tetsuski @torupilled @brattyxackerman @r0vena @chaos-4baby @moonlitreveri3 @feyrinnn @strawberryrosey @creamofsneky-blog @zeeseekay @p1nkfl0wers @apricityn @keiiiluv @dogggggggblog-kaye @duckie3801 @lav4mpira @seellove @cutesytwt @gojodickbig @yuujispinkhair @somos-things @yeagersss @paradisestarfishh @jennilynn63 @tthhaattgguuyy27 @bexxli @being-blue-is-better @tisuruxx @juliarchiv3s @dishs0pe @plutoxxxworld @5kkalara @serenadesvt @00frenchfries00 @warriorofenlightenment @scarlet-issilly @himbosexual @pousivuitton @ksjtozaki @certainfanpoetry @gojoscumslut @ynishalee @nakiich

His hair is freshly trimmed, the ash blond strands still slightly damp from his shower, pushed back messily from his forehead. The sleeves of his black compression shirt cling to his shoulders and arms while the expensive button-up he plans on wearing hangs neatly from the bathroom door beside pressed slacks he spent way too long picking out earlier. Even his watch sits carefully beside the sink instead of abandoned somewhere random like usual. The entire thing feels too deliberate. Too polished. Too much like he gives a shit.

Which he doesn’t.

Obviously.

Except his stomach has felt weird since he woke up this morning.

Not nervous. Definitely not nervous. 

He can’t pinpoint the exact moment he clocked off hero work or how much time he spent at the gym so he could show off a pump tonight, nor can he try to convince himself it isn’t for the reason he doesn’t want to admit. He just wants to look good.

And that’s it. Simple as it sounds. No reason for him to choke on stuttering breaths.

The razor scrapes harder against his jaw this time as he rinses it aggressively under the sink. Hot water rushes over his fingers, turning the tips of them pink.

The celebration dinner is stupid to begin with, if you ask him.

Shoto gets ranked top two after the downtown incident last month, Endeavor immediately turns it into some flashy media spectacle about family legacy and hero society, and somehow all of Class A gets invited because the public still eats up that “golden generation” garbage years later. Old classmates pretending they all still keep in touch more often than not. The entire thing sounds exhausting.

But you’re gonna be there.

That’s the problem.

For all he cares, it’s been—what? Three years?

Three fucking years since he’s properly seen you.

Not in passing through articles online. Not blurry photos people tag him in accidentally after hero events. Not hearing your name mentioned by Mina or Sero every couple of months when they gossip over drinks.

Actually seeing you.

As in, In person.

Close enough to touch.

Because when him and you were no more, instead of running back to him like you’d always do, you moved out of Japan, got a job somewhere else in the world. You blocked him on all socials, blocked his number —even the agency landline— and for a while, he didn’t care to contact you. He didn’t care to check up on you, because who checks up on someone who said they wished they never met you? He went out of your life as quietly as you went out of his. Not caring if his last words hurt you, like you did.

Katsuki braces both hands against the sink and stares downward as water drips steadily from the faucet. His reflection blurs at the edges from the steam still clouding the glass, turning him into something distorted and unfamiliar.

Pathetic.

The worst part is he doesn’t even know what version of you is walking through those doors tonight.

Maybe you’re angry.

Maybe you barely look at him.

Maybe you’ve become one of those calm, polished heroes that smile perfectly for cameras now, the kind that know exactly how to navigate crowded rooms without making enemies out of everyone in them.

Or maybe you’ll look through him entirely.

That thought digs somewhere unpleasant beneath his ribs.

Fair enough, honestly.

He earns that.

The memory still crawls up on him sometimes when it gets too quiet. Usually late at night after patrol when he’s too exhausted to keep his thoughts from wandering somewhere ugly.

In all honesty he did try to talk to you. Last year, after he found out he wasn’t blocked anymore. But he was angry, vulgar, everything you’ve ever said you hated about him. And for better or for worse you had only told him you knew he’d never change. And he had left it there, not pressing anymore, not needing anymore proof to accept you just weren’t coming back.

Maybe this is why he won’t wear the polished clothes he’s picked out for tonight. Maybe the Nike sweats he tumble dried this morning and a t-shirt will make him look more casual, put together in a way fancy clothes won’t.

Because tonight is casual to him. It should be, at least, amidst picking up Kirishima and Izuku in his new car. He shouldn’t even care that you’re going to be there.

He keeps staring at himself anyway.

Like maybe if he looks long enough, he’ll suddenly figure out why this feels so fucking strange.

The bathroom light washes his skin pale while steam curls slowly around the edges of the mirror, softening the sharpness of his reflection. Katsuki barely recognizes the version of himself standing there sometimes. Not because he looks different—he does, obviously, older and broader and rougher around the edges—but because somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-five, the anger inside him changed shape.

Less explosive.

Much more exhausting.

He reaches for the towel hanging off the counter and drags it roughly over his face before tossing it aside. The nick near his chin still stings faintly. Tiny. Irritating. His eyes flick toward the button-up hanging from the bathroom door again, then away immediately.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

The idea of showing up looking like he spent hours trying to impress you makes something hot crawl up his neck. It feels pathetic now. Worse now, somehow, after standing here spiraling like an idiot for nearly forty minutes over a dinner he doesn’t even want to attend.

Katsuki grabs the hanger off the door and shoves the expensive shirt deeper into the closet on his way back into the bedroom.

Fuck that.

The softer lighting from his room settles easier against his eyes compared to the harsh fluorescent buzz of the bathroom. Outside the windows, the city glows orange and blue beneath the darkening sky, traffic crawling between towering buildings while distant sirens echo somewhere far below. His apartment sits high enough that most nights the noise blends together into background static.

Tonight it all feels too loud.

He yanks open a drawer harder than necessary and pulls out the black t-shirt he wears for training. The fabric stretches tight across his shoulders when he changes, outlining muscle built from years of relentless schedules, combat drills, patrols, sleepless nights at the gym whenever his head gets too crowded to sit still inside his own apartment.

Not for you.

Obviously.

The thought comes so defensive it almost makes him scoff at himself.

The sweats are clean at least. Black Nike joggers fresh from the dryer this morning, soft at the inside, fitted enough that Kirishima once called them “boyfriend material clothes” before Katsuki threatened to blast him through a wall. Casual. Comfortable. Like he isn’t thinking about tonight at all.

Like he didn’t spend an embarrassing amount of time earlier deciding between watches.

His jaw tightens again.

This is ridiculous.

You’re just another person he used to know.

That’s it.

Three years changes people. Hell, maybe you aren’t even the same woman anymore. Maybe you cut your hair shorter now. Maybe you picked up some accent overseas since your Japanese seemed too weird the last time you talked. And— and maybe, like the thoughts that used to consume him before he ever reached out to you last year, there’s somebody else waiting for you back home after tonight, somebody softer than him. Somebody easier. Someone your shared friends know about but won’t let him know of.

That thought lands badly, like he woke a dragon from a millennial slumber. His chest immediately feels too tight for it.

Katsuki snatches his car keys off the counter before he can sit with the feeling any longer.

His hone buzzes again from the kitchen table as he passes by. Probably Kirishima. Maybe Deku. Maybe another last-minute reminder about tonight’s schedule.

He ignores it.

The kitchen still smells faintly like coffee from this morning, dishes abandoned beside the sink because he hasn’t had enough energy lately to care about cleaning immediately after meals. There’s protein powder spilled near the toaster from breakfast. A hoodie tossed over one of the dining chairs. Tiny signs of somebody actually living here instead of the spotless, polished apartment magazines keep trying to photograph whenever reporters sneak glimpses during interviews.

For a second, his eyes drift unconsciously toward the balcony.

You used to stand out there all the time. Especially during storms.

Wrapped in one of his hoodies with your arms folded over the railing while Musutafu lit up below you in blurred neon reflections. You always complained the city looked lonely from this high up.

Katsuki used to think that was stupid. Now he gets it.

His throat feels strangely dry.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath.

The worst part is he genuinely has no idea how tonight’s gonna go.

Maybe you’ll smile politely at him like he’s an old coworker and he’ll have to be casual about greeting you, though he doesn’t want to.

Maybe you’ll avoid him altogether.

Maybe Mina’ll force everybody into some obnoxious group photo and suddenly he’ll be standing beside you for the first time in years pretending his heart isn’t punching against his ribs hard enough to bruise merely at the thought of it all.

Or maybe—

Maybe you’ll just look heavenly good.

That’s the real problem, honestly.

Because he already knows you will.

Not because of makeup or clothes or whatever expensive shit pro heroes wear to these events now. You always looked good to him in ways that annoyed the hell out of him. Half-asleep in his shirts. Sitting on his kitchen counter eating takeout straight from the carton. Yelling at him from across the apartment while he ignored you on purpose just to hear you get louder.

Three years later and his body still remembers stupid things about you automatically.

The sound of your laugh.

The weight of your legs thrown over his lap.

The smell of your peachy shampoo lingering on his pillows after arguments where one of you stormed out dramatically only to come back two hours later.

Katsuki grips his keys tighter.

Nope.

He’s not doing this tonight. He’s not showing up already halfway dragged into the past because of somebody who made it painfully clear they didn’t want him in their life anymore.

That should matter.

It does matter.

And honestly, he understands why you left.

Back then he was still angry at everything. Angry at hero society. Angry at himself. Angry at how badly he wanted somebody and how terrified he is of needing them at the same time. Every conversation between you eventually turned into him snapping before you can get too close to whatever ugly thing sits underneath his ribs.

You called him cruel once.

Not loudly. Not even during a fight.

Just tired.

And somehow that had struck him worse than any screaming ever could. That’s when it clicked to him, that no matter how much you said you saw the good in him, you never truly could. Even if one of your last sentences to him was that you loved him, he didn’t believe you could ever love someone you thought was cruel, someone you wish you never met. 

Katsuki locks the apartment behind him harder than necessary before heading toward the elevator.

The hallway lights flicker softly overhead while he waits, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. His reflection stares back at him from the metal elevator doors—broad shoulders, tired eyes, black compression shirt clinging too tightly against muscle that suddenly feels more like armor than confidence.

Casual.

Tonight is casual.

Just old classmates catching up. Nothing more.

Then his phone vibrates again.

EIJIRO: don’t be weird tonight bro

A second message immediately follows; something about sitting shotgun in his new car.

Katsuki stares at the screen for a long moment. Then another vibration.

IZUKU: Kacchan are we still meeting downstairs in 20?

His jaw flexes hard enough to ache.

Because somehow, despite everything, despite all the years and silence and blocked numbers and ugly last conversations—

A part of him still feels twenty-two again. Twenty-two and convinced that no one could love the way he expressed himself.

______

By the time Katsuki parks outside the izakaya, the knot in his stomach has already settled into something meaner. Sharper. Musutafu glows around him and his friends in streaks of reflected neon against rain-dark pavement while a valet moves between cars beneath the izakaya entrance. The place itself is ridiculously upscale even if it is just traditional, all warm golden lighting spilling through enormous glass windows and polished black stone.

Kirishima lets out a low whistle from the passenger seat as he climbs out. “Can’t wait to see everyone.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Katsuki mutters automatically, already slamming the car door closed harder than necessary.

Cold evening air immediately brushes against the back of his neck. Somewhere nearby, traffic hums steadily through the city while muffled laughter spills from the izakaya entrance every time the doors open. Izuku smooths anxiously at the sleeves of his suit beside the car, glancing toward the building with that same nervous energy he’s carried since high school.

“Do we think Todoroki planned all this himself,” he starts, adjusting his tie, “or do you think Endeavor hired—”

“Deku,” Katsuki interrupts flatly, shoving his hands into his pockets, “if you start analyzing anything, i’m leaving.”

“I wasn’t gonna analyze the—”

“You literally were.”

Kirishima snorts loudly beside them, and normally the familiar bickering would loosen something in Katsuki’s chest. Tonight it barely registers because his attention keeps drifting toward the entrance before they even reach it, heartbeat strangely steady in a way that feels worse than panic. Like his body already knows something his brain is still trying to avoid.

The hostess opens the doors with a practiced smile, and warm air immediately wraps around them alongside the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. The restaurant is crowded with heroes, old classmates that are lingering discreetly in sorted tables near the back, all surrounded by polished wood and amber lighting that makes everything glow soft and expensive.

Katsuki barely notices any of it.

His eyes find you almost instantly.

Of course they do.

You’re seated near the center of the room beside the girls, half-turned toward Mina while Ochaco laughs at something across the table. The lighting catches warmly against the side of your face, softening the curve of your expression while gold jewelry glints subtly against your skin every time you move. Your hair is longer now than the last time he saw you in person, falling over your shoulders while one hand curls loosely around a sake glass. You look comfortable there. Relaxed. Like you belong in rooms like this now.

And for one awful second, Katsuki genuinely forgets how to breathe.

Three years vanish instantly beneath the weight of recognition. His body remembers you before his brain does, something visceral and humiliating tightening beneath his ribs before he can stop it.

Fuck.

You look different, but not enough to feel unfamiliar. Older, maybe. Sharper around the edges in the way everybody becomes sharper with time. There’s confidence in the way you sit now that wasn’t fully there before, something steadier beneath your posture. You carry yourself like someone who’s finally learned how to exist without apologizing for taking up space.

Then Mina notices them entering.

“Oh my god, finally!” she calls immediately, waving dramatically across the room. “You guys are late as hell!”

Several heads turn at once.

Including yours.

Katsuki feels it immediately, that split second your eyes land on him from across the room. It happens so fast he almost convinces himself he imagined it. No widening. No visible surprise. No anger flashing across your face. Your gaze settles on him briefly before moving smoothly toward Kirishima instead.

“Oh, Eiji,” you smile warmly, standing slightly from your pillow as the group approaches. “Hi.”

The knot in Katsuki’s stomach twists tighter.

Kirishima grins instantly. “There she is. Damn, it’s been forever.”

“It literally has,” Mina groans dramatically. “This bitch abandoned us internationally.”

You laugh softly at that, embarrassed enough to duck your head slightly.

The sound lands somewhere dangerous in Katsuki’s chest.

Ochaco immediately stands to greet Izuku while the others start talking over each other all at once, greetings and questions colliding noisily together after years apart. You converse with everyone easily. Kirishima gets pulled into a quick side hug while you squeeze Ochaco’s hand excitedly across the table. You ask Izuku about agency work overseas, laugh when Kaminari nearly trips over a table trying to sit down, you smile politely at Jirou when she teases your accent sounding slightly different now.

But Katsuki gets nothing.

At first he tells himself maybe you just haven’t gotten there yet. Maybe it’s awkward. Maybe you’re nervous too and trying to settle into the conversation before acknowledging him properly.

Then Kirishima nudges him lightly with his elbow.

“Oi,” he mutters under his breath, “say hi, silly.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.

His eyes flick toward you again, but you’re already sitting back down beside Mina, smoothing your sleeve absentmindedly while listening to Momo speak. Completely relaxed. Completely normal.

Like he isn’t even there.

Something hot immediately crawls beneath his skin, but it doesn’t feel like anger. Anger would’ve been easier to deal with. Easier to understand. This feels uglier than that.

Because you aren’t being cold.

You aren’t glaring at him or avoiding eye contact dramatically or making the tension obvious for everyone else at the table.

You’re just indifferent.

Clean, casual, effortless indifference that makes it painfully obvious you’ve already figured out how to exist in the same room as him without it affecting you at all.

Katsuki pulls form to his seat harder than necessary across from Kirishima, the sharp scrape of the table flinching away from him against the floor briefly cutting through the table conversation. Nobody reacts except Mina, whose eyes dart toward him automatically before flicking carefully toward you.

You don’t even look up.

Jesus Christ.

His chest suddenly feels too tight.

“You look good, by the way,” Mina says suddenly, leaning dramatically against your shoulder. “Like suspiciously good. What the hell are they feeding you overseas?”

You laugh quietly, almost embarrassed by the attention. “Literally just less stress, probably.”

The joke lands casually around the table. Kaminari laughs. Jirou snorts into her drink. Ochaco starts teasing you immediately about abandoning Japanese work culture.

Nobody else notices anything strange about the comment.

But Katsuki does.

Of course he fucking does.

Less stress.

Like loving him had exhausted you so thoroughly that leaving the entire country became the healthiest thing you’d ever done for yourself.

His fingers curl tighter around the edge of the menu sitting untouched in front of him.

“Still working with that rescue agency?” Izuku asks curiously.

You nod. “Mostly disaster relief now, yeah. It’s quieter than here.”

“Quieter?” Kaminari repeats incredulously. “Why would you want quieter?”

“Because some people enjoy peace,” Jirou answers dryly.

“Exactly,” you laugh.

And there it is again, that strange feeling pressing heavier against Katsuki’s ribs every time you smile. Because you do seem peaceful now. Not forced. Not pretending. Actually peaceful.

Your posture stays relaxed through every conversation. Your smile comes easier than he remembers. Even your voice sounds lighter somehow, no longer carrying that constant tension that used to sit beneath your words whenever the two of you argued. Back then, loving each other always felt loud. Intense. Like every conversation teetered dangerously close to becoming a fight neither of you knew how to stop once it started.

Now you just seem… calm.

Katsuki suddenly feels too large in his seat. Too rough around the edges for this version of you. His broad shoulders, his obnoxiously loud voice, the constant restless energy simmering beneath his skin all feel painfully obvious in comparison to the quiet ease you carry now.

Mina notices it first.

Her eyes flick carefully between the two of you once. Then again.

Her smile falters slightly.

Because now it’s becoming noticeable to everybody else too.

You still haven’t acknowledged Katsuki properly once since they entered the izakaya.

Kirishima notices next, judging by the awkward way he shifts beside Katsuki before clearing his throat.

“So, uh…” he starts carefully, eyes darting between you both. “Crazy seeing everybody together again, huh?”

“Mm,” you hum politely before taking another sip of your drink.

That’s it.

No tension sharpens your voice. No bitterness leaks through your expression. Nothing about your reaction feels forced or emotional at all. Katsuki Bakugo has somehow become just another former classmate sitting at the table across from yours instead of the man you once shared a bed and apartment and entire future with. 

You used to tell each other that by the time you’re twenty-five you’d surprise your friends and old classmates by popping a kid out of the blue in one of these events. You used to laugh at the thought of him flaunting a baby bump on you, dreaming that you’d hide your engagement ring from everyone until it was the right time to announce you’d get married.

In another life, it may have been different.

Instead of that, you and him are forcibly strangers now; the realization settles, once again heavily in his stomach.

At least showing hatred towards him would mean he still mattered enough to ruin your evening.

This indifference feels like being erased entirely.

______________

The longer the night settles around the izakaya, the more Katsuki realizes he completely misjudged what this dinner was supposed to be.

Not some polished, high-class event packed with cameras and stiff hero society bullshit.

Just an izakaya. Despite how fancy it is.

A crowded, noisy, familiar little place tucked between glowing Musutafu storefronts where the tables are too close together and the air smells like grilled meat, fried oil, spilled beer, and cigarette smoke clinging faintly to old wood. Somebody in the back is laughing loud enough to echo over the music while waiters squeeze through narrow spaces carrying trays overloaded with skewers and drinks. Half the group’s jackets are already tossed carelessly everywhere.

Casual.

Comfortable.

The kind of place Class A used to practically live in after internships.

Which somehow makes this worse.

Because you fit into it too naturally even if you’ve missed the majority of it.

Time passes eerily as Katsuki watches from across the table while Mina complains dramatically about agency interns stealing her skincare products, and you laugh so easily at something dumb Kaminari says that for a split second it genuinely feels like no time has passed at all.

Except it has.

He notices it in tiny things.

You don’t interrupt people as much anymore. Back then you used to talk over everyone whenever you got excited, eyes bright and hands moving while you argued passionately about absolutely everything. Now you lean back when people speak, quieter in a way that feels more intentional than shy. You still smile the same, though. That part hits him unexpectedly hard.

Same slight squint around your eyes. Maybe a few subtle wrinkles now, that still manage to look good on you.

Same habit of hiding your laugh behind your drink or your hand sometimes.

It’s awful how quickly he notices all of it.

A waiter slides another round of drinks onto the table, glass clinking loudly against wood.

“Bakugo,” Sero grins from farther down the booth, already flushed pink from alcohol, “you’ve been weirdly quiet all night. You sick or somethin’?”

“I’m always quiet,” Katsuki answers flatly before taking a long sip of beer.

The table immediately erupts.

“That is literally not true,” Jirou snorts.

“Shut up! It is!”

“Me when I lie” Mina snorts.

“You used to start fights with strangers in restaurants,” Kaminari points out.

“Correction,” Kirishima says, grinning, “he used to start fights with strangers everywhere.”

“I remember that guy at karaoke—”

“He deserved it.”

“You didn’t even know him!”

Katsuki barely listens.

Because across the table, you’re smiling into your drink again, shoulders shaking slightly with quiet laughter while Mina nearly falls sideways into Ochaco from laughing too hard.

And you still won’t look at him.

Not really.

Your gaze passes over him occasionally in that absent, polite way people acknowledge furniture in crowded rooms, but nothing lingers. No awkwardness. No tension. No visible effort to avoid him either still, which somehow stings too much.

It’s like you already adjusted to his presence within the first five minutes of arriving.

Meanwhile he feels painfully aware of every movement you make.

The way your rings tap softly against your glass.

The faint crease between your brows whenever you listen closely to someone speaking.

The small scar near your wrist he remembers kissing once while you laid half-asleep across his chest.

His stomach twists hard enough to make him irritated with himself all over again.

This is fucking ridiculous.

“Bakugo.”

His head lifts automatically.

Momo’s looking at him from across the table. “Did you hear me?”

“No.”

“I said,” she repeats patiently, “Shoto wants everyone at his agency anniversary event next month too.”

“Absolutely not,” Katsuki answers immediately.

Kaminari groans. “Dude, you say no to everything.”

“Because everything sounds terrible.”

“See?” Mina points accusingly toward you. “This is why our sweetie over here escaped the country. We’re emotionally exhausting.”

The comment is obviously meant as a joke and the table laughs.

Even you smile.

But Katsuki feels the words land somewhere unpleasant anyway.

Before he can stop himself, his eyes flick toward you.

For the first time all night, you finally look directly back at him.

It lasts maybe two seconds!?

Three, max.

Then, when Kirishima opens his mouth it’s as if he can’t stop being a moron. Like he never could have guessed what the context of ‘time and place’ is. He points at you, then Katsuki.

“Remember when you guys sneaked out during the winter festival and everyone thought you were kidnapped?”

The entire table immediately erupts.

“Oh my god.”

“They were gone for HOURS—”

“Because SOMEONE turned their phones off,” Kaminari wheezes.

“You guys came back looking guilty as hell,” Mina accuses dramatically.

Katsuki feels his shoulders tense instantly. He sees you shrink into a timely creature in your seat.

Back then, you’d dragged him behind the gym building because you were freezing and irritated and insisted his body temperature was “unnaturally useful.” He remembers pinning you against the wall afterward just to shut you up after you laughed at how red his ears got.

He remembers kissing you until neither of you could breathe properly. 

The memory hits hard enough to feel physical. Youthful kisses, teenage love— he remembers how it felt when he kissed you first and when he had kissed you then. He remembers making out in your dorm late at night when he should’ve been resting his injuries after the war.

Around the table, everyone’s still laughing.

Except you.

You’ve gone still beside Mina, fingers tightening almost invisibly around your drink before you take another sip.

Then, calmly, casually—

“So,” you interrupt smoothly, turning toward Ochaco and Tsuyu instead, “how’s hero life treating you two?”

Clean cut. Effortless for anyone who can’t read behind your eyes.

The conversation immediately shifts away from the topic entirely.

Like you did it on purpose. Like the memory embarrasses you now.

Katsuki drops whatever sits at the top of his tongue like it stung too much to be spoken out loud. Like he was given a sound reminder that his words are always unnecessary.

___________

Everyone eventually becomes too careless despite the fragility of the situation.

Alcohol warms the tables steadily, loosening voices and posture until conversations start overlapping loudly across the cramped izakaya booth. Kaminari is practically hanging halfway over Sero now while arguing about hero rankings nobody else cares about, and Kirishima’s laugh keeps booming loudly enough to earn irritated glances from nearby tables. Even more empty beer glasses crowd together beside greasy plates streaked with sauce while waiters weave expertly through the narrow aisles carrying fresh rounds of skewers and drinks.

Normally Katsuki would be right in the middle of it all.

Tonight he barely said a word, even if he found himself at your table for some reason.

Because every single time the conversation drifts naturally toward old memories involving the two of you, you choose to redirect it before it can fully land.

Always subtle enough most people probably don’t notice.

But he notices.

Every single time.

When Mina starts retelling the beach trip where the two of you once again disappeared from the bonfire for over an hour, you smoothly interrupt to ask Jirou about her latest music project overseas. When Kirishima almost brings up the apartment you used to share in the heart of the city, you casually wave down the waiter and ask if anyone wants another round of drinks before he can finish the sentence.

And the worst part is how effortless you make it look.

You aren’t visibly uncomfortable. You aren’t tense or bitter or awkward every time his name comes up paired with yours. You navigate around him cleanly, naturally, like you’ve already spent years learning exactly how to exist comfortably in spaces where even if Katsuki Bakugo is present, he can simply be erased.

The notion starts irritating him more with every passing minute. It sits tighter beneath his ribs by the second. Makes his heart beat in fragile, irregular beats.

A doctor had once told him to keep track of arhythmic beats like this. 

Tonight he does not. But usually, he does.

Across the table, you tilt your head back slightly while laughing at something Ochaco says, fingers still loosely wrapped around your glass. The soft amber lighting from the hanging lanterns catches against your face warmly enough that Katsuki immediately looks away afterward, jaw tightening hard.

Then your phone lights up beside your plate.

His eyes catch it automatically, assumption quick to replace every spec of vermilion in his irises.

A name flashes briefly across the screen before you casually turn the phone face down against the table.

It’s a nickname paired with a heart.

It could be a friend, but for that he’s unconvinced.

Something twists violently low in Katsuki’s stomach.

Immediate. Sharp enough to genuinely piss him off.

Three years.

Obviously there’s somebody else now.

What the hell did he expect? That you spent years overseas grieving a relationship that ended with both of you saying things cruel enough to permanently carve into each other?

His fingers curl tighter around his beer glass.

Mina notices instantly.

Her eyes flick carefully between him and you before she awkwardly clears her throat. “Okay, wow,” she says carefully, trying to laugh through the tension, “this table energy’s getting kinda weird.”

“Only because your face gets louder every time you drink,” Jirou answers dryly without looking up from her glass.

“No, seriously,” Mina insists now, glancing more cautiously toward Katsuki. “Everybody’s acting strange.”

“Nobody’s acting strange,” you answer calmly before finally looking directly at Katsuki for the second time all night.

And somehow that feels worse.

You really are fine. Not pretending. Not secretly emotional underneath the surface. Fi—ne. Almost too cold.

You are completely, genuinely fine sitting across from him after three years apart.

Something reckless rises inside his chest almost immediately.

“You got somethin’ to say?” Katsuki asks suddenly, attention fully turned to you. “Then say it to my face.”

For once, he manages to keep your eyes in his.

The table quiets.

Not completely, but enough that nearby conversations and clinking glasses start bleeding awkwardly into the silence between your group.

Your brows pull together faintly before rising. “What?”

“You’ve barely looked at me all night.”

“Why would I?”

When you respond, Kirishima visibly winces beside him.

“Bakugo,” he mutters quietly under his breath.

An effort for calmness that pays out fruitless soil. Katsuki barely hears him now that the irritation’s already pushing its way out.

“No, seriously,” he continues, eyes locked onto yours. “What’s the deal?”

The atmosphere around the table shifts immediately.

Mina looks horrified. Izuku suddenly looks like he wants the floor to physically open beneath him—he hasn’t said anything about you up till now. Not on the phone, not in the car when Katsuki snapped like broken glass at every single thing. He didn’t even say anything about you when Katsuki told him that if he treats everyone like they’re special, then no one really is special to him. (When does Katsuki ever get so emotional?)

Even Kaminari goes quiet for once.

You stare at Katsuki from across the table for a long moment, expression unreadable beneath the warm restaurant lighting. Then you blink slowly before setting your drink down carefully against the table.

“…There’s no deal. You made sure of that.”

The calmness in your voice instantly makes his irritation worse.

“You’ve been ignoring me all night.”

“No,” you answer evenly, “I’ve been talking to everyone.”

“Except me.”

The silence afterward settles heavily between you both.

Around the table, nobody moves. The noise of the izakaya suddenly feels distant compared to the pressure building in the booth. You lean back slightly in your seat, eyes finally holding his properly instead of sliding politely past him like earlier.

