Lua

You walked away with his blood on your fangs and a smirk carved across your face like you’d just won some cruel little game he hadn’t known he was playing.

You could’ve killed him.

You didn’t.

And that — that pissed him off more than anything else. That’s what got under his skin.

You knew who he was. Everyone in your world did. The ghost of a man who killed monsters for fun and cash — who left nothing behind but corpses and silence. No one escaped Toji Fushiguro.

But you did.

And you let him live.

Letting him bleed, stumbling in rage while you vanished into the night — that was your version of mercy. Or maybe it was mockery.

Maybe you just liked watching him lose.

Three fucking years of chasing your scent through alleys reeking of piss and neon, through ruined cathedrals choked in ivy, through forests where the fog never lifted and the trees bled when they cracked. Through city slums, ancient ruins and godless highways.

He’d slaughtered vampires just for breathing the same air as you — left entire covens burning in your wake, convinced he was getting closer. But you were always one step ahead. Always waiting with that smile, always prepared to disappear before he could close the distance.

A cat and a rat.

Some days, he wasn’t sure which one of you played which role.

And fuck if you didn’t look at him like you enjoyed it.

He still saw it—felt it—when he closed his eyes. That look you gave him the last time: your back to the wall, one of his blade shoved up against your ribs, and you had the audacity to laugh.

Like it was a joke. Like you were amused by it all.

He told himself it was about the bounty. Half a million to deliver your pretty little head on a platter. Bloody work, but easy.

At first, that was enough. But then the client changed. Then disappeared. Another name took their place. Then another. And with every new contract, the price went up. Doubled. Tripled.

He started asking questions—not because he gave a shit, but because the math didn’t add up.

The price on your head was high—even for someone as good at killing as Toji. He didn’t usually care about reasons. But this time, curiosity stuck.

You weren’t powerful. You weren’t royalty. Hell, you weren’t even all that savage— compared to some of the monsters he’d gutted, you were practically a puppy.

The questions wouldn’t leave him alone. They curled in the back of his skull like smoke—thick, toxic, persistent.

He didn’t give a shit about politics or vampire hierarchy, but something about this hunt had started to rot. The price, the silence, the way names kept changing without reason. And your face—always your fucking face— grinning like you knew something he didn’t.

So he started carving answers out of anyone who might’ve brushed shoulders with you. Biters. Leech nobles. Black-market blood traders.

Tonight, he’d gotten lucky.

The city never really slept, but this part of it had long been forgotten.

Four levels beneath a crumbling shopping complex, the air in the old parking garage was thick with oil, mildew, and blood. Fluorescent lights overhead flickered in broken intervals, humming like dying insects. Water dripped from a cracked pipe in the ceiling, echoing off concrete like a metronome for violence.

Graffiti stretched across the walls—gang tags, occult symbols, angry smears of red that might’ve been paint. Or not.

Broken glass crunched beneath Toji’s boots as he moved. The whole structure felt like it was holding its breath.

He didn’t care. He’d dragged the leech down here to bleed in private.

The vampire was slumped against the stained concrete, wheezing through broken ribs, arms twisted wrong, one fang missing—knocked out when Toji’s knuckles shattered his jaw.

Toji crouched in front of him. Bloody hands resting on his thigh, knife spinning lazy between his own fingers.

“You get one chance.” He said flatly. “You give me something useful, you walk outta here with your spine still inside your body.”

The leech spat blood, trembling. “You’re not gonna let me walk.”

Toji smiled, slow and humorless. “No. But you might crawl.”

He pressed the blade just under the vampire’s chin, lifting his face. “Now talk. You’ve seen her. You’ve heard things. I want everything.”

The vampire coughed, tried to laugh —but it came out cracked and wet. “I don’t know much… just rumors. The pretty one—they say she’s connected to Sukuna.”

Toji froze.

That name didn’t belong in this timeline.

It was myth. Legend. A warning scrawled in dead languages and sealed temples.

A simple bloodsucker like you? Connected to that?

His voice dropped, sharp and dangerous. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“I don’t know how.” The vampire choked, flinching as the blade nicked his skin. “But they say she’s trying to unseal Sukuna. That the seal’s breaking because of her—because she’s close to it, or tied to it, or… I don’t know, man. I’m just telling you what I heard."

Sukuna had been sealed away for centuries. No one knew where. No one knew how. And no one dared ask.

Because the only reason the world still turned—the only reason people still breathed, loved, fucked, and feared in peace—was because that monster stayed buried.

Toji grinned.

So that’s why your name was worth a fortune. That’s why this job smelled like blood and secrets.

But still… not enough answers.

“Is that all you know, leech?” His free hand fisted in the vampire’s blond hair and yanked his head back.

The leech’s breath hitched. His voice cracked with panic. “That’s all I know—I swear! Please, man, I told you everything. I don’t know anything else. Don’t kill me, please!”

Toji didn’t blink.

He looked down at the trembling wreck of a body in front of him—bones shattered, face caved in, blood pooling like a slow tide—and felt nothing.

Begging never moved him. Especially not from a bloodsucker.

“Yeah.” He said, almost thoughtful. “You did good.”

The vampire’s eyes flickered—hope sparking in them just for a second.

But he didn’t even get the chance to hold it.

Toji drove the knife up under his chin, straight through soft palate and skull.

The body jerked once, then slumped forward in silence.

He wiped the blade clean on the dead man’s shirt and stood. No ceremony, no pause. Just business. Almost boring, honestly—he didn’t even know how to fight back. Probably too young to have any real power.

Now things made sense.

A mission this big—tied to something as massive as Sukuna—deserved more than half a million. Hell, it deserved a few extra zeros.

Toji pulled out his phone, blood still drying on his knuckles, and scrolled to the encrypted number in his contacts.

If his client wanted to play games, they’d have to pay more. And start giving real answers.

You weren’t just a mark now—you were a fucking threat.

So now he knew what had to be done. You had to die.

This was a fucking catastrophe in the making.

And he was going to end it before it started.

—

The forest outside the city was quiet—too quiet for a place so close to civilization.

The moon hung low, filtering silver through a canopy of black-barked trees, and the earth was soft underfoot, rich with rot and moss. It was the kind of silence that only came before something violent. Toji knew it well.

He’d tracked rumors here. Whispers of a woman luring men from the town’s edge, vanishing with them into the trees. None had turned up dead, which was strange. Stranger still — none remembered what happened. Just fragments. A voice. A smile. The scent of flowers and blood.

Not in the city. Not in the ruins. Not in the cathedrals where monsters liked to kneel.

Here—where the roads turned to dirt and the fog never lifted. A fitting choice for someone like you.

Toji moved through it all like a shadow.

He didn’t make a sound.

The only thing keeping him company was the pulse—steady and mortal—of a man walking just ahead. Stupid. Clumsy. Laughing nervously as he followed a voice into the dark.

And just beneath that voice… was something else.

No heartbeat. No warmth.

Just that scent again.

He hated how much he liked it.

It clung to the trees like perfume and sin—sweet, iron-rich, with a whisper of something older underneath. Like blood spilled on roses left to rot. It didn’t belong in the living world. But it belonged to you.

He’d smelled it before. First time he tracked you, you left it behind on a pillow soaked in someone else’s blood. It had burned into his lungs, into his memory.

He hated it because he wanted more.

The deeper he went, the worse it got. The forest closed in around him—trees too tall, too close, bark split like old scars. Moonlight barely clawed through the canopy overhead, making the world below feel starved and breathless.

You were close now.

He could hear the human up ahead—chuckling nervously, caught in whatever spell you’d wrapped around him. “You sure this is the right way?”

Toji stayed low, moving with practiced silence through the trees.

Your voice came a beat later, smooth and dark as velvet. “Of course, baby. You’re not scared, are you?”

And there it was again.

That cadence. That ease.

No heartbeat to betray you. No breathing. Just sound and motion—like silk brushing over stone, like shadow sliding over skin.

Toji crept closer, boots muffled by moss. His spear was already in hand, fingers resting lightly on the guard. The blade—custom-forged for bloodsuckers like you—gleamed faintly in the dark. In his other hand, he carried a handgun loaded with bullets soaked in holy water.

Still, no sound. No breeze.

Just that scent again—richer now.

Goddamn.

It hit him like heat. Blood and dark fruit, sweet and spoiled and ripe with something rotten underneath. The kind of scent that crawled into your head and made you forget why it was dangerous. The kind of scent that begged you to chase it anyway.

He hated the way it made his pulse spike.

Toji reached the edge of the clearing and saw you before you saw him.

Or maybe you saw him first—and just didn’t care.

You walked half a step ahead of your latest victim, red silk clinging to your body like it had been made for you and you alone. Your laugh curled through the night like smoke, soft and seductive.

Toji’s eyes dragged over you. He didn’t mean to. Couldn’t stop.

You looked like trouble. You always did.

Your fingers grazed the man’s arm like a lover’s touch, gentle enough to make him forget himself. Your lips hovered close to his ear. He was smiling like a fool, drunk on the idea of being wanted.

“Don’t be scared, baby.” You whispered, fingers trailing up to his collarbone, easing his shirt open with a teasing flick. “If any big bad wolf comes to spoil our fun, I’ll protect you.”

Then, with a grin, you tilted your head—just enough to glance toward the shadows.

Toward him.

“Though between you and me.” You added, voice velvet-slick, still locking eyes with the hunter hidden in the dark, “I think the wolf might need protecting from me.”

Toji chuckled.

You were enjoying the game.

He moved—no warning, no words. Enough watching. You were dangerous. Not just to the fool in your grasp, but potentially to the whole world.

He stepped into the clearing like a blade being drawn—deliberate, heavy, precise. The moonlight caught the edge of his spear, glinting cold. His silhouette carved through the trees like a promise: sharp, inevitable.

You smiled, slow and unbothered.

That same goddamn grin that had haunted him for three years. Like none of this mattered. Like you’d expected him, and still found the whole thing amusing.

“Toji.” You said, voice soft as smoke. “Missed me?”

He didn’t answer.

He just stepped forward, grabbed the man by the collar, and shoved him hard toward the trees. “Get the fuck out of here.”

The human stumbled, blinking in confusion. “What? Who the hell—?”

“Did I fucking stutter?” Toji growled, flashing the blade at his side.

The man didn’t need a third warning. He turned and bolted into the woods, crashing through the underbrush, muttering something that sounded like “freaks” as he ran.

You sighed, watching him go. “Shame. He had such a pretty neck.”

Toji already had the gun half-raised, his eyes never leaving you. He didn’t expect you to run.

That was what made it worse.

You lingered.

Just like the scent you left behind. Like heat that refused to leave his chest.

A breeze stirred the clearing, catching the hem of your red dress—fluttering it like a dying flame. You looked more alive here, in the dark.

More dangerous.

Toji’s grip on the spear tightened.

“You were gonna drain him?”

You shrugged, slow and lazy. “Only a little. I don’t waste food.”

That fucking tone—like you were discussing dinner plans, not murder.

“You gonna kill me?” You asked, stepping closer without fear, bare feet brushing over the moss. “Or are you just here to cockblock?”

Toji took another step, closing the distance.

“Oh, I’m gonna kill you, leech.” He said, low and cold. “But not before you tell me everything. About Sukuna. And why the fuck you’re trying to bring him back.”

Your eyes flickered—just a flash. Surprise. So that’s what they told him. That’s what he thought this was all about.

Your gaze dropped to the blade in his hand, then climbed back up to his face. Steady. Calm.

Then that grin returned—sharper now. Something cruel behind it.

“Make me.”

Your smile lingered like a challenge.

Toji didn’t wait for you to strike first.

He lunged.

Fast as a bullet, spear slicing through the air in a deadly arc aimed straight for your ribs—but you ducked, barely, and your nails scraped across his forearm as you slipped past. Blood welled where you touched him—hot and immediate.

You were faster than he remembered.

He pivoted on instinct, elbow cracking toward your jaw. You caught it—barely—and the force still sent you stumbling back a step, breathless. Your feet skidded over moss, dress whipping around your legs. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe.

He pressed forward, blade flashing in the moonlight, slashing low to gut you. You jumped, twisting midair, and landed on all fours like an animal—feral and grinning.

“Oh, you really missed me.” you teased, fangs flashing.

He didn’t stop. He never did. He was already moving again, gun raised in his other hand, aimed, and fired—multiple times.

But you were gone in the blink of an eye, and not a single bullet hit you.

Then you were on him.

A blur of red silk and bare limbs—you slammed into his chest, knocking him back against a tree. Your hand closed around his throat, nails digging in. Your voice dropped to a purr near his ear.

“I remember you being quicker, hunter.”

His knee came up—hard into your ribs. You gasped, and he shoved you off, driving the butt of his spear into your stomach. You hit the ground with a thud, leaves and dirt flying.

You hissed—not in pain, but in pleasure.

“Fuck, so strong.”

You rolled to your feet in one fluid motion, already bleeding from a gash above your brow. But the scratches you gave him were red too.

“You’re bleeding.” You said, tongue flicking over your teeth like the sight thrilled you. Like you could taste it.

“So are you.”

You charged each other.

Flesh on flesh. Steel on bone. The clearing became chaos—grunts and growls, dirt kicked up, trees cracking under the force of bodies slamming into them.

Your claws tore across his ribs, and his already ruined shirt shredded completely beneath the strike— fabric ripping apart in your hands, baring hot skin and the surge of muscle underneath.

Blood sprayed. Breathing turned ragged. Neither of you yielded.

It was brutal, beautiful — like something that shouldn’t exist outside nightmares or need.

Toji landed a blow to your jaw that sent your head snapping sideways—but you retaliated, slamming your forehead into his and making him stumble back, dazed.

You pounced.

He caught your wrist mid-air and twisted—until something in your arm popped—but you just hissed through your teeth and sank your fangs into his shoulder.

“Fucking—!” he roared, slamming you into the forest ground.

Branches cracked beneath you both. You clawed at his chest—he punched the side of your ribs. Blood spilled, hot and fast. You gasped. He cursed.

His hands gripped hard on your throat.

And then—staring down at you, eyes burning, blood dripping from both your bodies—he hesitated.

Again.

Because your mouth was red with his blood, and your smile was still there, even through the pain. Because you looked alive. Because you looked at him like you knew him. Like you had him exactly where you wanted.

His hand was still pinning you down by your throat. Tight. Unrelenting.

But he didn’t press.

Didn’t finish it.

He just stared— face shadowed, blood trickling from the bite on his shoulder, chest heaving like he hated every breath that kept you both alive.

You tilted your head against the moss and smiled. Not sweet. Not kind.

Wicked. Bloody.

“What’s wrong, hunter?” You rasped, voice hoarse but smug. “Too scared to finish me off?”

That did it.

Something snapped in him—finally, violently.

Toji moved without thinking.

He grabbed your jaw, dragged your face up to his, and crashed his mouth onto yours like it was the last fucking thing he’d ever do.

Like he hated himself for it. Like he needed it more than air.

Your gasp was swallowed in the kiss—hot, rough, teeth clashing. It wasn’t romantic. It was war.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, reopening wounds you’d just left there. His fingers twisted in your hair—pulling, anchoring, devouring.

He tasted blood. Yours, his. He couldn’t tell.

And he didn’t care.

Your lips moved as eager as his, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw more blood, then licking it from his mouth like it was wine.

His blood tasted like your favorite dessert.

“Fuck.” He growled against your lips. “I should kill you.”

“Then do it.” You whispered, still breathless, still smiling. “But kiss me first.”

And so he did.

Again.

Harder.

Because nothing made sense. Because he wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Because the line between killing you and craving you had finally shattered—

—and he was too far gone to care which side he landed on.

His mouth was still on yours—relentless, punishing, like each kiss was a sin he meant to commit all the way through. Desperate. Eager.

Your legs curled around his hips without thought, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a breath of space between your bodies. Heat. Blood. Cloth torn in too many places. Nothing else.

One of his hands stayed tight around your throat—firm but not crushing, like a leash he refused to let go of. The other slid down, rough and unhurried, dragging over the curve of your ribs to your waist. He gripped it hard. Like he needed to feel you to believe this was real.

You arched into him, lips brushing his jaw as you whispered, voice dark with amusement.

“You look like you’re enjoying this more than you should, hunter.”

Toji let out a low sound — half-growl, half-laugh — and dragged his mouth down to your neck. No biting. Just the scrape of teeth against skin too hot, too sensitive, too alive. His breath burned where it landed.

“Shut up.” He muttered, voice frayed. “You talk too much.”

Then his hand slid beneath your dress.

His fingers found the bare skin of your thigh, slick with blood from the fight, but he didn’t hesitate this time. He gripped you tighter, dragging your leg higher over his hip as his mouth grazed your collarbone—and bit down, hard enough to bruise.

You gasped—clawed at his back. Rolled your hips up to meet the weight of him, teasing. Demanding.

He hissed through his teeth.

“You want this, leech?” He breathed, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. “Say it—say you want me to fucking ruin you.”

You didn’t answer him right away.

Instead, you smirked.

Then you rolled your hips again—slow this time, dragging the pressure right against him, knowing exactly what it would do.

Toji’s jaw flexed.

You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Why ask if you already know the answer?”

His hand snapped back to your thigh—gripping harder now. Fingers digging into soft skin as he dragged them upward until they reached the edge of your panties.

He groaned—low, guttural—like he hated how soaked you already were for him.

“You fucking tease.” He muttered, brushing over the fabric, fingers pressing just enough to make you squirm. “Big talk for someone this wet for the man sent to kill her.”

And then he moved—parting your thighs, pushing the fabric aside, dragging a calloused finger through the mess he found.

His gaze flicked down to your face, watching.

You sucked in a breath—shivering, eyes fluttering for just a second—and he saw it. That flicker of need. Hunger. Want.

“Say it.” He growled, voice rougher now. “Say you want this.”

You locked eyes with him—bloody, beautiful, unafraid.

“I want you.” You whispered, defiant and honest. “Ruin me, hunter.”

That was all he needed.

His mouth crashed back onto yours—messier this time. Lips, teeth, tongue—no rhythm, no patience, just need. And his fingers slid into you without warning. Deep. Rough. Curling just right.

Your moan hit the back of his throat, and he swallowed it greedily.

Your body arched, chasing the pressure—desperate for more. And Toji gave it. His thumb dragged slow, brutal circles over your clit while his fingers fucked into you like he wanted to make you come from his hand alone.

“Fuck—you feel like sin.” He muttered against your lips. “You were made for this.”

Made for him.

You writhed beneath him, gasping into his mouth, hips bucking into his hand—but Toji didn’t let up.

But this time, he didn’t give you more.

Instead, he slowed down.

His fingers moved cruelly slowly now—deep, yes, but lazy. Controlled. Just enough to make your body beg for friction that never quite came.