“What exactly are you expecting from me here, Katsuki?”

The question catches him off guard immediately.

Not because of the words but because of the exhaustion in your tone that has completely replaced anger.

“I dunno,” he answers flatly, defensive before he can stop himself. “Basic acknowledgement maybe.”

You stare at him another second before letting out a small breath through your nose. Not dramatic. Not emotional. Just tired.

“I said hi when you walked in.”

“No,” Katsuki says immediately, “you said hi to Eijiro.”

Kaminari audibly mutters “oh my god, bets. Bets now!” under his breath before Mina immediately kicks him hard beneath the table.

Your fingers tap once lightly against your glass before stilling again completely.

Then, finally, something shifts in your expression.

And it’s not sadness.

Just plain right resignation. Like you’ve already given up.

“You want honesty?” you ask quietly.

Something inside Katsuki’s chest tightens instinctively.

Because now everybody at the table is looking literally anywhere except the two of you. Kirishima suddenly becomes very interested in his drink. Ochaco stares fixedly at the condensation sliding down her glass. Even Sero awkwardly clears his throat under his breath.

“Fuck yeah, stop playing games.”

You hold Katsuki’s gaze the entire time when you speak again.

“I ain’t got shit to say to you in front of everyone.” You say, bluntly, “but since you say we don’t have to play games, I didn’t ignore you because I hate you,” you continue. “I ignored you because every single time I look at you, I remember the last conversation we had.”

The words land directly against his sternum. Heavy. Sharp like a swirly blade and enough that for a second he genuinely forgets how to respond.

The memory crashes back immediately whether he wants it to or not.

Rain hammering against pavement outside the apartment.

You crying so hard your voice kept shaking despite how badly you tried hiding it.

Him saying things he knew would hurt before they even left his mouth.

You standing there afterward like he’d physically reached inside your chest and twisted something apart with his bare hands.

“I wish I never met you.”

Katsuki remembers that part perfectly.

Worse, he remembers exactly what he said right before to make you say it. Something cruel. Something calculated. Something along the lines of “you’re lying to yourself when you say you love me.”

Because back then hurting each other always came easier than admitting how badly neither of you wanted things to end.

Across the table, your expression remains composed, but now he notices the strain sitting carefully beneath it. The effort it’s taking you to stay this calm. To keep your voice level instead of letting old wounds split open in front of everyone.

“I’m not trying to make tonight uncomfortable,” you continue more quietly now. “I came because I’m back in Japan and I missed everyone. That’s all.”

Everyone.

But not specifically him.

The distinction settles ugly and heavy enough inside his chest that he and everyone else in this room are short of words

The atmosphere around the table changes only when the emergency hero alert rings on everyone’s phones.

Around you, everybody moves at once.

Years of training erase the awkwardness almost instantly. Drinks abandoned. Jackets pulled on. Conversations cut short mid-sentence while tables scrape across wood flooring. The emotional wreckage sitting between you and Katsuki gets shoved violently aside beneath instinct and urgency.

You stand automatically too.

And for one humiliating second, relief floods through you so fast it almost makes your knees weak. Because now you don’t have to stay sitting across from him anymore.

You don’t have to survive whatever expression is currently sitting on Katsuki’s face after what you just said.

You don’t have to keep pretending your heart isn’t beating so hard it physically hurts.

The group spills out into the cold Musutafu night in a rush of noise and movement. Sirens already echo faintly somewhere ahead, reflecting red against rain-slick pavement while civilians stop to stare at the sudden crowd of pro heroes flooding onto the sidewalk.

You breathe in sharply the second cold air hits your lungs.

It helps. Barely. Your hands still feel shaky and so fucking stupid..

Because the worst part—the genuinely humiliating part—is that none of what you said was a lie.

You did ignore Katsuki because looking at him hurts.

But not in the way everyone at that table probably assumed. Everyone, including him, thinks it’s because you stopped loving him.

And honestly that—would’ve been easier.

The problem is, that standing across from Katsuki after three years still feels dangerously close to standing too near an open flame. Like one wrong moment of weakness could drag you straight back into him before you remember all the reasons you left in the first place.

And God—you wanted to.

That’s the pathetic part.

The second he walked into the restaurant tonight, broad shoulders filling the doorway, looking so pretty even if all the boyish charm had abandoned his face for good, while his eyes immediately found yours across the room, something inside your chest reacted so violently you almost forgot how to breathe.

Three years.

Three whole fucking years.

And your body still recognized him instantly.

You hated that.

Hated how good he looked. Hated how familiar his voice sounded. Hated that even now, after everything, some traitorous part of you still wanted to walk straight across the room and touch him just to prove he was real. Kiss him so you at least be able to go back to your friends overseas and let them know you got the kiss of closure you’ve been wanting so desperately. 

But you knew better now.

You had to know better now.

Because loving Katsuki always felt like standing too close to an explosion and convincing yourself the heat wasn’t burning you alive.

You pull your hair back quickly while jogging after the others down the crowded sidewalk, the heels of your boots striking wet pavement hard enough to ground you back into the present. Neon signs blur overhead while people move aside hurriedly at the sight of pro heroes rushing past.

Beside you, Ochaco glances over briefly.

“You okay?”

The question is gentle enough to make your throat tighten unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” you answer immediately.

Too quickly.

Ochaco’s expression softens in that awful way people look at wounded animals they aren’t sure how to help. That facade that all heroes put on when they’re helping a missing child find their mommy.

You look away to let her go before she can say anything else.

Ahead of the group, Katsuki is already moving faster than everyone else, irritation practically radiating off him in waves while sparks crackle faintly against his palms. The familiar sight hits somewhere deep in your chest with painful precision.

God.

There he is— Still carrying himself like the entire world personally offended him for existing.

And somehow you still love him enough it makes you feel sick.

You wonder briefly if he knows.

If he’s always known and if so, why he’s denying it.

Maybe that’s what made the breakup so unbearable in the first place. Katsuki understood exactly how much power he had over you, and every time he got scared of needing someone that badly in return, he lashed out before you could hurt him first.

________

The robbery cleanup drags longer than expected.

Statements. Damage reports. Civilians needing reassurance. Media helicopters circling overhead long enough to become irritating background noise.

By the time everything finally settles, the sky above Musutafu has turned that heavy shade of black and blue. The streets are quieter now, washed silver beneath streetlights while exhausted civilians slowly reclaim the sidewalks. Neon signs remain glowing in the background of it all.

Katsuki feels wrung out.

Not physically, though. Physically he’s fine. His heart, at least, has finally stopped palpitating. It’s everything else which isn’t his heart that's clawing at the inside of his chest that’s making him tired.

After an agonizing thirty minutes of broken communications on splitting the bill with everyone else, he gets dragged into easy conversation.

“Alright, alright,” Kaminari groans dramatically while stretching his arms over his head. “I’m officially declaring tonight cursed.”

“You declare everything cursed,” Mina replies instantly.

“Because everything is cursed.”

Kirishima snorts beside them while Izuku adjusts the strap of his gauntlets. “At least nobody got seriously hurt.”

“Yeah,” Katsuki mutters distractedly, digging his car keys from his pocket.

His mind hasn’t stopped replaying the familiar sound of your voice through your conversation for the past twenty minutes. The kind of familiar that dug straight under his skin and stayed there.

Katsuki hates how much those words affected him. Hates that part of him wanted to turn around and ask what the hell that tone meant after everything that’s happened between you before leaving for his hero duties.

Instead, he shoved it down where everything else goes. The pit of his dropping stomach.

The group behind him, after enthusiastically rejoicing and pleading for even a sight of his car, reaches the parking structure entrance together with him, footsteps echoing faintly through the concrete levels while fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Mina’s still talking about how good the food was. Kirishima’s half-listening while Denki complains loudly about tomorrow’s paperwork.

Normal. Everything feels painfully normal again.

Izuku has already left to chase after Ochaco. Katsuki gets to go home with one less friend to lash out on and half a heart.

“Later, man,” Kirishima says to a far away Izuku raising a hand.

Katsuki barely listens while waving him off with a lazy flick of his hand.

Then he sees you. And every thought in his head immediately cuts clean in half.

You’re standing beside his car. leaning against it casually. Not waiting in some cinematic pose.

Just there.

Hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket while cool garage lighting spills softly across your face. You look tired now. More tired than you did at dinner. Hair slightly messy. Faint smudges of eyeliner still near the corners of your eyes.

Real. That’s the first thing that hits him. Just you. Waiting for him.

Kirishima notices you first from the whole group.

“Oh, hi.”

Mina stops talking.

Denki’s eyes widen slightly before darting rapidly between both of you like he accidentally walked into live explosives.

Katsuki’s pulse kicks hard once against his ribs and his neck.

You look at him quietly before speaking.

“…Can we talk?”

Simple words. Calm voice. And somehow they hit harder than that joke of an argument earlier.

Nobody moves for about two seconds. Then Katsuki clicks his tongue sharply without taking his eyes off you.

“Oi.”

Kirishima straightens immediately. “Yeah?”

“Get lost.”

Denki nearly chokes.

Mina looks openly offended. “Wow? Rude.”

“I said leave.”

“Actually,” Kaminari says nervously, already backing away, “I think that’s a fantastic idea.”

Kirishima hesitates longer.

Katsuki notices it instantly.

The concern. The don’t blow this up worse look sitting all over his face.

“Tch,” Katsuki mutters. “I’m not gonna start shit in a parking garage.”

“That’s not super reassuring when you phrase it like that,” Mina says.

You huff out the faintest breath beside the car—almost a laugh.

The sound catches Katsuki off guard badly enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically. Because he forgot for a second what it sounded like when your amusement wasn’t forced. He’s forgotten what it was like when he used to make you laugh, being so caught up in the destruction of it all.

Kirishima notices too. Something in his expression softens before he finally sighs heavily and throws his hands up. “Alright, alright. We’re leaving.”

“But if either of you commits emotional crimes,” Mina warns dramatically while walking backward toward the elevator, “I’m intervening.”

“You say that like you’re emotionally qualified to help anybody,” Katsuki shoots back automatically. “Or like you have to wait around here.”

“See? This is why therapy should be mandatory for heroes!”

The elevator doors of the garage close over the sound of Denki cackling.

And then they’re gone.

Silence settles almost immediately afterward. Not awkward exactly.

The parking structure hums quietly around you both, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead while distant traffic echoes faintly from outside. Somewhere farther down the level, water drips steadily from a pipe into concrete.

Katsuki shoves one hand into his pocket to stop himself from fidgeting.

You still haven’t moved from beside his car.

Up close now, he notices the exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes properly. The careful composure from dinner looks thinner somehow. Like tonight finally wore through it.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then—

“You really think I hate you?” you ask quietly.

The question lands so directly he almost flinches.

Katsuki’s jaw tightens automatically. “You ignored me for four fuckin’ hours.”

“I ignored you because I was trying not to ruin my own night.”

That catches him off guard enough to shut him up briefly.

You look away first, arms folding tighter across yourself.

“I spent three years trying to get over you,” you admit quietly. “Do you understand how humiliating it is that seeing you again almost reset all of it instantly?”

Katsuki feels something sharp twist low in his chest.

Because your voice still doesn't sound angry. It  sounds like you’re simple frustrated with yourself.

“I didn’t know what version of you was gonna walk into that restaurant tonight,” you continue. “And honestly? I was scared that if I talked to you normally for even five minutes, I’d forget why we broke up in the first place.”

The parking garage suddenly feels too small, too warm. Katsuki stares at you, heartbeat starting to thud harder beneath his ribs again in a way that has nothing to do with fighting anymore. He starts thinking of every single moment today where his thoughts remained the same as yours.

You laugh softly then, but there’s no humor in it.

“And the worst part is,” you murmur, eyes dropping briefly toward the concrete floor, “I still wanted you to come sit next to me. I keep thinking I want the goodbye kiss that I never got. I can never fully leave you behind and I think it’s just because I don’t want to. Last year when you messaged me, I found myself excited at the thought of us getting back together.

The words hit him harder than any fight tonight did.

Just honest enough to split something open clean down the middle.

Katsuki stares at you like he genuinely forgot how to move for a second. Because he’d prepared himself for anger; —resentment, perhaps. Even the mischellanious instant where you’d be maybe telling him you moved on and he was pathetic for still carrying pieces of this -you- around like shrapnel under his skin.

He didn’t prepare himself himself for this right now in any of his overthinking scenarios.

You standing in front of him at nearly two two in the morning, exhausted and vulnerable and still admitting you wanted him back once too. The million dollar question is: do you still?

The fluorescent lights of the parking lot above you the two of you flicker faintly.  Somewhere deeper in the garage, a car alarm chirps once before falling silent again—Katsuki barely hears any of it.

“When I saw your message,” you continue more quietly, “I remember staring at my phone like an idiot for an hour before answering.” A weak laugh leaves you. “My friend literally had to pry it out of my hands because I kept rereading it.”

His chest tightens painfully.

Because he remembers sending that message.

Sitting alone in his apartment after patrol with alcohol burning down his throat while he typed and deleted different versions of I miss you for nearly twenty minutes before settling on something colder instead. Something easier.

“Why would you fucking unblock me?”

Pathetic.

“You sounded angry,” you admit softly. “But I still kept hoping maybe underneath it… maybe you missed me enough to try again.”

Katsuki looks away sharply, jaw flexing hard.

He did.

That’s the worst fucking part.

He remembers pacing around his kitchen waiting for your replies like his life depended on them. Remembers the stupid spike of hope every time his phone buzzed. Remembers ruining the entire conversation because the second things started feeling vulnerable again, panic crawled viciously straight up his spine and turned everything mean.

Same old him as always.

“You told me I never changed,” he mutters roughly.

Your expression shifts slightly at that. Not regret exactly. Something sadder.

“Because you hadn’t.”

The honesty stings immediately because part of him knows you’re right. Back then he’d still been treating love like a fight he needed to win before somebody could abandon him first. Katsuki drags a hand hard down his face before laughing once under his breath. Bitter. Exhausted.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Probably deserved that one.”

Silence settles again after that. Raw, void of the hostility every other silence between you tonight. However, this time, the hostility of any previous silence between you tonight, is missing. Everything is raw and open like an oozing, fresh wound.

Had that been the case, he’d known better of.

You’re still standing near his car with your arms folded tightly across yourself like you’re physically holding your own chest together. Katsuki notices your fingers trembling slightly against your sleeves.

You’re nervous.

That realization hits unexpectedly hard too. Because he also forgot what it felt like knowing he could still affect you like this.

“I hated you for a while,” you admit suddenly, voice quieter now. “Or—I tried to, at least, at least.” You shake your head faintly. “I wanted to, anyway. It would’ve made moving on easier.”

Katsuki doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t trust himself to.

“But then stupid things kept happening,” you continue, eyes unfocused now like you’re talking more to yourself than him. “I’d hear someone laugh like you at work and my whole day would get weird after. Or somebody would burn coffee and suddenly I’d remember your apartment.” Another soft, embarrassed laugh. “There’s this hero overseas that yells exactly like you during meetings. I almost walked out the first time because I started tearing up.”

Something dangerously warm starts spreading low in Katsuki’s chest.

Not ego. Not satisfaction.

Something worse—Hope.

Small and so fragile and so, so terrifying. and plainly—

You finally look back up at him then, expression open in a way he hasn’t seen in years.

“And honestly?” you say quietly, “I think part of me kept waiting for you to come after me.”

That one nearly knocks the air clean out of him.

Because he wanted to.

God, he wanted to.

He remembers standing in airports during patrol assignments wondering what country you were in. Remembers opening your chat box dozens of times— knowing which one it was simply by how many weeks ago was your last conversation— just to close it again before typing anything. Remembers seeing your name finally appear in his Instagram chat box instead of ‘User’ and feeling his stomach drop so hard he had to sit down.

But wanting something and knowing how to hold onto it were always two different things for him.

Katsuki swallows hard before speaking.

“You said you wished you never met me.”

Your face changes instantly. Pain flickers there, between your worried brows so quickly he almost misses it.

“I know.”

“You meant it?”

“No,” you answer immediately.

Too fast for it to not be honest. Katsuki would crack up a cocky smile if the sound of its admission didn’t hook directly beneath his ribs.

You inhale shakily afterward, eyes dropping again.

“I said it because I wanted to hurt you back,” you admit. “And because you’d just spent an hour making me feel stupid and calling me a liar for telling you i loved you.”

The words land heavy between you both. Katsuki feels nausea twist unpleasantly in his stomach because he remembers that night perfectly now more than any other time.

Not just the fight.

Your face.

The way you looked at him like you were begging him to give you one reason to stay softer with each other instead of turning everything into a bloodbath.

And he had spectacularly failed, spectacularly.

“You really thought I didn’t love you?” you ask suddenly, quieter now.

And since the answer to your question is humiliating, Katsuki’s throat feels tight.

“…Yeah.”

You stare at him for a long moment after that. Then you laugh again, but this time it sounds closer to heartbreak.

“Katsuki,” you whisper softly, “I moved across the world and still couldn’t stop loving you properly.”

That one hurts.

Not in a bad way.

Worse.

Because suddenly all three years between you feel unbearably visible at once. Every missed call never made. Every airport not boarded. Every message typed and deleted. Every lonely apartment. Every night spent pretending this wasn’t still sitting unfinished between you both. It never actually had to be that way. 

Katsuki looks at you standing there beneath harsh garage lighting with tired eyes and shaky hands and too much honesty spilling out at once and realizes, with horrifying clarity, that if you were to claim your goodbye kiss; if you so as kissed him right now, he genuinely doesn’t think he’d survive it quietly.

Neither of you says anything for a while after that.

The parking garage hums quietly around you, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in uneven intervals while rainwater drips somewhere deeper in the structure with slow, hollow echoes. The city outside has started slipping into that strange hour between night and morning where everything feels softer around the edges. Traffic is thinner now. The distant sounds of Musutafu blur together into something low and tired beneath the concrete silence.

Katsuki can hear your breathing.

Not because the garage is particularly quiet, but because he’s standing too close to you again after three years and his body keeps locking onto every tiny thing automatically.

The way your shoulders rise slightly every time you inhale. The faint tremble still lingering in your fingers. The exhaustion sitting beneath your eyes.

You look nothing like the polished, untouchable version of yourself he built up in his head over the past few years. Standing here now, you just look human again.

Real enough to ache over.

To you… Does he look that way too?

“Let’s go, I’ll take you home.” Katsuki shifts his weight once before dragging a hand through his hair roughly. “We should probably get outta here before Mina decides to come back and interrogate us.”

The corner of your mouth twitches faintly. “That implies she never actually left.”

“She’s probably hiding behind a concrete pillar right now.”

“She absolutely is.”

The tiny bit of shared amusement loosens something dangerously fragile between you both.

Katsuki unlocks the car with a sharp click of the key fob. Then you glance toward the passenger side before looking back at him again, uncertainty flickering briefly across your expression like you’re second-guessing whether this is a good idea.

Honestly, he’s wondering the same thing.

Because every second around you tonight has felt like standing near something unstable with no self-control left to keep his hands off it.

Still, he opens the passenger door for you anyway.

You hesitate only a second before climbing inside.

The interior of the car smells faintly like leather, rain, and burnt caramel coffee from whatever drive-through Kirishima dragged him through earlier this week. Soft dashboard lights glow low against the dark while droplets of rain slide slowly down the windshield overhead. The city reflects across the glass in blurred streaks of neon and gold.

Katsuki rounds the front of the car slowly, pulse thudding heavier with every step.

By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, the air inside already feels too warm.

You’re sitting angled slightly toward the window, arms folded loosely across yourself while the glow from passing streetlights softens the side of your face. Your makeup’s mostly worn off by now. There’s still a faint smear of eyeliner and mascara at the corner of your eye.

He has to physically stop himself from reaching over to wipe it away.

Silence settles again, but it’s different inside the car.

The enclosed space presses everything tighter together until even breathing feels too noticeable.

Katsuki rests one hand against the steering wheel without starting the engine. “So what now?”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose before leaning your head back against the seat. “I don’t know.” you sigh “I didn’t really think this far ahead.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Me neither.”

Rain starts tapping lightly against concrete again. Thin at first. Then steadier.

Your eyes drift toward the sound automatically. “It always rains when we talk about serious shit.”

Katsuki snorts softly before he can stop himself. “That’s because you always picked fights during storms.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

A small laugh escapes you then, quieter than before but real enough that something in his chest twists painfully around it. God, he missed that sound. Missed sitting beside you while conversations slipped this easily between silence and teasing without either of you forcing it.

A newer realization scares him a little; It would be so easy to fall right back into this. Too easy.

You turn toward him slightly then, knees shifting against the seat. “Can I ask you something?”

“Tch. You usually do anyway.”

Your eyes narrow faintly at the automatic attitude, but there’s no real heat behind it now. “Why didn’t you come after me?”

The question settles heavily into the space between you both.

Katsuki’s jaw tightens immediately.

Outside, headlights slide briefly across the windshield before disappearing down the garage ramp. He watches the reflections fade instead of looking directly at you.

“Didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Of course it isn’t.

You were always annoyingly good at pulling honesty out of him even when he fought it.

Katsuki exhales slowly through his nose before speaking. “Because I thought if I showed up and you looked happier without me…” He laughs once under his breath, rough and humorless. “Didn’t think I could handle that. It’d just fucking prove i’m hard to love and you’re better without me.”

The space between you afterward feels fragile.

When he finally looks over, your expression has softened into something unbearably tender.

Fuck, fuck—Fuck.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmur quietly.

There’s no cruelty in it. Maybe a tad of acceptance. A smear of sadness.

Your eyes flick downward briefly then back to his face, and suddenly Katsuki becomes painfully aware of how close you’re sitting. The center console feels too small now. The air feels thick with old history and exhaustion and everything neither of you managed to bury properly.

His gaze drops to your mouth before he can stop it.

He notices immediately when your breathing changes.

Slight.

Barely there.

But enough.

The tension inside the car shifts all at once after that.

Not explosive and immediate, like he’s used to. It’s slow and dangerous. Like something pulling tighter inch by inch.

Katsuki’s fingers flex once against the steering wheel. “Tell me to stop looking at you like that.”

Your throat moves subtly when you swallow.

“You first.”

Fuck. Shit!

The flirtiness in your tone hits him hard enough to feel somewhere low in his stomach.

Rain streaks slower down the windshield now, blurring neon lights outside into smeared ribbons of color while the heater hums faintly beneath the dashboard. The whole car feels suspended outside time somehow. Separate from the rest of the city. With nothing left to do but park at the side of the road, Katsuki swerves the steering wheel towards his new direction.

When he shuts off the engine, you’re the one who moves first.

Barely.

Just enough to lean a little closer and more tentative toward him. You’re giving him room to pull away if he wants to.

Katsuki doesn’t. Neither pull away, nor want to.

His hand reaches for your face almost automatically, rough palm settling carefully against your jaw like muscle memory never left him at all. The contact pulls a shaky breath from you instantly, and that sound alone nearly destroys whatever restraint he still has left.

He kisses you before he can think too hard about it.

And it feels exactly like coming home to something he convinced himself no longer existed.

Warm.

Familiar.

Devastating.

You make this tiny broken noise against his mouth the second the kiss lands properly, fingers grabbing instinctively at the front of his shirt like you need something solid to hold onto. Katsuki feels his entire chest cave inward around the feeling of you kissing him back just as desperately. His lips ache with buzzing numbness and he tries his very best to even remember the steps to a kiss he’s trained to fit perfectly into.

Three years of missing each other crashes together all at once inside that kiss.

His other hand slides against your waist, pulling you closer over the center console while rain drums steadily overhead. Your lips part against his almost immediately, breath shaky and uneven as the kiss deepens into something messier. Hungrier.

Katsuki kisses like he’s starving.

Always has.

Like every emotion he doesn’t know how to say properly gets forced violently through his hands and mouth instead.

You remember that instantly.

He feels it in the way your fingers tighten against him. The way your breathing starts breaking apart every time he kisses you harder. The way you lean into him like you missed this just as badly as he did.

When you finally pull back for air, neither of you gets very far.

Your forehead rests shakily against his while both of you breathe the same recycled air inside the dark car. Katsuki’s hand is still cupping your jaw. Your fingers are still twisted tightly into his shirt.

With one swift movement, Katsuki’s hand forces your jaw right into his, your lips slamming against each other's once again.

The kiss turns rough immediately.

Not careless —Never careless with you.

Katsuki’s just overwhelmed by the sheer force of finally having you this close again after years spent trying to convince himself he could survive without it.

Your breath catches sharply against his mouth when he kisses you deeper this time, fingers twisting harder into the front of his shirt while the center console digs awkwardly against your hip from how far you’ve leaned toward him. Rain continues sliding steadily down the windshield outside, blurring neon lights into streaks of gold and red across the dark interior of the car.

Katsuki barely notices any of it anymore.

All he can focus on is you.

The warmth of your mouth.

The familiar way you melt and tense at the same time whenever he kisses you too hard.

The shaky inhale you keep failing to steady every time his thumb brushes beneath your jaw.

His chest feels unbearably tight.

Because this isn’t nostalgia anymore.

It isn’t just memory. You’re actually here. Actually kissing him back with enough desperation that it almost hurts.

A strained sound escapes him before he can stop it, muffled against your lips while he pulls you even closer over the console. His hand slips from your jaw into your hair, fingers curling carefully at the base of your neck like he physically cannot stand another inch of distance between you both.

You break the kiss first this time, but only barely. Only enough for more air.

Your lips still brush his when you speak.

“Katsuki—”

His name falls apart halfway through your breath, soft enough that he nearly loses whatever remains of his self-control entirely.

Because you still say his name the same way.

But now he knows it means something. He can accept it means something.

Katsuki’s forehead presses hard against yours while he tries and fails to regulate his breathing. The inside of the car suddenly feels too hot, thick with condensation and recycled air and of unresolved feelings collapsing violently into each other all at once.

“You gotta stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters hoarsely.

Your brows pull together faintly. “Like what?”

“Like you and i will—” He cuts himself off immediately, jaw tightening hard enough to ache.

The words refuse to come out cleanly.

You stare at him for a second too long after that, your expression softening into something that almost looks painful.

“Katsuki,” you whisper quietly, “I literally just told you I couldn’t move on.”

Yeah. He knows.

And somehow hearing it still doesn’t feel real.

“But if we y’know—now,” he coughs “maybe you’ll regret it.”

His eyes search your face automatically like he’s trying to find evidence that this is temporary. That you’ll wake up tomorrow and realize kissing him again was a mistake. That eventually you’ll remember all the reasons loving him became unbearable in the first place.

The fear must show somewhere across his expression because your hand suddenly lifts toward his face.

Your fingertips brush against the side of his jaw where the faint razor burn still sits from earlier tonight, and the tenderness behind the touch nearly destroys him more effectively than the kissing did.

“Katsuki, are you talking about sex?” you murmur softly, whispering the last word extensively. 

A weak huff of laughter leaves him despite himself. His lower lip pouts out.

“You always get this line between your eyebrows whenever you get shy like this.”

Your thumb smooths unconsciously against the spot moments later like muscle memory. Katsuki feels his stomach twist painfully around the familiarity of it.

God.

He missed this.

Not even the kissing specifically. Not even the sex. (And he’s missed these two plenty)

Just this.

You knowing him so instinctively that his body reacts before his brain catches up.

“I wouldn’t regret it. I’ve wanted it so much even though I was convinced it’d never happen again. I can’t regret doing something that I want to do.”

Your words settle heavy enough in his chest that suddenly he needs to kiss you again before he says something humiliating.

His mouth crashes back against yours harder this time.

You make another soft noise into the kiss immediately, one that sounds dangerously close to heartbreak, and Katsuki swears he feels the sound straight through his ribs. His hand tightens carefully at the back of your neck while your fingers slide upward into his hair, slightly damp strands catching between your knuckles.

The angle is awkward across the center console.

Neither of you cares.

Your knee bumps clumsily against the gear shift while Katsuki leans further toward you, broad shoulders pressing you deeper into the passenger seat unintentionally from the sheer force of how badly he’s kissing you now. Every breath between you feels uneven. Messy. Shared.

Three years disappears frighteningly fast like this. Just temporarily drowned beneath the overwhelming relief of finally touching each other again.

Katsuki feels your hand trembling slightly where it cups the side of his face.

The realization makes him pull back barely enough to look at you.

Your lips are swollen now. Eyes glassy beneath the dashboard glow while your breathing comes apart in shallow bursts that mirror his almost exactly. Then your expression shifts suddenly, something vulnerable flickering across it fast enough to make his chest tighten again.

“What if we do this again?” you ask quietly. “What if we try again and it ruins us worse this time?”