You growled in frustration, fangs bared, eyes burning. “Don’t fucking play with me—”

He cut you off with a rough press of his thumb against your clit, just enough to make your breath hitch—then stopped again.

“Oh?” He smirked, his voice dark and low. “But I thought you wanted me to ruin you.”

“Toji—”

He dragged his fingers out of you entirely, slow and wet, making sure you felt every inch.

You bit back a moan—barely.

He lifted his hand between you, fingers slick with your arousal, and stared at it for a beat—he couldn’t decide whether to lick it clean or rub it across your mouth just to see you suck it off.

And instead, he smeared it across your inner thigh, possessive, like he was marking you.

“Dripping for me already—and I’ve barely touched you.”

“Then fucking touch me, hunter.”

That pulled a dark chuckle from him. His hand shot back up, wrapping tight around your throat again—firm enough to still your breath, but not stop it.

“You don’t get to order me around, leech.” He growled, eyes blazing. “You’re the one pinned under me.”

You didn’t flinch. You leaned into the grip like you liked it. Like it fed you.

“Then do something about it.” You hissed.

“Oh, pretty. I don’t think you deserve me already.” He muttered, voice thick. “Not after everything.”

He lowered his head.

You gasped as his mouth met your pussy—hot, open, greedy.

He didn’t ease in. He devoured you. Tongue dragging through the mess he’d already made of you, lips sealing over your clit and sucking with no mercy.

Your back arched again.

Toji groaned into you, fingers digging more bruises into your thighs to keep you spread wide, like he didn’t want to miss a single twitch of your body.

“Fuck—you taste so good.” He rasped against you before diving back in, slower this time, deliberate.

He licked you like he was memorizing the shape of your pleasure.

Flattened his tongue against your clit, sucked until your legs trembled—then backed off just before you tipped over the edge.

Again.

And again.

The way his mouth worked over you left no room to control. Every flick of his tongue was too fast, too sharp, and your body was beggining to quake.

You were almost embarrassed by how close you were already—God knew his ego didn´t need the boost.

You bit down hard on your knuckles, trying to resist the pull. But he groaned into you, low and hungry, and the sound vibrated through your core. Your thighs clenched around his head, helpless.

“You gonna come like this?” He teased, mouth slick, voice wrecked. “On my tongue like a desperate little thing?”

You couldn’t even answer—not with your body coiled that tight, not with the way he was licking into you like you were the last thing that could save him.

And when he slid two fingers back inside you—curling just right to press against the spot that made your vision blur— while his mouth stayed locked on your clit, you knew it was over.

Your body seized beneath him, a choked cry tearing from your throat. Legs trembled, toes curling, your fingers tangled in his hair as his name broke from your lips — gasped, half-muttered like a prayer turned curse.

Toji held you through it—mouth never leaving you, he wanted to taste all of it.

Even when you were shaking.

Even when you tried to push him away.

He kept going.

He wasn’t done ruining you yet.

“Too much—Toji.” You gasped, thighs twitching around his head, hand fisting in his hair like you didn’t know whether to pull him closer or shove him away.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t even slow down.

Instead, he growled into your cunt again—deep, approving—like the sound of you breaking apart beneath him only made him harder.

“You think I care?” He muttered against your skin, voice muffled by your soaked heat.

Then he sucked—hard and focused—tongue circling your clit in a filthy rhythm while his fingers curled exactly where you needed.

Your moan shattered in your throat.

Every nerve lit up. Every breath felt like a scream you couldn’t let out. Your second orgasm hit faster than you could brace for it—violent, blinding, your entire body locking up beneath him.

“Fuck—look at you.” He rasped, finally pulling back just enough to speak—lips wet, chin dripping, eyes dark and wild. “Cumming so fuckin’ pretty for me.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh—mock-gentle—then bit down, hard.

You jerked.

“Want me to stop?” He asked, too soft to be kind, fingers still teasing lazy circles over your oversensitive clit.

You met his eyes—wrecked, trembling, still high from release—and hissed through your teeth.

“If you stop, I’ll kill you first.”

Toji grinned.

“Yeah.” He muttered, voice thick with need, reaching up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s what I fucking thought, leech.”

You were still gasping, body trembling from the aftershocks, but your smirk was already creeping back.

“You look proud of yourself.” You murmured, voice raw.

Toji hovered over you, licking his lips, still tasting you.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

You dragged your nails down his chest, slow and dangerous.

“Cocky bastard.”

He caught your wrist mid-motion and slammed it into the moss beside your head.

“You came undone on my tongue like a slut, and you’re still mouthing off?”

His hips rolled forward, the thick press of him grinding into your slick heat. And this time, you couldn’t hold back the sounds you made.

Toji’s hands slid under your thighs again, rough palms gliding upward as he shoved your legs farther apart with zero grace. His lips clashed with yours again— punishing—while his fingers caught the hem of your dress and dragged it higher.

But the fabric clung. Damp with sweat. Blood. Heat.

He grunted against your lips, tugged harder—but the layers wouldn’t move fast enough. Wouldn’t give him what he wanted.

“Fuck this.” He growled.

And then you heard it—the sharp tear of fabric, loud in the stillness. He yanked the dress in two like it offended him, shredding it down the middle until it fell open beneath you like ruins.

You gasped, half from shock, half from the sudden rush of cold air on your overheated skin.

“Better.” He muttered, eyes dark as they dropped to your now-exposed chest. “So much better.”

His hands weren’t gentle—they were merciless.

They cupped your breasts like he’d been dying to touch them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they peaked under his touch. And when he leaned down to suck one into his mouth—hot, wet, greedy—you arched off the moss with a gasp.

“Toji—fuck—”

He groaned low, teeth grazing just enough to make you flinch. Then he sucked harder. His other hand rolled your other nipple between his fingers—slow, rough, deliberate.

“You moan like this for every man who makes you bleed?” He rasped, breath hot against spit-slick skin.

You tangled your fingers in his hair and tugged.

“Only the ones who do it with their mouths.”

He chuckled—low, dangerous—and sank his teeth in again, harder this time. The pain made your folds clench around nothing, desperate and raw.

“You’re fucking insane.”

But he couldn’t stop touching you.

Wouldn’t stop tasting you.

And the way he was devouring your chest—lips swollen, jaw tight, breath ragged—made it damn clear:

You were driving him mad.

“I’m in no rush to fuck you.”

He leaned in, grazing your cheek, breath hot against your ear.

“Unless you beg for it.”

Your breath stuttered—but your eyes gleamed.

“Oh?” You whispered, lips brushing his. “Maybe you should be the one begging, hunter.”

Before he could taunt you again, you moved—quick, fluid, catching him off guard. One sharp twist of your hips, a push to his shoulder, and suddenly Toji was flat on his back against the dirt, and you were straddling him.

His eyes widened—then narrowed.

But he didn’t stop you.

Not yet.

Your fingers dragged down his chest, slow and confident, nails grazing over every muscle like you owned them.

“You think I can’t break you?” You purred, grinding down against him, deliberately slow. The drag of your slick heat over his cock made both of you hiss.

You leaned in, lips brushing his jaw, licking a stripe up the side of his neck.

“Fuck, Toji… you’re so fun when you’re trying not to lose control.”

His breath hitched—and still, his hands stayed at his sides.

Still not stopping you.

Your teeth grazed his collarbone.

Your hips rolled again.

“You gonna be good for me, Toji?”

Then—too fast to react—his hand shot up, fisting in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat.

“You’re playing a dangerous fucking game.” He growled, voice pure gravel, lips hot against your pulse.

And you barely had time to blink.

One second he was beneath you—the next, he’d grabbed you by the waist, hauled you up, spun you around, and slammed your back against the nearest tree.

Moss scraped your spine. Bark dug into your shoulder blades. Toji’s massive frame caged you in—one hand hooking under your thigh, lifting you, the other braced beside your head.

His forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged.

“You really think you can ride me, pretty?” He hissed, teeth bared, pupils blown wide. “You don’t even get to touch me unless I say so.”

You opened your mouth, but he didn’t give you a chance to speak.

He hooked both your thighs up, spread you wide, and lifted you higher like you weighed nothing. Your back scraped against the tree as he settled between your legs, hips grinding up—slow, punishing, all heat and threat and dark, dirty promise.

You choked on a gasp, your hands scrabbling for purchase—his shoulders, the bark, anything.

“Toji—”

He wasn’t gentle.

He devoured your mouth as he rocked against your core, not bothering to hide how hard he was, how much he wanted to ruin you. Tongue fucking into your mouth like he owned it, biting your lower lip until you whimpered, tasting blood again on your tongue.

“You beg.” He growled, lips trailing down your jaw. “You fucking beg me for it, or I’ll keep you like this all night.”

His mouth dragged down to your neck, biting.

“Pressed to a tree, dripping down your thighs, aching and empty while I don’t give you what you want.”

His cock—still covered—dragged through your wet folds again, making your back arch, your lips part on a trembling breath.

Just rubbed.

Teased.

Denied.

Your breath was ragged now, chest heaving, nails digging into his arms.

“Toji, please—”

His hand shot up and grabbed your breast—rough, possessive, mean. Pain bloomed through the heat, and your gasp was half-moan, half-snarl.

He leaned in closer, voice wrecked.

“Say it right, slut.”

Your pride screamed.

But your body?

Your body was already shivering, already breaking.

And he smirked against your throat.

“Beg, pretty thing.” He murmured. “I want to hear you fucking plead.”

You tried to hold his stare—tried to keep the smirk on your lips, the bite in your voice—but it faltered.

He was dragging over your clit with maddening precision. Just enough pressure. Never enough to satisfy.

Your nails raked down his back, scratching over wounds that were barely scabbed.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

“Toji.” You gasped—again, useless, desperate.

He just kept grinding, slow, brutal, unforgiving.

Your thighs trembled around his waist, every nerve lit up and begging.

And still—still—he held you there, pinned between bark and muscle, his mouth cruel against your jaw.

“Look at you.” He growled, voice low and dark. “Fucking soaking me through my pants. You want it that bad?”

You bit your lip—hard. Blood beaded, dripped. Pride clenched in your gut. But your body… your body was done fighting.

“I want you to fuck me.” You whispered, breath shaking. “I want you inside—now.”

“Demanding, aren’t you?”

One hand dropped to his waistband, and he shoved his pants down just far enough, hissing as his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, leaking from how long he’d been holding back.

He shifted his hips—just enough to drag his cockhead directly against your entrance. You shuddered, thighs twitching to close, but he held them wide.

“Toji—fuck—please. Please fuck me, I need it—need you.”

His eyes flared.

And in the next second, the feral thing in him snapped loose.

“That’s more like it.” He snarled.

He thrust into you in one brutal, perfect stroke—no warning, no mercy, just depth.

You cried out—loud, raw, ruined—as your back slammed into the tree. Your legs locked around his waist instinctively, trying to take it, to anchor yourself as he filled you to the hilt.

Toji groaned like it hurt, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck.” He growled against your skin, voice cracked and strained. “You’re so damn tight, pretty.”

He didn’t wait.

Didn’t give you a second to adjust.

He pulled back and slammed in again, harder, his pace feral from the start. Bark scraped your spine with every thrust, and you didn’t care—couldn’t care. You wanted him to make it hurt.

“Say it again.” He rasped, teeth dragging along your throat. “Say you need me.”

“I do—fuck, Toji—I need you—”

And the sound he made wasn’t human.

It was hunger.

It was possession.

He should’ve kept the rhythm steady. Controlled.

Should’ve made it last—made you suffer.

But the way you moaned his name—wrecked, breathless, honest—knocked the air clean out of him.

“Toji—”

Your voice cracked around it, full of need, of surrender. It wasn’t a weapon anymore. It was a plea.

His pace faltered. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to try and rein it in.

“My name sounds so fucking good on your lips, pretty.” He rasped, breath hot against your neck.

You tightened your legs around him.

“Toji.” You whispered. “Please—Toji, harder.”

His grip on your hips turned bruising—you knew it’d be purple by morning.

With a guttural growl, he slammed into you hard enough to make your teeth clack, his pace turning punishing, feral—like he needed to fuck the sound of his name out of your throat.

“This is wrong.” He growled. “So fucking wrong…”

You couldn’t form words. Just gasps, sobs, desperate clutches at him as your body took every brutal thrust and still wanted more.

Toji’s mouth found your jaw, your neck, your lips—biting, licking, devouring you like he was starved.

“You’re mine when you say my name like that.” He snarled, voice trembling with the force of his unraveling restraint. “Don’t you fucking stop, leech.”

You whimpered it again, cracked and broken on your tongue—“Toji…”—and it only drove him harder.

He fucked into you like stopping would kill him.

Every thrust was deeper, rougher, until the tree behind you shook with the force of it, until your moans turned into broken gasps, until your mind blurred with the sheer intensity.

“Toji—ah—fuck—”

Your head fell back against the bark, sweat-slick and aching, your body quivering with the edge he kept you on—again and again, just out of reach.

He was groaning now, deep in his chest, the sound of you unraveling was doing something to him. It hurt.

“Shit—fuck—you’re—” His voice caught.

He wasn’t supposed to lose control.

Wasn’t supposed to want like this.

But your cunt was gripping him like a vice, slick and hot and perfect, and the way you cried his name—

He was past reason.

And you—

You were trying so damn hard not to sink your teeth in again.

Your fangs ached, instincts flaring with every pulse of blood under his skin. His throat, his shoulder—so close, so vulnerable.

Your mouth hovered there, open, shaking, every thrust grinding you harder against the bark, each friction-soaked drag of his cock pushing you closer.

He noticed. Of course he did.

His pace didn’t falter—but his voice dropped, a low, dangerous murmur against your ear.

“Go ahead.” He growled. “You wanna bite me again, don’t you?”

You whimpered, shaking your head, but he chuckled darkly.

“Trying to be good for me, pretty?” His teeth dragged along your jaw.

You clenched around him, a sharp gasp catching in your throat.

He groaned—loud, ragged—and picked up speed.

You were already shaking, body too sensitive, every thrust sending sparks ricocheting through your nerves. But he didn’t slow down. He chased the sound of your moans, chased the heat, chased you.

And deep inside him—

Somewhere past the lust, past the chaos—

Something twisted.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Not with you.

Not with someone he was paid to hunt.

But when you cried out his name again, voice shattered and begging—he couldn’t stop.

Wouldn’t.

“Toji—please—I can’t—”

“You can.” He snarled, hand tightening under your thigh. “You fucking will. I’m not done.”

And still—your mouth trembled, teeth bared as instinct warred with restraint.

You didn’t want to bite him.

But he was breaking you.

And you were so close to breaking him too.

Your body betrayed you before your mind could stop it.

Overstimulated. Shaking. Ripped raw by the force of him—his cock pounding into you, his breath hot against your neck, his grip bruising, brutal, possessive.

You’d tried.

Tried so fucking hard not to bite.

But your head turned—mouth open, gasping—and when he hit just the right angle, when the tension snapped—

You sank your fangs into his shoulder with a cry.

The moment your teeth broke skin, he froze.

Not in shock.

Not in pain.

But in something else.

Toji’s whole body went rigid, a low, guttural sound clawing out of his chest like it had been buried under every wall he’d ever built.

It wasn’t a groan.

It was a fucking moan.

Rough. Wrecked. Almost worshipful.

“F-fuck—”

His blood soaked into your mouth—hot, thick, feral. His heartbeat slammed against your tongue, wild and addicting. And his cock—God—he throbbed inside you like your bite set him off. Like it unleashed something.

His hips slammed forward again, deeper, harsher, chasing.

“That—fuck—that feelin’—” He rasped, voice wrecked, panting. “What the fuck did you just do to me?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You were still biting down, still sucking greedily as he kept fucking you, harder than before.

And he let you.

No—he wanted it.

His hand tangled in your hair, holding you to him like he needed the pain.

“Shit, pretty thing—your mouth’s fuckin’ dangerous.” He growled, head tipping back.

His pace turned animalistic—like he was chasing release through the pain, like your fangs drove him higher than anything else could.

The tree behind you shook violently, your moans muffled against his skin, his blood hot on your tongue, his cock dragging ruthless and perfect inside you.

He was losing it.

And loving it.

“Mark me—tear into me—I don’t care. Just—fuck—don’t let go.”

He liked it.

He liked the hurt.

And the way your teeth sunk in again—deeper—sent him barreling straight to the edge, no brakes, no shame, just ecstasy.

You didn’t know who was shaking more—you or him.

Toji was slamming into you like he needed it to live, your bite driving him wild, every thrust punching broken sounds from your throat. His blood was thick on your tongue, metallic and addictive.

You drank his blood like you were starving.

His breath was ragged in your ear, voice hoarse and barely human. “Fucking leech… you taste me like you’re in heat—shit—”

You could feel it in his pulse—every beat pounding into your mouth. He was close. So were you.

Your jaw unclenched.

You pulled back with a sharp gasp, fangs sliding free, mouth open and dripping, smeared in crimson.

His blood clung to your lips, your chin, glistening down your throat like something unholy.

Toji stared.

Eyes blown wide. Chest heaving. Still buried deep inside you—but stunned for a heartbeat.

“Fuck.” It came out low, reverent. A prayer in one breath.

You blinked at him—dazed, trembling, blood-slicked and ruined.

And it broke him all over again.

He grabbed your face—fingers smearing his own blood across your cheek as he kissed you like a fucking animal. Tongue licking into your mouth, tasting himself on you, groaning like it drove him insane.

“Messy fuckin’ girl.” He growled against your mouth. “You are the Devil.”

His hands grabbed your ass, hauled you up higher, hips snapping into you with a new kind of desperation. Your blood-soaked mouth lit a fuse in him he couldn’t put out.

“Wanna fuck you ‘til there’s nothing left of me.”

And from the sound of it—

He meant every word.

Maybe it was his pace—ruthless, faster now, his cock dragging over every spot inside you with maddening precision. Maybe it was the way his blood still coated your tongue, metallic and warm, your lips tingling from the bite. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you—

Like he was seconds from falling apart.

“Toji—” You gasped, voice slurred, head falling back against the tree. “Fuck—please—”

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, bruising, grounding himself in your flesh as he drove deeper, rougher, sweat and blood slicking your skin where it met his. His jaw was clenched, brows furrowed in something close to agony.

“You gonna come, leech?” He panted, mouth brushing yours—raw, desperate. “You gonna soak my cock with that tight fucking pussy?”

You whimpered, your walls clenching hard around him at the filthy sound of his voice. It dragged a groan out of him—low, ruined, dangerous.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He growled, slamming into you again, harder, meaner. “Not yet. Not until I say.”

“Toji—” Your voice cracked, and you clung to him, arms tight around his shoulders, nails dragging more blood down his back. “too much—”

He hissed into your ear. “You’ll take it.”

His hand snuck between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, rubbing circles that were just shy of cruel.

Your back arched. Your breath caught.

The edge hit like a freight train—and held you there. Quaking. Gasping. Your whole body tightening around him as he kept you right there.

Toji’s head dropped to your shoulder, his voice guttural, choked. “You feel that? Fuck—you feel how close I am, pretty?”

You nodded frantically, tears slipping down your cheeks, chest heaving against his.

“Good.” He rasped, still fucking you like he meant to break you. “Then fucking hold it. I wanna hear you scream my name when you fall.”

He was right there too.

Barely holding on.

Your body was already unraveling—but he wouldn’t let you fall.

He kept you pinned, suspended, every thrust cruel with restraint. Your thighs trembled around his hips, your breath coming in short, broken gasps, his name half-choked on your tongue. Your whole world had narrowed down to the pulse between your legs and the brutal rhythm of his hips against yours.

Toji’s jaw clenched, sweat sliding down his temple, muscles flexed and twitching with the effort of holding back. You could feel it—the tremor in his arms, the way his thrusts stuttered every time your cunt fluttered around him, the animal noise that kept building in his throat every time your voice cracked.

He was losing it.

But so were you.

Your nails raked down his back, raw and blood-slick from where you’d clawed him earlier. His blood still coated your tongue, warm and electric, and when you opened your eyes to look at him—really look—he was already staring at you.

Wild.

Ravenous.

Gone.

“Toji.” You whispered again, wrecked.

And that was it.

He slammed into you with a growl, the sound feral, tearing from his chest like he’d been holding it back for hours. He didn’t stop this time—couldn’t. He fucked you like he was possessed, pace brutal, cock driving into you so deep your entire body jolted against the tree with every thrust.

You screamed.

Couldn’t hold it anymore.

Your come like a wave of white fire—spine arching, mouth falling open, legs locking tight around him as your walls clenched hard and refused to let go. You sobbed his name—over and over—mind blank, body quaking as pleasure tore through you so violently it almost hurt.

Toji snapped.

He growled something guttural, unintelligible, and suddenly his hand was in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat. But it wasn’t dominance anymore—it was desperation. Worship.

“You fucking—gods, you’re squeezing me so tight—” His hips jerked, rhythm lost, every thrust now a frantic, sloppy drive for release. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

His whole body seized—then shuddered.

With a broken groan, he slammed in to the hilt and stayed, cock pulsing deep inside you as he emptied himself in thick, hot spurts. You could feel it. All of it. Every twitch, every tremor, his cum flooding your already aching cunt, leaking out around him from how hard you were still clenching down.

He was loud.

Raw.

The kind of sound you only make when you’re being ruined.

Toji’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath shaking against your lips, chest heaving. His arms trembled where they held you, legs locked, body still flexing with aftershocks as he kept thrusting small, shallow movements—dragging it out.

Drawing every drop of pleasure from both of you.

He was right. You were a mess.

Blood still smeared across your mouth. Skin slick with sweat. Your core still fluttering around him like you didn’t want to let him go.

You moaned softly, dazed, and leaned in—mouth brushing his cheek.

“You came so deep.” You whispered, voice ruined. “I can feel you everywhere.”

Toji growled again, but it was softer this time. Like surrender.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t speak.

Just pressed you tighter to the tree, his body still inside yours, heart pounding so hard you could feel it through his chest.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Breathing each other in.

Wrecked.

Changed.

The forest was still now.

Silent, save for the rough, uneven sound of your breathing and Toji’s heart thudding loud against your chest. The bark bit into your back with every small shift of his body, but you didn’t care. You didn’t want to move.

And neither did he.

His forehead was still resting against yours, skin damp, mouth slightly parted like he couldn’t catch enough air. His arms, always strong, always brutal, now just held you—steady, grounding, as if letting go would undo something neither of you were ready to name.

You blinked, slowly, dazed. A little high. A little wrecked.

Toji… Toji was staring at you like he didn’t know what the fuck he’d just done.

And he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

Your hand slid up, shaky fingers brushing through the mess of his hair. He didn’t stop you. He leaned into it, just slightly. And when your blood-slick lips pressed the softest kiss to his cheek—gentle, not hungry—his eyes fluttered shut for a breath.

“You okay?” You whispered.

It came out hoarse, almost too quiet. But it cut through the haze.

Toji didn’t answer right away. His hand slid down from your thigh, tracing your skin slowly, almost reverently, like he was grounding himself in the reality that you were still there. Still in his arms. Still wrapped around him.

“I should be asking you that.” He spoke—rough, low.

You let out a breathless huff—half a laugh, half a sigh—and let your forehead fall into the crook of his neck. You could still feel him inside you, thick and warm and unmoving, like he was staking his claim with more than just words.

“I’ll live.” You murmured, letting your lips graze his pulse.

Toji let out a quiet grunt, but he didn’t pull away. He just shifted enough to ease you from the tree, cradling you like he didn’t trust your legs to hold. You hissed as the movement made you feel everything again—every inch of stretch, every bruise, every pulse of afterglow that hadn’t faded yet.

“Shit.” You muttered. “You’re gonna make me limp back out of this forest.”

He smirked—tired, but cocky. “Could carry you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers curled into his chest anyway.

“Shut up.”

Toji’s hand smoothed over your lower back, slow and rough. Protective. Almost absent. Like he didn’t realize he was doing it.

For a long, quiet moment, you both just breathed.

The sky above you was dark now, dusk settled deep into the trees. The only light came from moonlight filtering through the leaves—and the way it caught in Toji’s lashes, the sharp line of his jaw, the blood still drying along his neck.

Right now, like this—half-naked, breathless, ruined in each other’s arms—you weren’t thinking about the seal, or the enemies, or how fucked this all was.

Just him.

Just this.

Just the way his thumb now stroked your hip, slow, like a promise he didn’t know he was making.

Eventually, Toji moved.

Not far—not away. Just enough to pull out slow, making you both shudder, and lower you gently to the mossy ground. It was softer here. Cooler. Damp with night, but you didn’t flinch when your bare skin touched it.

He didn’t leave.

The frenzy had passed, but your body still hummed with the aftershocks—nerves raw, skin flushed, blood cooling in sticky streaks where your mouth had found him, where his hands had left their claim. Toji lay beside you on the moss, one heavy arm slung across your stomach, chest rising and falling against your side, damp with sweat.

You stared at the canopy above—leaves rustling, moonlight slanting through in thin, trembling beams—trying to gather your thoughts, your breath, your self.

But everything was tangled now. Lust. Blood. Him.

Toji exhaled deeply, almost like he’d forgotten how.

His voice came low, gravel-rough and tired. “Fucking hell…”

You almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, you turned your head toward him, eyes half-lidded. “So…” You murmured, your voice hoarse. “Are you still going to kill me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t tense. Didn’t move.

Just stared at the same canopy you had, his jaw tight, expression unreadable in the dark.

Then—

“I think so.” He said.

Quiet. Almost too quiet.

You blinked. A hollow sound echoed in your chest, too deep to be surprise.

“I mean…” He went on, eyes still fixed on the stars. “That’s why I came here, isn’t it?”

You didn’t speak. Just waited.

His fingers twitched on your stomach.

“But I don’t—fuck.” He shut his eyes, rubbed his face like the words themselves burned. “I don’t know what the hell this is. What you are. What we just did.”

He turned to you, finally, face shadowed but eyes burning.

“You’re still a threat.” He muttered. “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

But his hand didn’t move.

Didn’t leave your skin.

“You can’t fucking release that demon back into the world. I have to kill you.”

And yet… his eyes didn’t look like those of a man ready to finish a job.

They looked lost.

Like someone already breaking the rules.

Like someone who’d tasted something forbidden—and was already addicted.

You didn’t speak right away. The silence between you felt sharp, like a blade hovering between your throats, waiting to fall in either direction.

But his palm still rested over your ribs, steadying you. Feeling the rise and fall of your chest.

So finally, quietly, you spoke.

“They lied to you.”

Toji didn’t flinch. But his fingers stilled.

“I’m not trying to weaken the seal.” You said, voice soft but unwavering. “Because I am the seal.”

He blinked, slow. His brow pulled taut.

“They’re the ones trying to release Sukuna.” You continued, each word low and measured. “But I’m the only thing keeping him in. My blood. My body. My life. That’s what holds him back.”

Silence.

Not denial—just tension. The pause of a man who didn’t know how to respond.

“If I die.” You said, quieter now, “it’s over. No spell, no ritual, no backup. I’m the last thing between him and the world.”

His jaw tightened. You could see him trying to cling to what he was taught—what he was paid to do. But his grip on that certainty was slipping.

And you saw it—the flicker in his eyes. The start of doubt.

The start of belief.

“I’ve spent centuries containing him.” You whispered. “I’ve bled for it. Starved for it. Hunted and hidden and given up nearly all my power to maintain it. And I’ve killed anyone who came too close to disrupting that balance—except you.”

You looked at him fully now, eyes bare and steady.

Toji swallowed hard. Slowly.

“His worshippers were the ones who hired you, I suppose. They claim he’ll purify the earth.” Your eyes deviate for the night sky. “But I’ve seen what his purification looks like.”

And you said the final truth, quiet but sharp:

And then, with a quiet certainty that cut deeper than any threat:

“If you finish the job… he comes back. And everything burns.”

At first, his jaw clenched tighter, fists twitching as if struggling against the pull of your words. The world he thought he knew was unraveling before him, shaking him more than he wanted to admit.

His dark, stormy eyes flickered between suspicion and doubt, searching your face for a lie—but finding only raw truth.

Slowly, he pulled his hand back, like letting go of a fragile thread he wasn’t ready to lose but couldn’t hold any longer. He sank down to sit on the floor.

His voice was rough, low, edged with frustration—and something almost like pain.

“Why should I believe you?”

You sat down beside him, voice steady. “I don’t know if you should, Toji. But it’s the truth.”

“After everything I’ve done? After all the blood I spilled, thinking I was stopping a threat?”

His fists clenched at his sides, trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief. “They lied to me. Used me like a damn tool.”

His chest heaved, eyes wild yet searching yours—as if he wanted to hate you, but couldn’t quite.

“This whole time, I was killing for a lie.” His voice cracked with bitterness and confusion. “And you… you’re the one keeping that demon locked away?”

Toji’s anger slowly dissolved into exhaustion. His body slumped against the rough bark of the tree, eyes closing briefly like he could shut out the weight of the truth you’d just laid bare. The silence between you stretched — heavy, but no longer hollow.

Carefully, you crawled closer, your fingers slipping into his hair. You brushed through the dark strands gently, a quiet gesture meant to soothe the tension still coiled in both your chests.

He tensed at first, instinctual, then let out a ragged breath and leaned into your touch. His eyes cracked open, just enough to find yours. There was a storm behind them — confusion, pain, rage — but beneath all that, something softer flickered. Something like trust.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore.” You whispered, voice low but steady. “We’ll find the bastards who set you up… gut them for trying to use you.”

His breath hitched.

And for the first time, the sharp edge of him dulled. Toji let himself fall against you, his arms coming around your waist — hesitant at first, then tighter. Desperate.

You held him just as fiercely, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. The world beyond this moment — the lies, the blood, the threat of Sukuna — it all slipped away. Here, there was only the warmth of his skin, the thundering of your heart, and the fragile hush of survival.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m feeling.” He muttered, voice rough and muffled against your skin.

You smiled faintly, your lips brushing his collarbone. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And in the quiet, with his breath on your neck and your heart in his hands, something shifted. Not a declaration. Not safety. But something real.

A fragile promise. A tentative beginning.

The night had thinned into silence, and the trees no longer felt like they were holding their breath. Toji sat beside you, one knee bent, head tipped back against the bark, as if trying to breathe in something other than blood and regret.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

For the first time in years, maybe centuries, you weren’t holding the seal alone.

And Toji wasn’t just a weapon anymore.

The air grew lighter by degrees. You could feel it in your skin. In your bones.

The sun was coming.

You turned your face to the east, eyes scanning the silver horizon.

Then you felt it.

His hand—rough, warm—closing around yours.

You looked over, and Toji was already on his feet, hair tousled, eyes still dark but steadier now. Not soft. But clearer.

“Sun’s almost up.” He muttered. “We should go.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “Go where?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just offered you his hand again.

And when you hesitated—just a breath, just a beat—he gave you a look. One that said this isn’t over, but I’m not walking away from you.

“You were the one saying you’d help me cut those pricks open, weren’t you?” He said, a real smile tugging at his lips — not smug, not cruel. Just… honest. “Let’s go home.”

You couldn’t say what made you believe it — that this time, home might actually be real.

But you took his hand.

And as your fingers closed around his, stained with blood and forgiveness, you knew: Whatever came next, you wouldn’t face it alone.

You walked away with his blood on your fangs and a smirk carved across your face like you’d just won some cruel little game he hadn’t known he was playing.

You could’ve killed him.

You didn’t.

And that — that pissed him off more than anything else. That’s what got under his skin.

You knew who he was. Everyone in your world did. The ghost of a man who killed monsters for fun and cash — who left nothing behind but corpses and silence. No one escaped Toji Fushiguro.

But you did.

And you let him live.

Letting him bleed, stumbling in rage while you vanished into the night — that was your version of mercy. Or maybe it was mockery.

Maybe you just liked watching him lose.

Three fucking years of chasing your scent through alleys reeking of piss and neon, through ruined cathedrals choked in ivy, through forests where the fog never lifted and the trees bled when they cracked. Through city slums, ancient ruins and godless highways.

He’d slaughtered vampires just for breathing the same air as you — left entire covens burning in your wake, convinced he was getting closer. But you were always one step ahead. Always waiting with that smile, always prepared to disappear before he could close the distance.

A cat and a rat.

Some days, he wasn’t sure which one of you played which role.

And fuck if you didn’t look at him like you enjoyed it.

He still saw it—felt it—when he closed his eyes. That look you gave him the last time: your back to the wall, one of his blade shoved up against your ribs, and you had the audacity to laugh.

Like it was a joke. Like you were amused by it all.

He told himself it was about the bounty. Half a million to deliver your pretty little head on a platter. Bloody work, but easy.

At first, that was enough. But then the client changed. Then disappeared. Another name took their place. Then another. And with every new contract, the price went up. Doubled. Tripled.

He started asking questions—not because he gave a shit, but because the math didn’t add up.

The price on your head was high—even for someone as good at killing as Toji. He didn’t usually care about reasons. But this time, curiosity stuck.

You weren’t powerful. You weren’t royalty. Hell, you weren’t even all that savage— compared to some of the monsters he’d gutted, you were practically a puppy.

The questions wouldn’t leave him alone. They curled in the back of his skull like smoke—thick, toxic, persistent.

He didn’t give a shit about politics or vampire hierarchy, but something about this hunt had started to rot. The price, the silence, the way names kept changing without reason. And your face—always your fucking face— grinning like you knew something he didn’t.

So he started carving answers out of anyone who might’ve brushed shoulders with you. Biters. Leech nobles. Black-market blood traders.

Tonight, he’d gotten lucky.

The city never really slept, but this part of it had long been forgotten.

Four levels beneath a crumbling shopping complex, the air in the old parking garage was thick with oil, mildew, and blood. Fluorescent lights overhead flickered in broken intervals, humming like dying insects. Water dripped from a cracked pipe in the ceiling, echoing off concrete like a metronome for violence.

Graffiti stretched across the walls—gang tags, occult symbols, angry smears of red that might’ve been paint. Or not.

Broken glass crunched beneath Toji’s boots as he moved. The whole structure felt like it was holding its breath.

He didn’t care. He’d dragged the leech down here to bleed in private.

The vampire was slumped against the stained concrete, wheezing through broken ribs, arms twisted wrong, one fang missing—knocked out when Toji’s knuckles shattered his jaw.

Toji crouched in front of him. Bloody hands resting on his thigh, knife spinning lazy between his own fingers.

“You get one chance.” He said flatly. “You give me something useful, you walk outta here with your spine still inside your body.”

The leech spat blood, trembling. “You’re not gonna let me walk.”

Toji smiled, slow and humorless. “No. But you might crawl.”

He pressed the blade just under the vampire’s chin, lifting his face. “Now talk. You’ve seen her. You’ve heard things. I want everything.”

The vampire coughed, tried to laugh —but it came out cracked and wet. “I don’t know much… just rumors. The pretty one—they say she’s connected to Sukuna.”

Toji froze.

That name didn’t belong in this timeline.

It was myth. Legend. A warning scrawled in dead languages and sealed temples.

A simple bloodsucker like you? Connected to that?

His voice dropped, sharp and dangerous. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“I don’t know how.” The vampire choked, flinching as the blade nicked his skin. “But they say she’s trying to unseal Sukuna. That the seal’s breaking because of her—because she’s close to it, or tied to it, or… I don’t know, man. I’m just telling you what I heard."

Sukuna had been sealed away for centuries. No one knew where. No one knew how. And no one dared ask.

Because the only reason the world still turned—the only reason people still breathed, loved, fucked, and feared in peace—was because that monster stayed buried.

Toji grinned.

So that’s why your name was worth a fortune. That’s why this job smelled like blood and secrets.

But still… not enough answers.

“Is that all you know, leech?” His free hand fisted in the vampire’s blond hair and yanked his head back.

The leech’s breath hitched. His voice cracked with panic. “That’s all I know—I swear! Please, man, I told you everything. I don’t know anything else. Don’t kill me, please!”

Toji didn’t blink.

He looked down at the trembling wreck of a body in front of him—bones shattered, face caved in, blood pooling like a slow tide—and felt nothing.

Begging never moved him. Especially not from a bloodsucker.

“Yeah.” He said, almost thoughtful. “You did good.”

The vampire’s eyes flickered—hope sparking in them just for a second.

But he didn’t even get the chance to hold it.

Toji drove the knife up under his chin, straight through soft palate and skull.

The body jerked once, then slumped forward in silence.

He wiped the blade clean on the dead man’s shirt and stood. No ceremony, no pause. Just business. Almost boring, honestly—he didn’t even know how to fight back. Probably too young to have any real power.

Now things made sense.

A mission this big—tied to something as massive as Sukuna—deserved more than half a million. Hell, it deserved a few extra zeros.

Toji pulled out his phone, blood still drying on his knuckles, and scrolled to the encrypted number in his contacts.

If his client wanted to play games, they’d have to pay more. And start giving real answers.

You weren’t just a mark now—you were a fucking threat.

So now he knew what had to be done. You had to die.

This was a fucking catastrophe in the making.

And he was going to end it before it started.

—

The forest outside the city was quiet—too quiet for a place so close to civilization.

The moon hung low, filtering silver through a canopy of black-barked trees, and the earth was soft underfoot, rich with rot and moss. It was the kind of silence that only came before something violent. Toji knew it well.