The question lands hard because it’s real. Not dramatic or hypothetical. You’re genuinely afraid. Because it’s been over three years since you’ve kissed, even more since you were intimate with each other, since you held an actual conversation.

And honestly? So is he.

Katsuki stares at you in the dim car lighting while rain taps softly overhead, your fingers still resting against his jaw like you’re scared to let go completely.

Then, slowly, he turns his head just enough to press a kiss against the center of your palm,vermillion eyes locked in yours..

The gesture feels strangely vulnerable coming from him.

“I think,” he says roughly afterward, eyes still fixed on yours, too sceptical, “it already ruined us the first time.” His thumb brushes carefully against your waist, then, sensually across your ribs “Didn’t stop either of us from wanting it again.”

It feels strangely fragile now that the adrenaline of finally kissing each other has settled slightly. Not awkward exactly. Just painfully real in a way neither of you can hide from anymore. 

Neither of you seems fully willing to let go first.

You look mentally exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones and bleeds across the surface of your skin; heart beating fast, eyes wide open and desperate. Katsuki, for worse luck despite it all, probably looks the same.

Your eyes drift downward briefly before you let out a small breath through your nose. “This is probably a terrible idea.”

Katsuki huffs quietly. “Yeah.”

“But I really don’t care right now.” you admit “do you?”

“Hell nah!”

Katsuki Bakugo Masterlist

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //

Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3

well, not exactly. toji zenin has his biceps flexing under the weight of crates but his eyes don’t lift to the shelf he places them on. instead his pupils flit to the automatic entrance doors, thick & glass-heavy, before he glances at his watch & back to the door again. 12:30 PM sunday. toji knows you should be here by now.

but you’re not, so toji’s lip twitches as he stares at the box of freezies in his arms and sighs. it’s pathetic, really. he’s got five more boxes of who-knows-what to arrange before the end of his shift but he can’t fucking focus. his mind’s on your short skirt & pretty laugh & the way your voice goes sweet whenever he pretends to help you look for items while holding your hand between the aisles. toji grunts, shakes his head. focus focus focus.

“toji.. can you help me reach the olive oil? the cold-pressed one with the pretty label?”

toji’s head snaps up so fast he almost drops the box of freezies.

it’s you—oh god, it’s you, and you’re looking down at him with those pretty lashes & short skirt & your hands holding a basket behind your back. you’re in those cute kitten heels you had on the first time he saw you—did you get your nails done? so pretty. you’re so pretty, you’re always so pretty, and toji’s mouth dries.

he doesn’t say anything because he can’t, because your perfume smells like honey & has his lungs sticking to his throat—but he slowly stands up anyway. you’re humming to yourself as you pad closer, getting in his way, heel clicking against the tile as he traps you in the aisle.

he reaches up to the glass bottle, and he can see your lashes fluttering up at him. your chest presses against his, and his lip ticks upward.

“you want this, princess?” he mumbles.

you playfully swat his chest, but your palm doesn’t slide off. you’re caressing his pecs now, teasing. “toji, give it to me. i have a pasta to make tonight. i’m busy.”

toji chuckles, slipping the bottle into your basket and letting his palm sneak over your waist instead. your hands are still on his pecs, lightly squeezing as you laugh when he tugs you closer. he nuzzles your jaw, murmuring, “only if i get an invite, sweetheart.”

“we’ll see,” you tease as his tongue licks your earlobe. you’re running a thumb over the silver tag on his chest: TOJI. “if you’re good, maybe i’ll let you wash the dishes.”

he kisses your neck. “m’always good for you, baby.”

you’re giggling now, shoving him away with flushed cheeks & a laugh too bright. toji catches your hands, tugging you back with a smile on his face before squeezing your hips. your lips are so glossy. is that the new gloss you bought last week? can he kiss it off?

he’ll never know, because he’s holding your hips while you tug at his collar and whisper something he doesn’t care about in his ear. his manager calls his name.

fuck.

toji gives your hips one last squeeze. “go pay, princess. i’ll bag your stuff.”

“you better.” you huff, spoiled & sweet, and toji can only watch the sway of your hips as you make your way to the register.

you’re a pretty girl with a posh life who will never know lack. toji’s a 24-year-old who’s still in college, working odd jobs with a son waiting at home.

in the third aisle of the local loblaws, toji zenin has his hands on his hips and his eyes on the ground. toji zenin will never say it out loud, but he knows he will never, ever, get the girl.

ⵌ AT THE FRATHOUSE !

“you can’t pull someone like y/n, no offense.”

toji wishes suguru wouldn’t spell it out. he already knows, for christ’s sake.

in sigma chi’s living room, toji zenin is sprawled out on the center rug while suguru and sato eat on the floor beside him. sato is between geto’s legs with his back against geto’s chest & his toe tickling toji’s jaw through his socks. suguru is tilting his shawarma for sato to bite from before taking a bite of his own.

sato’s about to dish out an insult of his own when the door swings open. in comes ryomen sukuna, standing in the doorway with bags in his hands and his limbs stretched out like some sort of clown. he bellows, “therapy fucking sucked today. i still don’t think i need therapy, by the way. watching porn and jerking off is completely normal—fuck you, suguru.”

“maybe it is,” suguru’s lips are sticky with shawarma sauce, “but having your dick out in the same room as other people is not.”

“a young man can’t be an exhibitionist? suck my dick, man.”

“oh, i’m not hungry..”

sukuna trudges over toji’s legs, then plops on the ground opposite sato and suguru. sato throws him the middle finger with a grin. sukuna throws it back. “i brought drinks. toji, why’re you on the floor? ya need therapy too?”

sato snickers. “toji’s fallen for a rich girl.”

sukuna snorts, “don’t even joke, lad.” but suguru and toji aren’t laughing. his brows scrunch. “wait—“ he turns to toji, “you’re serious?”

toji eyes him. “mind your own business.”

sukuna doesn’t believe in complex schools of thought like ‘minding your business.’ so instead of picking a shawarma for himself and eating in silence, he joins sato and nudges his foot against toji’s cheek. “does she know you’re poor?”

“hey, hey,” geto bites his cheek, “not too much on him.”

but sukuna continues. “what about the kid? does she know you have a son?”

toji’s jaw only tightens.

sukuna looks at toji in disbelief. then at sato, then suguru—then shakes his head, laughing. “jesus christ of jollof rice,” he cracks open a beer, “you’re fucking cooked, bro.”

toji drags his hands over his face. his eyes are hot, for some reason.

suguru sighs, resting his chin on sato’s head as sato munches happily underneath him. “i hate to suggest this, but there’s a way you can get her to give you a chance.”

sukuna and toji both perk up.

“if she doesn’t know about meg—or your, uh, economics,” suguru clears his throat, “then you keep it that way. she thinks you’re some hot older uni student who works at loblaws for beer money. lean into it.”

sato frowns. “this sounds like something i’d suggest. so not good, i think.”

suguru pokes his cheek, making sato’s pout grow deeper. “i’m just spit-balling here. it’s obvious you really like her, toji. and megumi needs a mommy.”

“i don’t like her because i want her to play housewife.”

“we know,” suguru’s smile is affectionate. “that’s why we’ll help you.”

sukuna grunts in agreement. “sounds scummy but it makes sense. if she finds out you’re a baby daddy with no money, she’ll just run back to her range rover.” he takes another swig of his beer. “we’ll help you hide your true identity. you just get her hooked enough that when she eventually does find out, she won’t leave.”

sato nods. “we’ll babysit. lend you money. heck—you can drive my porsche to your dates.”

on the floor, toji zenin is staring towards the ceiling. it’s a stupid plan, his frat brothers are even stupider, and there is no way in hell whoever is up there will actually let things work out in his favor.

but toji’s desperate. he has been for a long time. so before he can let himself think about it, his lips part to respond.

“alright,” he grunts. “let’s fucking do it.”

SIGMA CHI’S REMARK : DON’T WORRY BRO, WE GOTCHU !

BROKE BOY TACTICS #2: WHO’S YOUR DADDY ?

taught by: sato, sukuna, suguru

“babysitting a five year old brat. how hard could that be?”

ΣΧ

megumi zenin is tufts of black hair, sleepy blue eyes & a tiny fist in a jar full of gummy worms. he’s slumped against his dad’s thick leg, shoving fistfuls of gummies in his mouth with candy-smeared cheeks & a bored expression on his face.

sato, sukuna and suguru are side-by-side on a straight line.

hands tucked behind their backs & chests puffed out like soldiers. toji clears his throat. “listen up. i’m going to be gone for exactly two hours. if i come back and the kid has a single scratch on him, i’m throwing all of you into a pond.“

suguru shakes his head, stepping forward to crouch down to megumi’s height. he wipes megumi’s cheeks with a smile. “don't worry, toji. we've got him. right, little man?”

“hi, uncle sugu,” megumi’s voice is flat but he leans into geto’s palm on his cheek. “are we going to draw today?”

“of course, kiddo. i bought some new crayons just for you.”

toji scoops his son up in his arms, ignoring the way his tiny body writhes towards the gummy worms abandoned on the floor. suguru lifts the jar back to megumi with a smile. sukuna, however, is frowning. “why is his face like that.”

“sukuna, do not fight my kid.”

megumi points towards him. “my daddy calls you a pervert.”

sato bursts out in laughter. suguru’s snickering too, though he’s doing a better job of hiding it. toji drops his son to the ground and crouches to his height. megumi offers him a soggy, wet gummy worm. toji eats it off his palm & pokes his belly.

he rises to his feet. “suguru is in charge. rest of you, keep your hands off him. i’m leaving.”

megumi waves a sticky hand. “bye, daddy. bring me a cookie.”

“will do, brat.” and the door shuts with a thud.

——

“we should go to wonderland. you like amusement parks, ‘gumi?”

megumi zenin has a crayon in his hands, scribbling furiously with a focused expression on his face. he’s seated in geto’s lap, occasionally having suguru hand him a crayon as he perfects his artistic masterpiece. to his right, sato gojo is leaning over the table and talking a mile-a-minute.

megumi answers, scribbling a drawing of what looks like him and his father—DADDY AND ME. “i’ve never been to an amusement park.”

“what?” sato slams his palm on the table, distraught. “what kind of kid has never been to an amusement park?!”

“my father is poor.”

“oh,” sato shrinks. “fairs.”

suguru lets out a fond huff, burying his nose in megumi’s hair to hide the fact that he’s shaking from laughter. sato looks crushed by guilt. “i can’t take this anymore, suguru.” he clutches his chest. “we’re going to the apple store and getting him an ipad pro right now.”

suguru raises a brow. “toji said no screens. and either way, i won’t let you turn him into an ipad kid.”

megumi slumps against geto’s chest. “i want a blue gatorade.”

“i’ll get it for you, buddy,” suguru smiles before kissing his cheek, easing him off his lap. “don’t let sato teach you about investment and stocks while i’m gone, okay?”

sato has his chin on the table, defeated. and just as suguru’s back turns into the kitchen, sukuna saunters in, steps heavy, palm curled around a blue bottle of—is that the last gatorade?!

sukuna cracks the plastic seal, taking a slow, heavy swig of the drink while staring right at the five year old. megumi’s tiny brows furrow. “that’s mine. uncle sugu said i could have it.”

“well,” sukuna licks his lips, slow. “uncle sugu’s not the king of this house.” he takes another gulp, throwing his head back with a refreshed ahhhhhh. megumi frowns, lips tight.

and then he screams.

“uncle sugu! mister pervert’s being mean again!”

sukuna chokes on his gatorade. “who the hell are you calling mister pervert, you little brat—“

sato jumps over the table to hold back sukuna before he can strangle the five-year-old. suguru runs out of the kitchen in alarm, quickly scrambling to hold back sukuna’s wrath alongside sato.

megumi only blinks at the display. three grown men bickering and shoving over gatorade. hell, he’s not so sure he even wants it anymore.

he sighs, reaching across the table to pick up sato’s iphone. he dials his dad’s number, palm smushed into his cheek as he watches suguru smack sukuna for his bad behavior.

ⵌ AT THE DATE !

in the local coffee shop, your lashes are fluttering & the sunlight kisses your skin as you stare out the window.

toji zenin has his heart in his throat. his hands are in his pockets but his ribs are cracked against his chest, and the sight of you pouting out the window has his mouth drying with want. he strolls over regardless, posture lazy, steps cool, because toji zenin is a man who can only have pride when he pretends.

“hi, princess,” he slides into the booth seat—next to you, not across, because he’s been thinking about the feel of your waist in his hands since last thursday—and his ankle hooks around yours on autopilot.

“hi,” you smile, leaning into his side as he kisses your hair. toji takes your palm in his. your fingers are so dainty. fuck.

“you look nice today,” you hum. “who are you trying to impress?”

your lashes are batting up at him, but toji manages to keep his cool. his smirk is lazy & gorgeous. “you, obviously.”

toji wonders how you can let him touch you so casually. even now he’s nibbling your ear as you talk about something from class—a lazy professor or something else, it’s hard to listen when your thumb brushes his jaw while you speak—and toji’s mind wanders. he’s kissing your neck now, thumbs rubbing circles on your thighs as your breath hitches between words, and toji wonders why you haven’t yet flinched in disgust.

he doesn’t dwell on it too long, though. he knows the topic will only get him down.

so he kisses your neck as you laugh and swat him away, telling him he’s distracting you from your story. you never push him off, though, and your thigh’s on his lap now.

but all good things must come to an end.

toji’s phone buzzes.

loud & obnoxious. SATO, his screen reads. he quickly swipes it away. “sorry…just spam.”

“spam?” you poke his bicep, grinning. “or is your little side piece getting impatient?”

“don’t have a side piece, baby,” he murmurs into your cheek. “only want you.”

1 NEW FACETIME AUDIO CALL : SATO 🤡

his phone has been buzzing for ages now. you sigh, crossing your arms & clearly annoyed. “toji, just answer it. what if it’s an emergency?”

you’re right, he should answer it, because if anything happened to megumi, he’d fucking flip. he bites his lip, “one second, princess.”

he presses his phone to his ear, but megumi’s voice greets him instead.

“daddy! uncle kuna’s trying to kill me because of blue gatorade!”

toji’s eyes widen. from the corner of his eye, he can see you inching closer, brows furrowed in concentration as you try to listen in.

in the background of the call he can hear sato shrieking. “suguru—! use the spatula! use the spatula! sukuna stop—“

you’re blinking at him, inching closer to his bicep on the table. “daddy? who’s calling you daddy?”

toji’s soul leaves his body.

“daddy, are you coming home soon? uncle sugu’s spanking him now. it’s very loud—“

he ends the call before you can hear any more.

“do you have a son?”

toji’s breathing stutters. you’ve inched away from him now, lips bent in a frown, brows furrowed, expression curious—or cautious, toji can’t really tell. and it pains him to lie to you, but what else can he say when you’ve already shifted your thigh off his lap?

“nah,” he answers too fast. “it’s my nephew.”

toji reaches out to thumb your cheek, but you don’t relax into his palm. “think he meant to call my brother, not me.”

he tugs your bottom lip as you speak. “i didn’t know you had a brother…”

“there’s a lot you don’t know about me, princess,” he leans in to kiss the corner of your lips, because he knows he doesn’t deserve any more than that. your pout deepens.

“we can change that though,” he lies, smiling. “wanna get dessert?”

SATO’S REMARK : NICE SAVE, TOJI ! AND MY BAD—HAHA !

BROKE BOY TACTICS #3: BLEACH !

taught by: geto suguru, toru gojo

“inviting her over already? we’ve gotta scrub this place clean, then.“

ΣΧ

toji zenin has one hour to make it seem like megumi doesn’t exist.

geto suguru is scrubbing the bathrooms. toru gojo has somehow been roped into this predicament and is scrubbing away in the kitchen. in the living room, toji zenin is picking up cheerios from the rug, phone in his ear with sukuna on the line.

“hi daddy,”megumi’s voice is flat through the speaker. “uncle kuna’s being nice to me today.”

“that’s great, kiddo. can you put him back on the phone?”

“yo,” sukuna’s voice crackles through.

“if anything happens to my son, i will spread your ass cheeks and sprinkle paprika in the hole.”

“oh.”

“yeah,” toji shifts the phone in his neck. “make sure he has a good time at that amusement park. and don’t let sato spoil him too much.”

“heyyy toji!” sato’s voice crackles through the speaker. toji sighs before grunting back a hello. “keep megumi safe, got it?”

“yes, sir!” / “we got it, boss.” / “bye, daddy!”

toji says his goodbyes. just as he clicks the end button, toru gojo pads into the living room, glasses tilting off his face & slipping rubber gloves off his hands. “all done in the kitchen. remind me why we’re deceiving this poor lady again?”

toji picks up a gummy worm tucked under the rug and cringes. “because she wouldn’t look twice at a broke guy with a kid.”

toru softens, adjusting his glasses. “you don’t know that. have you tried telling her?”

“no.”

“why not?”

"because,” he picks up another gummy worm hidden under the couch, glaring at it before throwing it away. "because every time someone finds out about megumi, they look at me different. like i'm a burden. like he's a burden."

toru purses his lip. he’s watching as toji ducks under the couch, picking out stray bits of cereal and snacks and other things that make toji’s nose scrunch up in disgust.

toru shakes his head, taking off his glasses to set them on the counter. “but you don’t know if she’s like that.”

“i know i can’t lose her before i even have her.”

toru purses his lip. toji’s voice came out too tight.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

when toji opens his front door, you’re in a too-short dress and there’s moët & chandon in your hands.

god, you’re gorgeous. and toji really needs to stop thinking that. needs to stop saying it in his head before he slips up and says it out loud with a tone he can’t take back.

“hi,” you tilt your head, batting your lashes in that way that makes him stupid. “you gonna keep standing there? or are you gonna take this bottle off my hands?”

ah, right. toji reaches for the bottle but you pull it back. he raises a brow.

“say ‘please pretty girl, may i have the wine?’”

you’re still peering up at him, hugging the bottle of wine to your chest, teasing smile on your glossy lips. toji leans against the doorframe. arms crossed, dark eyes raking over your hips, plush thighs, pretty waist. fuck.

his lips twitch, “i’m not saying that.”

“aww,” you pout, glossy and spoiled. “guess i have to turn back home and drink this expensive wine all by myself.” you turn, and toji bites his cheek because your dress has ridden up to give him the perfect view of your ass. so soft. he can’t wait to squeeze it.

“i’m gonna be so lonely…” your back is still turned to him, voice wistful. “and i came all the way over here, too. i’m so upset.”

toji doesn’t let you take another step.

you squeal as he scoops you up with a grunt, arms snaking over your waist & under your thighs to lift you bridal style. you squeeze the bottle of wine in your arms, eyes shut tight as you giggle while he kicks the door shut. “toji! put me down!”

careful what you wish for.

toji drops you to his couch with a thud. you land with a breathless laugh, dress bunched up to your hips & he can see the print of your panties. your hair is fanned out, and the bottle of wine is pressed to your stomach. you’re giggling, eyes bright, and god. you look so fucking gorgeous all laid out for him. toji’s jaw ticks.

he climbs over you, pressing his warm body down until the wine digs into your stomach. his eyes are dark. hungry.

“please, pretty girl,” he murmurs, breath hot, lips teasing your neck. “may i have the wine?”

oh.

your breath hitches. you stare up at him, cheeks hot, eyes wide, thighs squeezing together in anticipation. but you’re a bad girl, so you don’t give toji zenin what he wants just yet.

your smile falters, but you tilt your head. “thought you weren’t gonna say it?”

he grins, pressing a hot kiss underneath your ear. “and i thought you were leavin’.”

you let out a shaky gasp as toji licks a hot stripe up your neck. he’s filthy—big hands gripping your hips to keep you pinned to the couch, squeezing you hard each time you moan and buck yourself into him. his breath is hot against your neck, sucking and kissing and teasing, the occasional nip when you whimper just the way he likes.

his weight presses the wine harder into your stomach. you gasp, “toji, the wine—“

“hold it, baby.”

your eyes squeeze shut as his kisses trail further down your neck, tummy fluttering as heat pools between your thighs. his thumb on your hip sinks under the silk of your panties, and you whine his name before he shushes you with a sweet kiss to your cheek.

toji doesn’t kiss you on the lips. the lips are too honest, and toji is not.

you’re still clutching the bottle, chest heaving as toji presses your hips deeper, deeper—

“ow!”

toji freezes.

in truth, toji zenin has never been a gentle man. his body is too big and his hands are too rough, and life itself has never treated him gently, nor given him much reason to be gentle towards others. but as toji hovers over you, limbs frozen in alarm, his stomach can’t help but twist with disgust. said body and rough hands have crushed something soft yet again.

“did i hurt you?” his voice comes out weird. “doll—look at me. you okay?”

“i’m fine,” you wince, cheeks flushed as you try to steady your breathing. you twist your leg slightly, sliding your fingers down into the sofa cushion where something sharp poked at you. “something... something poked my leg.”

you pull out a tiny, red brick.

you blink. “a lego?”

for the second time this evening, toji freezes.

he takes it from your hand, flicking it away. he lifts your arms to wrap them around his neck, and lowers himself back to your chest. “that what you stopped me for, princess?” he mutters coolly, like his heart isn’t beating in his throat. “had me so worried, baby.”

“toji, why do you have a lego?”

he kisses your jaw, “my nephew’s.”

ah, that makes sense. you hug his neck tighter, giggling as he slips the wine off your belly & onto the floor. he presses yet another kiss to your neck, warm & sweet, and you let your chin rest on his shoulder as he loves you with gentler hands.

but then you see it.

on the metal door of the kitchen fridge, past a jar of gummy worms and a poorly placed broom, a banana-shaped magnet is there.

and right under it, a scribbled drawing. the messy figure of a man with spiky hair, and a smaller, more spiky-haired boy.

DADDY AND ME.

your body goes still.

toji’s hands are on your hips, thighs, waist—but his touch suddenly itches. the warmth has gone cold.

“toji,” you whisper. “who drew that?”

toji doesn't move. his eyes slowly follow your gaze to the fridge, and the panic in his eyes is unmistakable. the lie slips out of his mouth before his brain can even catch up to it.

“sociology project,” he breathes. “developmental regression. drew it with my left hand.”

“your left hand…”

your voice trails off as toji sinks his lips back to your neck.

toji zenin does not study sociology.

TORU’S REMARK : YOU CAN’T FOOL HER FOREVER.

BROKE BOY TACTICS #4: LEAN INTO THE LARP !

taught by: sato gojo

“you can’t pull up to a date in an uber. take my porsche—you’re a rich guy now.”

ΣΧ

it’s late, and three floors down, toji zenin has his hands on his hips, staring at sato’s sleek black porsche in disbelief while his tie itches at his neck. three floors up, in toji’s crappy apartment, the gang’s all there.

megumi has a blanket pulled up to his chin, seated on the couch next to suguru. sukuna is lounging on the floor with his back against said couch. sato is flipping through TV stations. the light in the room is dim, and sato snickers at something sukuna says before tossing him the remote.

“why does everyone always leave me?”

the trio freeze.

megumi’s expression is flat. he’s staring into the tv’s glow, but his eyes are soulless and empty. suguru hesitates—but then he rests a hand on megumi’s hair. “what do you mean, kiddo?”

“daddy’s always leaving now,” megumi closes his eyes, rigid against the couch cushions. “he never spends time with me anymore. he’s acting like my mommy did.”

the three boys’ hearts crack right down the middle.

they’re staring at each other now, the weight of megumi’s words on their shoulders. how do they tell a little boy that the reason his father has been less present—and is also not present tonight—is because he’s currently trying to hide his child’s existence to impress a woman? and that they’re all helping him?

sato speaks first. too quick, too fast.

“he’s just been busy,” he croaks out. “he’s been picking up new shifts. he’s working really hard.”

“yeah,” sukuna agrees. “he’s working hard. to take care of you, meg.”

megumi stares into the tv screen. geto’s hand is still heavy on his head, and his body is limp and his eyes are heavy.

“i know.” megumi mutters. “he’s my hero.”

suguru bites his lip. “you know what, meg? why don’t we draw something? a new picture for your dad?”

megumi’s eyes flit to the kitchen fridge. DADDY AND ME. the picture is still there, but the paper is crinkled and damp now. as if someone threw it away with heavy eyes, then somehow thought better of it.

megumi nods, “yeah.”

“okay, buddy. i’ll go get the crayons.”

“i’ll get the paper!”

“and i’ll… uh. you want a gatorade, kid?”

the three adults go after the various items. megumi takes one last look at his drawing on the fridge, and then he slips off the couch and pads away.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

toji zenin is a man who can only have pride when he pretends.

so today, he pretends the sleek black porsche parked outside your house is his. he pretends he’s not wearing sato’s luxury cologne, that his tie isn’t secondhand, that the cuff of his suit isn’t too tight on his wrist and that the guilt in his mouth doesn’t taste like his blood.

he’s gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turn white.

when you open the car door, you look like a dream.

your lips are glossy, always glossy, but it’s a different shade of shimmer tonight. your hair is loose all over your shoulders, heels clicky, dress black and matching the shade of sato’s car. toji stares, jaw slack as you slide into the passenger’s seat. the words in his throat have turned into bile.

“Hi.” you blink at him.

“Hi.”

he can’t say much else, and he really ought to but he can’t, so instead he only watches as you huff and click your seatbelt in place. toji licks his lips, turns back to the wheel. says a quick prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in. “you look gorgeous.”

you don’t respond.

the car starts with an expensive growl. it makes toji wince, and he hopes you don’t notice. he’s practiced starting the car three times so he can pretend he’s used to it. he isn’t, and he’ll never be.

he pulls onto the streets, eyes frantically scanning the road as his pulse drums in his teeth.

“toji?” you say, eyes trained ahead of you, voice flat.

“yeah, baby?”

“where are we going?”

toji’s fingers drum on the steering wheel. he turns right at the fork. “somewhere nice,” his voice is strained. “somewhere you deserve to be.”

he lets his right hand shift to the center console, trying to bridge the gap. his hand is sweating, maybe. you glance at it. glance away.

you peer out the window, head against the edge, watching the lights blur through the glass. “i feel like i’m sitting in a museum,” you murmur, quiet. “everything feels curated. including you.”

he swallows. “i’m trying to make tonight special.”

“special…” you trail off, lashes fluttering as you stare out the window.

“i don’t know who you are, zenin.”

toji’s head aches. and so does his chest, violent and sharp and stabbing. he’s a liar, a con artist, a selfish man with rough hands and a son waiting at home. oh—megumi. his phone’s been buzzing in his pocket for a while now. how’s megumi?

“i’m just a guy,” he chooses to say. “a guy who likes you.”

“do you? or is that just part of the exhibit?”

maybe there really is a god watching, because before toji can respond something makes a sound.

he’s not sure what, honestly, but he’s quick to capitalize on it. he needs the air. toji turns into an empty street to park. he unbuckles his seat belt, leans over a bit. “stay in the car, okay?”

you only nod, and toji’s throat curls with guilt.

the night air is cool on his skin. he opens the car bonnet—careful, as careful as a man like him can be—pretending to scan the engines for a possible source of the noise. he doesn’t find anything wrong, and he knew he wouldn’t, but he holds up the bonnet and pretends to check anyways.

three minutes pass before he returns to the car.

three minutes of toji zenin teaching himself how to breathe. the same way he does when megumi shuts down even though he thinks the steps are corny. having a kid really changes you, doesn’t it?

megumi. he looks at his watch, 9PM. his boy should be in bed by now.

the buzzing from his phone has stopped. he should check it now, but you’re still waiting. still beautiful. still hurt.

so toji slams the hood shut. sucks in a breath and slides back into the driver’s seat. you’re staring at him as he buckles his seatbelt.

“toji,” your voice is careful. “do you have anything you want to tell me?”

yes. i work three jobs and i’m drowning in student loans. i got a girl pregnant when i was eighteen, and she left me when i turned twenty-one. i have a boy who’s five-and-a-half and he’s the only good thing i have left. and i’m sorry i lied, but i didn’t want you to leave me before i could love you and i’m sorry, and i’m sorry again, and you deserve better, and i’m sorry.

“no,” toji lies.

you purse your lips. “okay.”

the engine roars back to life. and toji is sweating, and the date feels over before it’s even started, and his pulse is too loud and—

“daddy?”

toji’s blood runs cold.

in the backseat of sato’s porsche, megumi zenin is there, body tucked under a blanket and rubbing his eyes. he slips off the seat and stumbles towards the console, still rubbing at his face. “hi, daddy.”

toji zenin can only stay frozen as megumi wraps his smaller arms around his neck.

he tries to speak, fingers twitching as they hover over his son’s back. “megumi—hey, buddy—what’re you doing here?”

megumi buries his nose into his father’s neck. “i didn’t want to be alone again.”

toji bites his lip. he can feel your eyes boring into him, and he nervously scrambles. “hey—you’re never alone, buddy. where are your uncles? come here.”

he lifts megumi into his lap, avoiding your gaze.