He’d tracked rumors here. Whispers of a woman luring men from the town’s edge, vanishing with them into the trees. None had turned up dead, which was strange. Stranger still — none remembered what happened. Just fragments. A voice. A smile. The scent of flowers and blood.

Not in the city. Not in the ruins. Not in the cathedrals where monsters liked to kneel.

Here—where the roads turned to dirt and the fog never lifted. A fitting choice for someone like you.

Toji moved through it all like a shadow.

He didn’t make a sound.

The only thing keeping him company was the pulse—steady and mortal—of a man walking just ahead. Stupid. Clumsy. Laughing nervously as he followed a voice into the dark.

And just beneath that voice… was something else.

No heartbeat. No warmth.

Just that scent again.

He hated how much he liked it.

It clung to the trees like perfume and sin—sweet, iron-rich, with a whisper of something older underneath. Like blood spilled on roses left to rot. It didn’t belong in the living world. But it belonged to you.

He’d smelled it before. First time he tracked you, you left it behind on a pillow soaked in someone else’s blood. It had burned into his lungs, into his memory.

He hated it because he wanted more.

The deeper he went, the worse it got. The forest closed in around him—trees too tall, too close, bark split like old scars. Moonlight barely clawed through the canopy overhead, making the world below feel starved and breathless.

You were close now.

He could hear the human up ahead—chuckling nervously, caught in whatever spell you’d wrapped around him. “You sure this is the right way?”

Toji stayed low, moving with practiced silence through the trees.

Your voice came a beat later, smooth and dark as velvet. “Of course, baby. You’re not scared, are you?”

And there it was again.

That cadence. That ease.

No heartbeat to betray you. No breathing. Just sound and motion—like silk brushing over stone, like shadow sliding over skin.

Toji crept closer, boots muffled by moss. His spear was already in hand, fingers resting lightly on the guard. The blade—custom-forged for bloodsuckers like you—gleamed faintly in the dark. In his other hand, he carried a handgun loaded with bullets soaked in holy water.

Still, no sound. No breeze.

Just that scent again—richer now.

Goddamn.

It hit him like heat. Blood and dark fruit, sweet and spoiled and ripe with something rotten underneath. The kind of scent that crawled into your head and made you forget why it was dangerous. The kind of scent that begged you to chase it anyway.

He hated the way it made his pulse spike.

Toji reached the edge of the clearing and saw you before you saw him.

Or maybe you saw him first—and just didn’t care.

You walked half a step ahead of your latest victim, red silk clinging to your body like it had been made for you and you alone. Your laugh curled through the night like smoke, soft and seductive.

Toji’s eyes dragged over you. He didn’t mean to. Couldn’t stop.

You looked like trouble. You always did.

Your fingers grazed the man’s arm like a lover’s touch, gentle enough to make him forget himself. Your lips hovered close to his ear. He was smiling like a fool, drunk on the idea of being wanted.

“Don’t be scared, baby.” You whispered, fingers trailing up to his collarbone, easing his shirt open with a teasing flick. “If any big bad wolf comes to spoil our fun, I’ll protect you.”

Then, with a grin, you tilted your head—just enough to glance toward the shadows.

Toward him.

“Though between you and me.” You added, voice velvet-slick, still locking eyes with the hunter hidden in the dark, “I think the wolf might need protecting from me.”

Toji chuckled.

You were enjoying the game.

He moved—no warning, no words. Enough watching. You were dangerous. Not just to the fool in your grasp, but potentially to the whole world.

He stepped into the clearing like a blade being drawn—deliberate, heavy, precise. The moonlight caught the edge of his spear, glinting cold. His silhouette carved through the trees like a promise: sharp, inevitable.

You smiled, slow and unbothered.

That same goddamn grin that had haunted him for three years. Like none of this mattered. Like you’d expected him, and still found the whole thing amusing.

“Toji.” You said, voice soft as smoke. “Missed me?”

He didn’t answer.

He just stepped forward, grabbed the man by the collar, and shoved him hard toward the trees. “Get the fuck out of here.”

The human stumbled, blinking in confusion. “What? Who the hell—?”

“Did I fucking stutter?” Toji growled, flashing the blade at his side.

The man didn’t need a third warning. He turned and bolted into the woods, crashing through the underbrush, muttering something that sounded like “freaks” as he ran.

You sighed, watching him go. “Shame. He had such a pretty neck.”

Toji already had the gun half-raised, his eyes never leaving you. He didn’t expect you to run.

That was what made it worse.

You lingered.

Just like the scent you left behind. Like heat that refused to leave his chest.

A breeze stirred the clearing, catching the hem of your red dress—fluttering it like a dying flame. You looked more alive here, in the dark.

More dangerous.

Toji’s grip on the spear tightened.

“You were gonna drain him?”

You shrugged, slow and lazy. “Only a little. I don’t waste food.”

That fucking tone—like you were discussing dinner plans, not murder.

“You gonna kill me?” You asked, stepping closer without fear, bare feet brushing over the moss. “Or are you just here to cockblock?”

Toji took another step, closing the distance.

“Oh, I’m gonna kill you, leech.” He said, low and cold. “But not before you tell me everything. About Sukuna. And why the fuck you’re trying to bring him back.”

Your eyes flickered—just a flash. Surprise. So that’s what they told him. That’s what he thought this was all about.

Your gaze dropped to the blade in his hand, then climbed back up to his face. Steady. Calm.

Then that grin returned—sharper now. Something cruel behind it.

“Make me.”

Your smile lingered like a challenge.

Toji didn’t wait for you to strike first.

He lunged.

Fast as a bullet, spear slicing through the air in a deadly arc aimed straight for your ribs—but you ducked, barely, and your nails scraped across his forearm as you slipped past. Blood welled where you touched him—hot and immediate.

You were faster than he remembered.

He pivoted on instinct, elbow cracking toward your jaw. You caught it—barely—and the force still sent you stumbling back a step, breathless. Your feet skidded over moss, dress whipping around your legs. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe.

He pressed forward, blade flashing in the moonlight, slashing low to gut you. You jumped, twisting midair, and landed on all fours like an animal—feral and grinning.

“Oh, you really missed me.” you teased, fangs flashing.

He didn’t stop. He never did. He was already moving again, gun raised in his other hand, aimed, and fired—multiple times.

But you were gone in the blink of an eye, and not a single bullet hit you.

Then you were on him.

A blur of red silk and bare limbs—you slammed into his chest, knocking him back against a tree. Your hand closed around his throat, nails digging in. Your voice dropped to a purr near his ear.

“I remember you being quicker, hunter.”

His knee came up—hard into your ribs. You gasped, and he shoved you off, driving the butt of his spear into your stomach. You hit the ground with a thud, leaves and dirt flying.

You hissed—not in pain, but in pleasure.

“Fuck, so strong.”

You rolled to your feet in one fluid motion, already bleeding from a gash above your brow. But the scratches you gave him were red too.

“You’re bleeding.” You said, tongue flicking over your teeth like the sight thrilled you. Like you could taste it.

“So are you.”

You charged each other.

Flesh on flesh. Steel on bone. The clearing became chaos—grunts and growls, dirt kicked up, trees cracking under the force of bodies slamming into them.

Your claws tore across his ribs, and his already ruined shirt shredded completely beneath the strike— fabric ripping apart in your hands, baring hot skin and the surge of muscle underneath.

Blood sprayed. Breathing turned ragged. Neither of you yielded.

It was brutal, beautiful — like something that shouldn’t exist outside nightmares or need.

Toji landed a blow to your jaw that sent your head snapping sideways—but you retaliated, slamming your forehead into his and making him stumble back, dazed.

You pounced.

He caught your wrist mid-air and twisted—until something in your arm popped—but you just hissed through your teeth and sank your fangs into his shoulder.

“Fucking—!” he roared, slamming you into the forest ground.

Branches cracked beneath you both. You clawed at his chest—he punched the side of your ribs. Blood spilled, hot and fast. You gasped. He cursed.

His hands gripped hard on your throat.

And then—staring down at you, eyes burning, blood dripping from both your bodies—he hesitated.

Again.

Because your mouth was red with his blood, and your smile was still there, even through the pain. Because you looked alive. Because you looked at him like you knew him. Like you had him exactly where you wanted.

His hand was still pinning you down by your throat. Tight. Unrelenting.

But he didn’t press.

Didn’t finish it.

He just stared— face shadowed, blood trickling from the bite on his shoulder, chest heaving like he hated every breath that kept you both alive.

You tilted your head against the moss and smiled. Not sweet. Not kind.

Wicked. Bloody.

“What’s wrong, hunter?” You rasped, voice hoarse but smug. “Too scared to finish me off?”

That did it.

Something snapped in him—finally, violently.

Toji moved without thinking.

He grabbed your jaw, dragged your face up to his, and crashed his mouth onto yours like it was the last fucking thing he’d ever do.

Like he hated himself for it. Like he needed it more than air.

Your gasp was swallowed in the kiss—hot, rough, teeth clashing. It wasn’t romantic. It was war.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, reopening wounds you’d just left there. His fingers twisted in your hair—pulling, anchoring, devouring.

He tasted blood. Yours, his. He couldn’t tell.

And he didn’t care.

Your lips moved as eager as his, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw more blood, then licking it from his mouth like it was wine.

His blood tasted like your favorite dessert.

“Fuck.” He growled against your lips. “I should kill you.”

“Then do it.” You whispered, still breathless, still smiling. “But kiss me first.”

And so he did.

Again.

Harder.

Because nothing made sense. Because he wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Because the line between killing you and craving you had finally shattered—

—and he was too far gone to care which side he landed on.

His mouth was still on yours—relentless, punishing, like each kiss was a sin he meant to commit all the way through. Desperate. Eager.

Your legs curled around his hips without thought, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a breath of space between your bodies. Heat. Blood. Cloth torn in too many places. Nothing else.

One of his hands stayed tight around your throat—firm but not crushing, like a leash he refused to let go of. The other slid down, rough and unhurried, dragging over the curve of your ribs to your waist. He gripped it hard. Like he needed to feel you to believe this was real.

You arched into him, lips brushing his jaw as you whispered, voice dark with amusement.

“You look like you’re enjoying this more than you should, hunter.”

Toji let out a low sound — half-growl, half-laugh — and dragged his mouth down to your neck. No biting. Just the scrape of teeth against skin too hot, too sensitive, too alive. His breath burned where it landed.

“Shut up.” He muttered, voice frayed. “You talk too much.”

Then his hand slid beneath your dress.

His fingers found the bare skin of your thigh, slick with blood from the fight, but he didn’t hesitate this time. He gripped you tighter, dragging your leg higher over his hip as his mouth grazed your collarbone—and bit down, hard enough to bruise.

You gasped—clawed at his back. Rolled your hips up to meet the weight of him, teasing. Demanding.

He hissed through his teeth.

“You want this, leech?” He breathed, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. “Say it—say you want me to fucking ruin you.”

You didn’t answer him right away.

Instead, you smirked.

Then you rolled your hips again—slow this time, dragging the pressure right against him, knowing exactly what it would do.

Toji’s jaw flexed.

You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Why ask if you already know the answer?”

His hand snapped back to your thigh—gripping harder now. Fingers digging into soft skin as he dragged them upward until they reached the edge of your panties.

He groaned—low, guttural—like he hated how soaked you already were for him.

“You fucking tease.” He muttered, brushing over the fabric, fingers pressing just enough to make you squirm. “Big talk for someone this wet for the man sent to kill her.”

And then he moved—parting your thighs, pushing the fabric aside, dragging a calloused finger through the mess he found.

His gaze flicked down to your face, watching.

You sucked in a breath—shivering, eyes fluttering for just a second—and he saw it. That flicker of need. Hunger. Want.

“Say it.” He growled, voice rougher now. “Say you want this.”

You locked eyes with him—bloody, beautiful, unafraid.

“I want you.” You whispered, defiant and honest. “Ruin me, hunter.”

That was all he needed.

His mouth crashed back onto yours—messier this time. Lips, teeth, tongue—no rhythm, no patience, just need. And his fingers slid into you without warning. Deep. Rough. Curling just right.

Your moan hit the back of his throat, and he swallowed it greedily.

Your body arched, chasing the pressure—desperate for more. And Toji gave it. His thumb dragged slow, brutal circles over your clit while his fingers fucked into you like he wanted to make you come from his hand alone.

“Fuck—you feel like sin.” He muttered against your lips. “You were made for this.”

Made for him.

You writhed beneath him, gasping into his mouth, hips bucking into his hand—but Toji didn’t let up.

But this time, he didn’t give you more.

Instead, he slowed down.

His fingers moved cruelly slowly now—deep, yes, but lazy. Controlled. Just enough to make your body beg for friction that never quite came.

You growled in frustration, fangs bared, eyes burning. “Don’t fucking play with me—”

He cut you off with a rough press of his thumb against your clit, just enough to make your breath hitch—then stopped again.

“Oh?” He smirked, his voice dark and low. “But I thought you wanted me to ruin you.”

“Toji—”

He dragged his fingers out of you entirely, slow and wet, making sure you felt every inch.

You bit back a moan—barely.

He lifted his hand between you, fingers slick with your arousal, and stared at it for a beat—he couldn’t decide whether to lick it clean or rub it across your mouth just to see you suck it off.

And instead, he smeared it across your inner thigh, possessive, like he was marking you.

“Dripping for me already—and I’ve barely touched you.”

“Then fucking touch me, hunter.”

That pulled a dark chuckle from him. His hand shot back up, wrapping tight around your throat again—firm enough to still your breath, but not stop it.

“You don’t get to order me around, leech.” He growled, eyes blazing. “You’re the one pinned under me.”

You didn’t flinch. You leaned into the grip like you liked it. Like it fed you.

“Then do something about it.” You hissed.

“Oh, pretty. I don’t think you deserve me already.” He muttered, voice thick. “Not after everything.”

He lowered his head.

You gasped as his mouth met your pussy—hot, open, greedy.

He didn’t ease in. He devoured you. Tongue dragging through the mess he’d already made of you, lips sealing over your clit and sucking with no mercy.

Your back arched again.

Toji groaned into you, fingers digging more bruises into your thighs to keep you spread wide, like he didn’t want to miss a single twitch of your body.

“Fuck—you taste so good.” He rasped against you before diving back in, slower this time, deliberate.

He licked you like he was memorizing the shape of your pleasure.

Flattened his tongue against your clit, sucked until your legs trembled—then backed off just before you tipped over the edge.

Again.

And again.

The way his mouth worked over you left no room to control. Every flick of his tongue was too fast, too sharp, and your body was beggining to quake.

You were almost embarrassed by how close you were already—God knew his ego didn´t need the boost.

You bit down hard on your knuckles, trying to resist the pull. But he groaned into you, low and hungry, and the sound vibrated through your core. Your thighs clenched around his head, helpless.

“You gonna come like this?” He teased, mouth slick, voice wrecked. “On my tongue like a desperate little thing?”

You couldn’t even answer—not with your body coiled that tight, not with the way he was licking into you like you were the last thing that could save him.

And when he slid two fingers back inside you—curling just right to press against the spot that made your vision blur— while his mouth stayed locked on your clit, you knew it was over.

Your body seized beneath him, a choked cry tearing from your throat. Legs trembled, toes curling, your fingers tangled in his hair as his name broke from your lips — gasped, half-muttered like a prayer turned curse.

Toji held you through it—mouth never leaving you, he wanted to taste all of it.

Even when you were shaking.

Even when you tried to push him away.

He kept going.

He wasn’t done ruining you yet.

“Too much—Toji.” You gasped, thighs twitching around his head, hand fisting in his hair like you didn’t know whether to pull him closer or shove him away.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t even slow down.

Instead, he growled into your cunt again—deep, approving—like the sound of you breaking apart beneath him only made him harder.

“You think I care?” He muttered against your skin, voice muffled by your soaked heat.

Then he sucked—hard and focused—tongue circling your clit in a filthy rhythm while his fingers curled exactly where you needed.

Your moan shattered in your throat.

Every nerve lit up. Every breath felt like a scream you couldn’t let out. Your second orgasm hit faster than you could brace for it—violent, blinding, your entire body locking up beneath him.

“Fuck—look at you.” He rasped, finally pulling back just enough to speak—lips wet, chin dripping, eyes dark and wild. “Cumming so fuckin’ pretty for me.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh—mock-gentle—then bit down, hard.

You jerked.

“Want me to stop?” He asked, too soft to be kind, fingers still teasing lazy circles over your oversensitive clit.

You met his eyes—wrecked, trembling, still high from release—and hissed through your teeth.

“If you stop, I’ll kill you first.”

Toji grinned.

“Yeah.” He muttered, voice thick with need, reaching up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s what I fucking thought, leech.”

You were still gasping, body trembling from the aftershocks, but your smirk was already creeping back.

“You look proud of yourself.” You murmured, voice raw.

Toji hovered over you, licking his lips, still tasting you.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

You dragged your nails down his chest, slow and dangerous.

“Cocky bastard.”

He caught your wrist mid-motion and slammed it into the moss beside your head.

“You came undone on my tongue like a slut, and you’re still mouthing off?”

His hips rolled forward, the thick press of him grinding into your slick heat. And this time, you couldn’t hold back the sounds you made.

Toji’s hands slid under your thighs again, rough palms gliding upward as he shoved your legs farther apart with zero grace. His lips clashed with yours again— punishing—while his fingers caught the hem of your dress and dragged it higher.

But the fabric clung. Damp with sweat. Blood. Heat.

He grunted against your lips, tugged harder—but the layers wouldn’t move fast enough. Wouldn’t give him what he wanted.

“Fuck this.” He growled.

And then you heard it—the sharp tear of fabric, loud in the stillness. He yanked the dress in two like it offended him, shredding it down the middle until it fell open beneath you like ruins.

You gasped, half from shock, half from the sudden rush of cold air on your overheated skin.

“Better.” He muttered, eyes dark as they dropped to your now-exposed chest. “So much better.”

His hands weren’t gentle—they were merciless.

They cupped your breasts like he’d been dying to touch them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they peaked under his touch. And when he leaned down to suck one into his mouth—hot, wet, greedy—you arched off the moss with a gasp.

“Toji—fuck—”

He groaned low, teeth grazing just enough to make you flinch. Then he sucked harder. His other hand rolled your other nipple between his fingers—slow, rough, deliberate.

“You moan like this for every man who makes you bleed?” He rasped, breath hot against spit-slick skin.

You tangled your fingers in his hair and tugged.

“Only the ones who do it with their mouths.”

He chuckled—low, dangerous—and sank his teeth in again, harder this time. The pain made your folds clench around nothing, desperate and raw.

“You’re fucking insane.”

But he couldn’t stop touching you.

Wouldn’t stop tasting you.

And the way he was devouring your chest—lips swollen, jaw tight, breath ragged—made it damn clear:

You were driving him mad.

“I’m in no rush to fuck you.”

He leaned in, grazing your cheek, breath hot against your ear.

“Unless you beg for it.”

Your breath stuttered—but your eyes gleamed.

“Oh?” You whispered, lips brushing his. “Maybe you should be the one begging, hunter.”

Before he could taunt you again, you moved—quick, fluid, catching him off guard. One sharp twist of your hips, a push to his shoulder, and suddenly Toji was flat on his back against the dirt, and you were straddling him.

His eyes widened—then narrowed.

But he didn’t stop you.

Not yet.

Your fingers dragged down his chest, slow and confident, nails grazing over every muscle like you owned them.

“You think I can’t break you?” You purred, grinding down against him, deliberately slow. The drag of your slick heat over his cock made both of you hiss.

You leaned in, lips brushing his jaw, licking a stripe up the side of his neck.

“Fuck, Toji… you’re so fun when you’re trying not to lose control.”

His breath hitched—and still, his hands stayed at his sides.

Still not stopping you.

Your teeth grazed his collarbone.

Your hips rolled again.

“You gonna be good for me, Toji?”

Then—too fast to react—his hand shot up, fisting in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat.

“You’re playing a dangerous fucking game.” He growled, voice pure gravel, lips hot against your pulse.

And you barely had time to blink.

One second he was beneath you—the next, he’d grabbed you by the waist, hauled you up, spun you around, and slammed your back against the nearest tree.

Moss scraped your spine. Bark dug into your shoulder blades. Toji’s massive frame caged you in—one hand hooking under your thigh, lifting you, the other braced beside your head.

His forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged.

“You really think you can ride me, pretty?” He hissed, teeth bared, pupils blown wide. “You don’t even get to touch me unless I say so.”

You opened your mouth, but he didn’t give you a chance to speak.

He hooked both your thighs up, spread you wide, and lifted you higher like you weighed nothing. Your back scraped against the tree as he settled between your legs, hips grinding up—slow, punishing, all heat and threat and dark, dirty promise.

You choked on a gasp, your hands scrabbling for purchase—his shoulders, the bark, anything.

“Toji—”

He wasn’t gentle.

He devoured your mouth as he rocked against your core, not bothering to hide how hard he was, how much he wanted to ruin you. Tongue fucking into your mouth like he owned it, biting your lower lip until you whimpered, tasting blood again on your tongue.

“You beg.” He growled, lips trailing down your jaw. “You fucking beg me for it, or I’ll keep you like this all night.”

His mouth dragged down to your neck, biting.

“Pressed to a tree, dripping down your thighs, aching and empty while I don’t give you what you want.”

His cock—still covered—dragged through your wet folds again, making your back arch, your lips part on a trembling breath.

Just rubbed.

Teased.

Denied.

Your breath was ragged now, chest heaving, nails digging into his arms.

“Toji, please—”

His hand shot up and grabbed your breast—rough, possessive, mean. Pain bloomed through the heat, and your gasp was half-moan, half-snarl.

He leaned in closer, voice wrecked.

“Say it right, slut.”

Your pride screamed.

But your body?

Your body was already shivering, already breaking.

And he smirked against your throat.

“Beg, pretty thing.” He murmured. “I want to hear you fucking plead.”

You tried to hold his stare—tried to keep the smirk on your lips, the bite in your voice—but it faltered.

He was dragging over your clit with maddening precision. Just enough pressure. Never enough to satisfy.

Your nails raked down his back, scratching over wounds that were barely scabbed.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

“Toji.” You gasped—again, useless, desperate.

He just kept grinding, slow, brutal, unforgiving.

Your thighs trembled around his waist, every nerve lit up and begging.

And still—still—he held you there, pinned between bark and muscle, his mouth cruel against your jaw.

“Look at you.” He growled, voice low and dark. “Fucking soaking me through my pants. You want it that bad?”

You bit your lip—hard. Blood beaded, dripped. Pride clenched in your gut. But your body… your body was done fighting.

“I want you to fuck me.” You whispered, breath shaking. “I want you inside—now.”

“Demanding, aren’t you?”

One hand dropped to his waistband, and he shoved his pants down just far enough, hissing as his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, leaking from how long he’d been holding back.

He shifted his hips—just enough to drag his cockhead directly against your entrance. You shuddered, thighs twitching to close, but he held them wide.

“Toji—fuck—please. Please fuck me, I need it—need you.”

His eyes flared.

And in the next second, the feral thing in him snapped loose.

“That’s more like it.” He snarled.

He thrust into you in one brutal, perfect stroke—no warning, no mercy, just depth.

You cried out—loud, raw, ruined—as your back slammed into the tree. Your legs locked around his waist instinctively, trying to take it, to anchor yourself as he filled you to the hilt.

Toji groaned like it hurt, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck.” He growled against your skin, voice cracked and strained. “You’re so damn tight, pretty.”

He didn’t wait.

Didn’t give you a second to adjust.

He pulled back and slammed in again, harder, his pace feral from the start. Bark scraped your spine with every thrust, and you didn’t care—couldn’t care. You wanted him to make it hurt.

“Say it again.” He rasped, teeth dragging along your throat. “Say you need me.”

“I do—fuck, Toji—I need you—”

And the sound he made wasn’t human.

It was hunger.

It was possession.

He should’ve kept the rhythm steady. Controlled.

Should’ve made it last—made you suffer.

But the way you moaned his name—wrecked, breathless, honest—knocked the air clean out of him.

“Toji—”

Your voice cracked around it, full of need, of surrender. It wasn’t a weapon anymore. It was a plea.

His pace faltered. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to try and rein it in.

“My name sounds so fucking good on your lips, pretty.” He rasped, breath hot against your neck.

You tightened your legs around him.

“Toji.” You whispered. “Please—Toji, harder.”

His grip on your hips turned bruising—you knew it’d be purple by morning.

With a guttural growl, he slammed into you hard enough to make your teeth clack, his pace turning punishing, feral—like he needed to fuck the sound of his name out of your throat.

“This is wrong.” He growled. “So fucking wrong…”

You couldn’t form words. Just gasps, sobs, desperate clutches at him as your body took every brutal thrust and still wanted more.

Toji’s mouth found your jaw, your neck, your lips—biting, licking, devouring you like he was starved.

“You’re mine when you say my name like that.” He snarled, voice trembling with the force of his unraveling restraint. “Don’t you fucking stop, leech.”

You whimpered it again, cracked and broken on your tongue—“Toji…”—and it only drove him harder.

He fucked into you like stopping would kill him.

Every thrust was deeper, rougher, until the tree behind you shook with the force of it, until your moans turned into broken gasps, until your mind blurred with the sheer intensity.

“Toji—ah—fuck—”

Your head fell back against the bark, sweat-slick and aching, your body quivering with the edge he kept you on—again and again, just out of reach.

He was groaning now, deep in his chest, the sound of you unraveling was doing something to him. It hurt.

“Shit—fuck—you’re—” His voice caught.

He wasn’t supposed to lose control.

Wasn’t supposed to want like this.

But your cunt was gripping him like a vice, slick and hot and perfect, and the way you cried his name—

He was past reason.

And you—

You were trying so damn hard not to sink your teeth in again.

Your fangs ached, instincts flaring with every pulse of blood under his skin. His throat, his shoulder—so close, so vulnerable.

Your mouth hovered there, open, shaking, every thrust grinding you harder against the bark, each friction-soaked drag of his cock pushing you closer.

He noticed. Of course he did.

His pace didn’t falter—but his voice dropped, a low, dangerous murmur against your ear.

“Go ahead.” He growled. “You wanna bite me again, don’t you?”

You whimpered, shaking your head, but he chuckled darkly.

“Trying to be good for me, pretty?” His teeth dragged along your jaw.

You clenched around him, a sharp gasp catching in your throat.

He groaned—loud, ragged—and picked up speed.

You were already shaking, body too sensitive, every thrust sending sparks ricocheting through your nerves. But he didn’t slow down. He chased the sound of your moans, chased the heat, chased you.

And deep inside him—

Somewhere past the lust, past the chaos—

Something twisted.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Not with you.

Not with someone he was paid to hunt.

But when you cried out his name again, voice shattered and begging—he couldn’t stop.

Wouldn’t.

“Toji—please—I can’t—”

“You can.” He snarled, hand tightening under your thigh. “You fucking will. I’m not done.”

And still—your mouth trembled, teeth bared as instinct warred with restraint.

You didn’t want to bite him.

But he was breaking you.

And you were so close to breaking him too.

Your body betrayed you before your mind could stop it.

Overstimulated. Shaking. Ripped raw by the force of him—his cock pounding into you, his breath hot against your neck, his grip bruising, brutal, possessive.

You’d tried.

Tried so fucking hard not to bite.

But your head turned—mouth open, gasping—and when he hit just the right angle, when the tension snapped—

You sank your fangs into his shoulder with a cry.

The moment your teeth broke skin, he froze.

Not in shock.

Not in pain.

But in something else.

Toji’s whole body went rigid, a low, guttural sound clawing out of his chest like it had been buried under every wall he’d ever built.

It wasn’t a groan.

It was a fucking moan.

Rough. Wrecked. Almost worshipful.

“F-fuck—”

His blood soaked into your mouth—hot, thick, feral. His heartbeat slammed against your tongue, wild and addicting. And his cock—God—he throbbed inside you like your bite set him off. Like it unleashed something.

His hips slammed forward again, deeper, harsher, chasing.

“That—fuck—that feelin’—” He rasped, voice wrecked, panting. “What the fuck did you just do to me?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You were still biting down, still sucking greedily as he kept fucking you, harder than before.

And he let you.

No—he wanted it.

His hand tangled in your hair, holding you to him like he needed the pain.

“Shit, pretty thing—your mouth’s fuckin’ dangerous.” He growled, head tipping back.

His pace turned animalistic—like he was chasing release through the pain, like your fangs drove him higher than anything else could.

The tree behind you shook violently, your moans muffled against his skin, his blood hot on your tongue, his cock dragging ruthless and perfect inside you.

He was losing it.

And loving it.

“Mark me—tear into me—I don’t care. Just—fuck—don’t let go.”

He liked it.

He liked the hurt.

And the way your teeth sunk in again—deeper—sent him barreling straight to the edge, no brakes, no shame, just ecstasy.

You didn’t know who was shaking more—you or him.

Toji was slamming into you like he needed it to live, your bite driving him wild, every thrust punching broken sounds from your throat. His blood was thick on your tongue, metallic and addictive.

You drank his blood like you were starving.

His breath was ragged in your ear, voice hoarse and barely human. “Fucking leech… you taste me like you’re in heat—shit—”

You could feel it in his pulse—every beat pounding into your mouth. He was close. So were you.

Your jaw unclenched.

You pulled back with a sharp gasp, fangs sliding free, mouth open and dripping, smeared in crimson.

His blood clung to your lips, your chin, glistening down your throat like something unholy.

Toji stared.

Eyes blown wide. Chest heaving. Still buried deep inside you—but stunned for a heartbeat.

“Fuck.” It came out low, reverent. A prayer in one breath.

You blinked at him—dazed, trembling, blood-slicked and ruined.

And it broke him all over again.

He grabbed your face—fingers smearing his own blood across your cheek as he kissed you like a fucking animal. Tongue licking into your mouth, tasting himself on you, groaning like it drove him insane.

“Messy fuckin’ girl.” He growled against your mouth. “You are the Devil.”

His hands grabbed your ass, hauled you up higher, hips snapping into you with a new kind of desperation. Your blood-soaked mouth lit a fuse in him he couldn’t put out.

“Wanna fuck you ‘til there’s nothing left of me.”

And from the sound of it—

He meant every word.

Maybe it was his pace—ruthless, faster now, his cock dragging over every spot inside you with maddening precision. Maybe it was the way his blood still coated your tongue, metallic and warm, your lips tingling from the bite. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you—

Like he was seconds from falling apart.

“Toji—” You gasped, voice slurred, head falling back against the tree. “Fuck—please—”

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, bruising, grounding himself in your flesh as he drove deeper, rougher, sweat and blood slicking your skin where it met his. His jaw was clenched, brows furrowed in something close to agony.

“You gonna come, leech?” He panted, mouth brushing yours—raw, desperate. “You gonna soak my cock with that tight fucking pussy?”

You whimpered, your walls clenching hard around him at the filthy sound of his voice. It dragged a groan out of him—low, ruined, dangerous.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He growled, slamming into you again, harder, meaner. “Not yet. Not until I say.”

“Toji—” Your voice cracked, and you clung to him, arms tight around his shoulders, nails dragging more blood down his back. “too much—”

He hissed into your ear. “You’ll take it.”

His hand snuck between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, rubbing circles that were just shy of cruel.

Your back arched. Your breath caught.

The edge hit like a freight train—and held you there. Quaking. Gasping. Your whole body tightening around him as he kept you right there.

Toji’s head dropped to your shoulder, his voice guttural, choked. “You feel that? Fuck—you feel how close I am, pretty?”

You nodded frantically, tears slipping down your cheeks, chest heaving against his.

“Good.” He rasped, still fucking you like he meant to break you. “Then fucking hold it. I wanna hear you scream my name when you fall.”

He was right there too.

Barely holding on.

Your body was already unraveling—but he wouldn’t let you fall.

He kept you pinned, suspended, every thrust cruel with restraint. Your thighs trembled around his hips, your breath coming in short, broken gasps, his name half-choked on your tongue. Your whole world had narrowed down to the pulse between your legs and the brutal rhythm of his hips against yours.

Toji’s jaw clenched, sweat sliding down his temple, muscles flexed and twitching with the effort of holding back. You could feel it—the tremor in his arms, the way his thrusts stuttered every time your cunt fluttered around him, the animal noise that kept building in his throat every time your voice cracked.

He was losing it.

But so were you.

Your nails raked down his back, raw and blood-slick from where you’d clawed him earlier. His blood still coated your tongue, warm and electric, and when you opened your eyes to look at him—really look—he was already staring at you.

Wild.

Ravenous.

Gone.

“Toji.” You whispered again, wrecked.

And that was it.

He slammed into you with a growl, the sound feral, tearing from his chest like he’d been holding it back for hours. He didn’t stop this time—couldn’t. He fucked you like he was possessed, pace brutal, cock driving into you so deep your entire body jolted against the tree with every thrust.

You screamed.

Couldn’t hold it anymore.

Your come like a wave of white fire—spine arching, mouth falling open, legs locking tight around him as your walls clenched hard and refused to let go. You sobbed his name—over and over—mind blank, body quaking as pleasure tore through you so violently it almost hurt.

Toji snapped.

He growled something guttural, unintelligible, and suddenly his hand was in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat. But it wasn’t dominance anymore—it was desperation. Worship.

“You fucking—gods, you’re squeezing me so tight—” His hips jerked, rhythm lost, every thrust now a frantic, sloppy drive for release. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

His whole body seized—then shuddered.

With a broken groan, he slammed in to the hilt and stayed, cock pulsing deep inside you as he emptied himself in thick, hot spurts. You could feel it. All of it. Every twitch, every tremor, his cum flooding your already aching cunt, leaking out around him from how hard you were still clenching down.

He was loud.

Raw.

The kind of sound you only make when you’re being ruined.

Toji’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath shaking against your lips, chest heaving. His arms trembled where they held you, legs locked, body still flexing with aftershocks as he kept thrusting small, shallow movements—dragging it out.

Drawing every drop of pleasure from both of you.

He was right. You were a mess.

Blood still smeared across your mouth. Skin slick with sweat. Your core still fluttering around him like you didn’t want to let him go.

You moaned softly, dazed, and leaned in—mouth brushing his cheek.

“You came so deep.” You whispered, voice ruined. “I can feel you everywhere.”

Toji growled again, but it was softer this time. Like surrender.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t speak.

Just pressed you tighter to the tree, his body still inside yours, heart pounding so hard you could feel it through his chest.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Breathing each other in.

Wrecked.

Changed.

The forest was still now.

Silent, save for the rough, uneven sound of your breathing and Toji’s heart thudding loud against your chest. The bark bit into your back with every small shift of his body, but you didn’t care. You didn’t want to move.

And neither did he.

His forehead was still resting against yours, skin damp, mouth slightly parted like he couldn’t catch enough air. His arms, always strong, always brutal, now just held you—steady, grounding, as if letting go would undo something neither of you were ready to name.

You blinked, slowly, dazed. A little high. A little wrecked.

Toji… Toji was staring at you like he didn’t know what the fuck he’d just done.

And he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

Your hand slid up, shaky fingers brushing through the mess of his hair. He didn’t stop you. He leaned into it, just slightly. And when your blood-slick lips pressed the softest kiss to his cheek—gentle, not hungry—his eyes fluttered shut for a breath.

“You okay?” You whispered.

It came out hoarse, almost too quiet. But it cut through the haze.

Toji didn’t answer right away. His hand slid down from your thigh, tracing your skin slowly, almost reverently, like he was grounding himself in the reality that you were still there. Still in his arms. Still wrapped around him.

“I should be asking you that.” He spoke—rough, low.

You let out a breathless huff—half a laugh, half a sigh—and let your forehead fall into the crook of his neck. You could still feel him inside you, thick and warm and unmoving, like he was staking his claim with more than just words.

“I’ll live.” You murmured, letting your lips graze his pulse.

Toji let out a quiet grunt, but he didn’t pull away. He just shifted enough to ease you from the tree, cradling you like he didn’t trust your legs to hold. You hissed as the movement made you feel everything again—every inch of stretch, every bruise, every pulse of afterglow that hadn’t faded yet.

“Shit.” You muttered. “You’re gonna make me limp back out of this forest.”

He smirked—tired, but cocky. “Could carry you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers curled into his chest anyway.

“Shut up.”

Toji’s hand smoothed over your lower back, slow and rough. Protective. Almost absent. Like he didn’t realize he was doing it.

For a long, quiet moment, you both just breathed.

The sky above you was dark now, dusk settled deep into the trees. The only light came from moonlight filtering through the leaves—and the way it caught in Toji’s lashes, the sharp line of his jaw, the blood still drying along his neck.

Right now, like this—half-naked, breathless, ruined in each other’s arms—you weren’t thinking about the seal, or the enemies, or how fucked this all was.

Just him.

Just this.

Just the way his thumb now stroked your hip, slow, like a promise he didn’t know he was making.

Eventually, Toji moved.

Not far—not away. Just enough to pull out slow, making you both shudder, and lower you gently to the mossy ground. It was softer here. Cooler. Damp with night, but you didn’t flinch when your bare skin touched it.

He didn’t leave.

The frenzy had passed, but your body still hummed with the aftershocks—nerves raw, skin flushed, blood cooling in sticky streaks where your mouth had found him, where his hands had left their claim. Toji lay beside you on the moss, one heavy arm slung across your stomach, chest rising and falling against your side, damp with sweat.