“is this your son?”

toji’s mouth dries.

he could say it’s his nephew, make up some lie about him referring to both him and his ‘brother’ as dad, but god. you’re already looking at him with something he doesn’t have the vocabulary to name, and toji’s jaw aches.

“yes,” he sucks in a breath. “this is my son, megumi.”

he brushes megumi’s hair back, taking his little fist away from his face so he stops rubbing at his eyes. “meg, say hi to the pretty lady.”

“hi, pretty lady.”

megumi waves a small hand, then collapses against his father’s stomach.

you force a smile and flick your eyes back up to toji.

“i think you should take me home.”

???’s REMARK : YOU CAN’T LARP YOUR WAY INTO BEING LOVED !

BROKE BOY TACTICS #5: EMBRACE YOUR ECONOMICS !

taught by: nanami kento, megumi zenin.

“maybe she doesn’t hate you. maybe she hates that you thought so little of her you felt the need to live a lie.”

ΣΧ

it’s a new day, and toji zenin is laden with old burdens.

he’s slumped against his bedroom wall, phone pressed to his ear with megumi on his stretched out legs. megumi has a red & green colored hand in another jar full of gummy worms. toji makes a mental note to hide it better next time.

“you didn’t just lose the date,” nanami’s voice cuts through the speaker, flat and professional as always. “you insulted her intelligence. made her out to be a shallow woman who’d only care about you if you had money in your bank account.”

toji stares at the ceiling. then at megumi, who’s about to eat a gummy worm off the floor. he flicks it away. “she looked at me like i was trash, nanami.”

“she looked at you like you were a liar,” nanami corrects. “which you are.”

nanami sighs, breath sending a crackle through the speaker. all he wanted to do was spend his afternoon reading his new favorite BL, doukyuusei, but once again the shenanigans of his friends have interrupted his peace.

“toji, you’re a smart man. and she sounds like a smart woman. i doubt she’d lose interest because you have a son—i believe she hates that you lied to her.”

megumi takes a worm and makes it crawl through toji’s lips. it’s cold, but toji chews and swallows anyways. “i need to apologize.”

“yes,” toji can hear a page flip. “and quickly. i have to attend to other matters now, but say hi to megumi for me.”

the line goes dead, and toji drops his hand to the floor.

megumi chews a gummy worm. then he takes it out of his mouth, frowns at it, then eats it again. “daddy, are you mad at me?”

toji frowns. “for what?”

“i ruined your date,” megumi looks into the jar of worms, frowning, then back at his dad. “with auntie.”

toji looks at his son. at his candy smeared cheeks, sticky hands, black spikes of hair and sugar in his teeth. megumi looks just like him. he’s always known it, but he’s growing to look more and more like his father every day.

“you didn’t ruin anything,” he murmurs, pulling his son into his chest. “you’ve never ruined anything in your life.”

he pats megumi’s hair, head thrown back. “i’m sorry, meg.”

five-year-old megumi zenin has already lost interest. he’s more focused on getting the red and blue gummy in the sea of yellow-green ones, small hand grabbing fistfuls of worms before dropping them back. he doesn’t know his father is sorry, sorry for everything, for trying to erase his existence to impress a woman and for bringing him into this world knowing he will never be able to give him the future he deserves.

megumi retrieves the red and blue gummy worm. his favorite flavor. he blinks at it once, twice.

then he turns to his dad. lifts the gummy worm on his palm to his face.

toji zenin eats it right off.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

megumi zenin is in his best clothes: baby blue button-up from suguru. a white top with a red race car that sukuna had got him for his birthday. light up skechers from uncle sato. toji had tried to get him to wear normal shoes, but megumi shut that down quickly. he wanted to be seen.

you no longer frequent the local loblaws.

and it breaks toji’s heart, actually. you haven’t blocked him just yet, thank god, so toji thinks you might not yet hate him completely. that he might still have a chance.

call him a weirdo, but he’s been to almost every grocery store nearby.

no frills, sobeys, you name it. and now, at 12:30PM sunday, toji zenin is in his car with his son, watching you load groceries into the backseat with a pout on your lips. like you’re above this. like you need a big, strong man to offer his help. and toji’s chest aches. because he could be that man, you know. if you’d let him.

toji slips out of the car. megumi hops out too.

he stops just a few feet behind you, watching you mutter curses as you haul a carton of juice. toji’s lip twitches. then he pulls megumi along.

“let me help.”

you blink as toji comes out of seemingly nowhere to save the day. he lifts everything out of your cart and into your car, never breaking a sweat. truthfully, your groceries aren’t even that heavy. he’s not sure why you were struggling, but he thinks it’s so fucking cute.

he lets you click your remote to close the boot shut. then he turns to you: “i owe you an apology.”

you tilt your head. “do you?”

he squeezes megumi’s hand in his own to ground himself. “i lied because i was scared,” he admits, and you never thought you’d hear toji and ‘scared’ in the same sentence. “you’re a pretty girl from a nice family who spends my rent money on groceries,” he breathes. “and i want you, bad. and i thought if you saw me—the me who lived paycheck to paycheck and has nothing except this little brat,” he raises megumi’s hand, “you’d leave before i even got a chance.”

he shifts his hand to megumi’s head. “it’s fucking stupid, i know. but this is my son,” he ruffles megumi’s hair. “say hi, kid.”

“hi, auntie.”

your gaze shifts away from toji, and drops to the little boy beside him. megumi is apple cheeks, dark, messy hair and nervous feet shifting on the pavement. he looks like his dad, and the sight makes your heart melt.

“hi, baby boy.” you crouch down to his height. “i love your shirt. do you wanna come here?”

megumi nods. he abandons his father’s side to let you scoop him up in your arms.

toji frowns.

megumi’s a shy kid. or not shy—awkward. he can’t make eye contact with kids his age, his tone is too flat, and his eyes are always bored. he doesn’t like to be touched by people he isn’t familiar with, and he’s very quick to say no to what he doesn’t like or want. so toji can only watch, brows knit in confusion, as megumi’s fist curls over your necklace and he lets you press a kiss to his cheek.

“hi, auntie,” megumi collapses into your shoulder, fist still gripping your necklace. “i did a very good job.”

“so good, baby,” you kiss his hair, grinning. “i’m gonna buy you all the gummies in the world.”

megumi blushes from the affection. he shifts his head over your shoulder so all you can see is his pink chubby cheek.

“what the hell is happening?”

“daddy’s a big dummy,” megumi mutters into your shoulder. “the biggest,” you agree.

toji’s frown deepens, and you laugh. “i’ve already met megumi, silly.”

toji blinks. he’s about to ask how, but you beat him to it: “remember when you got out of the car? megumi woke up in the backseat,” you kiss his ear softly, and megumi’s blush deepens. “we had a long chat about you, toji. and i asked him to pretend we’ve never met, and go back to sleep in the car.”

you watch megumi, fond. his fingers curling deeper into your necklace, his eyes shy and staring behind you. “i can’t believe you’ve been keeping this little angel from me. you’re a monster, toji.”

“dummy monster…” megumi mutters. you kiss his cheek again and he hides.

toji thinks about it. to megumi referring to you as auntie back in the apartment. fuck. he didn’t think too much of it, but perhaps he should’ve.

“so? you two were testing me, or some shit?”

you shift a hand from megumi’s back to your hip. “no attitude, mister. i’m still mad at you,” your frown, and then your shoulders drop. “did you really think you had to fake having money to impress me? picking me up in a porsche when i’ve already seen your crappy apartment?”

you stroke megumi’s hair. “and lying about meg,” your expression goes soft, sad. “have you apologized to him?”

“yeah,” megumi tugs your necklace. “he told me sorry.”

you smile at him, then kiss his little fist. “that’s great, baby. you deserve an apology. and i’m sorry as well, for taking away your time with your father.”

megumi pats your face, voice flat. “i forgive you.”

you giggle, pinching his cheek, and toji can only stare in disbelief.

megumi’s cheeks are pink from your kisses, little fingers curled tight around your necklace while you sway him absentmindedly against your chest. his light-up skechers blink every time his feet kick against your thighs. you’re smiling at him like he’s heaven as a boy, and megumi—quiet, awkward, megumi—is hiding his face in your shoulder because he’s shy.

how greedy.

how greedy of toji zenin to pick out cheerios from between couch cushions like trying to erase evidence of a crime scene. how greedy of him to scrub crayon off his walls, peel gummies off his floors and hide away his son with other people he can’t truly call family. how greedy of him to rip his son’s drawing off the fridge, only to put it back again later because he can’t even be greedy right.

how greedy of toji zenin to hide the only good thing in his life away; all because he wanted yet another good thing: you.

he wanted your pretty laugh in his apartment. wanted your heels by the front door, wanted your perfume in his sheets and your voice mixed with megumi’s cartoons on saturday mornings. toji zenin wanted everything.

now his everything was shoving his chubby hand in the face of his other everything to keep from getting attacked by kisses. but he was smiling. megumi zenin was smiling, and blushing, and laughing—and toji thinks about how he hasn’t seen megumi this childish in a while.

his heart aches.

“i’m sorry.”

sorry for what? he knows what he’s sorry for, but the words have failed him again, so he can only watch. watch as you tilt your head the way you always do, before megumi glances at you and tilts his head back at him the same way. oh god.

“‘gumi, do we forgive daddy?”

“yeah,” megumi’s feet kick. his shoes light up, red and blue. “if he stops hiding my gummies.”

toji won’t hide his gummies anymore. hell, he’ll never hide anything again in his life.

and maybe megumi senses the guilt on his father’s shoulders, because he squirms his tiny body for you to set him down and dashes so hard into his father’s legs that he knocks his forehead against his knee. “ow…”

toji snorts, crouching. “what are you doing, kid.” but he’s scooping megumi into his arms anyways. you pad closer, grin cheeky, and poke megumi on his side.

“how about we go shop for some gummy worms?”

BONUS — Y/N AND MEG’S FIRST MEET !

“who are you?”

the voice makes you jolt. you’re staring at your hands in the passenger’s seat of toji’s rented—no, probably borrowed—porsche, blinking away tears in your eyes when a tiny voice speaks behind you.

you whip your head around so fast your neck aches.

and standing there is a little boy, tiny, maybe four or five, rubbing away sleep from his eyes. his hair comes in tufts of black, and his eyes are blue, and oh my god he looks just like his father.

toji.

megumi is rubbing his eyes harder now. your heart melts.

“hi, baby,” you coo, patting away your own tears on your lashes. “i’m friends with your daddy. what’s your name?”

“i’m megumi,” he sniffles, yawns. “my friends call me meg. but i don’t have any friends.”

oh. “hi, meg. what’re you doing here? did your dad leave you home alone?”

you hope he says no, because you know toji’s been hiding something—someone from you, but he wouldn’t go that far. at least, you hope he wouldn’t.

“no, my uncles are at home,” he says sleepily. and you hover your hands over his face in silent permission. he blinks at your hands, sniffles again, before nodding to let you brush his hair back from his face. “i wanted to see daddy. he left for work.”

work? no he didn’t. toji zenin is outside, lifting the bonnet of a car he knows is too good to call his. “did he tell you he was going to work, meg?”

“no, but i know he is. he works for us. he wears the tie and he goes away.”

“oh, baby…”

toji zenin is a liar. a liar with a handsome face, and warm touch, and words that make your head dizzy. and you should be mad, really. you are, but the sight of this little boy with a face like his father’s only makes your heart ache.

you want to ask questions: who are your uncles? where were you when i came over? is your mother still in the picture?

but megumi zenin is blinking sleepily as you caress his cheek, leaning into your touch with a sigh.

“megumi, do you wanna make a deal?”

“what kind of deal?” megumi tries to rub his eyes, but you ease his fist away.

“a super simple one. your daddy’s been acting really strange, right? to you and me,” you pat his cheek. “all you have to do is act like we’ve never met, and i’ll give you anything you want.”

megumi thinks very hard. then he asks, “are you the lady daddy wants to impress?”

you blink. “what do you mean?”

“i heard him on the phone with uncle sugu,” megumi rests his head against your leather car seat. “he said he likes a nice lady. said he wants to be a better man for her.” he rubs his eye. “then he started leaving me. where’s daddy? i wanna talk to daddy.”

“oh, meg,” your heart breaks. “come here, baby.”

megumi hesitates, but then he lets you pull him into a hug. his hands are limp by his sides, but he pats your back once before his tiny hand slips away. “auntie, why are you crying?”

your shoulders shake over him. you sniffle, “don’t worry about it, meg. and your daddy’s gonna come back soon, okay? and he won’t leave you alone anymore. i’ll make sure of it.”

megumi pulls back. “you promise?”

you cup his cheeks. “i promise. go back to sleep, okay?”

EPILOGUE !

on the couch of toji’s crappy apartment, megumi zenin is curled into his father’s side, gummy worms in his mouth as he presses his sticky hands to the screen of his brand new ipad pro. a shiny gift from his loving uncle sato, who bought him the device despite suguru and toji’s wishes.

megumi offers his father a gummy worm. “when is auntie coming?”

toji eats it off his palm. “soon, kid,” he clicks his tongue. “swear you like her more than me now.”

megumi picks out five gummy worms from the jar, then lines them up on his ipad screen for convenience. “nah, i like daddy the most.”

toji softens.

all toji can see right now is the top of his little boy’s head, his tiny nose poking out and his chubby little cheeks. the ipad screen is sticky and candy smeared—much like megumi’s hands—and on the screen is a video of a teacup in a ballet dress—ballerina cappucina?—getting married to a little espresso man wearing a ninja bandana. toji frowns. the video gives him flashbacks to his days of working as skai jackson’s personal AI prompt writer. he shivers.

toji shakes his head. “meg, you know i’m never leaving, right?”

“i know,” megumi groans. “you told me a billion times yesterday!”

“quit whining,” toji murmurs, pulling his son into his lap. megumi reaches for his jar of gummy worms, and toji tugs it closer. “just wanted to remind you.” he mumbles.

megumi slumps against his father’s chest. soft, distracted, satisfied. “you don’t need to say sorry anymore. i forgive you.”

toji kisses his hair, burying his face in the dark strands. he sighs, “thanks, kiddo.”

———

when the doorbell rings, toji zenin is already half-asleep.

the sound—and megumi’s accidental jab of his elbow against his stomach—wakes him right up. toji smooths his hair, rubs the sleep from his eyes. then he turns to tell megumi to go wash his sticky hands, then decides not to.

he sucks in a breath and opens the door.

“hi, pretty.”

“move. i’m not here for you.”

you shove at his chest and push your way into the apartment, and on the couch to the right megumi zenin is there, ipad in hands and cheeks sticky and looking up at you with big, blue eyes.

“auntie?”

“oh, my baby!”

you scoop him off the couch and into your arms, and megumi clutches your shoulders tight as you attack him with kisses on his forehead, cheeks, everywhere. toji’s eye twitches in disbelief. “are we serious?”

“oh, you’re still here,” you glance over at him, bored. “meg and i are gonna make cookies today. mind being a doll and fetching the ingredients from the car?” you toss him your car keys.

toji looks at the keys in his hands. then you, who is cooing silly things that make megumi blush and bury his head in your neck.

toji pads over to you, slow. “i wanted to see you.”

you ignore his hands snaking around your hips. you turn your nose up at him, “and now, you have.”

“you still mad at me?”

of course you’re still mad. maybe not as mad as you were a week ago, but still upset. that he lied. that he thought so little of you that he went out of his way to sculpt a whole other life and hide away the little angel in your arms. but toji’s hands are still heavy on your hips. his voice is warm in your ear. and he apologized, you know. in the parking lot that day. at your house on monday, holding a bouquet of half-dead flowers and wearing a rented suit that went to waste because you refused to go out with him anyway. he sent you an hour long voicemail apologizing. you listened to it all on the way here.

toji zenin is such a sap.

he acts like he isn’t, though. but he is, and you feel it in how he presses his lips to your neck, over and over and over again. i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry.

megumi shoves his father’s lips away. “daddy stop.”

you laugh, nuzzling megumi’s cheek. “he’s such a dummy, isn’t he meg? do you think i should forgive him?”

“yeah,” megumi mutters, collapsing into your neck. “he said sorry a billion times to me yesterday. daddy’s really sorry for everything.”

“aww. daddy’s so cute when he’s sorry, isn’t he?”

toji is glaring at you. you can only giggle and press a kiss to his jaw, and his eyes widen a bit in surprise. you cup his jaw and press another one to his cheek. just one more, because you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t missed him as well.

“i forgive you, mister. now go get those groceries—shoo!”

toji nuzzles your neck before leaving the apartment.

megumi is still on your hip, clutching your shoulders for balance as you pick out pans and trays from the cupboard. he grips your hair in a tiny fist. “auntie?”

“hm, gummy?”

megumi hides in your neck—shy, nervous. “are you gonna be my new mommy?”

you freeze.

megumi clutches you tighter. his face is buried in your throat, and he’s gripping so tightly his little nails bite into your skin, but you soften. toji had already confessed everything in his voicemail. his mom isn’t in the picture anymore. how a mother can let go of a little angel like meg, you don’t know, but who are you to judge and conclude?

“i don’t know, meg, it’s too soon,” you hum softly, setting a pan on the tabletop. “but i know i’ll be here, baby. for you.”

“will you be at my school, too?” he peers up at you, big eyes glimmering with hope. “all the other kids have mommies except for me.”

“oh, megumi—of course i’ll be there!”

it’s taking everything in you not to carry this boy and run! you attack his face with kisses, and megumi squirms in your arms but he’s giggling. his hands are sticky on your face, neck, everywhere, but you kiss him over and over again, because you’ve only known him for a little over a week but you’re already ready to give him the world. “auntie, stop!” but he’s laughing. “there’s lip gloss all over me!”

when toji walks in, he can’t believe his eyes.

there are too many shopping bags in his hands, because everything about you is too much, even down to your shopping, and toji is staring in disbelief. the woman of his dreams in his kitchen, holding his son, and his son is laughing. laughing the way he used to before his mother left him two years ago.

and he doesn’t really deserve the warmth curling in his chest, or the strange feeling coursing through his veins, but who is toji zenin if not greedy?

so he drops the bags to his feet (gently, because you’d curse him if the eggs broke), and pads over to the kitchen where you’re showering megumi with affection, and he snakes his arms around your waist and drops his head into your neck. you turn, grinning, and you don’t push him away when he presses a quick kiss to your lips. the lips are honest, and now toji is too.

“aww, look at you getting all sappy.”

“auntie made my face all sticky..”

toji squeezes you both tight. a little greed never killed a man.

MEGUMI’S REMARK : CAN I HAVE SOME GUMMY WORMS…?

#SIGMA CHI STORIES !

LOVE OVER LOBLAWS, end.

© HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.

SIGMA CHI TAGLIST (A) — JOIN HERE !

this was simply the natural order of things, as stable and predictable as gravity — you walked into a room, sukuna was there, the air got thicker, you glared at each other, and the universe continued spinning.

it had been like this since freshman orientation when you accidentally took the last chocolate chip muffin from the dining hall cart and sukuna had been reaching for it at the exact same time; your fingers had brushed, and sukuna had looked at you like you'd personally insulted every single of his ancestors, and then he'd muttered something under his breath about how he 'should have known'.

from that day forward, you were locked in.

so when your professor announced the paired final project for advanced literary theory — a fifteen-page analysis of narrative unreliability that would make up forty percent of your grade — and then proceeded to assign partners alphabetically, you felt the universe's cosmic joke land squarely on your shoulders.

"aizawa is with burnham, carlson is with davis... nakamura is with park, and (l/n) is with sukuna."

the room didn't go silent, but you wouldn't have heard it if it had. all you could hear was the rushing of blood in your ears as you turned your head, slow and dreadful, like a defendant watching the jury file back in.

sukuna was already looking at you.

he sat two rows over, sprawled in his chair like he'd been poured into it, all sharp angles and lazy menace. his pink hair fell across his forehead in that careless way that made you want to push it out of his face just so you could see him scowl more clearly. his jaw was set, his mouth a flat line, and his eyes — those stupid, arresting eyes that shifted color depending on the light, red one moment and almost brown the next — were fixed on you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

you glared at him.

sukuna raised one eyebrow, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to be annoyed with you.

"great," you muttered, slumping in your seat. "just great."

the thing you didn't know — the thing you couldn't know, because nobody tells you these things, because love doesn't announce itself with trumpets and flashing signs — was that ryomen sukuna had been in love with you for three years, two months, and approximately eleven days.

it had started with the muffin.

not because of the muffin, exactly, but because of the way you'd looked at him when your fingers touched. everyone else in the dining hall flinched away from sukuna — he knew how he came across, all sharp edges and sharper tongue, the kind of person who looked like they'd bite if you got too close. but you hadn't flinched. you'd looked at him, and there had been something in your expression that wasn't fear or deference or any of the other things he was used to seeing.

you'd simply looked at him like… he was just some guy who wanted a muffin.

and then you'd taken it anyway, which was either deeply stupid or deeply brave, and sukuna hadn't been able to decide which, but he'd known, suddenly and completely, that he needed to figure it out.

so he'd started showing up at your locker, not because he wanted to intimidate you but because sukuna wanted to see if you'd look at him like that again. he'd started competing with you for grades not because he wanted to beat you but because sukuna wanted you to notice how hard he was willing to try, how he sharpened himself against you like a blade against a whetstone. he'd challenged you to the karaoke contest because you'd laughed at something utahime said — a real laugh, the kind that crinkled your nose — and sukuna had wanted to be the reason you made that sound, even if it was because he was singing badly on purpose.

none of it had worked the way he wanted.

somewhere along the way, the wires had gotten crossed so completely that sukuna didn't even know how the hell to untangle them anymore; his attention had curdled into something you perceived as hostility. his proximity had become a threat instead of a hope.

and ryomen sukuna, who had never been good at explaining himself, who had spent his whole life building walls instead of bridges, had no idea how to tell you that every time you glared at him, he felt like he was swallowing glass.

so he didn't tell you.

sukuna just kept showing up, he just kept competing, he just kept finding reasons to be near you, and let you believe whatever you wanted to believe.

it was easier that way. really, it was easier than admitting that he thought about you constantly, that he had a folder on his phone full of screenshots of your discussion board posts because he liked the way you structured arguments, that he'd memorized your coffee order from watching you get it so many times (oat milk latte, extra shot, cinnamon on top, which was objectively an incorrect way to drink coffee but he loved that about you anyway).

it was easier than saying; i don't hate you. i never have. i think i would burn the world down if you asked me to, and that terrifies me more than anything else ever has.

so when professor okamoto announced your pairing, sukuna's heart did something violent in his chest, and he had to physically stop himself from smiling. he raised one eyebrow instead, giving you his most unreadable look, and watched your face crumple with displeasure.

god, you were beautiful when you were annoyed.

yeah… sukuna was so, so fucked.

you agreed to meet in the library on tuesday afternoon, mostly because you wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. the sooner you started, the sooner you'd be done, and the sooner you could go back to pretending ryomen sukuna didn't exist at all.

he was already there when you arrived.

this was infuriating because you were fifteen minutes early, specifically to avoid this exact scenario — walking in to find him already settled, already comfortable, already looking like he belonged in a way that made you feel like an intruder in your own study space.

sukuna had claimed the corner table by the window, the good one with the natural light and the extra outlets, and he was bent over a laptop with his reading glasses on.

you stopped dead.

sukuna wore glasses.

you had never seen this before, you had no idea sukuna even needed them, and the sight of them — wire frames, simple and unexpectedly kind against the boy’s sharp face — made something in your chest do a strange little flip.

he looked way softer like this, less intimidating, and you hated that you noticed. you hated that you noticed that the sleeves of sukuna’s sweater were pushed up to his elbows, exposing the lean lines of his forearms. you hated that you noticed the way his hair fell when he was concentrating, how he kept pushing it back with an absent hand.

you hated that you noticed anything about him at all.

"you're staring," sukuna said without looking up.

you bristled.

"i'm not staring. i'm assessing the enemy's territory."

now sukuna looked up, and the glasses made him seem almost approachable for half a second before his expression settled into its usual mask of mild disdain.

"the library is not enemy territory. it's simply a library. with books. which we both really need for this project we're both required to complete."

"don't sound so excited about it."

"i'm not excited about anything involving you."

that stung more than you wanted it to.

you told yourself it was because you were proud, because you hated being dismissed, because sukuna's opinion shouldn't matter to you but it did, it always had, in the same way a splinter mattered — small and sharp and impossible to ignore.

you dropped your bag on the table with more force than necessary and sat down across from him, pulling out your laptop and notebook and pens with aggressive efficiency.

"let's just get this over with."

"eager to escape my company?"

"desperately."

something flickered across his face, there and gone so fast you couldn't name it. he looked back at his screen.

"okamoto wants us to focus on unreliable narration in gothic literature. i've pulled some secondary sources. there's a reading list in the shared document i started."

"you started a shared document already?"

"i'm not an idiot."

"i never said you were."

"you were thinking it."

you opened your mouth to argue, then closed it because he wasn't wrong, and also because there was something in his tone that didn't sound like his usual condescension. it sounded almost... tired. like he was exhausted by this dance you two did, even though he was the one who kept leading.

the silence stretched between you, strange and unfamiliar.

you'd never spent this much time alone with sukuna before; your interactions were always in crowded hallways or full classrooms, always brief and barbed, always with an audience. now it was just the two of you and the soft sounds of the library — pages turning, keyboards clicking, someone's phone buzzing somewhere in the stacks.

you could smell his cologne; something woodsy and warm, nothing like the sharp, cold scent you'd imagined he'd wear. it made him seem closer than he actually was.

"so," you said, because you had to say something, "gothic literature. fun."

sukuna looked at you over the top of his glasses.

"is that a genuine statement or are you being sarcastic?"

"do i ever not sound sarcastic?"

"no," sukuna said, and then, quieter, "i know."

you didn't know what that meant, and you didn't ask.

the first week of working together was exactly as miserable as you'd expected.

you disagreed about everything — thesis statements, source selection, whether or not to use first-person in the analysis, the correct way to cite a multi-volume work.

sukuna was methodical to the point of obsession, wanting to outline every paragraph before writing a single word, while you preferred to write freely and shape the chaos into something structured later. he thought your approach was inefficient. you thought his approach was suffocating.

"you can't just write without knowing where you're going," he said on thursday, staring at your laptop screen like it had personally offended him. "that's how you end up with a directionless argument."

"it's not directionless, it's exploratory. there's a difference."

"there isn't."

"there is if you have any imagination at all."

sukuna’s jaw tightened. "i have imagination."

"huh. could've fooled me."

the words came out sharper than you intended, and you saw something shutter behind sukuna’s eyes. he looked away first, which he never did, and when he spoke again his voice was carefully, deliberately flat.

"just write the outline. we can argue about methodology later."

you wanted to push. you wanted to know why he looked like you'd actually hurt his feelings, which was ridiculous because ryomen sukuna didn't have feelings, not ones that could be hurt by the likes of you. but something about the set of his shoulders stopped you, something about the way he'd gone very still, like he was bracing for impact.

so you wrote the outline.

and sukuna was right, which made it worse.

by the end of the second week, something had shifted.

you couldn't point to exactly when the hell it happened, but somewhere between arguing about the reliability of jane eyre's narration and debating whether rochester was a gothic hero or just a guy with too many secrets, the edges of your interactions had started to soften.

you still bickered constantly, but it felt less like warfare and more like... a game. a familiar rhythm you'd both fallen into without meaning to.

sukuna started bringing you coffee.

not every day, and not in an obvious way either; he'd just show up to your library sessions with two cups from the campus cafe, one black for himself and one that smelled like cinnamon and oat milk, and he'd set yours on your side of the table without a single comment.

the first time it happened, you stared at the cup like it might explode at any moment;

"what is this?"

"coffee. it's a beverage. people drink it to stay awake when they're doing academic work."