You stared at the canopy above—leaves rustling, moonlight slanting through in thin, trembling beams—trying to gather your thoughts, your breath, your self.

But everything was tangled now. Lust. Blood. Him.

Toji exhaled deeply, almost like he’d forgotten how.

His voice came low, gravel-rough and tired. “Fucking hell…”

You almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, you turned your head toward him, eyes half-lidded. “So…” You murmured, your voice hoarse. “Are you still going to kill me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t tense. Didn’t move.

Just stared at the same canopy you had, his jaw tight, expression unreadable in the dark.

Then—

“I think so.” He said.

Quiet. Almost too quiet.

You blinked. A hollow sound echoed in your chest, too deep to be surprise.

“I mean…” He went on, eyes still fixed on the stars. “That’s why I came here, isn’t it?”

You didn’t speak. Just waited.

His fingers twitched on your stomach.

“But I don’t—fuck.” He shut his eyes, rubbed his face like the words themselves burned. “I don’t know what the hell this is. What you are. What we just did.”

He turned to you, finally, face shadowed but eyes burning.

“You’re still a threat.” He muttered. “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

But his hand didn’t move.

Didn’t leave your skin.

“You can’t fucking release that demon back into the world. I have to kill you.”

And yet… his eyes didn’t look like those of a man ready to finish a job.

They looked lost.

Like someone already breaking the rules.

Like someone who’d tasted something forbidden—and was already addicted.

You didn’t speak right away. The silence between you felt sharp, like a blade hovering between your throats, waiting to fall in either direction.

But his palm still rested over your ribs, steadying you. Feeling the rise and fall of your chest.

So finally, quietly, you spoke.

“They lied to you.”

Toji didn’t flinch. But his fingers stilled.

“I’m not trying to weaken the seal.” You said, voice soft but unwavering. “Because I am the seal.”

He blinked, slow. His brow pulled taut.

“They’re the ones trying to release Sukuna.” You continued, each word low and measured. “But I’m the only thing keeping him in. My blood. My body. My life. That’s what holds him back.”

Silence.

Not denial—just tension. The pause of a man who didn’t know how to respond.

“If I die.” You said, quieter now, “it’s over. No spell, no ritual, no backup. I’m the last thing between him and the world.”

His jaw tightened. You could see him trying to cling to what he was taught—what he was paid to do. But his grip on that certainty was slipping.

And you saw it—the flicker in his eyes. The start of doubt.

The start of belief.

“I’ve spent centuries containing him.” You whispered. “I’ve bled for it. Starved for it. Hunted and hidden and given up nearly all my power to maintain it. And I’ve killed anyone who came too close to disrupting that balance—except you.”

You looked at him fully now, eyes bare and steady.

Toji swallowed hard. Slowly.

“His worshippers were the ones who hired you, I suppose. They claim he’ll purify the earth.” Your eyes deviate for the night sky. “But I’ve seen what his purification looks like.”

And you said the final truth, quiet but sharp:

And then, with a quiet certainty that cut deeper than any threat:

“If you finish the job… he comes back. And everything burns.”

At first, his jaw clenched tighter, fists twitching as if struggling against the pull of your words. The world he thought he knew was unraveling before him, shaking him more than he wanted to admit.

His dark, stormy eyes flickered between suspicion and doubt, searching your face for a lie—but finding only raw truth.

Slowly, he pulled his hand back, like letting go of a fragile thread he wasn’t ready to lose but couldn’t hold any longer. He sank down to sit on the floor.

His voice was rough, low, edged with frustration—and something almost like pain.

“Why should I believe you?”

You sat down beside him, voice steady. “I don’t know if you should, Toji. But it’s the truth.”

“After everything I’ve done? After all the blood I spilled, thinking I was stopping a threat?”

His fists clenched at his sides, trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief. “They lied to me. Used me like a damn tool.”

His chest heaved, eyes wild yet searching yours—as if he wanted to hate you, but couldn’t quite.

“This whole time, I was killing for a lie.” His voice cracked with bitterness and confusion. “And you… you’re the one keeping that demon locked away?”

Toji’s anger slowly dissolved into exhaustion. His body slumped against the rough bark of the tree, eyes closing briefly like he could shut out the weight of the truth you’d just laid bare. The silence between you stretched — heavy, but no longer hollow.

Carefully, you crawled closer, your fingers slipping into his hair. You brushed through the dark strands gently, a quiet gesture meant to soothe the tension still coiled in both your chests.

He tensed at first, instinctual, then let out a ragged breath and leaned into your touch. His eyes cracked open, just enough to find yours. There was a storm behind them — confusion, pain, rage — but beneath all that, something softer flickered. Something like trust.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore.” You whispered, voice low but steady. “We’ll find the bastards who set you up… gut them for trying to use you.”

His breath hitched.

And for the first time, the sharp edge of him dulled. Toji let himself fall against you, his arms coming around your waist — hesitant at first, then tighter. Desperate.

You held him just as fiercely, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. The world beyond this moment — the lies, the blood, the threat of Sukuna — it all slipped away. Here, there was only the warmth of his skin, the thundering of your heart, and the fragile hush of survival.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m feeling.” He muttered, voice rough and muffled against your skin.

You smiled faintly, your lips brushing his collarbone. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And in the quiet, with his breath on your neck and your heart in his hands, something shifted. Not a declaration. Not safety. But something real.

A fragile promise. A tentative beginning.

The night had thinned into silence, and the trees no longer felt like they were holding their breath. Toji sat beside you, one knee bent, head tipped back against the bark, as if trying to breathe in something other than blood and regret.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

For the first time in years, maybe centuries, you weren’t holding the seal alone.

And Toji wasn’t just a weapon anymore.

The air grew lighter by degrees. You could feel it in your skin. In your bones.

The sun was coming.

You turned your face to the east, eyes scanning the silver horizon.

Then you felt it.

His hand—rough, warm—closing around yours.

You looked over, and Toji was already on his feet, hair tousled, eyes still dark but steadier now. Not soft. But clearer.

“Sun’s almost up.” He muttered. “We should go.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “Go where?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just offered you his hand again.

And when you hesitated—just a breath, just a beat—he gave you a look. One that said this isn’t over, but I’m not walking away from you.

“You were the one saying you’d help me cut those pricks open, weren’t you?” He said, a real smile tugging at his lips — not smug, not cruel. Just… honest. “Let’s go home.”

You couldn’t say what made you believe it — that this time, home might actually be real.

But you took his hand.

And as your fingers closed around his, stained with blood and forgiveness, you knew: Whatever came next, you wouldn’t face it alone.

But none of them knew what it was like to have been seen already.

You weren’t just holding your breath.

You were holding back the scream that had been clawing at your chest since the moment he walked through the door. Since the moment you realized that the man in the garden — the warm, impossible stranger — was no stranger at all.

You had shattered the best — the only — chance of your life in the span of a few unguarded minutes in a garden.

What good was a shared moment if it left you exposed? If, by letting your guard down, you gave him reason to doubt whether you were fit to stand beside him?

And even if that moment had meant something to him — even if it had stirred something — he didn’t show it now. And a single conversation, no matter how tender, was never going to be enough.

Because in the end, the decision wasn’t his alone. The Duke could have his preferences, but it was the Duchess who would make the final choice. And she wasn’t looking for quiet memories or hidden smiles. She wanted an alliance — a future built on legacy and bloodlines, not on sunlight and sentiment.

Yes, you weren’t meant to be there. But you never imagined it would end like this — in silence.

The matriarchs had taken over the conversation now, their voices steeped in honeyed civility. They traded compliments like currency, each word polished and precise. Across from you, the girls smiled on cue, tilted their heads just so, lifted their glasses with rehearsed elegance. Every gesture was calculated to be remembered.

You tried to do the same.

You nodded. You agreed. You smiled when you must.

But every motion felt hollow — as if your limbs remembered the choreography, but your spirit had slipped somewhere beneath the surface. As if the girl they saw was just an echo stitched from etiquette and your mother’s last hopes.

Duchess Gojo tapped her mouth with a white napkin and set her wine glass down with grace.

“Lady Vale.” Her tone smooth and precise, turning her gaze to the blonde girl who had just finished eating. “I understand your family oversees the western estates. I’ve heard the vineyards, in particular, have flourished under your father’s care.”

Lady Vale straightened at once. Her smile bloomed on command — poised, delicate, perfectly measured. She had been waiting for this.

“Indeed, Your Grace. We’ve had an excellent harvest this year. The grapes took well to the early frost.”

The Duchess gave a small nod — not warm, but unmistakably deliberate. Approval, of a kind.

Vale seized the moment.

“We brought a few bottles of our private reserve as a gift.” She added, shifting slightly toward the Duke. “I do hope His Grace has the chance to try it. It is our pride.”

Her mother leaned in before the words had even finished leaving her daughter’s lips, slipping into the conversation like it had been rehearsed — extolling the quality of the vines, the particular soil of their land, the generations of winemaking tradition. It was clear as water: any opening to draw the Duke into conversation would be fully used.

“I will try it soon. We appreciate the gift.” The Duke replied simply, his voice even, offering no room for further exchange.

You saw it — the brief falter in Lady Vale’s eyes, the way she blinked twice as if surprised by how quickly the moment passed. But she recovered smoothly, folding back into her poise as if the silence had never touched her.

“My daughter and I brought white figs from our estate, Your Grace.” Came the voice of Lady Tara’s mother next. Tara launched into a description of the desserts made from them, casually mentioning her own preferences.

Duke Gojo offered no reply.

“Thank you for the consideration.” The Duchess said instead, her voice a shade warmer — perhaps to compensate for her son’s silence. “Our cooks will be pleased to receive such a delicacy.”

A moment passed, and you heard it — the subtle shift of silk as Countess Shinto adjusted in her seat.

She hadn’t spoken all evening. Like you.

But unlike you, her silence wasn’t hesitation — it was control. She didn’t need to chase attention. She drew it effortlessly, like gravity.

She moved with the composure of someone long accustomed to being watched. Waited until conversation lulled just enough — then spoke.

“Your Grace.” She said, voice smooth and measured. “We brought silk and velvet from our most recent journey.”

Her mother inclined her head, the gesture fluid, perfectly timed. “She chose the fabrics herself. My daughter has a discerning eye for tone and texture — the court tailor in the capital said as much.”

“We hoped they might suit the house’s taste” Shinto added. Not proud. Not false. Just certain.

The Duchess offered a small nod — her smile subtle, but approving. “Thoughtful. Our household always appreciates refinement.’”

A pause followed. Not abrupt — but noticeable. A space where Lord Gojo might have spoken.

He didn’t.

Not a word. Not a glance.

But the silence didn’t seem to touch her.

Shinto merely folded her hands in her lap, posture serene, gaze steady. As if she hadn’t expected anything more. As if silence itself had bowed to her long ago.

And once again, you were certain the man you had met in the garden had never truly existed.

The one who had nearly knelt in the grass beside you, plucked a flower like it meant something, and told you — with that laugh, that dazzling, reckless laugh — how he once cut his own hair as a child and nearly gave his mother a heart attack. The one who smiled like you were a mystery worth solving. Like he wasn’t in a rush to solve it.

That man felt like a dream.

No — worse. A trick your mind had played on you.

But the man sitting before you now?

He was too cold. Too distant. Too untouchable to laugh over childhood mischief or pass you petals like a secret.

Your heart raced. You’d spoken too freely, wandered where you shouldn’t have, laughed too hard at his silly stories. How could you have been so—

A sudden, firm pressure closed around your wrist beneath the table — your mother’s hand. A warning.

You looked at her.

And then you realized: everyone at the table was looking at you.

Everyone but him.

You lifted your chin before you had time to think.

What were they talking about again? Ah — the gifts.

“I’ve heard you enjoy painting as much as I do, Your Grace.” you said quickly, your voice carefully composed. “We brought some rare paints and pigments for your collection.”

Your mother’s eyes remained hard, but she smiled nonetheless — all polite pretense.

“They’re her favorites.” She added smoothly. “We hope they’ll suit your taste.”

The Duchess arched an eyebrow. Whether it was approval or disdain, you couldn’t tell. She was almost impossible to read.

“Oh, I do enjoy painting.” She said at last, a strange glint in her eye — too brief to name. “Though I rarely find the time for it. What is it you prefer to paint, young lady?”

“Flowers, Your Grace. I love painting them.”

And it was true — at home, in stolen hours away from your mother’s fury, you would paint blooms in every shape and color, letting them speak in ways you could not.

“They are a beauty worth capturing.” Lady Gojo said, lifting her glass as a servant refilled it. Her tone was gentler this time, almost… reflective.

You thought the conversation had run its course. The Duchess shifted slightly, preparing to stand. Her hands touched the table.

And then —

“You should visit our garden, then.”

His voice.

Soft. Measured. But somehow, it struck like lightning.

His eyes were on you.

And for just a second, you saw how a flicker of something passed across his face. And though his posture didn’t change, and his mouth gave nothing away, there was a softness there. As if he did see you — not fully, not openly, but enough to make your heart catch.

You hadn’t expected him to speak. Not to you. And certainly not of that place. The memory of sunlight on stone, of quiet laughter you shouldn’t have shared, surfaced too quickly.

Still, you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t afford to.

You felt your spine pull taut, your breath a little too fast. Your hands were still clenched beneath the table, pressed against your skirts to keep from shaking. The fabric was warm where your palms had stayed for too long.

You had already ruined everything once.

But maybe — just maybe — this could be a thread to hold on to.

So you did the only thing left to do.

You smiled — gently, carefully — despite the way it tugged painfully at your cheeks. Despite the burning shame nestled just beneath your ribs. You shaped the words as if they belonged to someone steadier, calmer, better trained than you.

“I’d love to, Your Grace.” Your voice as firm as you could manage.

And in that moment, something in his eyes almost — almost — eased.

A pause bloomed across the table.

Not long — only a breath —

but long enough for everyone to feel it.

And in a room like this, nothing went unnoticed.

Not when so much was at stake.

Lady Vale’s fingers tightened ever so slightly around the stem of her wine glass — the gesture invisible unless you were watching for it. Lady Tara’s chin angled a fraction higher, as if she’d tasted something bitter but refused to spit it out. Even Countess Shinto — unflinching, composed, so practiced in indifference — turned her head minutely toward you, her gaze cool and unreadable.

No one spoke.

But they all saw.

The Duchess lifted her glass and took a slow sip of wine, her eyes never leaving you. Her gaze wasn’t sharp like it had been with the others — it was quieter, more deliberate. Like she was measuring something only she could see.

Like someone assessing something they didn’t expect to find valuable — but just might.

Her eyes moved from your face, over your posture, and paused briefly at your mouth. Your smile, however carefully stitched, did not escape her notice.

“Good.” She said. A single syllable, soft as velvet, sharp as a blade. “Perhaps you young ladies should walk in the garden tomorrow morning. It thrives in spring. It would be a shame to waste it.”

There was no room for refusal.

Lady Tara was the first to respond, her voice light, too quick. “It would be an honor, Duchess.”

The others followed — each in their own cadence. Agreement rippled across the table like a wave, soft and synchronized.

You echoed them a second too late, but no one called attention to it.

“Then it’s settled.” Lady Gojo continued, rising to her feet. “You’ll walk the gardens before the day’s arrangements. But for now — rest. Your personal maids are waiting just outside.”

Chairs shifted. Napkins were folded. The ritual began to dissolve.

The Duke stood when his mother did, offering her his arm. He hadn’t spoken since his quiet invitation — no glances, no words. But as he turned to escort the Duchess out, his gaze passed over the table one final time.

And perhaps it lingered.

“Good night, Ladies.” His voice smooth, distant.

And with that, he was gone.

The sound of his footsteps faded before anyone dared to speak again.

The air didn’t exactly relax — it was still too heavy for that, too full of expectation — but it shifted. A tension drawn tight across the room loosened by a single knot. Shoulders lowered. A few glasses were quietly lifted again. Breaths were taken — the kind people didn’t realize they’d been holding.

Relief wasn’t spoken, but it moved through the space like a breeze.

The silence didn’t last long.

Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Silks rustled. One by one, everyone began to rise, smoothing skirts, adjusting posture, offering farewells laced with courtesy. Compliments were exchanged again between the matriarchs — all so gracious, so performative. You and the other girls followed the script without thinking. Smiles. Nods. Curtsies. Nothing too much. Nothing too real.

As you passed through the doors, you spotted Ysera waiting just outside, ever composed, her hands folding over the dark blue apron she wore.

She did not speak. She merely inclined her head and turned, her quiet footsteps already guiding the way back toward the guest wing.

Your arm remained locked with your mother’s, her grip neither gentle nor cruel — just firm.

For a while, only the hush of shoes on stone filled the silence. The corridors felt longer than before, more echoing.

“You did not do as terribly as I thought you would.” Your mother said. Her tone was slightly softer than it had been before the banquet — but only slightly. The words held no warmth. No praise. Just an observation.

You looked at her, unable to help yourself. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Her eyes snapped to yours. Cold. Disapproving. That look she gave when your spine was a hair too relaxed or your voice too alive. You felt the reprimand before she even spoke.

You exhaled quickly. “I’m sorry, Mother. Thank you.”

“Yes, you should be sorry.” She said at once, voice returning to its sharper edge. “You will deserve a compliment if you marry. Not before.”

She wasn’t lying.

And she wasn’t trying to wound — not exactly. This was just the truth, as she saw it. As she’d always seen it.

“I should be fuming at you.” Your mother went on, each word crisp and low enough that Ysera couldn’t hear. “Your mind was not in that room. I saw it. They saw it. And I don’t care where it wandered — it had no business leaving that table.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. Because she was right.

Your mind hadn’t been in that room. It had been caught somewhere between flowers, fountains, and a man who made you feel both seen and forgotten — all in the same day. You’d been trying not to shake. Trying not to let the memory of sunlight and laughter undo you. Trying not to wonder if he remembered it too.

But none of that would matter to her. To your mother, what mattered was that you had slipped — and someone might have noticed.

“It won’t happen again, mother.” Whether that was a promise or a lie, you didn’t know yet.

—

Three soft knocks at your door jolted you awake.

You blinked into the dark, disoriented. It was still night — pitch black outside. The only light in the room was the silver wash of the moon through your window.

“My Lady?” a woman’s voice called gently. “Are you awake?”

Three more knocks.

“Yes, I am.” Your voice was rough with sleep as your hands moved to rub the tiredness from your eyes.

Truthfully, you hadn’t been sleeping well. Your thoughts had refused to settle. Your body ached from the posture you’d held all night — still, perfect, composed. It had taken you two full hours, at least, before exhaustion finally won.

“My apologies.” The voice continued. “I know it’s late. But Lord Gojo sent me.”

The sleep vanished instantly.

Your breath caught. The haze cleared all at once. Your eyes opened wider, and your heart — traitorous, reckless thing — leapt to attention. A familiar heat rose in your chest, sharp and immediate.

Before you could think, your feet found the cold floor on their own.

Your legs moved without permission.

Your hands opened the door too fast. Too eager.

You hated this.

How everything about him took your control. Your voice. Your posture. Your body.

He commanded without even trying — and you obeyed, without meaning to.

Standing in the hallway was an older woman — short, aged, but steady. Her gray hair still held hints of black, and her dark brown eyes were clear and kind. The lines on her face spoke of long years, but her smile — soft and certain — was the warmest you had seen in years.

She held a folded piece of paper delicately between her hands.

“I probably woke you up, my lady. I am really sorry for that.” She bowed with grace. “But he asked that you receive this tonight.”

You took the paper slowly. Your fingers brushed hers, and she didn’t flinch.

“Oh.” Your words didn’t come out for a second. Surprised. “Thank you… ma’am.”

“No need to thank me, my lady.” She replied with a small shake of her head. “I’ll let you rest now.”

There was something about her. The way she looked at you, without judgment or expectation, reminded you of things you hadn’t felt in a long time. Comfort. Safety. Ease.

“I’m sorry for the trouble.” your voice a little steadier now.

“No trouble at all.” She said with that same soft smile.

You looked down at the folded note in your hands, your fingertips brushing the edges like you might read it through touch alone.

And then — just as she passed the first shadow — she stopped.

Her voice returned, quieter now. Just above a whisper. But meant to be heard.

“You’re as beautiful as he said.”

Your breath caught. You looked up, startled — but the woman was already walking away, her figure shrinking into the dark corridor with slow, steady steps. Her presence lingered even as she disappeared, like the scent of something warm left behind in a cold room.

You stood frozen in the doorway. You opened your mouth, thinking to call out — to ask, to thank, to hold onto something — but no sound came. You didn’t even know her name.

Did you hear it right? Or had your tired mind twisted the silence again, made it gentler than it really was?

You shut the door behind you softly, your back pressing against it like you needed something to hold you up.

Your thumb traced the fold. It wasn’t sealed with wax, as if it hadn’t needed ceremony.

The woman’s words echoed faintly in your head.

You weren’t sure how you felt about them — only that they had landed somewhere deep in your chest.

You stepped toward the window, where the moonlight spilled silver across the stone floor. That’s where you opened it.

His handwriting looked rushed in places, like he hadn’t meant to write it. Or hadn’t planned to send it.

You’re not the only one pretending not to remember. But for both our sakes, we must forget it. It was never supposed to happen, after all. Still — the garden is quieter without your voice.

You stared.

You read the message again.

Then again.

The words didn’t change. They didn’t soften, didn’t twist into something kinder. They were exactly what he meant — and somehow still not enough.

He remembered. That should have meant something.

But he wanted to forget. And that meant everything.

something sharp settled behind your ribs — not quite sorrow, not quite fury, but some cracked place in between. You couldn’t tell what stung more: that he’d reached out… or that he had only done so to push you away.

Why had he written at all, if this was what he meant to say?

Why remind you of what he refused to let you keep?

Your hand tightened around the letter. Not enough to tear it — just enough to feel the paper bite your skin. As if pressure alone could draw something else out of the ink. Something better.

You pressed the edge of the message to your lips, then lowered it slowly.

He made you laugh, he made you feel seen — only to look right through you the next moment. And now this: a few lines that tasted like closeness and distance all at once.

Was it a joke to him? A game?

Maybe he was amused by how easily you cracked. Maybe he was entertained by your trembling at the banquet. Maybe you were nothing more than a plaything

You closed your eyes, drawing in a breath through your nose. It burned, just a little.

The garden was quieter without you.

But let it stay quiet.

Your eyes drifted to the blue flower beside your bed — beautiful and intact, like it wasn’t already dying since the moment he plucked it from the bush and handed it to you like it meant nothing at all.

You reached out and touched the edge of the petal, just to make sure it was real.

Were you supposed to stay intact too?

As if he hadn’t pulled you loose from your roots?

You folded the note again. Carefully. Precisely. As if care might mask the ache settling in your chest.

He got to walk away untouched. You were the one left to wither in silence.

—

The morning breeze brushed against your skin.

The garden breathed in a quiet mist, each leaf touched by the faint glow of the early sun. Flowers stood still in the hush of dawn, their vivid colors painting the paths in soft pinks and creams. The air smelled of jasmine and fresh earth.

In the distance, birds sang in soft, chiming harmony.

It was just as beautiful as you remembered — but this time, the sense of belonging was gone. No ease, no peace. Only a delicate tension, blooming as carefully as the roses.

The flowers had opened with the same precision expected of the women now walking among them — graceful, composed, blooming under scrutiny.

Laughter came in delicate bursts. Nothing too loud, nothing real. Lady Vale hadn’t stopped speaking since she arrived. Every few steps she gasped or murmured in delight, lavishing praise on the roses, the hedges, the stone benches.

“This is lovelier than the court’s own gardens.” She sighed, trailing her fingers across a low hedge. “The Duchess has such impeccable taste.”

Her voice was melodic, polished from years of flattery. Her compliments were not really about the garden.

Perhaps not being in the presence of the matriarchs eased the pressure slightly — but only slightly. It still lingered, heavy and watchful

Countess Shinto walked a step behind the rest, as she always did. She hadn’t said a word, but you could feel her attention sweeping over everything. Everyone.

You kept your steps steady. Your chin high. Your smile easy. Every movement carefully measured, as if by instinct.

But your chest still ached from the night before.

Your makeup had done its best, but the shadows beneath your eyes were stubborn. You hoped no one would notice. You knew they already had. Tara’s eyes had lingered a second too long. Vale’s smile had been just a touch too amused.

Your thoughts had outpaced your sleep by miles.

And yet, here you were — laced into silk, hair pinned, posture perfect. There had never been another option.

“I heard the Duchess imported these roses from overseas.” Lady Tara’s voice was clearer than usual, as though she wanted to remind the garden that she belonged in it.

Her golden hair was swept into an elegant twist today. She wore green — a precise match for the vines climbing the trellises. Intentional.

“Beauty tends to be worth the distance.” Vale answered, her tone breezy but pointed. “For those who can carry it.” The hem of her soft pink gown skimmed the gravel like mist. A pearl comb glinted in her dark hair.

“Well.” Tara said, too sweet. “We all know Her Grace carries beauty like she carries a weightless feather.”

The pause that followed was just long enough to make the intent behind her words obvious. She wanted it to be heard.

“It’s not beauty that matters.” Countess Shinto’s voice was unmistakable. “It’s who notices it.”

The comment floated into the air like perfume — and settled between all of you like smoke.

You felt her gaze land on your side, steady and unblinking. You didn’t dare look back.

Countess Shinto’s eyes lingered a moment longer before she turned back to the garden, as though satisfied she’d seen enough.

After a time spent wandering the winding paths — careful not to stray from the ones intended for display — a pair of maids approached, their presence signaled only by the faintest rustle of skirts and the scent of rose water.

“My ladies.” One of them said, bowing slightly. “The Duchess has asked that you rest for a while. The sun is rising quickly, and you mustn’t overtire before the midday activities.”

Rest. Of course. You were being handled like porcelain.

The gazebo stood just ahead, its white columns wrapped in flowering vines, wisteria trailing like threads of silk from its wooden beams. A breeze caught the petals, scattering a few across the stone steps like confetti.

Lady Vale stepped forward first, lifting her skirts in a perfect gesture of practiced grace.

“This spot is lovely.”

“Lovely,” Tara echoed, taking her seat with the poised ease of someone who had never rushed in her life. “And merciful. I was beginning to feel the sun already.”

Countess Shinto entered last, her silence as deliberate as her posture. She didn’t sit. Instead, she stood just inside the gazebo, eyes fixed outward.

You followed them in, hands folded before you, every movement careful and rehearsed.

“This garden must require constant tending.” Vale murmured as she plucked a loose petal from her sleeve. “Everything so… curated. As it should be.”

“Perfection rarely grows wild.” Tara said, idly tracing the carved edge of the wooden railing.

“Some things bloom best under pressure.” Countess Shinto added. Her voice, like everything about her, was elegant and impossible to dismiss.

She was unnatural in her composure — a woman born for this life, or perhaps carved into it. Even her words sounded like the closing line of a well-written romance.

A pause followed, filled only by birdsong and breeze. The maids returned with a silver tray of delicate pastries. You accepted a small tart without truly tasting it.

The silence wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t as suffocating as the night before.

Lady Vale leaned forward, her eyes catching something past the trailing vines.

“Are those… blue flowers?” she asked, already standing. She stepped toward the edge of the gazebo, skirts brushing the wooden floor.

You had already noticed them.

Clustered among the hedges just beyond the gazebo, the blue flowers stood open — bright, resilient, impossibly alive. You thought of the one by your bedside, and how it refused to wilt.

“Indeed.” You said softly. “Striking, aren’t they?”

“Delicate without being pale.” Shinto’s gaze lingered. “I can see why someone might favor them.”

Tara tilted her head. “Too much so, perhaps. Blue is rare in flowers. It makes them seem… unnatural.”

“Not unnatural.” You said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Memorable.”

The blond girl turned her eyes toward you, not with open challenge — but with the flicker of one forming. She didn’t respond. She simply took another bite of her pastry, chewing slowly.

The moment lingered with the quiet buzz of veiled meanings — the kind only women trained in poise could keep alive.

But before you could shape your next word, footsteps stirred the gravel behind the gazebo — too deliberate to belong to a maid.

Your body tensed before your mind caught up, recognizing the rhythm, the weight, the presence. The silence that fell among the other girls confirmed it.

The air shifted — not colder, not warmer, just heavier.

Then you saw him.

The Duke looked as if sleep had never dared disturb him. His white coat shimmered faintly in the light, tailored so precisely it caught the sun like it belonged to it. His posture was elegance made flesh, hands clasped behind him, every step controlled. Only his eyes betrayed anything — because they found you, and they didn’t leave right away.

Beside him walked another man, darker-haired and quieter in demeanor. His clothing, though simpler than Gojo’s, spoke of power in restraint. A portion of his long hair was tied neatly back, the rest falling against his shoulders. He walked like someone who’d been listened to all his life — and never needed to raise his voice.

All of you rose as gracefully as etiquette allowed, heads bowing in unison.

“Your Grace.” You chorused.

Lady Vale smoothed her skirts without making a show of it. Lady Tara brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. Countess Shinto tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a movement too fluid to be accidental.

And you tried not to come undone.

“Ladies.” The Duke greeted, voice steady and light. “Forgive the interruption. My mother asked me to see if everything was to your satisfaction.”

“Everything is to our liking, Your Grace.” Shinto replied, her hands resting neatly at the small of her back, gaze poised.

“The garden is more beautiful than I expected.” Tara added, stepping forward half a pace.

“I’m sure the day will be blessed by every color it blooms.” Vale murmured, her smile as delicate as porcelain.

You opened your mouth to speak — but nothing came.

Not again. You couldn’t let this happen again.

He’d asked you to forget. To let it go. Still, his eyes found you again, and this time they stayed.

“Lady…” he said your name, low and clear.

You felt every gaze tilt toward you. The spotlight was soft, but blinding.

You drew in a breath and smiled. You’d done it before — a hundred times, a thousand. Smiling when you wanted to crumble.

“As they said, my Lord.” You replied, voice steady. “Everything is fine.”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t need to. He knew it wasn’t true.

But he nodded, accepting the lie.

“Perfect.” He said, and finally turned his eyes away.

The man beside him made a small, polite sound — the kind meant to prompt something without ever appearing to.

“Ah. Of course.” The Duke turned slightly. “May I introduce Count Suguru Geto, one of the court’s most trusted advisors — and a personal friend to our family.”

Count Geto bowed with perfect form. “A pleasure.”

“A Count.” Lady Tara purred, curtsying with practiced grace. “A surprise visit. We’re flattered.”

“I came earlier for the seasonal briefing.” He replied, his tone warm and calm — like a lullaby. “To assist the Duke with a few of his duties.”

“I assume my uncle will be joining you in some weeks, then.” Countess Shinto added, her words smooth as polished stone. She spoke of one of the men from the high council — an expected name in these circles.

“Indeed he will.” Geto gave a nod, his expression courteous but unreadable.

The conversation thinned, leaving behind a quiet too polished to be casual. A moment stretched.

As though remembering a thread left hanging, Vale gestured lightly with a gloved hand.

“We were just talking about those blue flowers.” her tone brightening. “Aren’t they rare? I don’t think I’ve seen that shade anywhere else in the grounds.”

Count Geto followed the motion of her hands but offered no opinion, his expression serene. Countess Shinto remained silent, her eyes fixed on the Duke instead.

Gojo turned to follow their gaze — slowly. His eyes settled on the patch of blue in the hedges. You saw the faint pause in him, the way his shoulders shifted slightly, his breath caught just a fraction too long.

“They weren’t meant to bloom this season.” Gojo said, voice smooth but low. “Strange things — they appeared when they shouldn’t. No gardener knew why”

His words slipped into the garden air like something too heavy to belong there.

You felt them land.

A quiet bloom appearing out of season — wasn’t that what you were? Something unexpected. Unwanted. A disturbance in the order.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But your chest felt tight, like the corset had been pulled too close.

He hadn’t looked at you when he said it, but he didn’t have to. The pause in his voice, the glance at the flowers — it was for you. Or because of you. Which hurt in its own way.

You turned your gaze away from the blooms before anyone could see too much in your eyes.

“I believe the ladies were due at the Winter Room shortly.” Count Geto said, ever the diplomat. “Shall we escort them, Duke?”

Gojo didn’t answer right away.

His gaze lingered on the blue flowers, still untouched by wind or footfall.

“Of course.” His voice was lighter than his expression.

You and the other women straightened almost in unison, backs held tall with the elegance drilled into you since girlhood. The gravel crunched softly beneath your shoes as you fell into step behind them, the Duke and the Count leading the way back toward the palace.

You’d been warned that today’s activity would be a calligraphy display — a favored pastime among noble courts, where the steadiness of one’s hand was taken as evidence of one’s refinement.

You weren’t surprised by the choice.

But you were worried.

Your calligraphy wasn’t poor, but set beside the polished flourishes of the others — especially someone like Lady Vale, who likely had tutors from the capital — it might seem almost plain.

The group slowed as they neared the entrance to the east wing, where sunlight filtered through the high stained-glass windows in long, golden slants.

The conversation, what little of it remained, breathed only through Count Geto’s soft diplomacy — smooth words offered like oil to keep the silence from grinding.

A maid waited ahead, already holding open the heavy door to the Winter Room, her eyes lowered in the quiet discipline of someone trained never to observe too much.

One by one, the others stepped forward.

Vale glided with the confidence of someone born to be seen. Tara muttered something inaudible to herself. And Shinto glanced once toward the vaulted ceiling, then passed through the door like a shadow into light.

You moved to follow.

But fingers brushed your wrist.

Not a tug. Not a demand. Just the right kind of pressure to stop you cold.

You turned.

He hadn’t said your name because he didn’t have to. He stood just inside the boundary of what was proper — a breath too intimate, a moment too long — and yet not enough to make you retreat.

He filled the space between you, his presence pressing in like gravity. You could see the fine threadwork at the collar of his coat. And the storm behind his eyes.

“Stay a moment.”

It wasn’t loud enough to be overheard. It wasn’t gentle enough to be dismissed.

Behind the door, the polite hum of voices continued, rising and falling in elegant waves. No one had noticed you were no longer behind them. Not yet.

He glanced at the young maid holding the door. She bowed quickly — and disappeared down the corridor without a word.

Then he pulled you gently aside, just enough to move you out of view from the Winter Room. You were alone in a sliver of hallway framed by columns and dappled with quiet morning light.

His hand was still on your wrist.

He hadn’t let go.

You didn’t know what to say. Or if you should speak first. You didn’t even know what expression your face was wearing.

Your pulse thudded beneath his fingers, betraying you entirely.

“Did you receive—”

“Yes.” The word escaped you too quickly, too sharp.

He paused. A flicker passed over his features. The kind of shift you wouldn’t notice unless you were already looking too closely. Which you were.

“Good.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was thick. Waiting.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, not out of defiance — but confusion. Disappointment, maybe.

“Is that what you wanted to ask, Your Grace?”

His gaze didn’t move from yours.

“No.”

Another breath. Another beat of that awful, beautiful silence.

“Then what?” You asked.

He looked down — not out of shame, but restraint — and when he met your eyes again, there was a softness that hadn’t been there since the garden. Something worn and vulnerable.

“I keep thinking of something absurd.” His voice low, almost tender. “That maybe the flowers bloomed out of season for you.”

His lips curved — not quite a smile. More like a betrayal of composure.

“You do these things, don’t you?”

A pause. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.

“Bloom when you shouldn’t. Stay where you’re not supposed to.”

The words settled between you like something delicate — and dangerous.

For a moment, you forgot the Winter Room. The other girls. The weight of watching eyes. You forgot what you were supposed to be.

“Please, don’t say things like this, my lord.” The words left you quieter than you intended. They weren’t sharp, but they weren’t soft either — suspended in the air like something unfinished. Not quite a plea. Not quite a warning. Something aching in between. “You don’t know me that well.”

His fingers tightened gently around your wrist, grounding you. Not enough to hurt — never that — but enough to keep you from drifting away. Enough to remind you how close he was. How close he still was.

“You’re right.” He said, and his voice was calm — too calm. “But I know your true self better than anyone in that room.”

There was something raw under those words. Like he needed so say it.

“I met her in the gardens.”

Your breath caught. The way he said it — like it hadn’t been a fleeting moment. Like it hadn’t been a mistake. You felt your throat tighten, and you swallowed it down, trying to hold onto whatever composure still clung to your spine.

You stepped back just slightly, enough to make space. Enough to breathe.

“Yet you were the one who asked me to forget it.”

You didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation. But maybe it was.

There was a flicker of something in his eyes then — regret, or something near it — and for once, he didn’t have an answer ready.

“I didn’t mean the latter to sound cruel.”

He let go of your wrist — slowly, as if the decision cost him something — but his gaze didn’t falter.

“I only meant…” He paused, brow tightening, eyes searching yours. “I thought it would make things easier. For you. For both of us.”

The echo of your own breath filled the narrow space between you. The golden light from the windows washed over his cheek, softening his profile into something almost gentle.

“I don’t think it worked, Your Grace.” Your voice nearly stumbling over the words.

“No.” He murmured. “It didn’t.”

A moment passed — both of you quiet, not brave enough to break it.

You tried not to look at him now. It was hard enough. The nearness. The things unsaid. The fact that, just for a second, he hadn’t been the Duke — just him, just you.