"i know what coffee is. i meant—why did you get me one?"

sukuna shrugged, not meeting your eyes. "you always look like you haven't slept. figured you needed it."

it was such a strangely considerate thing to say, so unlike the person you thought you knew, that you didn't know how to respond. you just wrapped your hands around the cup and let the warmth seep into your palms, watching sukuna over the rim as he settled into his chair and opened his laptop like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

the coffee was perfect, exactly how you liked it.

you didn't think about what that meant.

you definitely didn't think about how sukuna would have had to pay attention to know your order, how sukuna would have had to remember, how sukuna would have had to deliberately choose to get it for you even though you'd never asked and never thanked him properly.

you just drank the coffee and tried to ignore the way your heart was beating.

on the third week, you caught sukuna staring at you.

not the usual staring — the kind where he was waiting for you to finish a thought or watching your face for a reaction during an argument. this was different; this was soft, this was the way people looked at things they wanted to keep.

you'd been reading a passage from wuthering heights aloud, doing the voices for the different characters because you were a huge nerd and because it made sukuna's lip twitch in a way that was almost — almost — a smile. you were in the middle of heathcliff's "i cannot live without my soul" speech, and you'd gotten dramatic with it, leaning forward with your hand pressed to your chest, and when you looked up to gauge his reaction, sukuna was just... looking at you.

not at the book, not at the table, but at you.

sukuna’s expression was naked in a way you'd never seen before. all the usual armor was completely gone — the sneer, the boredom, the casual cruelty he wielded like a shield.

instead he looked almost... awed. like you'd done something miraculous just by existing in his general vicinity.

your voice caught in your throat.

"sukuna?"

he blinked, and the mask slammed back into place so fast you almost believed you'd imagined the moment before.

"what?"

"you were staring."

"no, i was just listening."

"you looked—"

you stopped, not sure what you'd been about to say. you looked like you loved me, maybe, but that couldn't be right because ryomen sukuna didn't love anything, certainly not you, certainly not like that.

"you looked weird."

"i always look weird."

"you don't," you said, before you could stop yourself. "you look, you know, normal? i mean, not weird. usually."

sukuna's eyebrows went up.

for a long moment, neither of you spoke. the library's heating system kicked on with a low rumble, and somewhere across the room, someone laughed quietly, and you were acutely aware of every single inch of space between you, of how easy it would be to reach across the table and touch sukuna’s hand, of how badly you wanted to.

you didn't. of course you didn't. but you wanted to, and that was new, and that was terrifying.

"finish the passage," sukuna said finally, his voice rougher than usual. "you were at 'i cannot live without my soul'."

you looked down at the book, at heathcliff's desperate words, and felt heat rise to your cheeks.

"right. yeah. okay."

you finished the passage, but you couldn't look at sukuna while you did it.

the confession happened on a thursday, and it happened because of a paper cut.

you were both hunched over a stack of printouts, cross-referencing quotes, and you were tired — the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that came from too many late nights and too much caffeine and the slow, creeping realization that you didn't actually hate the person sitting across from you, that maybe you'd never hated him at all, that maybe you'd been wrong about everything for three entire years.

you reached for a page at the same time sukuna did, your fingers brushing against his, and you both froze.

his hands were warm.

you'd expected them to be cold, because everything about sukuna seemed cold, but no, they weren't. his hands were warm and broad and surprisingly gentle when he pulled back like you'd burned him.

"sorry," you said, and meant it.

"don't be sorry for touching me," sukuna said, and his voice was strange, tight, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep. "i don't—i don't mind."

you looked at him.

really looked, the way you hadn't let yourself look in years; his hair was messy from running his hands through it, his glasses were slightly crooked, and there was a tension in his jaw that you'd always read as anger but now seemed like something else entirely. something held back, something waiting.

"you always mind," you said quietly. "you always mind when i'm near you."

sukuna's breath caught, and you saw it, the way his chest stopped moving for just a second, the way his fingers curled into fists on the table.

"is that what you think?" he asked. "that i mind?"

"you act like you do. you've always acted like—"

"i know how i act." sukuna cut you off, and there was something raw in his voice now, something that made your stomach drop. "i know exactly how i act. do you think i don't know? do you think i haven't noticed that you flinch every time i walk into a room, that you tense up when i stand too close, that you look at me like i'm something you stepped in?"

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

"i know," he continued, and now he wasn't looking at you anymore, he was looking at the table, at his hands, at anything but your face. "i know you hate me. i've known for years. and i don't—i don't blame you. i'm not good at this. i'm not good at people. i don't know how to be anything other than what i am, and what i am is someone who makes you uncomfortable, apparently, which was never—"

his voice actually cracked, and you felt something splinter inside your chest.

"that was never what i wanted."

"sukuna—"

"just let me finish."

sukuna pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice was muffled.

"i need to say this. i've been trying to say this for three whole years, and i just keep messing it up, and i don't care if you hate me after, i just really need you to know so i can stop—so i can stop pretending—"

he dropped his hands and looked at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed and bright, and all the air left your lungs.

"i don't hate you," sukuna said. "i have never hated you. not once. not even when you took the last muffin at orientation, which was a crime against humanity and i'm still not over it. not when you argued with me about romantic poetry in sophomore lit. not when you told professor tanaka that my interpretation of frankenstein was 'reductive and borderline misogynistic', which, for the record, it wasn't. i don't hate you. i've never hated you. i—"

sukuna stopped, swallowed, and looked at you like you were the scariest thing he'd ever seen.

"i love you," he said, and the words came out small, almost bewildered, like he was discovering the truth of them in real time. "i love you so much it's embarrassing. i love your laugh and the way you argue and how you do the voices when you read out loud even though you think nobody notices. i love that you're competitive and stubborn and terrible at asking for help and you always push your hair behind your ear when you're thinking. i love that you took that muffin even though you knew i wanted it because you don't back down from anything, including me, especially me, and i—"

his voice broke again, and he laughed, a short, helpless sound.

"i've been in love with you since freshman orientation. i've been in love with you for three years, and i've been so busy trying to get your attention that i didn't notice i was just making you hate me. and that's—that's on me. that's entirely on me. but i needed you to know. before we finish this project and you never have to talk to me again. i needed you to know that none of it was hate. not on my side. it was never hate."

the library was silent.

you could hear your own heartbeat, loud and unsteady, you could feel the blood rushing to your face, your hands, every part of you that had suddenly come alive.

sukuna was looking at you like a man awaiting execution, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands shaking slightly where they rested on the table.

you thought about three years of mornings at your locker. three years of competitive grading. three years of him finding reasons to be in your orbit, even when you made it clear he wasn't welcome at all.

you thought about the coffee, the glasses, the way he knew your reading voice and your coffee order and the fact that you pushed your hair behind your ear when you were thinking.

you thought about how you'd actually never hated him either; at least, not the way real hatred felt cold and dead. your feelings for sukuna had always been hot, always been alive, always been demanding your attention when you wanted to focus on anything else.

you thought about the muffin.

"you're an idiot," you said.

sukuna blinked. "what?"

"you're an idiot," you repeated, and your voice was shaking, and you couldn't stop the smile that was spreading across your face, wide and disbelieving and probably ridiculous. "three years. three years of fighting over grades and arguing about literature and competing in karaoke contests, and the whole time you were just trying to get me to look at you?"

"to be fair, it worked. you looked at me constantly. just—not in the way i wanted."

"because i thought you hated me!"

"yeah, i know! i realize that! i'm aware that my communication skills are—"

"abysmal?"

"i was going to say 'deeply flawed', but yes, abysmal works."

you laughed.

you couldn't help it; it bubbled up from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been wound too tight for too long, and suddenly you were laughing so hard that tears were streaming down your face, and sukuna was staring at you like you'd lost your mind, which honestly you might have.

"i don't hate you either," you managed, between gasps. "i never hated you. i thought i did, but i don't think i know what hatred feels like anymore because every time i tried to hate you, i just—i just kept noticing things. like the way you tap your fingers when you're reading. and how you always hold the door for people even though you pretend not to. and you helped that freshman find their classroom last week even though you were late to your own class. and you look at me like—"

you stopped, swallowed, and looked at him.

"you look at me like i matter," you said softly. "and i didn't know what to do with that, so i called it hatred. because it was easier than admitting that maybe i wanted you to look at me forever."

sukuna made a sound, something wounded and hopeful all at once, and then he was moving — not dramatically, not the way they do in movies, but slowly, carefully, like the boy was approaching something that might spook.

he reached across the table and took your hand, his fingers sliding between yours, and you both looked down at where you were connected like it was the most incredible thing either of you had ever seen.

"so," sukuna said, and his voice was unsteady, "just to be clear. we both wasted three years being convinced the other person hated them, when actually—"

"when actually you have the emotional intelligence of a brick and i'm apparently blind."

"i was going to say we're both complete idiots, but yes, that's also very accurate."

you squeezed sukuna’s hand, and he squeezed back, and the smile he gave you was nothing like the ones you'd seen before; this one was real, this one reached his eyes, softened all his sharp edges, and made him look so sweet and so hopeful and so terrifyingly beautiful.

"what now?" you asked.

sukuna looked at your joined hands, then at your face, then back at your hands.

"well. i have a fifteen-page paper due in two weeks, and my partner is very distracting."

"your partner is sitting right here."

"i know." sukuna lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, feather-light, his eyes never leaving yours. "trust me. i know."

you spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, but you didn't get any work done.

you talked instead — really talked, for the first time in three years. you told him about the muffin, how you'd only taken it because you'd seen him reach for it and wanted an excuse to touch his hand, how you'd spent the rest of the day convinced you'd imagined the whole thing. he told you about the karaoke contest, how he'd picked journey specifically because he'd overheard you say it was your guilty pleasure, how he'd sung badly on purpose because he wanted to see you smile.

"i can't believe you can actually sing," you said, propping your chin on your hand. "and all this time i thought you were just terrible at music."

"i have many hidden talents."

"like secretly being in love with me for three years?"

sukuna’s ears went pink.

"that's not a talent. that's a crisis."

you reached across the table and touched his face, just because you could now, just because he was yours to touch. his stubble was rough against your fingertips, and he closed his eyes when you traced the line of his jaw, leaning into your palm like a cat seeking warmth.

"i'm sorry," you said quietly. "for all the times i was mean to you. for assuming the worst."

"don't be." sukuna turned his head and pressed a kiss to the center of your palm. "you gave as good as you got. it's one of the things i like about you."

"one of the things?"

sukuna slowly opened his eyes, and the look in them made your chest ache.

"i could give you a long list. it would take a while. we might need to order dinner."

"we're still in the library."

"the library has a cafe."

you laughed, and he smiled, and when he kissed you for the first time — soft and slow and a little awkward, both of you smiling too much to do it properly — you tasted coffee and cinnamon and something that felt like coming home.

the thing about loving ryomen sukuna was that it had never been a conscious decision either.

it just happened — it happened the way spring follows winter, the way flowers naturally turn toward the sun, the way your hand found his under the library table and held on like you'd been doing it your whole life.

you'd been wrong about so many things.

but this was absolutely, perfectly right.

smut warnings: so much kissing, nipple play, fingering, good ol'fashioned romantic missionary, big fat dick!toji, creampie (obvi lmfao), idk the smut is very plot oriented!

The day you were born, it stormed. The end of December, yet it was only the rain that shook the building–instead of the blizzard that the elders had predicted. You often wondered if that was where your cursed energy had gone in the end. If it had unetched itself from your soul in hopes of curling around tree leaves. Perhaps, it’d flown out between your lips as you wailed, gasping for air for the first time, desperate to escape your lungs, fleeing the chimneys and manipulating the wind so it howled alongside your mother as she writhed in pain. Cursing you. Cursing your father. Cursing the wind. 

It was over before you’d taken a second breath. Future decided. A disgrace, devoid of cursed energy. Spat on as you grew. Mocked, manhandled, and so desperately alone, that you never caught the whispers of another Zenin. Another disgrace. Born that same night. Toji.

Your mother spoke little to you–Your father even less so. God, you wondered what another life would’ve felt like. Born raw in another clan, would they have forgiven you for the burden of living without cursed energy? Or outcasted you just as harshly? If you were born a boy, what would that have changed? Anything? 

You were only ten years old the first time you met Toji. Your answer. He was young, you thought he could’ve been around your age: Dark hair and pointy features that he just couldn’t manage to grow into. An angular stare that seemed pasted over what should’ve been a youthful face. Skin rough, as if his cheeks had been dragged against the concrete and dirt that you knew so well, jaw tense and set, waiting to devour the wrong person who looked at him like the stain he’d been taught he was.

You’d found him sitting silent in a dying garden filled with wilting roses and thorns that hid behind brittle petals. You peaked around the stone wall after hearing quiet muttering and the cold thunk of pebble on stone as he tossed pieces of gravel at the wall. And there he was. Toji’s head shot up, that vicious glare striking across your face like a slap.

“Who are you?” Toji mumbled, wiping the sleeve of his kimono across his snotty nose. He eyed your fingers as they gripped the corner of the wall, knuckles white. Watched as your nervous quiet pounded in his ears. Your eyes widened, gasping like you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to. Toji rolled his eyes, looking down at the stone he held between his fingers, but he didn’t pry. 

You were probably just some stupid girl who’d heard the stories: A male Zenin born without cursed energy. The freak no one allowed near their children. He’d have expected as much if he hadn’t glanced up to see you still standing there, head tilted sweetly as you watched him think.

“Cat got your tongue?” Toji murmured softly, eyes half-lidded and tired.

You pulled back an inch, “I– What?”

Toji shook his hair out of his eyes. “You just gonna stand there?”

“Sorry… I just…” You bit the inside of your cheek, fingers wrapping around your forearm nervously as you trailed off. “Just never seen you before…”

Toji’s fierce eyebrows pushed low, his lips scrunching to one side. “Never seen me– Huh?”

“Mmhmm. Who are you? Wh-What’s your name?” “... Toji.” He said it short, slurring the ‘j’ and letting his tongue trip over it. You watched his fingers curl into the dull fabric of his haori.

“Y/N–” The gravel crunched underneath your feet for just a moment before you were yanked back against an adult’s chest.

“What are you doing near him? Stupid child.”

Toji looked down at your feet as you stumbled backwards and let yourself be dragged away, refusing to watch your face contort and cannibalize itself when you realized who he was–Although, you never did let your expression warp; you were a disgraceful freak, just as Toji was. 

They’d told you under their breath who Toji was as you were pushed forward by the nape of your neck. Stumbling into the cursed pit blindly, now knowing you were not the first to be cut by spirits you couldn’t see. Knowing the blood you saw on the ground belonged to a brooding boy that threw pebbles at walls in a garden that wanted to cut him too: Toji.

–

By age thirteen, you were made a servant in one of the Zenin households, governed by muted fingers pointing in one direction or the other, refusing to speak to a lowly servant with not an ounce of cursed energy to prove. The elders pushed sweaty feet in your face, gazing just above your head, waiting for you to wrap their tired arches. To tie the strings of their waraji sandals.

On dark evenings, when the light was low, you’d catch the rich children peeking at you from behind curtains, pointing at the scars you’d racked up over the years. Their snickers would drift through walls, weighing you down. You knew better than to look for their cold eyes that seemed to glow behind their decadent smiles. Knew better than to speak up for yourself. To declare your worth, despite the parts of you that had no merit. And you’d find your bed just a little bit earlier, curling up underneath a thin blanket, and willing yourself to just… sleep. Not dream. Just black out until it began again. 

Although, each day would simply bring a new nightmare to life. On one of the early days, your mother had sneered at your defiled face as you were let out of the clutches of the spirits in that damned pit. The elders never allowed the curses to do more than bruise–usually–but, you’d dared to speak back to a higher up that morning when you brought him his breakfast. And now your nose bled, your ankle barely held your weight, and a gash hung parallel to your hairline that you knew no one would care to stitch back together. You’d winced when your mother gripped your chin between her fingers, tilting your head so you were caught right inside her fiercely bitter glare. She’d whispered, voice breaking, “You will keep that maw shut, lest you want more scars. More reasons for a man to discard you like the trash you are. To be quiet is to be a shield that you make.” She’d swallowed, letting go of your chin roughly, and turning away. “Do this family this one favor: Make it so our only curse is a silent disgrace, instead of a servant with a mouth on her, and nothing to show for it.”

If you had wanted to respond, you didn’t. You stood there in the dark, barely breathing. Promising yourself you’d be just that: A silent disgrace. Grasping at the thought of easing the burden of your own self for your mother. And from then on, you were quiet. Stepped softly. Knocked with your fingertips, and slid wooden trays onto tables as if infinity lived between the two surfaces.

And that was how you made yourself known the next time you saw Toji. Your newest job now that Naobito’s disgraced nephew was thirteen: Bringing his midday meal. Gently touching the sliding door to announce your entry into his quarters, before squeezing through the tiny gap Toji’d left for you to enter through.

“What?” He’d muttered, turning his back to you as soon as you’d entered. Figures. It wasn’t as if anyone in this damned clan didn’t make a conceited effort to not meet your eyes..

The tray of food steamed in your hands, aroma melting into the tatami mats and circling Toji.

“Where would you like your meal, Master Toji.” You asked softly, gazing at his heels as they slowed to a stop.

Toji scoffed, “M’not your master.”

You didn’t respond. Because this was your answer. Had you been born a boy, you’d have outranked someone. You’d have been allowed an attitude. Given the chance to feel disdain and show it in your eyes. Your fingertips squeaked against the clean wooden tray, body filling with a frozen ice fire of fear the longer you let the silence linger.

Toji sighed, still facing away because every other pair of eyes squinted in resentment when they drifted over his frame, shoulders dropped and back round from years of carrying a clan’s worth of shame and guilt on young bones; he wouldn’t watch another gaze scrutinize him if he could help it. He was just barely a teenager, but Toji had spent enough time in the cursed pit to make him feel older. The scars across his torso certainly aged him, but it was only him and his cracked mirror that knew where each line lay. Only him and his skin that pulled taut around the soft pink scar tissue that remembered each cut, and from what part of that god forsaken dungeon the pain had come from. 

The only scar the rest of the world got to see was the very first one that ever bled. The only scar Toji had ever allowed tears to spill over. At one point, never giving the tightness of his skin around his lips any thought, until suddenly he was. Until suddenly a fearsome line of angry pain had ripped right through the corner of his mouth, and then it was all he could think about. Skin split. Breeze between flesh that hadn’t been there before. How could he never have realized before what it felt like to be untouched? Toji’s hands had shaken desperately as he touched the vicious split, panic filling his body when his fingertips had come back covered in inhumanly bright red blood. That was the day he left his hope in the claws of a curse that for all intents and purposes, didn’t even exist. But, the searing pain that reached far beyond the edges of the tear was proof enough that Toji was an enemy to the rest of the only world he knew, and he left that dark hell hole with a bubbling gurgle of resentment that burned hot beneath his ribs. Two silent disgraces in a room, and only the subtle whisper of steam from a quickly cooling bowl of miso filled the lingering quiet. 

Toji broke it first, loosely gesturing to a table to his left. It was littered with rags that had been unstained a long time ago, but were now tinted an unmistakable pink from years of cleaning his own wounds. The rags lay haphazardly over lazily stacked papers, some filled halfway with messy scribbles. Feelings he’d try to put into words, then give up and pretend he never wrote anything at all. Channeling his anger into his pen as he pressed down onto the pages and blacked it all out. “Whatever. Jus’... Leave it there.” 

You exhaled an inch of breath, nodding once as you padded across the floor. The tray slipped against the table with a croak, the edge of it pushing the rags over. The bowl of miso jolted as the tray collided with the dense pile of rags, and you choked back a gasp as the broth splashed out and rained onto the papers strewn around the table.

You stepped towards the table, quickly reaching for one of the stained cloths. Your fingers had barely closed around the rag when Toji’s hand wrapped around your wrist, holding your hand suspended in mid air.

“S’just paper.” Even this young, Toji's voice was gravelly, raspy. “Leave it.”

You looked up at Toji now, and he gazed down at you. You floated along the lines of his face that he was finally starting to grow into: Still too angular and angry for a boy his age, but his simmering green eyes didn’t look out of place anymore. No, they fit underneath his furrowed brow well. All Toji had needed was to let the anger push his frown until it was permanent. You wondered if that piercing stare of his was like an omen. Wondered if the universe gave him those eyes as a prophecy. Forcing anger and pain on him like a promise. Wondered if that look meant he was born to suffer. Or if–in another life–he’d have been born into another clan, with the same eyes… Without the pressure of being a Zenin, or the fear of curses he couldn’t see. Maybe Toji would’ve been given a life where his biggest problem was folks thinking he was angry when he wasn’t. A life where the scar on his lip came from tumbling off of monkey bars. Rambunctious until he was crying as his mother gently dabbed at the cut, shushing him sweetly. 

You didn’t frown as you looked at him. Only observed the line on the corner of his lips, and knew–without having to ask–exactly what had happened. Recognized the way Toji’s lips parted when he followed your gaze to the scar. 

Toji pulled the cloth from your hand, and let your wrist go, flexing his hand anxiously, and pressing his lips into a flat line. “Cursed spirit from the pit.”

You nodded softly, lips apart and eyes wide. What could you say? He’d looked away the moment he dropped your wrist, and now stood tense–like a statue–with his hand gripping the back of a chair.

“You… Can go.” Toji swallowed thickly, and gestured towards the door.

“Is there anything else you need, Master Toji–”

“No.” 

“Understood. If you need anything–”

“And I’m not your master.” Toji sneered at the title, still not bothering to glance your way. 

You left as quietly as you’d entered, head bowed as you replayed the way the sunlight had filtered through the open window, spilling across Toji’s skin. He didn’t hear your footsteps, but he heard the sliding door lightly tap shut, and only then did he take a deep breath. You were familiar, only a hint of the you from three years prior left: The way you’d gazed at him and looked. Just looked. A faint memory of a child peeking around a corner before being dragged away plagued his thoughts that evening: You.

–

The rest of the world grew around the two of you, and in turn, so did the two silent disgraces of the Zenin clan. Your silence became unquestionable. Instinctive. So much so, that the elders had to reach for justifications when little things set them off. Like a glance in the wrong direction. A step too close. A smile just a moment late. But, you didn’t spill miso anymore. You cleared tables before placing trays down, and took your shoes off before sweeping. You planned ahead. 

Toji planned ahead too. Waking at dawn and disappearing to the training yard, only coming back for his lunch, just in time to see you. He pretended not to care when you were late. Pretended not to care when he was late. When he rushed in, only to see his tray of food already sitting on that same table as the first time you’d brought him lunch. On those days, Toji would exhale slowly as he sat, picking at rice with his chopsticks. He’d close his eyes, swearing the scent of your perfume still wafted in the steam. Maybe it did. Maybe he imagined you. But, you’d always be there the next day: An apparition floating across his room right in front of his eyes.

You still called him ‘Master,’ much to Toji’s chagrin, and a year after that first lunch, you’d knocked on the sliding door later and louder than usual.

He opened the door, looking down at you softly. “Y’alright?”

“M’sorry, Master Toji,” You’d scurried to place the tray on the table, tripping over your feet as you neared the surface, and subsequently falling to the floor. Scrambling to your knees, you sniffed back tears, pinching grains of rice from the ground, and choked back the fear and panic that always lingered but a step away from you.

Toji watched from the doorway, quietly closing the sliding door. You didn’t notice him walk over until he was standing over you, towering like a giant. He was seventeen now, and big. God, and he scared you.

“Shi– I– I’m sorry, Master Toji.” You stopped short of an expletive, the freezing panic filling your head like cement. 

Toji squatted, shaking his head with a tired stare, “I told you: M’not your master.”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You tried to will your hands to stop their incessant trembling as you poked and picked at a stubborn piece of rice. “Shi– I mean, m’sorry, Master Toji… I–”

Toji’s hands were big–like him–and wrapped around your wrists firmly. “Stop.”

Your eyes shot up, finally meeting his eyes. The whites of your eyes were red from crying, dried blood crusting against your browbone. You watched as Toji’s eyes shot from place to place. It wasn’t just your eyes, or the rusty blood on your brow: It was the swollen gash across your hairline that dripped bright red. 

“What the hell happened?” Toji left one of your wrists in your lap in favor of gently lifting your chin, turning your face one way, then the other. 

You pulled back, looking down and dabbing at the harsh cut with your sleeve. “Nothing. It’s okay.” 

“Bullshit. Don’t dirty yer’ sleeve.” Toji pulled your hand away, and grabbed a cloth, dipping it into a cup of water he’d left on the table. “Let me see.”

He didn’t let you agree, just gently grasped your wrists again, and leaned in to begin cleaning the area. “Tell me what happened.”

“I–Ow! I told you, Master Toji.” 

“I’m not stupid,” Toji muttered, tilting his head just an inch, and brushing a piece of hair back to get a better look at the wound. “Just…Did someone do this to you?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, inhaling sharply as the wet cloth brushed against the reddened skin. “Not someone.” 

Toji stilled, catching your gaze. “Spit it out.”

You’d spent your whole life trying to keep your lack of cursed energy from people. Although it was impossible when others could simply look at you and know what you didn’t have, you’d been successful keeping it from one person: Toji. Because, yes, he was a ‘disgrace’ like you. And, yes, you were lonely. But, it was nice to know that one person didn’t see you the way every other Zenin did. Because, Toji didn’t see you as a disgrace: He saw you as the exception compared to the rest of the world. A Zenin who didn’t look down on him. The only one.

“A curse.” You mumbled, trying desperately to quiet the building anxiety that had begun to bubble in your throat once more. “Tripped over Master Ogi’s feet when I dropped his lunch off, and he threw me into… into the pit.”

“...You?” Toji’s brows furrowed, and he sat back on his heels. “Huh. Well I’ll be damned. Another disgrace.”

The word hurt, but you knew he didn’t mean it to. 

“Didn’t have time t-to clean myself up.” 

He shook his head with a smirk, shaggy black hair falling just above his long eyelashes. “Nah. S’okay. Ya look badass.”

You pinched your lips together, looking down as an embarrassed blush fluttered across your cheeks. 

“Can I help ya clean up?” Toji’s eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them, and as you held his stare, you wondered if they’d ever looked like that. 

You nodded, letting him hold your face as he wiped the blood away. Toji looked younger when he focused: His tongue poking between his teeth as he avoided the worst of the wound for your sake, scrunching his lips to one side as he wiped the dried blood from your brow. His eyes were wide and unwittingly innocent as he gently caressed your swollen skin. Even when you were rid of the blood, Toji held your face in his calloused hand as if letting go meant your confession would be null. That when he lost contact, you’d suddenly gain all the cursed energy you’d gone without your entire life. But, then his eyes met yours, and you closed your fingers against his wrist softly.

“Thank you.” You whispered, swallowing as you watched his rationale catch up, and felt him pull away sharply.

“Get outta here.” Toji said, lightheartedly, but there was a tremor to his words. “I’ll clean the rice.” “I’ll bring you another serving–”

“No.” He said, shortly. “I… I need to be alone.”

So you left him alone, and never mentioned the shaking breath you heard from the hall once the sliding door had closed. Not the next day, not the one after that. 

–

Sometime after both of you turned nineteen, one of your morning strolls took you to the training yard. You avoided the area–usually–but, the sunrise had taken you, the corals and pinks swirling in your eyes like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. The footsteps that pattered in the gravel of the yard stopped you in your tracks, and you glanced past the railing of the overpass.

The training yard was all grey and stone, cold and unfeeling. But, the sunrise poked its light over the roofs like a demure wife, shedding a kaleidoscope of dawn across Toji. You inhaled sharply, gaze following his frame as his bare muscles flexed and tightened with each hit. He was quiet, the only hint of him being his inhumanly fast footsteps. God, when had he gotten so fast? 

You leaned against the wooden bannister, watching as his wild black hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. Watching as his breathless pants pushed his sculpted chest up and down. Something had shifted in him. The higher ups noticed. The clan members noticed. Even you noticed. He was sharper. Faster. Stronger. And they were scared of him. You could see it in their eyes when he’d walk past. How their gazes would follow behind his heels, making certain he was on his way out, but still never quite looking at him. Perhaps it was bitterness, or maybe jealousy. But, the more Toji became more like the Zenin his clan had hoped he’d be, the less Zenin he became. A freak. Monster. Unnatural.

You looked away—only for a moment—to let someone pass, and when you glanced back, Toji’s back was up against the stone, wiping sweat off of his fists as he stared up at you. 

“How’s the show?” Over the years, his voice had become rough, sly, deep, melting into this unwitting, quiet growl that hid behind each sound. One that echoed behind your ears as soon as you left his quarters. Followed you down the hall, and crept around your head when you crawled into bed. He was always there. Toji.

And now he was here, leaning over the railing, thick fingers gripping the tired bannister. Those hazy eyes, half-lidded and wickedly sharp staring you down as you opened your mouth to speak, then closed it again. Um-ing your way to an adequate response, before landing on, “Uh… G-good…”

“Yeah?” The corner of Toji’s lip lifted slightly, smug and teasing. “You don’t sound too sure.”

Your eyes glided up his sweating body, and with every breath you could almost taste the salt and musk that dripped off of his glistening skin. Your gaze landed on his eyes, finally, biting the inside of your cheek to quell the heat gathering underneath your skin, just as a languid drop of sweat fell from his brow. Your heavy stare followed it as it plopped like rain onto his bottom lip. Toji’s tongue crept out from between his lips, like a snake, dragging itself against the curve of his mouth, then pressed his lips together and rubbed. When he released them, his lips were flushed, slightly swollen, and it took everything in you to drag your eyes back up to his. 

“I’m sure.” You said, feeling your throat close. 

Toji’s eyes remained fixed on you for a moment longer, then another. You swore you could hear the wood splintering between his inhumanly strong grip. Then he sniffed, tilted his head, and smirked. “Good. I like when you watch.”

He didn’t wait for a reaction from you, instead, poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek, and turning to leave.

Toji’s footsteps echoed on the gravel now, like he wanted you to hear him. Like he wanted your senses blown out with nothing but the sound of him, the sight of him, the smell of him.

“I’ll watch you more often, then!” You called after him, eyes wide and almost begging. 

That made Toji laugh. He turned back to flash a dark, veiled grin at you. “Hah. You better. Be good now, ‘kay?”

You nodded, and watched him return to the training ground, just as it started to storm.

–

Toji had mentioned a heavenly restriction one day after he’d trained. He hadn’t been sure about anything until then, you noticed. And since then, Toji had become unequivocally bold. If he was hated before, he was now feared. As were you by proxy. He spoke of leaving the clan more now when you were there. Even asked you to sit and eat with him when you brought him his lunch. 

The first time he asked, you’d stuttered, “Wh– I… Master Toji, I’m not sure…”

“What’re they gonna do?” Toji rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting into a sly little smirk. “Throw me into the pit? Hah.”

He laughed to himself frequently now, as well. Like the cruelty he endured didn’t rule his life. Even when the mischievous smirk Toji had adopted stayed plastered across his face, the laughs never made it to his eyes. Never made it past the corners of his lips. Not past that scar. You noticed–of course you did—but he pretended you didn’t. Pretended you were just a servant that brought him lunch. Well, he tried. You were a servant who brought him lunch, and you held no cursed energy. You were his servant who brought him lunch, and you didn’t sneer on sight. You were his, and you weren’t scared of him. Not really. 

But the higher ups were. And the irony of constant degradation his whole life that had suddenly warped into terror and cowering behind members of the Hei…It was the closest he ever got to revenge. That, and you. 

You’d paused, eyes flitting across his lazy frame, then nodded. “Where should I sit, Master Toji?”

“Yer’ something else. M’not your master.” He rolled his eyes. “Been telling you for years.”

“Yeah, but–” You began, but Toji waved you off.

“C’mere.” He smirked with a twinkle in his eye, nodding you to where he was kneeling on a cushion. “Sit next t’me.”

The smaller cushion sat directly next to his, almost touching Toji’s pillow, and when you carefully moved it over, Toji tutted and moved it right back. “What, ya scared of me now?”

“Mm, no…” You knelt down, annoyingly aware of the way his haori felt against your kimono. He waited patiently as you smoothed out your skirt–although Toji's version of ‘waiting patiently’ was following your every movement with the intensity of a hunter. You ignored him. “Just didn’t want to…impose.”

Toji scoffed with a smile, looking out the window in front of you. “My favorite little disgrace? Hah. My lady, you could never impose.”

“My lady?” You repeated, leaning back ever so slightly. 

Toji’s chin bobbed, his eyes closed and lips pressed into a calm smile as he took a sip of tea. “Yep.” 

“I’m not–” He glanced at you, barely turning his head. “Don’t ya call me master?”

You shook your head, “Y-yes… But—”

“Right. You know they only made you a servant cuz yer’ a woman.” Toji shrugged, reaching down to split his serving of rice into two. “And–I guess–because I’m part of the royal family.” 

The sound of chopsticks against ceramic filled a short silence before Toji passed the bowl to you. “Thank you, Master–”

“Call me that again, and yer’ gonna wish you were in the pit.” Toji didn’t even look up as he said it, but a shiver flew down your spine. 

“But, you… you just said…You’re a member of the royal family, so to speak.”

Now, Toji turned to look at you. “Can’t I just be ‘Toji’ with you?”

His eyes were softening now as the cicadas outside began to sing, and you caught his rarely gentle gaze in your own stare.

You heard him swallow, then whisper, “Please.” 

His shuddering breath broke the word in two. His eyes flicked from spot to spot on your face, taking you in. You wondered if he was saying goodbye, in his head. Wondered how long he had been waiting to really ask. A genuine request from a lonely, tired boy, rather than the usually playful scolds that you brushed off. You hadn’t seen it before Toji allowed it, but you did now. Because he was letting you in now. His eyebrows turned up, biting the inside of his cheek. The way his inhales were shaky and coarse, like he had been holding back vomit. The magical sparkle of emerald in his eye reflected it all, if you looked hard enough. And you always did.

“I…” You swallowed thickly, curling your fingers into the skirt of your kimono. “Okay. Toji.”

He snorted through his nose—partly in relief, you thought—and the corners of his lips peaked into your periphery. “There ya go. Was it so hard?”

You were quiet for a moment. “Yes.”

“You love to whisper.” Toji mumbled, beginning to shovel rice through his scarred lips.

A nod. A quiet wooden clack of your chopsticks as you picked at the bowl of rice.

“Heh.” 

“What?”

“Yer’ just funny.” He shook his head, turning towards you and propping his foot up. “Known you our whole life an’ you still act like the submissive little girl they dragged away back in that garden.”

You turned to look at him sharply, “you still remember that?”

“Course I do.” Toji’s cold eyes dug into your skin like the crushed ice you’d dig out from the freezer when it was mid day, hot summer, sweltering. The boiling sun would melt the jagged ice against your skin and it would burn like hot steam. His gaze burnt cold, just like that. “Ya didn’t look at me like the rest of ‘em did.”

He paused, looking past you briefly, then continued. “I appreciated that.”

You took another bite, and nodded, before swallowing quietly. “You looked… Sad.”

“Hah.” Toji threw his head back with a soft smile that oozed bitter nostalgia. “I was.”

“Mm.” You averted your eyes, then felt a rush of meek courage trickle into your chest. “M’sorry they dragged me away that day.”

“Pshh,” Toji elbowed you softly. “Don’t be. You wouldn’t’ve wanted to hang with me anyway.”

“Why’s that?” You looked up at him, angling yourself just inches closer, so your knees pressed together. 

His Adam's apple bobbed as his gaze shifted downwards, but you missed it in your own bleary state of nervousness. He licked his lips, then glanced back up. “I was a little ass.”

Toji’s gaze held you strong, almost unblinking. 

“You… Still are.” You said shyly, a hesitant smirk creeping against your cheeks for the first time. Toji let the silence slip around the two of you. Wanted to let the quiet linger just in case your heartbeat was loud enough to pound in his ears. It was. 

Heart beat pounding, and yet it wasn’t the thumping drum beneath your ribs that exposed you. He could smell your fear. Did you go too far? Did you overstep? It melted off you the way it melted off a sorcerer when they realized they’d made a fatal mistake. Dripping and pooling around them, flooding Toji’s senses. They’d catch Toji’s eyes, frozen, just like you were looking at him at this moment. 

Poor baby. Toji thought. Although, less in a piteous way, and more in a way in which you plagued his days. An incessant idea that bugged him every day, spinning around his brain. When he went to sleep, you were there. What did you look like sleeping? Which side of your body did you curl up on? Toji wanted to know. God, he wanted to know. Wanted to let his fingertips skim the expanse of your skin, tuck strands of hair behind your ear when they inevitably draped across your cheek. Would the morning light trickle across your features—leaving you with a painting of golden sunrise and shadow—or would it illuminate you like the angel you were? Would your hair glow? Would the light reflect like warm honey?

“I—I’m sorry—“

“Don’t be.” Toji bit the inside of his cheek, then glanced back at you with a small smile. “I am an ass.”

You laughed, and, oh. Toji could’ve sung an aria. Heart floating into his throat. He had to physically stop himself from grinning wide and unabashed. 

“But,” Toji held your eyes with a smile, and focused a kind of seriousness that left your lips parted in breathless wonder.  Right into your soul. “I’m only an ass to the monkeys that look at you and me like we’re the dog shit they wipe off their shoes.”

“Toji…” A whisper. 

His palm gently landed just above your knee, eyes still on your face. Watching you as each muscle in your face flinched into different shapes. Surprise, a touch of fear. Let his own eyes soften when yours did. Because god forbid Toji let you feel alone in a feeling he caused. He felt it too. Needed you to know. At least through his eyes. 

Toji squeezed your knee gently, tensing as you shakily put your hand on his. His thumb slipped out from beneath your palm, only to brush the side of your finger. The wind brushed through the window, whistling the aria Toji could’ve sung. And then it was gone. Toji slipped his hand out from your trembling touch with a grunt. “It’s nothin’.”

Your hand floated in the air where he’d slipped away, then slowly replaced the space that Toji had taken up. “Well… Thank you.”

He glanced at you, eyebrow raised. “For…?”

You sighed, looking at the maple tree whose leaves tickled the windowframe. “Forgive me—in advance—for my forwardness… But, you, Toji, have… Well, you’ve changed everything.”

“Ah?”

“Master Ogi no longer treats me as he used to. He’s scared of you.” 

Toji could only look at you with a clenched jaw.

So you continued, breath stuttering. “You’ve made your… care… for me… public knowledge. You… You openly accept me in a clan where I am anything but acknowledged. I’m sorry, I’m not good with words, and you… are a man I never expected to know.”

And there went the wind again. Rushing around wherever yours and Toji’s breath didn’t reach. Carrying the sound of cicadas and their throat song. 

“Can’t help it.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I like ya.”

“I like you too, Toji.” You said, keeping a special eye on the way his eyes fluttered closed as his name left your lips.

A brief moment of cicada’s aria, and then Toji spoke again.

“Come back tonight.” He didn’t look at you, heart beating too fast in the midst of his reckless invitation. “Will ya—“

It was your turn to rest your palm on his knee. Gently leaning forward, suddenly so much closer than you’d expected. “I will.”

Had he moved? Had he felt your touch and leaned in, instinctively? You were face to face, just close enough that his breath lightly touched your nose. 

Without a word, Toji reached for your face, carefully holding either side of your jaw in his giant hand. His calloused thumb brushed your skin ever so slightly—the closest he’d ever been. How could he even be any closer? Everything but the ‘now’ felt impossible. Fiction. Just a song someone might sing, written in the dead of night. A harmony that hasn’t been written. 

“Y/N!” A call came from behind Toji’s sliding door, and then Toji’s hand was gone. Gone as quick as you had risen from your seat, bowed and slipped out of his room. Like a ghost. 

—

That evening, Toji threw himself into his training. Slashing dummy after dummy. Imagining Ogi’s face. Naoya’s smug little grin. Wiping it with his blade and imagining the blood dripping down the silver with lust in his bright green stare. 

Toji felt your own gaze before you even noticed you were staring. Leaned over a waist-level stone wall, eyes licking across his bare torso. Sweat glistening gold as the sunset draped across him. Your eyes trained on his furrowed brow, and scarred sneer. He swung his sword with deft accuracy, knowing you were there. Tore the dummy to pieces in ways you’d never seen him do, knowing you were there. It was all for you, this sunset sweat was for you. Every swing. Every growl a thought of the craving for you. All for you. 

By the time Toji allowed a glance in your direction—the show he’d put on for you finally over as he panted against a wooden beam—you were lost in the hypnotizing twilight that had descended on his figure, now leaving him cascaded, draped in a haunting blue glow. His eyes found yours, smirking to himself as the vision of you finally looked back at him. 

“How was the show?” He called, slipping his linen top over his frame. 

Your lips parted, the corners of your mouth poking up. “Impressive, as always.”

Toji smiled, walking over slowly. “You spyin’ on me?”

“Just…” You swallowed with a gentle expression, then a deep breath. “…Watching the show.”

That earned a raise of his eyebrows, and a slow rake up your leaning figure as he approached you. “Yeah?”

“Mm… Yeah.” You whispered quietly, breathless now that Toji was close enough to notice all the ways you couldn’t hide your nerves. 

His scarred lip pulled to the side in a devious little grin. “Ya still gonna come an’ eat with me later?”

“If you’ll have me…” A flush bloomed across your cheeks slowly. “Will the elders approve of me skipping dinner duty?”

Toji rolled his green eyes, brushing his messy black hair out of his face. “They can kiss my sorry ass.”

The periwinkle twilight had sunk into a dark navy now, and it glittered in his gaze as he paused, then winked. “C’mon. I’ll walk ya back to the main building.”

The walk was quiet, the muffled sound of gravel under anxious footsteps echoing around you. The sound only changed when you stepped inside the building and you parted ways hesitantly and with a lingering gaze. 

—

The evening spun by, and then you were at his door again, holding a wooden tray in softly shaky hands, two dinners. For two lonely disgraces. 

You barely had to knock before Toji was letting you through, his knuckles white as he gripped the doorway. It all felt tense and tight as he walked you to the short table. 

“How was your evening?” Toji said, voice low, but light. The sound of his pitch just the same as it always had been: Raspy, lilting, floating above his words like wind throwing rocks. 

“Good.” You sat, kneeling as you placed the trays down. “Looking forward to eating…Toji.”

“Yeah.” Toji towered over you, watching you fidget with a fond gaze. “Me too.”

After a moment of wordlessness, with only the rustling of the trees outside his window whispering the words neither of you were speaking aloud, you looked up at Toji, voice earnest. “Please…sit with me.”

Toji’s lips parted slightly, then allowed himself a silent nod. He sat with a grunt, the tension in his body melting off of him the closer he got to you. He could smell you. Of course, he could smell you. You were just inches away from him, and looking at him so sweetly. So kindly. Somehow, the whispering, shaking of the leaves outside, and the languid feeling of your eyes on him had rendered him silent. Nervous. Distrustful of his own voice, as one wrong word might scare off the beautiful bird in front of him. Hesitant to move an inch, lest he send you flying to the branches that shook against the window.

You broke the silence, brows pinched together into a gentle frown. “You’re quiet… Are you alright?”

“Ah…” Toji nodded quickly, handing you a pair of chopsticks and shoveling a mouthful of rice into his mouth. “Mmphyes.” 

You met his unabashedly nervous gaze for a moment, before shaking your head, and picking up your own chopsticks. You raised a bite to your lips, then paused. “Thank you, for inviting me to eat again.”

Toji glanced at you sharply, mischief and a suddenly unsettling glow of his own shyness shuddering in his eyes. “Well, I… Uh… I figured if I had ya to myself…”

“To yourself?” You repeated, feeling the breath leave your body with every word. “Don’t you have me to yourself… everyday?” 

“Not like this, I don't.” He let his head fall back slightly, squeezing his eyes shut to will his nerves to fall away–if not completely, then just enough that he could breathe without wondering if you were listening. “Nah. Tonight, I…I just get you. Not the version of you that’s scared of curses ya can’t see–”

“Toji…”

“Let me finish,” Instead of falling away, it seemed as if Toji’s nerves had twisted themselves into a wild amalgamate of fear and desperate, biting need. He caught your knee as you turned away slightly, chin sinking low against your neck, as if you were running from his stare. “I just… want to know you.”

You tensed under his touch, the scent of his soap lingering from his bath. A whisper, “I want to know you, Toji.” 

He was silent, then the corners of his mouth lifted softly. “So… know me.”

“How?”

A pause. Then Toji swallowed hard, as if to shove his urges back down to his stomach where they slept. “However you want.”

You glared at him, a smile poking desperately against your cheeks as they flushed nervously. “I’ve never… known… someone before. Any… Um… Ideas?”

“...Heh.” Toji chuckled, then turned his head to face front once more, picking up his chopsticks and picking at the food. “Lots.”

“Oh?” You picked at your own food, stomach consumed with Toji, Toji, Toji rather than a lick of hunger. It wasn’t rice you craved. Or protein. You couldn’t look at him, else you knew he’d see the starving spark of need that flickered in your eyes, the same spark Toji never hid from you.

“Mmhmm.” Toji spoke with his mouth full, smirking quietly. Sometimes it felt as if he could hear your thoughts when you were quiet. Intuition, or context clues, or soulmates. Whatever it was, Toji loved you, and you loved him. Quietly. 

After another moment filled with the scrape of Toji’s wooden chopsticks on clay bowls, and yours barely skirting the quickly cooling bowl of rice, Toji put his chopsticks down and turned to face you. “Not hungry?”

You met his lidded gaze with parted lips. “Ah… I… How did you kn-know?”

Your heart beat heavy behind your ribcage as the ridiculous excuse of a response hung in the air. You followed Toji’s eyes to look at the food left in your bowl, then back at you.

“Well, forgetting the fact that you’ve barely touched yer food…” Toji breathed you in deeply, before smiling a half-smirk, half-grin. With a tilt of his head, Toji’s long, shaggy dark hair sprawled across his eyes, framing the darkening, glassy jade of his stare, and it was only the feeling of his large palm gently pressed against your sternum that shocked you back to reality. “The fact that I can hear yer’ heart beating like a monkey in a cage from all the way over here… Yer’ body is so… loud.”

His long, thick fingers draped across your collarbone, his mouth inevitably sneaking closer in order to feel your hot skin, the rhythm of your heart beating vibrations through his palm… It was deafening, and overwhelming, and heavy, and louder than the rustling of the trees, and quieter than the tiniest breath, all at the same time.

“Toji…” Your heart beat quicker, heavier.

“Ya know… You’ve always been so sweet to me–my whole life–and you think, hah.” He paused, shaking his head with a smile that crept like vines up his cheeks. “Do you think I don’t look at you when you leave? Watch… god, watch the way you look at me like you wanna climb me?”

“I—“ Your eyes grew round with a sharp gasp. 

“Nah, don’t hide it.” Now, Toji looked over, eyes flitting down the outline of your face, following your neck, mapping where your body began to curve and angle itself towards him. His gaze was grueling, dark, memorizing you so when he blinked, he could imagine you without even trying. You’d already be there, in his mind's eye, smiling. He smirked, “Wouldn’t mind if ya did.”

You swallowed so hard it just about echoed in Toji’s ears. “If I did…?”

“Climb me.” His voice was a special kind of low. One you hadn’t heard before. It was scratchy like stubble against smooth skin. Like grass on a sundress in the heat of summer. The room felt hot as if it were midday. Skin crawling, pushing you centimeter by centimeter. Closer and closer, til his palm was forced to slip up your collarbone. You inhaled a trembling sip of air as his hand gently held the column of your neck, then continued to cradle your jaw. “I’d let ya.”

“You’d let me.” You repeated, faces close enough now that every word left a puff of air on Toji’s lips. You watched, pulse creeping up your neck, as he closed his eyes and nodded.

“I’d let ya.” Toji’s eyes blazed green when he opened them, meeting your eyes with barely withheld, crippling fire. 

You wanted to turn away, to tuck your chin and hide your face before the blush turned you red, but Toji held your jaw fast. You swallowed with a hesitant gulp, and a tiny inhale that was filled with nothing but him. “You’re observant.” You said, softly, almost to yourself.

“Mm.” He pressed his lips together, nodding, and let his thumb brush across the corner of your lip. The heated flush of your cheeks simmered underneath his touch, sending the same flush across his. “You ever observed how I look at you?”

A pause. “I… I’m not sure…”

“You’d be pretty blind.” Toji muttered, exhaling shortly. A silence slipped between the two of you once more. Silence was so common between you, and it was never truly quiet when it was left behind by your words, or his. The silences between you and Toji were simply the melody to the cicadas singing in the hot, humid air, or the whispers in between rustling maple leaves. This silence, though, was quiet. Tension so thick in the air, that it blinded the senses. You breathed, you were sure you were breathing, and you could make out the feeling of his own breath on yours, but you couldn’t be sure. You were scared to be sure of any of it at all. Of course you’d seen how hot his gaze was when you entered a room. It was impossible not to feel that dark, pressing stare at sunrise, when you’d stop to watch him train. But, now, in front of Toji–or, rather, inches from Toji… He asked for certainty, begged, even, and the words to assure didn’t come. Tangling together in your head like links in an iron chain that bound you where you were.

“You can’t see the way I look at you?” Toji’s brows pinched into a soft frown. “Do I have to be more obvious?”

Your lips parted, but Toji continued before you could speak, his voice trembling now. “Shit, I can be more obvious. Do I need to kiss ya? Tell ya how much I look forward to yer’ smell… jus’ floatin’ down the hallway?”

His other hand lifted to cradle the other side of your face, squishing your cheeks just enough to make you gasp. “I will. I’ll do it. God. I’d do anythin’ just to make it so you never have to know the feeling of blood on yer’ brow ever again. You’d never… fuck… Never know the pit again. I’d make ‘em pay for it… for it all.”

Toji was rambling now, but it barely registered, as tears began to stumble down his cheeks like rain on a dusty hill. You reached up with both palms, cradling his face in your hands, catching each tear with your thumb. 

“If I asked you to kiss me… Would you?” You met his glassy, emerald stare, an earnest sort of determination spilling from your gaze in a way he’d never seen before. 

Toji’s lips parted, then twitched slightly as a tear fell onto his bottom lip. No longer did Toji smell of salt and musk, like the last time. No, Toji smelled of soap, and cologne applied hastily and in the wrong way. He smelled like the roses that should’ve been blooming the day you met him in the garden. He smelled like him. Without thinking, you leaned forward, pressing your lips exactly where the tear had fallen, and kissed him. 

A broken sound echoed in the back of Toji’s throat as your lips met, then swiftly broke away, panting. Toji’s arms fell away, as did your’s, and you were left staring. He considered allowing a silence to fall again. To relish in the knowledge that he made you feel this wild, uncontrolled, unabashed, and unequivocally loved. But, as he gazed upon your soft, nervous expression, it took everything in him not to wrap his arms around you and kiss you until you were pushing him away to breathe. Before he could decide one way or the other, though, you spoke. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t right… I–”

“Oh, fuck you.” Toji shook his head, encircling your waist with his arms and lifting you like it was nothing. He stood–you, clasped to his chest–and walked you over to the midsized bed, tucked against the wall. With your legs dangling, Toji slipped one hand to the back of your head, and kissed you with an unexpected tenderness. Kissed you with soft lips, unbitten and smooth, save for the fleshy scar on the corner of his mouth. Your hands slipped up his neck in response, threading through his still-damp hair, and kissing him so soft that you sighed a blissful sound into his mouth.

Then the bed was underneath you, his blanket bunching up against your skin as Toji laid you down and clambered over you. He pulled back once you were settled, gazing down at you. His beautiful bird. Your hair fell over your face haphazardly, cheeks flushed, and your lips looked as if you’d just dipped them in pepper juice. You were smiling, too. That smile. Toji smiled back, soft. Gentle. As if he didn’t tower over you. As if he couldn’t kill you. He’d never smile like that with anyone else. He reserved it for you.

“Toji…” You whispered, reaching up to find purchase on his muscled shoulders.

He leaned down, placing his elbows on either side of your head, effectively caging you in like the magnificent bird he saw in you. But, you didn’t feel like a bird. You felt hot, and desperate, like a flame spreading in a bush, dancing from branch to branch, begging to consume–or be consumed.

“Yeah…?” Toji teased, voice lilting and rough. “And what could you possibly want?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, then let your head fall back, eyes squeezing shut with a whine. “You know. Please.”

“And what if I don’t?” Toji smirked, looking down past his nose at your pouting face. “Wouldn’t wanna cross a line… pretty thing.”

“I… fuck…” You mumbled under your breath, lessons in etiquette from your mother crumbling with every move Toji made. By now his strong, thick thigh had slotted riiiight between your knees, you could feel each muscle when he flexed them. “Cross it. I-I don’t care!” 

Toji raised an eyebrow, smiling wildly. “Oh…?”

You pressed your lips together, a creeping, whining groan rumbling quietly underneath your breath. “I want you. I…”

“...You…?” Toji repeated, smile falling into an earnest expression that begged you to say something unspoken.

“...I love you.” You turned your face away from him, skin crawling with nerves that crunched and emptied out your chest to sink into.

“Yeah.” Toji spoke low, rough. “Thought so.”

He angled your face back to the center, then lowered himself down slightly. Toji’s words were tangled too. Wrapped around his brain so tightly, it was all he could do not to devour you. So pliant, so darling beneath him. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Although, he wasn’t so hesitant in fear that you’d startle and run. No. He didn’t trust himself to open his mouth, lest he tell you how badly he wanted to fuck you until you cried, lest he tell you how he had to fist his cock like a madman after every. Single. Visit. Just to put the image of you, filled with him, out of his mind. 

So instead, with one long finger, he brushed the hair from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. He handled you with such care, that when he did close the distance between you, you hadn’t expected the hungry, desperate, biting kiss that Toji began ravaging you with. But, you mirrored him. You moved with him. Lips on lips. Crashing in and out like angry waves that missed the shore. Tongue licking tongue, catching teeth, nipping and sucking like the other would pull away, or disappear. Lewd moans spilled from both of you, mixing like the cicada songs you’d gotten to know so well. Your hands eventually dragged from his shoulders, to his chest, then down, and down again until they wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer and closer. His under-the-breath fucks and growls as you moved against him guided you closer, angling your hip against his. Feeling him. Two voices. One song. 

Breathless, he pulled back with a desperate groan, pulling his shirt up over his head. Toji’s muscles rippled in the cool moonlight that cascaded through the window. His plush, glistening lips caught the soft moonlight as he spoke. “I love you, s’hard to put into words.”

“I know.” You whispered, eyes languidly pulling across his breathtaking silhouette. He looked like an angel, softly surrounded by the quiet glow of the moon’s diffused reflections. His moon-angel silhouette then lowered closer to you again, and kissed you slow. Agonizingly slow. Slow enough that his hands could creep up from your hip, slide across your waist, and slip just underneath the hem of your top. 

Tentatively, his fingertips grazed a nipple. Once, then, after feeling your back arch into his touch, another time, but with just that much more pressure. You moaned into his mouth, your brows knitted together in a pleasure you didn’t know much of. That was all it took for Toji to pull away, then rip your top right down the middle.

“I’ll get you another one.” Toji muttered just before leaning down and capturing your sensitive chest in his mouth. His tongue was soft against your skin, sucking you softly between his lips, just until he heard a broken, choked moan spill from your lips. “Atta girl.”

Your vision blurred, squirming underneath him, even as he pulled away slightly, Toji left suckling, purple bruises in a haphazard line across your chest as he moved to the other side. He wrapped his lips around you once more, and your hands flew to his shaggy hair, burying your fingers in its depths. 

“Sh-Shit…I… Nmnmph…!” You whimpered, gasping as Toji slipped one hand down your stomach, underneath the waistband of your bottoms, and tentatively let his fingertips brush across your hot, needing cunt. 

“Yer’… So wet… Hah.” Toji smirked against your skin, looking up at you through his lashes. “All for me?”

“Mm!” You nodded, brows pulled together as his fingers began to touch. Gliding down between your cunt like he’d been there before, gently grazing your clit between two knuckles, and smirking when you inhaled a shuddering gulp of air. Every touch felt white hot, every lick of tongue against your sensitive nipple, all of him. All of him suddenly everywhere, as his finger ventured farther down, slipping into your canal with barely any resistance. Every nerve stood on end, singing warm and loud with each firm, but gentle, stroke of his fingers. 

As he felt your cunt stretch around your fingers, he slipped another finger in, and you swore you felt the corner of his mouth lifting into a sly smirk at the sound of the shocked moan that was thrown from your throat. 

“Mmph, yer louder than I imagined.” Toji peaked up above your chest, fondly gazing at your face, which had contorted itself in pleasure. “C’mere.”

You let out a half-grunt, half-moan as you craned your neck closer to his mouth, finding yourself captured in a heavy, whimpering kiss. Whether the whimper was yours or his was unclear, as each sound made became the same in between the two of you. He swallowed your sweet whimpers with every caressing push and pull of his fingers. In and out of your sweating cunt. In and out. And in and out. Until all that frigid, white heat from before began to tumble around, beneath your stomach, building like snow in a blizzard, culminating into this unknowing, unwitting fire that grew and grew until it released around his thick fingers, your body trembling so uncontrolled in his hold, your brain went fuzzy and blank. Toji kissed you through it, shuddering with each tremor that brushed against his clothed bulge. 

“That’s it. Good, that’s it, my girl. My pretty girl. So good. F-Fuck…” Toji rambled against your lips, generous praises that sent ripples of fresh fire through your veins. As the tremors subsided, he slowly pulled his fingers from your cunt, parting from your lips, and presenting them between the two of you with a parted, breathless expression. With your eyes wide, pupils blown out, you met his shining fingers, dripping with you, and suckled the glistening skin, taking his fingers fully between your lips. He held your gaze with shaking breath, taking in the lewd sight of his servant licking his hands clean of her own cum.

“I…I need t’fuck you.” Toji’s eyes took you in like he’d die without you. “Can I fuck you?”

You could barely speak, mouth full of his fingers, but you nodded. “Mmph… Mmhmm… Mm!”

You gasped as he removed his fingers, pulling back on his knees to push his pants down to his pool below him, then leaned forward to help you pull your bottoms off. You lay naked and glowing underneath him, almost eclipsed by his tower-like shadow.

“T-Toji…” You mumbled up at him, staring like he was an angel come to save you. His cock hung heavy underneath his abdomen, leaking precum like a dripping faucet.

“I’ll go slow, ‘kay?” Toji leaned down, approaching to kiss you, but your fingers threaded through his hair, causing him to pause.

“Okay… I just…” You swallowed, inhaling deeply. Your brows were knitted together in a loveborn pout. “I love you.”

Toji. Moon-angel Toji. You’d never seen him smile so soft. Like a caress upon the air. Eyes so gentle. Like the brush of wind upon long grass. His voice broke as he spoke. “I love you.”

He kissed you so deep, then pulled away to arrange himself at your still sopping cunt. As Toji pushed in, ever-so-slightly, he glanced up to catch your blissed out expression, corners of your lips reaching towards your ears, eyes half-lidded and rolled back. He grinned, smug, and pushed farther, and farther. The stretch felt like every pain you’d felt had a purpose. Like the blood on your brow the day he touched your face so delicately was the same touching Toji followed as he finger fucked you to unimaginable bliss. 

As you felt him finally bottom out, tip pressed up against your cervix, you gasped. So full. Of Toji. Of love. Of the knowledge that Toji saw you. That he loved you. You swore his eyes didn’t leave your face, other than when he leaned in to kiss you, fiercely.

“F-Fuck. So t-tight…I…God damn.” Toji muttered, pulling away from your lips, and moaning pathetically as he began moving inside of you. 

Each thrust of his cock knocked the breath from your chest, and Toji caught each one. All the moaning, the muffled whimpers, covered by pressed-together lips and messy kisses… You’d both exhausted them now, left only with the silent pants from both of your parted lips, the lewd sound of skin slapping against sweating skin, and the occasional groan, or whine, from either of you. You didn’t need to say anything, only to look at the other with a wildly desperate expression, and Toji knew. Knew you. And you knew him. That cicada song that you both sung in silence and breath, it echoed between each pap, pap, pap. Filled you both with the hot summer sun, flame creeping down your abdomen, twirling like a firework, then with a breathless, almost silent moan, breaking free and bursting wildly around his slick length, thick and throbbing in you as Toji fucked you through another orgasm.

“So-So pretty…Shit…M’gonna…” The sound of his low, raspy voice cracked as his pace grew messy, hurried, and inconsistent, until finally, he spilled deep inside of you. Toji stilled, and you moved your hips along his length, relishing in every desperate throb of his cock as he continued to cum. “H-holy shit… Hah. Never c-cum this much in my– God damn. In my life.”

You laughed softly. An aria. And Toji grinned down at you. “I like knowing you.”

Gaze softening, you smiled gently, and spoke with a whisper. “I love you.”

Toji let his fingers trace the outline of your face softly, then, as he reached your chin, met your gaze again. “My beautiful bird. I love you.”

–

These were intense times. 

The Michigan Wolverines were right in the midst of the NCAA College Football Playoffs, and it has been weeks of non-stop practice, conditioning, strength training, and late-night film recaps for the team of 100-odd men–all in preparation for a chance at being the nation’s top seed. 

There was much on the line, especially seeing that Senior Quarterback and Captain, Toji Fushiguro, was aiming to secure his spot in the upcoming NFL draft. 

As such, his pre-game ritual (one that he has refined and perfected over the course of four years) was a strict routine backed by, and rooted down in, evidence-based science and partially unbiased statistical analyses. 

It all starts with his protein shake: two whole bananas, one cup of oats, a shit ton of peanut butter, one spoon of raw honey, four scoops of protein powder, and full-fat milk. 

Next, his attire. He needed his signature gray game-day sweats (unwashed for the past 10-games in a row), a muscle tank he’s owned and stretched out since high school, and his most industrial-grade, noise-cancelling headphones. 

As for schedule? He needed thirty minutes of privacy, unrestricted and uninterrupted access to high speed internet, and most importantly of all: he needed to watch at least two of “stargiirl_xx”’s videos prior to heading out onto the turf. 

Give him that, and he was bound to have a fuckin’ phenomenal performance on the field. 

His meaty hand was already squeezing his growing erection through his sweats, the thick outline of his cock visible against the backlight from stargiirl’s newest video loading up on his laptop screen, and his protein shake already half finished by his bedside table. 

He wasn’t just a fan. He was her #1 biggest financer. 

Though she never showed her face, he had come to memorize the curve of stargiirl’s thighs and the moles on her hips over the course of the years. He knew her room layout by heart, and diligently watched the animes that she kept posters of on her walls. 

She was the best of the best. Not showy, not performative, just purely indulging herself. 

And sure, if keeping her active meant donating a sizable portion of his D1 stipend to fund her… pursuits, well, then call him a patron of the arts. 

His dick shamelessly pulsed in his pants as the page finally stopped buffering and the title of the video loaded. 

“Lessons in Vibrations Pt I”. 

Part one?!

He knew almost immediately that tonight’s game would be a fantastic one. 

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The Wolverines won their first round of the playoffs in a sweeping victory: 41-20. 

And Toji Fushiguro? Well, he was the star of the show, of course. He completed more than 85% of his passes (with six of them leading to touchdowns) and led an 80-yard rush all in a single game. He was on fire: skin buzzing with adrenaline, cool sweat dripping down his face, and his large canines glinting under the fierce stadium lights as the deafening crowds roared his name. 

“To-ji! To-ji! To-ji!”

He felt indomitable, floating on a high all the way from the stadium, to the bus, to the afterparty. 

But in the lecture hall? Well… 

His grades were barely passing for the majority of his classes, and in fact they were quite below when it came to Applied Chemical Kinetics II. 

He was truly a lost cause. 

He had missed countless of Yaga’s lectures throughout the course of the semester, promising himself that he would catch up on the review notes (he didn’t) and trying to watch the recorded lectures on the bus rides to any of the away games (he never). 

So really, it came as no surprise to anyone when he absolutely tanked his midterms those six long weeks ago. 

At the time, he was desperate. Failing class meant getting booted off the team. He needed someone who could easily cover his sorry ass for the rest of the semester, and fast. 

Therefore, the obvious choices for a final project partner were between Ijichi and, well, you. 

And, seeing as Toji Fushiguro had a pair of functioning fuckin’ eyes and a brain that lived partly in his pants, he chose the latter. 

It wasn’t easy persuading you to take him on for the project, which was something he honestly didn’t quite expect (nor was he used to). You were stoic to his ill-attempted flattery and unaffected by his usual charm. Every smile he flashed at you seemed to wither upon arrival, and every playful remark was met with nothing more than an empty stare.

In the end, desperation drove him somewhere pride never would’ve allowed before: straight into his football stipend.

“Listen. I’ll give you $300 if you can help me pass this class.”

It was the Wednesday before the Thanksgiving break, and he remembered how his words rang loud and heavy in the dusty air of the old lecture hall. Everyone had left at this point, the class long-since over.

You had stood before him unmoved, your books hugged to your chest and your normally impassive gaze slowly piquing in interest.

He remembered how you looked up at him through your lashes, and the way you tilted your head almost cutely. “Make it $400,” you said it softly, yet with little hesitation.

He remembered how he felt himself gulp, not from the number, but at the way your eyes were scanning his face like it was the first time you even noticed him. 

His hand had gripped the strap of his backpack just a little tighter. 

Though, you didn’t seem to notice as you continued. “I’ll meet you on Mondays and Thursdays only, I work every other day. And I want half as security in advance.”

You pulled out your phone, swiftly punching in your password before holding it out to him, the contacts app already open on the screen. 

For the first time in all of his college experience, he was genuinely caught off guard.

What the fuck? 

He took your phone. 

“$400?” he repeated, huffing faintly under his breath (was he amused? Annoyed? Aroused? He couldn’t tell at the time, nor does he know now) as he typed in his number. His large hands looked almost comical holding your small device. “You rob everybody like this, or am I just that special?”

He handed your phone back, his calloused fingers gently grazing your warm ones. 

“You’re failing chem,” you replied flatly. “You are not special.”

He hated how his dick twitched at your words.

But most of all, he hated how he didn’t know what to say in response.

He was the star quarterback, captain of the football team, most popular guy on campus and an undeniable chick-magnet, for god’s sake! 

His silence surprised the both of you, and you took it as your queue to leave. “See you later,” you glanced down at your phone, looking at his contact. “Fushiguro.”

You didn’t even know his fuckin’ name?!

And with that, you gently breezed past him, only offering him a small nod as you walked out of the room. The scent of your shampoo faintly caught in his nose as he tried to will his boner to stop growing in his sweats.   

After that, the break passed uneventfully, and by the time campus filled back up again and the chill of early winter settled in, your project was impossible to ignore.

He kept to his word of paying you the $200 in advance.

You kept to yours by meeting him that following Monday. 

The two of you developed a routine during the second half of the semester, meeting in libraries and cafes to review material and project timelines for the final submission. 

And during those couple of hours on the Mondays and Thursdays that he had you, he came to the haunting realization that you were so… chill. 

He was blunt, but you were blunt back. You flicked him when his head got too large, and he flicked you whenever you were too stuck in yours. He shoved you out of your shell at times, while you pulled him back down to Earth. It was rare, and so fuckin’ odd, this kind of dynamic between the two of you, the kind that goes unnoticed until suddenly you realize it’s there.

Soon, he would find himself calling your name from across the quad, and you would nod with what looked like a smile at him when you passed his row in lecture. He gave you tickets to his games (which you would resell for 200% of its value), and put your name on the list for the Kappa parties despite you never showing up. You sent him stupid instagram posts, and brought him homemade coffees whenever the two of you met post-game days. 

And thankfully for Toji, today was one of those days. 

“How’d it go?” Your voice was like honey and wine, low and smooth, as you looked up at him from behind your computer. The light from your screen illuminated halos in your eyes, and the steam from his opened thermos curled languidly in the air between you both. 

You sat across from him in a quiet, off-campus cafe. 

He grinned, smug and wolfish and borderline sleazy, as if he’d been just waiting for you to ask. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his overwhelmingly large, muscular arms over his head. He made a point to subtly flex his biceps while under your scrutiny. His shirt lifted slightly above his abdomen, and you blinked your eyes to focus on the scar on his tanned face, rather than the dark happy trail that ran down, down, down to his…

“Perfect game. You’d know if you actually came ‘round ‘n watched.” He playfully winked, his deep chuckle echoing as you gave him a deadpan stare. 

“I’m quite alright, Fushiguro.” He pouted in mock defeat as you looked back down at your screen. The battery symbol on your laptop flashed red in warning: low power. 

You’d only been there for thirty minutes and you could’ve sworn you charged the damn thing last night. Sure, your outlets were kind of fucked, and sure this was a twelve year old laptop with a battery life the size of a peanut, but surely it wouldn’t give out on you this early in the day?!

You exhaled a long breath. The thought of putting money down for a new computer made your heart physically ache. 

The two of you (mainly you) had just started to make headway with the report (“flow state”, as Toji would call it), and you knew you wouldn’t have a chance to work on the project again until after your Wednesday shift. “You got a charger on you?” 

He scoffed, almost offendedly. “Wanna try askin’ that again sweetheart?” He tsked you lightly. 

You rolled your eyes, a heavy sigh tumbling out of your soft lips. 

“Forget it. I know you don’t,” there was something prickly beneath your uncaring tone, and he curiously paused to examine you. 

He could see the faint circles under your eyes that you tried to cover with concealer, the way your shoulders sagged slightly from the weight of your backpack as you lifted it from the seat beside you, and the brief glimpse of all the mini bookmarks sticking out of your planner as you dropped it inside the bag. 

“I guess we’ll have to call it here then. I’d need to go back to my apartment and grab my charger to do anything else.”

And, perhaps it was because the two of you had formed this unexpected bond over the past several weeks, something deep and quiet and far more important than Toji would ever willingly name, that the weight of being the weakest link finally made Toji Fushiguro feel the heavy hammer of guilt bury deep within his hardened chest. 

A moment passed before he cleared his throat, holding up his hand. 

“Or…” the words were slow to move out of his mouth, embarrassment thickening in his throat. “Why don’t we work there?” You stared at him, almost startled, as if he’d grown another head. His ears warmed under the intensity of your gaze as he continued. “I still got power, I can keep goin’ if you’re down.” 

His triceps flexed as he scratched the back of his neck, tan skin pulling taut as he looked away. 

“It’s a small place,” you warned. 

He shrugged, his voice catching in his throat at the way you were holding his gaze. “I don’t mind. I’d go any place you choose.”

He paused, his eyes widening slightly at the words that tumbled out of his mouth, as if he didn’t realize what he said until after he said them. 

You breathed, and a beat passed before a small, pretty smile pulled across your features – the first he’s ever gotten from you like this. And this time, your tired eyes warmed into something soft, something akin to appreciation, something new.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, then I’d like that.” You tilted your head slightly, and his heart thumped oddly loud in his muscular chest. “Thank you, Toji.”

For just the briefest of moments, you looked at him as if he had just offered the world. 

All he could do was swallow and nod. 

He didn’t even realize you called him by his first name until you were both out the door. 

The walk to your apartment was comfortably silent. Despite Toji’s taller stature and athletic build, he wordlessly matched your slower pace, walking between you and the road. 

Your apartment was situated right on the outskirts of campus; too close to drive, but too cumbersome to walk. He quietly marveled at your resolution to go in person to class every day, especially when he had difficulty hauling his ass to the lecture hall that was just a block over from frat row. 

The taller man was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t even realize how close he was standing to you as you both paused at your front doorstep. His towering frame loomed over you, and he could feel the heat of your body as you dug through your bag, and he could see the goosebumps that rose on your neck when your arm accidentally grazed against his abdomen. 

Your keys softly clinked! together as you unlocked the front door.

And, there was something faintly intimate about being led up the creaky wooden steps to your 3rd floor apartment, your hips gently swaying in his face with each ascent up, and your soft hands lightly tracing the railing in your wake.

He intrusively thought about reaching out to touch your fingers, to run his hand along the curve of your waist–

He coughed lightly.

What was he thinking?

As you opened your apartment’s door, he was immediately hit with the light smell of lemon and jasmine. 

Your place was small but tidy; a one-bedroom attic apartment where the kitchen and living area blurred together, soaking in the same sunlit space. Despite its size, it carried your mark: two types of server aprons hung on the coat rack, a soft crocheted throw blanket you made draped over the worn couch, and a set of reading glasses laying beside a hand-painted mug on your round window table.

It was cute; homely. A small glimpse into your life outside of class.

“You can start getting set up in here, I’ll just grab my charger from my room.” You spoke quietly as you led him to the table. 

You silently turned before he could respond, padding across the old wooden floors to the door that was directly across from where he had set his bag down. 

He had only just started typing his password into his computer when he lazily looked up, his dark eyes catching the movement from your room. 

And, holy shit. 

No. 

There was genuinely no way in hell. 

He was scrambling up out of your wobbly kitchen chair before his mind could even register it. 

His body felt as if it were moving through water, and his brain felt like jam. Was that his own blood roaring past his ears or his soul escaping his body? 

Cool beads of sweat began to form on his neck, tickling at the ends of his dark, grungy hair. He had crossed the width of your apartment in three long strides, until suddenly he was at your doorframe, his large body leaning against it like it was a lifeline, and his scarred mouth parted into the dumbest looking “o”.

His wild eyes scanned your room fervently. The walls, the Cowboy Bebop poster by your bedframe, the pale linen sheets, the empty vase on your bedside table and the stack of yellowing paper backs in the corner of it. 

Everything looked familiar.

Scratch that. Everything looked the same. The same as–

“Can I help you?” 

You were on all fours. All fuckin’ fours. 

You tilted your head up to face him, taking a pause from wiggling the stubborn plug out of the ancient socket underneath your desk.

And… could you? Can you? He was at a genuine loss for words. 

All he could do was stare dumbly, his large fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, and his body emanating a heat that he prayed to god wasn’t visible from where you were.

“Uh. Y-you got a bathroom up here??” 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

He scoured through every single video and rewatched every single clip that night.

The furniture, the decor, the walls, the window placement: everything was the same.

And so, the verdict was in: you–his quiet, guarded, asocial, and steely chem partner–were none other than stargiirl herself. 

What. The. Fuck. 

It was confusing to wrap his head around, this whole stargiirl-chemgirl business. But would he go as far to say that it wasn’t attractive? That he didn’t pop a boner every time he thought about it? 

No. He couldn’t. He’d never.

Was this divine intervention or his own personal hell? 

He couldn’t tell.

What does this mean? How should he act?  What does he fucking do with this information now?

He rubbed his temples before running a tense hand through his hair. At the same time, a notification popped up on his computer. 

“Check out a new post from stargiirl_xx !”

He could feel the blood in his veins thumping against his skin. 

“Don’t do it. Please don’t fucking do it-” he mumbled. 

He tapped into the link despite himself. 

“Lessons In Vibration Pt II”

He wordlessly clicked the play button on the video. 

For a moment, he thought his screen was buffering. The camera was set up to look out onto your bed, though you were not in frame yet, presumably twiddling with the settings of your camera. 

But when you finally did walk into view, his heart nearly imploded. 

The frame only showed you from the mouth down, your identity mainly concealed. You were bottomless, bare legs walking across the floor as you situated yourself on your bed. The only piece of clothing you did have on was an overlarge sweatshirt, his sweatshirt, one that he, in his panicked daze to get out of your apartment earlier, forgot he had left behind. 

He didn’t dare breathe, nor could he move. His head was craned so close to his computer, as if he wanted to go through the screen itself just to get a better look. 

He noted how his hoodie fell past your ass, large and consuming and honestly? So fuckin’ perfect on you.

You were nearing the end of your normal introduction, and he realized you spoke differently on video, low and confident and sensual and hypnotic.

“I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about my content throughout the years,” your hands started to draaag the bottom of his hoodie up, letting it bunch just slightly above the dip of your waist, enunciating your curves. “-And I’ve realized I’ve never had a partner during any of them.”

The comments on the side bar started to flood through, hundreds of viewers already volunteering themselves to be your +1. 

His jaw ticked, hard.

“I think,” you leaned forward like you were sharing a secret. Toji gripped onto his computer until a faint pop! could be heard of one of the inner screws coming loose. “I think I would like to change that in the future,” and then you smiled, really smiled, a full, playful grin wiping across your features in a way he had never been able to see in person before. 

His dick bobbed in his pants. 

This could not be happening to him right now. 

You continued, “but for now, welcome back to my Lessons in Vibrations series.”

He watched as you started introducing the toys you would be using today, before you slowly began to touch yourself, teasingly showing glimpses of the purple lace panties you had on underneath his hoodie. 

And he couldn’t help it, really. 

Because when you started rubbing your vibrator against your clit, your deft fingers plunging skillfully into your cunt, soft whimpers escaping your lips as your pussy started squelching out a fucking melody – all while wearing his fuckin’ sweatshirt – what the fuck else was he supposed to do?

His sweats were already halfway down his thighs, and his meaty hand greedily pumping his own cock in sync to you fucking yourself on your fingers. 

He watched hungrily as you pushed his sweatshirt up further along your body, exposing your stomach, teasing the view of your bare tits. He bit back a groan at the thought of your scent lingering in the fabric, and prayed to whatever deity above that you wouldn’t wash it out before he got it back. 

Below, your fingers languidly teased the head of your vibrator against your entrance. It was the insertable kind, with a slender tip and curved body, the type that had your hole trying to suck up the device with every rub against your dripping slit. 

He could feel the veins in his cock pulsing hotly in anticipation, pushing up thick pearls of precum out onto his flared tip. 

He wondered what it would be like to slip his shaft against your drenched pussy lips, to massage the underside of his cockhead against the tight ring of your entrance, to feel you squeezing around him, and to hear the sounds you would make just for him. 

He gulped, cool sweat starting to form on his brow. You were beginning to fuck the device into you, pumping the vibrator in and out and in and out. He could see your legs trembling, your juices starting to  uncontrollably splash outside of you, and your pussylips fluttering with every bzzz bzz bzzzzzt of the vibrator fucking and swirling and massaging into your g-spot. 

He was matching your pace, furiously pumping his dick, thinking about how you looked on all fours earlier, thinking about how you smiled when you called him his name, thinking about how you look when you concentrate and the mole above your brow, thinking about the coffee you made for him and the weird shitposts you sent and the way you could look at him like he was nothing, and everything, all at the same time.

And suddenly, he wasn’t climaxing to the stargiirl he had always seen on screen.

It was his tough, quiet, calm chem partner. 

And as he shot hot spurts of thick, ropey cum all the way from his dick to his chin (the most he’s ever released before), he realized only one thing. 

He just finished to the thought of you.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Toji Fushiguro had a problem. 

No, scratch that. 

He had a fucking crisis. 

It was drill day, and his head was absolutely nowhere near the turf. He fumbled balls, missed targets, and was a full thirty-seconds under his usual sprint times. 

And that was only how one of his practices went this week. 

It had been five whole days since he last saw you. 

Five days of being dogshit at his sport. 

Five days of holing up in his frat, avoiding campus, avoiding class, avoiding your texts, avoiding you.

It’s not like he wanted to do this, but he didn’t know what to do, how to act, or what to even say. 

How could he talk to you casually while knowing he’s given probably a third of his checks to you? How could he be normal in your presence knowing that he’s watched every single one of your streams, and in turn has finished an embarrassing amount of times to each of them?

How could he trust himself when the thought of you alone had his heart pounding so hard his ears hurt? Or how his chest squeezed so tight he almost went to urgent care, just because you texted asking where he’s been and if he was okay? 

How could he face you, knowing that he somehow developed the largest, fattest, most egregious fuckin’ crush on you?!

And, for the record, Toji Fushiguro did not do crushes. He hadn’t necessarily “ran through” the entire roster of available chicks on campus, but he did have an occasional fling, nothing serious, nothing long, nothing that would distract him from football and his dreams.

He was known as the campus heartthrob and heartbreaker. He was Mr. Non-Chalant, Mr. Everybody-Wants-A-Piece-of-Him, and Mr. I-Don’t-Get-Attached all wrapped up in one 6’4, 230 lbs body. 

A crush? That was new, unexplored territory for him. 

He stared down at your last texts to him.

⭐️(Thursday, 12:03pm): i got us a nice spot!! im sitting on 2nd floor @ clark  ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

Ba-dump!

⭐️(Thursday, 12:18pm): knock knock, is mr. toji theree 

Ba-dump! Ba-dump!

⭐️(Thursday, 12:56pm): hey, is everythin ok? r we still on for today?

Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump–

⭐️(Saturday, 10:01am): r u alive

It physically sickened him that he couldn’t get his cowardly fingers to just fucking write back. But every time he opened up your text chain, all he could do was stare. 

Which is exactly why he couldn’t see you yet. 

He needed time. 

He needed space. 

He needed to get this shit under control.

Fortunately (or unfortunately) for him, the Kappa Epsilon fraternity was throwing a rager tonight. With the group of men only one week out from the next bracket of playoffs, this would be the last night the football frat would get to drink together for a while if they were to make it to the finals. 

It would be the perfect distraction. 

About an hour or so into the party and he was buzzed. He absolutely demolished that shithead Ryomen in beer pong, crushed a pack of PBRs, and now was cooling off in the kitchen, his body feeling swimmy and light. 

He reached for his phone. Maybe, just maybe, if he looked at your messages again for the umpteenth time today, maybe he would know what to say, maybe he–

“Ah, so you can come out and party but ignore all of my texts?”

His heart did that stupid thing where it pounded so hard against his chest he wondered if his ribs bruised. 

Despite the booming of the bass coming from the room over, and the idle chatter of randoms idling in the kitchen, he could hear the dry, unimpressed, and entirely too familiar voice coming directly from behind him. 

He turned, his eyes lowering to find you, as if it was muscle memory, as if it was his second nature. 

You never showed up to these parties (and trust, he has invited you to them all). Yet here you were, your body leaned up against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over your chest, and your hair falling around your frame. 

He grinned, the buzz in his head making it easy for a stupidly cheeky and wide and boyish smile to plaster onto his face. (a/n: toji has a hung smile. Okay? Okay.). 

“Hey, party animal,” he said, almost dreamily. 

The top you wore clung to you like a second skin, accentuating the swells of your breasts and the dip of your waist: features that you usually hid underneath your normal, bulkier campus-attire. 

He was indecisive, his eyes bouncing between the unreadable look on your face to the sliver of exposed skin right above your miniskirt. 

You looked good, really fuckin’ good. 

Your eyes widened, before your cheeks blushed the prettiest shade of red, your manicured fingers tightening around the plastic solo cup you were holding

Did he say that outloud?!

You straightened, steeling yourself, willing the warmth in your cheeks to go away. “You’ve ignored me for five days, Fushiguro-” your voice was firm and cool, cutting sharply through the noise of the party.

Back to the last name basis. 

You looked away, before adding, “-and you ditched me on Thursday.” You spoke that last part softly, deliberately, a look of sadness flashing briefly in your pretty, doe-like eyes. 

A dull pang rippled through his chest. 

He knew the implications of your words – the two of you never missed a meetup since this whole “deal” started. 

And, like those days in the libraries or cafes where he found himself sitting before you, following your every word and direction, he now found himself moving towards you, a small pout forming on his scarred lips, as his strong arms caged you in until you were wedged between himself and the counter. 

And, you knew he was huge before. 

But now, up close, you realized just how large he was - his broad shoulders obscuring your view, his muscular chest rippling under the tight black shirt he wore, and his huge hands riddled with veins that climbed up, up, up his forearms. 

He was overwhelming and all-consuming, surrounding your senses with the kind of intensity only he alone could pull off. You breathed in, your chest rising, fighting against the cotton of your ill-fitting top. He smelled of fresh pine and warm leather, clean and raw and manly. 

You came here pissed, but now found your resolve completely fogged and muddled. 

He leaned forward, dipping his head low, until his shaggy fringe tickled softly against the shell of your ear. 

You knew he had been drinking, but the question was, did he know what he was doing right now? Was this purposeful? Was this real? You couldn’t quite tell, but the way his breath stuttered as his nose traced light patterns into your neck, the way he was breathing you in, and the way his hands periodically clenched onto the countertop as if to restrain himself, told you he was at least semi aware of what he was doing. 

Your heart was hammering in your chest. The two of you never stood this close before, let alone touched each other. 

You turned your head slightly, trying to put at least some ounce of space between your face and his.

But for him? That just would not do. 

He slowly pulled away from your neck, his nose lightly mapping a path from the base of your neck, across the soft expanse of your cheek, to the tip of your own. Noses brushing, breaths mingling, chests heaving, and hearts pounding as his scarred lips hovered your glossed ones. 

“Why have you been avoiding me?” 

The air between you was warm and thick, charged with something tender and so deeply intimate. 

“Because you scare me,” he mumbled. 

“Oh, really?” Your mouth twitched. 

“Mm.” He nodded once, nose rubbing softly against yours in an eskimo kiss. You could see how his eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, lips dangerously close to pressing against yours.

“‘Think ya cursed me.” His neck flushed red, his low voice was barely above a whisper. 

“I can go-”

“Don’t.”

And then his large hands were latching onto your waist, the heat of his skin searing through the thin material of your skirt. 

“Don’t. Don’tDon’tDon’t.” His brows scrunched together, his face becoming serious. “Don’t go. Don’t leave. Not when you’re here, with me, pretty girl.” 

You breathed, taking your time to steady your voice after hearing the pet name roll off his tongue. “Then what should I do?”

“Stay.”

It was as simple as that, really. 

And then his lips were on yours, warm and soft and commanding. He kissed you like you were sin, drinking you in, savoring you on his tongue, before inevitably, always inevitably, going back for more. He didn’t let you breathe; he wouldn’t. He was greedy and wrong and possessive, claiming your mouth like it was his alone to conquer. Your knees weakened as his tongue massaged against yours addictively, molding against you like you were made for him; like he was made for you. 

Your hands moved before you could think, before you could decide if you were angry with him or if you hungered for him. You found purchase on his broad shoulders, before making your way up, up, up to his neck, one hand running through his dark hair while the other held onto the underside of his strong jaw, thumb gently caressing the scar on the side of his mouth, pulling him in.

He pressed into you further, your ass hitting the lower counter. His body was flush against yours, his chest purposefully rubbing against your tits. 

He could feel your nipples hardening through the flimsy cotton of your top, and he couldn’t stop the sleazy grin that was forming on his face. 

Below, his grip on you was gentle but firm, bringing your body to press and grind against his in an unhurried, languid way, like he had all the time in the world, like all of this was fated from the start. 

And his fingers, oh his fingers, which spanned across your hip, slowly found their way to your ass, gripping and cupping and kneading into the soft, jiggly flesh. 

You could feel something move against your thigh, something sturdy and heavy and completely fucking monstruous. 

“Haah-” you shakily sighed out, breathy and dazed as you looked down to the outline of his bulge. Your eyes widened. 

“I like when you use that smart mouth, y’know,” he was talking against your lips, not able to find it in himself to pull away. His hand slid up the side of your waist, until he stopped right underneath your breast, his thumb rubbing against the underside of where it started to swell. 

His voice dropped an octave lower, whispering to you like it was a secret. “Talk to me. Break this curse. Tell me it’s not just me that feels like this.” 

Please.

His heart was racing. He was stone cold sober. This was it. This was his admission. 

ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump–

You breathed. 

The party raged on in the background, muddled and distant, like his ears were submerged under water–

“It’s not just you, Toji.” 

Your voice was quiet, your cheeks tinted rouge, your pretty eyes looking up at him in earnest. 

And that was all he needed. 

He picked you up like you were nothing (his bench was 350 lbs, squat 600 lbs, and his hip thrusts? don’t even worry ‘bout it), a smug, victorious grin tugging at his scarred lips.

He carried you out of the kitchen, and a steady stream of wolf whistles and howls erupted from his frat brothers and party goers as the two of you made your way across the foyer, up the stairs, and towards a bedroom. His bedroom. 

He carried you inside, keeping the lights off, letting the warm glow of the streetlamp beside his window spill softly across the room. Without a word, he set you down on his large king-sized bed.

The air in his room was tender and still. You could hear the faint bass of the stereo downstairs, vibrating against his wooden floors like a heartbeat. The distant cheers of the crowd down below faded to quiet as he pressed his mouth to your own. 

He leisurely climbed over you, never breaking the kiss, his muscular arms holding his body above your own. 

It didn’t take long for the makeout to turn heated again, teeth clashing against teeth, bodies pressed against each other, rubbing and teasing in a way that had your head spinning.

You put your hands against his chest. 

“Toji-”

“Stay,” he breathed, whispering the words against your lips, like he could read your mind. “-Stay with me tonight,” he pressed his body closer into you, rutting his hips, “and lemme show you the things I’ve been wantin’ to say to you all week.”

You could feel his cock twitch ominously against your bare thigh as you swallowed. 

His lips were swollen and glistening from your mixed salivas, his eyes glazed over, jade irises almost completely black. His grip on your lower body was unrelenting, holding you in place. 

You lightly pushed your hand against his chest, a hesitant look crossing your features.

A beat passed. For a second, he didn’t even realize he stopped breathing. 

“You’ve been drinking,” You paused, your voice coming out small. “What if.. what if you don’t mean this in the morning?” 

And for all your expertise and genius, oh, how completely wrong you could be.

He let out a humorless chuckle, his sharp canines peaking through his lips in the process. 

“Did it sound like I was jokin’, sweetheart?” He shakily exhaled through his nose as he pressed his erection against your clothed cunt, holding himself there, letting you feel the pressure and full weight of what he was packing. “Does it feel like I’m jokin’ ‘bout this?” 

You bit your lip, pussy throbbing, a warm slickness starting to soak through your panties, before messily spreading between your clenched thighs. 

You shook your head. 

“What’d I say about usin’ your words?”

He pulsed his dick, the sensation making your pussy clench. 

Fuckin’ tease. 

“Nngh- no. No it doesn’t feel like you’re joking,” you almost gasp out. 

A satisfied smirk plastered onto his tanned face.

“Good girl.” 

And then he’s moving down the bed, his calloused hands spreading your legs as he pressed wet kisses against the hot skin of your thighs. He was methodical and slow, making his way up your inner thigh, savoring the small sounds that you tried to suppress as he reached the bottom hem of your skirt, his face mere inches away from your sopping pussy, and his breath puffing warm air against your dampened panties . 

“Ohhh jus’ look at ya,” you could tell he had the most shit-eating grin on his face right now, pride swelling in his voice as he carefully dipped a large, rough finger between the seam of the thin purple fabric you adorned. “This all f’me?”

And - Holy shit.

The videos of you didn’t even do this justice. 

Because low and behold, here you were, under his body, and you were so fuckin’ wet. His finger slid against your folds with little resistance, putting just enough pressure that you couldn’t help but moan his name as he rubbed circles against your clit.

And, Toji Fushiguro never claimed to be a patient man. So, it should’ve came as no surprise when he grabbed your hips and used his hulking strength to push your clothed pussy to his scarred lips, his face nuzzled to your cunt, nose pressed firmly to your clit, and his greedy tongue lapping you up through the soiled fabric. 

It was obscene and perverse and dirty and wrong. 

But oh, how he loved it. Loved the heady taste you left on your panties, and the sweet scent of your gushing pussy, and the excess slick on your thighs that made its way onto his rough cheeks. 

He groaned, a low, guttural sound against your skin that made your tummy squeeze into knots. 

“T-Toji, please,” you whined, pressing your greedy cunt into his face, “need your tongue. Need you. Need more.” You could hardly string a true sentence together, and he hadn’t even fucked you proper yet. 

His heart was thunderous against his chest. 

And his dick? 

Hardest it’s ever fuckin’ been in his fuckin’ life.

He was grinding his erection against the mattress as he obliged your wishes.

After all, how could he say no to you? 

He pushed your panties to the side. 

And oh. 

His balls tightened below him, the urge to cum almost threateningly near as he stared at your bare, swollen pussy. 

Holy. Shit.

Everything was soaked and glistening. 

He rubbed one thumb across your puffy skin, his coarse finger getting soaked in the process. 

He leaned in, gingerly licking fat stripes along your folds, lapping you up, drinking you in. He worked thoroughly, gathering you onto his tongue, until the lower part of his face was a mixture of your juices and his drool. 

It was only after he was satisfied with his work did he make his way to your clit, humming and sucking, the wet sounds of his mouth making out with your cunt filling the air of his room. 

The warm pleasure of it all was beginning to pool in your belly, your toes beginning to curl, legs beginning to shake – but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. 

“Toji, I might-” 

He plunged a rough, thick finger inside you, spearing your tight velvet walls apart, all the way up to his knuckle. 

You saw fuckin’ stars.

The sound you made was so erotic, so loud and depraved and raw, that his dick lurched in his pants, warm gooey pre-cum beginning to leak out from his throbbing tip and into his briefs. 

He wanted to hear you again, and again and again and again. 

He wanted videos, home movies, and spotify playlists of the way your pussy was talking to him. 

Emboldened, his tongue was unrelenting on your clit, as one finger became two, and then two became three. 

You mewled as he crooked them up, massaging against that soft, spongey bundle of nerves that had you panting his name out like it was prayer. 

Your ears were ringing, your eyes beginning to get wet with tears. 

Soon, he was fucking you on his fingers proper, setting a debilitating pace as he plunged his digits in and out and in and out. Filling you up, stretching you out, hitting your most sensitive areas. Again, and again, and again.

The pressure in your core was reaching its limits now, and the pleasure from the sheer fullness of your pussy and the sinful patterns of his tongue were beginning to send violent tremors down your legs. 

You were orgasming before you even realized it.

And yet, he was didn’t stop – didn’t even give you time to breathe as he’s diving into your pussy, slurping you up, his large nose rubbing against your over-sensitive clit as he’s fucking his thick tongue and his fingers past the tight ring of your entrance, fucking you, warm and wet, through each of your peaks. 

Your hands held onto his hair like a lifeline, your fleshy thighs locked around his head as if to keep him in place. 

“You taste so good, sweetheart,” he moaned, his eyes glazed over, completely and utterly pussy drunk, as you looked down at him, his mouth still latched onto your cunt. 

You could see your slick dripping down his face, mixing with the light trails of perspiration that sprouted from his temples. 

Your heart squeezed in your chest. 

It was only after the last few waves of your orgasm subsided when you could finally respond. 

“I think,” you gently reached down to run your shaky hand through his scalp, tenderly pushing away the sweaty fringe by his eyes. “I think I can think of something that might taste better.” 

And then you’re pushing him until he’s moving to the top of the bed, his back resting against the headboard as he pulls his black shirt up and over his head, triceps flexing, exposing his muscular pecs, washboard abs, and the light tufts of hair that sprouted on his chest, and got increasingly darker the further down his abs it went. 

You could feel your pussy walls clamp down, warmth pooling in your core again as you reached out instinctively to run your hands along the length of his torso. 

You never thought, in all of your wildest dreams, that this would be happening. Nor could your dreams do justice to the perfect build of the man before you.

“Well look at you, Mr. Fushiguro.” Your soft hands slowly sliding up, up, up against his skin, all the way from where the dark tufts of thick hair started to disappear under his pants, and towards his pecs, feeling the way his traitorous heart stuttered as you called his name. “Aren’t you quite the heartbreaker.”

You held his gaze, the air around you charged with anticipation.

Who would move first?

His breathing was shallow as he stared at you, your cheeks flushed and eyes glazed. Your top was rumpled to hell, exposing the line of your cleavage in a way that had his pants tenting painfully, and your mini skirt was so far scrunched that it looked like a belt around your waist. 

“For others, sure…” He grabbed your hands, pressing them deeper into his skin as he slid them up to cup his face. “But for you?” he was whispering now, his ears growing steadily pinker by the second, “I’m afraid you have me beat.” 

Oh. 

And then you’re leaning in, tenderly pressing your lips to his own, mumbling his name over and over again to stop you from saying those other three little words, before sealing it with your tongue. 

And then he’s pulling you into his lap. 

You could taste yourself in his mouth and on his lips, your nipples tightening as his large hands grabbed handfuls of your ass, spreading your cheeks apart before making them clap together again. 

A muffled groan escaped from the depths of his chest, vibrating against your mouth, as he felt new gushes of your slick begin to dampen the front of his pants.

“Mmmnh- get comfortable, pretty girl.” He slurred out as he pulled at the waistband of your skirt, before letting go, allowing the material to slap against your skin with a light sting. 

“Hmm… only if daddy gets comfortable too.” your eyes were big as you stared at him through your lashes.  

And oh fuck.

Toji had to lean his head back, his skull hitting against the wall with a dull thud! 

The way the words left your mouth had him breathless, brain short-circuiting, and dick throbbing. He needed to recuperate. Calm down.

Breathe in. Exhale. Repeat. 

You smiled slyly, completely aware of how your words affected him, as you pulled your flimsy top off, followed by your bottomwear. Your tits were heavy and full as they were released from the cotton, nipples peaked and stiff. 

You were bare before him, your arms on either side of his hips, squeezing your tits together lightly as you bent low to whisper against his ear. 

“You like when I call you that?” Your voice was sweet as honey as your hands traced the large outline of his dick through his pants, gripping his shaft through the tight material, and feeling the monstrous size of his girth. 

“Careful, sweetheart,” his voice was a mixture of restraint and warning, “don’t start callin’ me that unless y’er tryna see it through.” His neck was visibly tense, and his hands clutched on to the meat of your hips as he stared at you. 

Pretty girl. 

He squeezed tighter.

His pretty girl. 

A moment of silence passed as you considered his words. “And what if I do wanna see it through…?” Your head tilted cutely while your mean hands found their way to his happy trail, running your nails down through the thick tufts of dark hair, dipping juuust below the waistband of his pants, before retreating back up again in slow, agonizing loops. “Show me your worst, daddy.”

And who was he to deny you? 

Before you knew it, he had his pants and briefs shoved down his legs, his massive cock heavily thudding against his washboard abs

Your mouth gaped open.

And ohhh how he relished the dumb look on your lil’ cute face.  

You didn’t even think anyone could be this large. 

Yet here he was, with a dick that looked like it belonged in a porno, pulsing fat and heavy and huge as he leaked pre-cum all over the angry mushroomed head. 

He smirked, cocky as ever, as you subconsciously licked your lips, eyes glazed over, cock drunk just off the look alone.

Your pussy gushed warm, new slick between your legs as you carefully leant down, your hands grabbing around his base, slowly bringing his dick closer to your face.

He could feel the warm puffs of air coming from ur plush lips, his dick twitching like crazy at how close you were to finally, finally getting your mouth on him. 

You pressed a gentle kiss to his leaking slit, before running your lips over the excess pre-cum, painting your lips with the milky substance.

He swallowed hard. His eyes were wild and his breathing ragged.

He groped your tits, rolling your stiff nipples in his calloused fingers, eliciting the sweetest moan from you that reverberated around his dick.

You gave him small kitten licks at first, teasing the idea, before gradually licking thick fat stripes up and down the length of his huge dick. You traced the pulsing veins that climbed up his hot shaft and licked around the sensitive underside of his throbbing cockhead. 

And it was only when his chest was heaving, his impatient hands gripping onto your skull, did you finally, finally begin to throat fuck the shit outta him. 

None of the videos he had watched of you before even came close to the sensation of seeing the bulge forming in your throat from where his cock was buried inside of you, or the way your nose tickled against the tufts of dark hair at the base of his cock. 

You moaned dreamily around him at the feeling of his heavy dick pounding against the back of your throat, filling your mouth and overwhelming your senses. You couldn’t help the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes as you bobbed him in your mouth, hands jerking off what you couldn’t reach, and your thighs rubbing together greedily, craving any ounce of friction against your throbbing pussy.

But before you knew it, he was lifting you off, a light string of saliva following en suit, connecting the two of you together. 

“What’s wrong?” You had a devilish grin on your pretty face. “Scared you're gonna cum too quick?”

A low, humorless chuckle rumbled through his body as one of his hands wrapped around your throat, while the other smacked your ass. 

“Nah,” his canines glinted in the lowlight, a predatorial grin etching into his features. “Just tryna make sure nothin’ gets wasted.” And then he's shifting you up, rubbing his thick cock against your gooey cunt, mixing his thick pre with your juices. 

Your heart fluttered.

His dick was so warm against your skin – so, so much better (and bigger) than the toys you regularly used to get yourself off. 

You’ve had enough. You’ve done your waiting. You needed him inside you. 

You lifted yourself up, your hands bracing themselves on either side of Toji’s broad shoulders. Your pussy was dripping down onto his angry dick as you slowly lowered yourself, hips circling, letting his throbbing head trace your sopping lips. 

He could have almost passed out from the sight alone.

Instead, he panted out a deep breath, his chest tightening as he tried to restrain himself from bucking up into your cunt. 

You paused your hips, lowering yourself again ever so slightly so that his leaking head was now smooching against your gummy entrance, the heat of his cock stirring something warm and familiar in your belly. 

Please, please, please, ple–

And then your pussy is swallowing his head whole. 

“Oh, fuuuck you’re tight mama,” his eyes squeezed shut, fringe sticking to his sweaty forehead as Toji gasped out at the sensation of his thiiick cockhead squeezing past the tight ring of muscles at your entrance. 

Your gummy walls sucked against him from all angles, squishing into his hardness and rubbing deliciously against the sensitive underside of his mushroomed tip. 

And this was just the tip.

He didn’t know if he would make it out of here alive. At least, without getting you pregnant. 

You whimpered, actually fuckin’ whimpered his name as you reached down, touching where he was spearing you apart, your lips drawn thin and tight to accommodate for the sheer size of him. 

“You’re so big Toji,” a tear rolled down your flushed cheek. “Look at how much more I gotta take.” And he did, he really did look. Because you began to let your finger slowly slide from where the two of you were connected, down, down, down to the tufts of hair at the base of his cock.

“Haah- Ya’ think it’ll fit, sweetheart?” He grunted, his lips involuntarily bucking as you pouted cutely at him. 

Something impassable flashed across your feature. “I’ll make it fuckin’ fit.”

And then you’re slamming down onto his dick, and it feels like the literal wind gets knocked out of both of your chests. 

He has never felt something so deliciously tight before.

You have never felt so goddamn filled up before.

You’re clenching around him, velvet walls fluttering and smooching around his raw cock as it pulses heavy and thick with animalistic need. 

It took you several moments to orient yourself, to gather your scrambled senses back together to remember what you were doing, what your goal was, why you were here. 

“I have a secret to tell you.” You stared down at him, an unreadable look passing over your features. 

“O-oh really?” you squeezed your walls around him, catching him off guard.

“I know you watch me touch myself,” you whispered it like it was a secret, sly and just a touch proud.

And of all the things you could’ve said, nothing would have prepared him for that.

His dick bobbed from inside of you. 

“Fushi-daddy420 isn’t the most subtlest of names, no?” you grinned meanly as you watched his jade eyes turn impossibly black as you began to slowly, teasingly, mercifully bounce on his cock. Up and down and up and down. 

“But-?”

He thought you would hate him if you knew. 

He agonized for days for this reaction?!!

“And after you ran out on me after seeing my place?” you were panting, riding him as you talked. “Yea, that kinda solidified it.”

And just when he thinks you’ve found your rhythm and set your pace, you slowly begin to circle your hips, hitting new angles deep inside your guts that have his throbbing tip pressing into the spongy part of your pussy. 

“You don’t -fuhh- don’t hate me?” his mind was swirling, how could he focus when you felt this good?

“Never.” Your hips rolled, and you pressed your tits together, giving him a show.  

And you were doing so well, and felt so good. He pressed a fat thumb against your clit, spelling out his name, as if to claim you, mark you, over and over and over again. 

T-O-J-I !

He throws his head back as he feels you creaming around his cock, while your eyes are rolling into the backs of your head as you feel his thick goopy pre frothing at your entrance, dripping down onto his balls. The pace is getting faster, the air getting hot, and thick beads of sweat are rolling down your back. The obscene sounds of sweaty skin slapping against skin filled the hot, sex-scented air. 

You lean down to kiss him, tongues messily entangling, drool spilling from the sides of your lips as you ride his cock like a fuckin’ animal, ass jiggling from the force of his hips rocking up to meet you, his heavy balls smacking against your pussy like a promise. 

In one swift motion, he’s flipping the two of you over, your back to the bed, his dick never leaving your pussy, as he continues to fuck into you. He has your legs spread wide, your knees to his sides as he buries himself deep within your warmth, the new angle allowing you to feel his fat tip smooching against your cervix.

He’s panting, breath shaky as he slows down, rutting shallowly, not allowing himself to be too far from your gummy insides. “T-tell me where you want it,” his voice came out strained, and you could see where his veins were protruding on his neck. 

Oh. His cum.

His balls were pressed against you, tightening with every passing second. You could feel his dick bobbing against your walls as he was direly trying to stop himself from cumming. 

You smiled, soft and sweet, as you pressed a hand against your lower tummy, feeling the bulge of where he was nestled inside you. 

“Oh, you already know,” and you were batting your pretty lashes up at him, making his heart stutter. “Isn’t that right, daddy?” 

And oh, how his broken mind snapped. 

The next thing you knew, he’s pressing your knees so far up they’re knocking against your tits, his hulking body leaning over and pressing down into you, chest against chest, until you could feel his warm lips sucking bruises by your ear. 

And then he’s draaagging his thick cock through your pussy until only the tip is inside you, before snapping his hips forward, forcing his cock the deepest it could go back inside you, spearing you apart, and setting an absolutely cruel, delicious, depraved pace that has his balls bruising your ass and his cock breeching your womb. 

It goes for what feels like seconds, minutes, hours.

Your legs began to shake at all the sensations, your pussy walls convulsing around him and your ears ringing as you started to see white. 

And he truly couldn’t keep it in any longer. 

Not when you sounded so hot, with your face scrunched up in the prettiest ‘o’ and your nails digging crescents into his back as you called his name, begging for his seed. 

And so he bucked up, his hips flush against yours, locking you into the meanest of mating presses, as his dick lurched, balls scrunching, as he pumped copious amounts of his thick, sticky cum straight into your womb.

And he’s still bucking his hips, through each of your peaks, fucking his cum deep inside you, until your belly was bloated and full of him.

“Thattaa girl,” he pressed a warm kiss to your mouth as he fucked you through the last few peaks of your orgasms, gingerly swiping his thumb across your cheek as if you were something precious. “My girl.”

And later on, as you softly drifted to sleep, with a belly full of his cum and his softening dick still inside you, you could feel his scarred lips pressing light kisses across your face, and the mumblings of something that sounded vaguely too close to “iloveyou” whispered into your warm skin.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Five weeks passed, and the Michigan Wolverines were in the midst of the NCAA College Football Championships.

After weeks of non-stop practice, conditioning, strength training, and late-night film recaps, the team of 100-odd men were finally going up against their biggest competitor in the nation.

There was much on the line, but thankfully, Senior Quarterback and Captain, Toji Fushiguro, had quite the good luck charm on his side. 

Not only did he pass Kinetics (albeit by the skin of his teeth, thanks to you), but he now had a new, fool-proof pre-game regimen (with an even better success rate!).

He still kept his same protein shake recipe.

He still kept his same choice of attire.

But this time around, he needed at least one hour of your undivided attention, with the provision that his cock be buried so deep and raw inside your trembling cunt that you could feel him in your womb. 

And it was only after intense, depraved, animalistic fucking, with your pussy stuffed full of his gooey cum, and hickies in the shape of a ‘T’ on your neck, could the 6’4 230 lbs man say with absolute certainty, that this championship was in the god damn bag. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The Wolverines won their final round of the playoffs in a sweeping victory: 52-38. 

And the star quarterback of the show could not wait to celebrate with you, his pretty lil’ girlfriend. 

he’s shirtless. slutty low slung black sweats, white hair falling soft over his forehead, two cameras pointing towards his gaming chair.

“alright chat, y’all have been in my comments for weeks! so yeah… my girlfriend’s here. try not to be too jealous.” you try not to laugh at how crazy this is.

he kinda gestures to you like you’re a prize on a game show and you wave shyly, hearing pings go off like crazy.

he pulls you close from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder, mouth near your ear. “just relax, okay?” he murmurs, just for you.

one second you’re still half dressed, the next you’re completely naked, skin prickling under the lights as he guides you into his big gaming chair. he stands behind it, already looking in the camera.

“first way to make a girl cum,” Gojo says to the camera, voice smooth and instructional even as his fingers find your nipples, pinching them hard enough to make you gasp, “is by fingering her right. and obviously, everything should be consensual and respectful.” he gives your tits a firm, appreciative squeeze, rolling the sensitive peaks between his fingers. “but once you’ve got permission? you can be as nasty as you want.”

he pinches again, just to make you whine. “nipple play is criminally underrated. write that down, chat.”

the comments are moving too fast for you to even read. you can see the numbers climbing in your peripheral vision, but you also want to die of embarrassment.

his breath is hot against your ear as he leans down, still talking to the stream like you’re just a prop for his little lesson. two long fingers drag slowly down your stomach, and you can already feel how wet you are, thighs instinctively parting for him.

Gojo’s hands slide down, fingers curling under your thighs and hooking them back, opening you up to the camera. the light catches the slick shine between your legs, your panties tugged to the side, exposing everything.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, but the mic picks it up crystal clear.

he spreads your folds slowly with two fingers, watching the way they part, the way your arousal strings between them. then he drags his middle finger up, from your entrance to your clit, pressing flat against the sensitive nub before sliding back down.

“this is the basics,” he says, voice a low rumble against your ear as his hand works between your legs. “you start slow, listen to her, tease her. let her get used to the sensation before you really go in.”

he switches to his thumb, rubbing tight, wet circles over your clit while his other fingers dip lower, teasing your entrance without pushing in. your breath hitches, a shaky exhale escaping as you press yourself deeper into the chair.

"alright, watch," he says, voice dropping into a calm, instructional tone. his eyes flick to the camera, then back down to where his fingers work. "right now I'm applying steady pressure. see how she's shivering?"

you pout up at Gojo, slightly embarrassed that your pussy is on display for thousands to see. but oh well.

a donation pops up on the screen, flashing.

$2,000- @monstrousdcktoji: FINGER HER ALREADY U BLUE EYED FUCKER

"second rule," he chuckles, "once she's wet and sensitive? you can switch to direct stimulation, but slow. like this."

he slides his middle finger down, gathering slickness from your entrance, then brings it back up to circle your clit with deliberate precision. the pad of his finger glides through wet folds, tracing the hood.

your hips buck involuntarily, trying to chase more pressure. “toruu!” you mumble impatiently, closing your mouth as soon as his finger presses down a bit harder.

"yeah, there she is," he chuckles. "her body knows what it wants. but i'm in charge of giving it to her." you wanna roll your eyes so bad.

"now, imitation of what a tongue would do. use your fingers to trace the shape of her clit. circle. don't jab too much."

he demonstrates, two lazy, wet circles around your clit, then a soft downward stroke. the tip of his middle finger dips into your entrance just barely, teasing, then slides back up. over and over. a rhythm that makes your stomach tighten and your cunt leak all over his chair.

"you prep ‘em with lube or natural wetness… then you go slow."

he watches your face the whole time, furrowed brows, the tiny whine slipping past your lips like a sigh.

"see?" he explains calmly into the mic, "you don’t just jam your fingers in there. that’d hurt." a second finger joins and he presses them both in together carefully. not forcefully, just gradually stretching as you adjust around him.

you inhale sharply through clenched teeth thighs tensing against his palms where they're still spread open. and another quiet whimper escapes when his two fingers curl upward slightly inside.

"you hear that?" he says to no one and everyone,"that little whimpering? she likes it rough but not too fast… you gotta find your partner's rhythm."

$1,500- @purpleclu123: GO FASTER

Gojo smirks at the screen but obeys, the tips of his ring and middle finger curl slightly against that sweet spot deep inside. he watches your reaction like a scientist studying an experiment, how you arch subtly forward, how one hand flies from the chair down toward where he's touching… only for him to catch it mid air.

"nuh uh, no touching." he tsks like the big meanie he is, showing how nasty and creamy you’ve made his fingers.

“mm sorryy- fuck.” you whine, eyes focused on his hand’s movements.

“now you have to remember, not all girls like the same thing. some are realllyy sensitive and others aren’t as sensitive. some like it rough and some don’t. my girl likes it both ways, but if you’re rougher you gotta make sure not to hurt them.”

at this point your eyes are rolling back, bottom lip wedged between your teeth. “ffhuuck- toru.” you whimper, making Satoru coo in your ear.

Gojo’s breath hitches at the sound of his name whispered, all soft and desperate. the way you say it, half sobbing with your lip trapped between teeth? it hits him right in the chest. and in the dick.

he loves the sounds you make, your voice turning into high, needy whimpers because of him.

Satoru leans down instantly, pressing a hot kiss to your ear before murmuring,"yes baby?" his voice suddenly tender beneath that usually cocky tone.

“faster please?” you mewl, stomach in knots. he hums and you forget there’s actually people watching your boyfriend finger you.

"chat, she likes it fast when she's already wet... but if i were too rough right off? might scare 'er." he says into the mic again for content sake, though his eyes never leave your dazed expression.

you’re too fucked out to roll your eyes at his antics, hip movements growing more desperate. you try tiny lifts toward him whenever he removes his fingers completely, only for him to sink back in, and each time your front wall gets stroked by curled fingertips.

$300- @blueballs: kiss her already!!!

Gojo grins at screen but finally gives in without hesitation.

without missing a beat [because of course Gojo would prioritize this], he leans down and crashes your lips together.

warm tongues sliding against one another gently despite everything else being intense. it’s affectionate, loving even, amidst all this lewd content he’s broadcasting live to thousands of fans.

you whimper into the kiss as Gojo finger fucks you harder, making the mess between your thighs even worse.

“don’t you wanna thank all the viewers for donating? they’re watching for you baby.” Gojo says mischievously, watching your eyes struggle to stay open.

“ngh, aahh-thank you sooo muchhh.” you whimper out enough before he uses the pressure of his hand to grind his palm against your clit.

"i love when her clit gets all puffy… and her pussy starts leaking… and she can’t even do anything but take it." Gojo damn near cums in his pants talking about you.

“pleaspleaseessatoru im gon- fuck!”you cry out, squirting from the constant jabbing of his fingers against that spot.

$200- @blrbunny: omg make her squirt again

Satoru moans with you, mocking your mewls and cries. “fuckkk, unghh my pretty girl and this leaky fucking cunt. you’re so fucking adorable. ” he says, slapping your pussy hard enough to make you jump.

he keeps going, ready to rip a bigger orgasm out of you just for fun.

$1,000- @naoyawthebigcock: fuck her properly!! now

“you greedy fuckers are so impatient! that’s for the next lesson.”

✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮ ✮

“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.