Then, gently, his hand moved again — not toward your wrist this time, but up. Fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that didn’t belong in this palace corridors.

Your breath caught.

And just as quickly, his hand dropped, the warmth in his face replaced by something more familiar — that practiced distance, that cool poise he wore like a second skin.

“We should go in.” The softness in his voice retreating behind duty.

He turned slightly, as if to lead the way.

“Be mindful of Lady Midora.” He added quietly. “My mother enjoys seeing how well her guests know the rules—and how they pretend not to.”

His gaze lingered on yours, steady and unreadable. Then he turned and stepped into the room, leaving you behind with the echo of his warning.

Once again, he had drawn you in, only to retreat just as quickly. He must have found some thrill in the game.

You inhaled slowly, smoothing your skirts as if that could settle your thoughts. Whatever had passed between you — in gardens, in glances, in words never meant to be spoken — didn’t belong in that room.

So you did what was expected.

You fixed your smile and stepped through the door. And you carried the ghost of his touch like a secret — hidden beneath silk and silence.

taglist!

@miizuzu @riddhimabhatt @hallahella @chocalycake

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But none of them knew what it was like to have been seen already.

You weren’t just holding your breath.

You were holding back the scream that had been clawing at your chest since the moment he walked through the door. Since the moment you realized that the man in the garden — the warm, impossible stranger — was no stranger at all.

You had shattered the best — the only — chance of your life in the span of a few unguarded minutes in a garden.

What good was a shared moment if it left you exposed? If, by letting your guard down, you gave him reason to doubt whether you were fit to stand beside him?

And even if that moment had meant something to him — even if it had stirred something — he didn’t show it now. And a single conversation, no matter how tender, was never going to be enough.

Because in the end, the decision wasn’t his alone. The Duke could have his preferences, but it was the Duchess who would make the final choice. And she wasn’t looking for quiet memories or hidden smiles. She wanted an alliance — a future built on legacy and bloodlines, not on sunlight and sentiment.

Yes, you weren’t meant to be there. But you never imagined it would end like this — in silence.

The matriarchs had taken over the conversation now, their voices steeped in honeyed civility. They traded compliments like currency, each word polished and precise. Across from you, the girls smiled on cue, tilted their heads just so, lifted their glasses with rehearsed elegance. Every gesture was calculated to be remembered.

You tried to do the same.

You nodded. You agreed. You smiled when you must.

But every motion felt hollow — as if your limbs remembered the choreography, but your spirit had slipped somewhere beneath the surface. As if the girl they saw was just an echo stitched from etiquette and your mother’s last hopes.

Duchess Gojo tapped her mouth with a white napkin and set her wine glass down with grace.

“Lady Vale.” Her tone smooth and precise, turning her gaze to the blonde girl who had just finished eating. “I understand your family oversees the western estates. I’ve heard the vineyards, in particular, have flourished under your father’s care.”

Lady Vale straightened at once. Her smile bloomed on command — poised, delicate, perfectly measured. She had been waiting for this.

“Indeed, Your Grace. We’ve had an excellent harvest this year. The grapes took well to the early frost.”

The Duchess gave a small nod — not warm, but unmistakably deliberate. Approval, of a kind.

Vale seized the moment.

“We brought a few bottles of our private reserve as a gift.” She added, shifting slightly toward the Duke. “I do hope His Grace has the chance to try it. It is our pride.”

Her mother leaned in before the words had even finished leaving her daughter’s lips, slipping into the conversation like it had been rehearsed — extolling the quality of the vines, the particular soil of their land, the generations of winemaking tradition. It was clear as water: any opening to draw the Duke into conversation would be fully used.

“I will try it soon. We appreciate the gift.” The Duke replied simply, his voice even, offering no room for further exchange.

You saw it — the brief falter in Lady Vale’s eyes, the way she blinked twice as if surprised by how quickly the moment passed. But she recovered smoothly, folding back into her poise as if the silence had never touched her.

“My daughter and I brought white figs from our estate, Your Grace.” Came the voice of Lady Tara’s mother next. Tara launched into a description of the desserts made from them, casually mentioning her own preferences.

Duke Gojo offered no reply.

“Thank you for the consideration.” The Duchess said instead, her voice a shade warmer — perhaps to compensate for her son’s silence. “Our cooks will be pleased to receive such a delicacy.”

A moment passed, and you heard it — the subtle shift of silk as Countess Shinto adjusted in her seat.

She hadn’t spoken all evening. Like you.

But unlike you, her silence wasn’t hesitation — it was control. She didn’t need to chase attention. She drew it effortlessly, like gravity.

She moved with the composure of someone long accustomed to being watched. Waited until conversation lulled just enough — then spoke.

“Your Grace.” She said, voice smooth and measured. “We brought silk and velvet from our most recent journey.”

Her mother inclined her head, the gesture fluid, perfectly timed. “She chose the fabrics herself. My daughter has a discerning eye for tone and texture — the court tailor in the capital said as much.”

“We hoped they might suit the house’s taste” Shinto added. Not proud. Not false. Just certain.

The Duchess offered a small nod — her smile subtle, but approving. “Thoughtful. Our household always appreciates refinement.’”

A pause followed. Not abrupt — but noticeable. A space where Lord Gojo might have spoken.

He didn’t.

Not a word. Not a glance.

But the silence didn’t seem to touch her.

Shinto merely folded her hands in her lap, posture serene, gaze steady. As if she hadn’t expected anything more. As if silence itself had bowed to her long ago.

And once again, you were certain the man you had met in the garden had never truly existed.

The one who had nearly knelt in the grass beside you, plucked a flower like it meant something, and told you — with that laugh, that dazzling, reckless laugh — how he once cut his own hair as a child and nearly gave his mother a heart attack. The one who smiled like you were a mystery worth solving. Like he wasn’t in a rush to solve it.

That man felt like a dream.

No — worse. A trick your mind had played on you.

But the man sitting before you now?

He was too cold. Too distant. Too untouchable to laugh over childhood mischief or pass you petals like a secret.

Your heart raced. You’d spoken too freely, wandered where you shouldn’t have, laughed too hard at his silly stories. How could you have been so—

A sudden, firm pressure closed around your wrist beneath the table — your mother’s hand. A warning.

You looked at her.

And then you realized: everyone at the table was looking at you.

Everyone but him.

You lifted your chin before you had time to think.

What were they talking about again? Ah — the gifts.

“I’ve heard you enjoy painting as much as I do, Your Grace.” you said quickly, your voice carefully composed. “We brought some rare paints and pigments for your collection.”

Your mother’s eyes remained hard, but she smiled nonetheless — all polite pretense.

“They’re her favorites.” She added smoothly. “We hope they’ll suit your taste.”

The Duchess arched an eyebrow. Whether it was approval or disdain, you couldn’t tell. She was almost impossible to read.

“Oh, I do enjoy painting.” She said at last, a strange glint in her eye — too brief to name. “Though I rarely find the time for it. What is it you prefer to paint, young lady?”

“Flowers, Your Grace. I love painting them.”

And it was true — at home, in stolen hours away from your mother’s fury, you would paint blooms in every shape and color, letting them speak in ways you could not.

“They are a beauty worth capturing.” Lady Gojo said, lifting her glass as a servant refilled it. Her tone was gentler this time, almost… reflective.

You thought the conversation had run its course. The Duchess shifted slightly, preparing to stand. Her hands touched the table.

And then —

“You should visit our garden, then.”

His voice.

Soft. Measured. But somehow, it struck like lightning.

His eyes were on you.

And for just a second, you saw how a flicker of something passed across his face. And though his posture didn’t change, and his mouth gave nothing away, there was a softness there. As if he did see you — not fully, not openly, but enough to make your heart catch.

You hadn’t expected him to speak. Not to you. And certainly not of that place. The memory of sunlight on stone, of quiet laughter you shouldn’t have shared, surfaced too quickly.

Still, you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t afford to.

You felt your spine pull taut, your breath a little too fast. Your hands were still clenched beneath the table, pressed against your skirts to keep from shaking. The fabric was warm where your palms had stayed for too long.

You had already ruined everything once.

But maybe — just maybe — this could be a thread to hold on to.

So you did the only thing left to do.

You smiled — gently, carefully — despite the way it tugged painfully at your cheeks. Despite the burning shame nestled just beneath your ribs. You shaped the words as if they belonged to someone steadier, calmer, better trained than you.

“I’d love to, Your Grace.” Your voice as firm as you could manage.

And in that moment, something in his eyes almost — almost — eased.

A pause bloomed across the table.

Not long — only a breath —

but long enough for everyone to feel it.

And in a room like this, nothing went unnoticed.

Not when so much was at stake.

Lady Vale’s fingers tightened ever so slightly around the stem of her wine glass — the gesture invisible unless you were watching for it. Lady Tara’s chin angled a fraction higher, as if she’d tasted something bitter but refused to spit it out. Even Countess Shinto — unflinching, composed, so practiced in indifference — turned her head minutely toward you, her gaze cool and unreadable.

No one spoke.

But they all saw.

The Duchess lifted her glass and took a slow sip of wine, her eyes never leaving you. Her gaze wasn’t sharp like it had been with the others — it was quieter, more deliberate. Like she was measuring something only she could see.

Like someone assessing something they didn’t expect to find valuable — but just might.

Her eyes moved from your face, over your posture, and paused briefly at your mouth. Your smile, however carefully stitched, did not escape her notice.

“Good.” She said. A single syllable, soft as velvet, sharp as a blade. “Perhaps you young ladies should walk in the garden tomorrow morning. It thrives in spring. It would be a shame to waste it.”

There was no room for refusal.

Lady Tara was the first to respond, her voice light, too quick. “It would be an honor, Duchess.”

The others followed — each in their own cadence. Agreement rippled across the table like a wave, soft and synchronized.

You echoed them a second too late, but no one called attention to it.

“Then it’s settled.” Lady Gojo continued, rising to her feet. “You’ll walk the gardens before the day’s arrangements. But for now — rest. Your personal maids are waiting just outside.”

Chairs shifted. Napkins were folded. The ritual began to dissolve.

The Duke stood when his mother did, offering her his arm. He hadn’t spoken since his quiet invitation — no glances, no words. But as he turned to escort the Duchess out, his gaze passed over the table one final time.

And perhaps it lingered.

“Good night, Ladies.” His voice smooth, distant.

And with that, he was gone.

The sound of his footsteps faded before anyone dared to speak again.

The air didn’t exactly relax — it was still too heavy for that, too full of expectation — but it shifted. A tension drawn tight across the room loosened by a single knot. Shoulders lowered. A few glasses were quietly lifted again. Breaths were taken — the kind people didn’t realize they’d been holding.

Relief wasn’t spoken, but it moved through the space like a breeze.

The silence didn’t last long.

Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Silks rustled. One by one, everyone began to rise, smoothing skirts, adjusting posture, offering farewells laced with courtesy. Compliments were exchanged again between the matriarchs — all so gracious, so performative. You and the other girls followed the script without thinking. Smiles. Nods. Curtsies. Nothing too much. Nothing too real.

As you passed through the doors, you spotted Ysera waiting just outside, ever composed, her hands folding over the dark blue apron she wore.

She did not speak. She merely inclined her head and turned, her quiet footsteps already guiding the way back toward the guest wing.

Your arm remained locked with your mother’s, her grip neither gentle nor cruel — just firm.

For a while, only the hush of shoes on stone filled the silence. The corridors felt longer than before, more echoing.

“You did not do as terribly as I thought you would.” Your mother said. Her tone was slightly softer than it had been before the banquet — but only slightly. The words held no warmth. No praise. Just an observation.

You looked at her, unable to help yourself. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Her eyes snapped to yours. Cold. Disapproving. That look she gave when your spine was a hair too relaxed or your voice too alive. You felt the reprimand before she even spoke.

You exhaled quickly. “I’m sorry, Mother. Thank you.”

“Yes, you should be sorry.” She said at once, voice returning to its sharper edge. “You will deserve a compliment if you marry. Not before.”

She wasn’t lying.

And she wasn’t trying to wound — not exactly. This was just the truth, as she saw it. As she’d always seen it.

“I should be fuming at you.” Your mother went on, each word crisp and low enough that Ysera couldn’t hear. “Your mind was not in that room. I saw it. They saw it. And I don’t care where it wandered — it had no business leaving that table.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. Because she was right.

Your mind hadn’t been in that room. It had been caught somewhere between flowers, fountains, and a man who made you feel both seen and forgotten — all in the same day. You’d been trying not to shake. Trying not to let the memory of sunlight and laughter undo you. Trying not to wonder if he remembered it too.

But none of that would matter to her. To your mother, what mattered was that you had slipped — and someone might have noticed.

“It won’t happen again, mother.” Whether that was a promise or a lie, you didn’t know yet.

—

Three soft knocks at your door jolted you awake.

You blinked into the dark, disoriented. It was still night — pitch black outside. The only light in the room was the silver wash of the moon through your window.

“My Lady?” a woman’s voice called gently. “Are you awake?”

Three more knocks.

“Yes, I am.” Your voice was rough with sleep as your hands moved to rub the tiredness from your eyes.

Truthfully, you hadn’t been sleeping well. Your thoughts had refused to settle. Your body ached from the posture you’d held all night — still, perfect, composed. It had taken you two full hours, at least, before exhaustion finally won.

“My apologies.” The voice continued. “I know it’s late. But Lord Gojo sent me.”

The sleep vanished instantly.

Your breath caught. The haze cleared all at once. Your eyes opened wider, and your heart — traitorous, reckless thing — leapt to attention. A familiar heat rose in your chest, sharp and immediate.

Before you could think, your feet found the cold floor on their own.

Your legs moved without permission.

Your hands opened the door too fast. Too eager.

You hated this.

How everything about him took your control. Your voice. Your posture. Your body.

He commanded without even trying — and you obeyed, without meaning to.

Standing in the hallway was an older woman — short, aged, but steady. Her gray hair still held hints of black, and her dark brown eyes were clear and kind. The lines on her face spoke of long years, but her smile — soft and certain — was the warmest you had seen in years.

She held a folded piece of paper delicately between her hands.

“I probably woke you up, my lady. I am really sorry for that.” She bowed with grace. “But he asked that you receive this tonight.”

You took the paper slowly. Your fingers brushed hers, and she didn’t flinch.

“Oh.” Your words didn’t come out for a second. Surprised. “Thank you… ma’am.”

“No need to thank me, my lady.” She replied with a small shake of her head. “I’ll let you rest now.”

There was something about her. The way she looked at you, without judgment or expectation, reminded you of things you hadn’t felt in a long time. Comfort. Safety. Ease.

“I’m sorry for the trouble.” your voice a little steadier now.

“No trouble at all.” She said with that same soft smile.

You looked down at the folded note in your hands, your fingertips brushing the edges like you might read it through touch alone.

And then — just as she passed the first shadow — she stopped.

Her voice returned, quieter now. Just above a whisper. But meant to be heard.

“You’re as beautiful as he said.”

Your breath caught. You looked up, startled — but the woman was already walking away, her figure shrinking into the dark corridor with slow, steady steps. Her presence lingered even as she disappeared, like the scent of something warm left behind in a cold room.

You stood frozen in the doorway. You opened your mouth, thinking to call out — to ask, to thank, to hold onto something — but no sound came. You didn’t even know her name.

Did you hear it right? Or had your tired mind twisted the silence again, made it gentler than it really was?

You shut the door behind you softly, your back pressing against it like you needed something to hold you up.

Your thumb traced the fold. It wasn’t sealed with wax, as if it hadn’t needed ceremony.

The woman’s words echoed faintly in your head.

You weren’t sure how you felt about them — only that they had landed somewhere deep in your chest.

You stepped toward the window, where the moonlight spilled silver across the stone floor. That’s where you opened it.

His handwriting looked rushed in places, like he hadn’t meant to write it. Or hadn’t planned to send it.

You’re not the only one pretending not to remember. But for both our sakes, we must forget it. It was never supposed to happen, after all. Still — the garden is quieter without your voice.

You stared.

You read the message again.

Then again.

The words didn’t change. They didn’t soften, didn’t twist into something kinder. They were exactly what he meant — and somehow still not enough.

He remembered. That should have meant something.

But he wanted to forget. And that meant everything.

something sharp settled behind your ribs — not quite sorrow, not quite fury, but some cracked place in between. You couldn’t tell what stung more: that he’d reached out… or that he had only done so to push you away.

Why had he written at all, if this was what he meant to say?

Why remind you of what he refused to let you keep?

Your hand tightened around the letter. Not enough to tear it — just enough to feel the paper bite your skin. As if pressure alone could draw something else out of the ink. Something better.

You pressed the edge of the message to your lips, then lowered it slowly.

He made you laugh, he made you feel seen — only to look right through you the next moment. And now this: a few lines that tasted like closeness and distance all at once.

Was it a joke to him? A game?

Maybe he was amused by how easily you cracked. Maybe he was entertained by your trembling at the banquet. Maybe you were nothing more than a plaything

You closed your eyes, drawing in a breath through your nose. It burned, just a little.

The garden was quieter without you.

But let it stay quiet.

Your eyes drifted to the blue flower beside your bed — beautiful and intact, like it wasn’t already dying since the moment he plucked it from the bush and handed it to you like it meant nothing at all.

You reached out and touched the edge of the petal, just to make sure it was real.

Were you supposed to stay intact too?

As if he hadn’t pulled you loose from your roots?

You folded the note again. Carefully. Precisely. As if care might mask the ache settling in your chest.

He got to walk away untouched. You were the one left to wither in silence.

—

The morning breeze brushed against your skin.

The garden breathed in a quiet mist, each leaf touched by the faint glow of the early sun. Flowers stood still in the hush of dawn, their vivid colors painting the paths in soft pinks and creams. The air smelled of jasmine and fresh earth.

In the distance, birds sang in soft, chiming harmony.

It was just as beautiful as you remembered — but this time, the sense of belonging was gone. No ease, no peace. Only a delicate tension, blooming as carefully as the roses.

The flowers had opened with the same precision expected of the women now walking among them — graceful, composed, blooming under scrutiny.

Laughter came in delicate bursts. Nothing too loud, nothing real. Lady Vale hadn’t stopped speaking since she arrived. Every few steps she gasped or murmured in delight, lavishing praise on the roses, the hedges, the stone benches.

“This is lovelier than the court’s own gardens.” She sighed, trailing her fingers across a low hedge. “The Duchess has such impeccable taste.”

Her voice was melodic, polished from years of flattery. Her compliments were not really about the garden.

Perhaps not being in the presence of the matriarchs eased the pressure slightly — but only slightly. It still lingered, heavy and watchful

Countess Shinto walked a step behind the rest, as she always did. She hadn’t said a word, but you could feel her attention sweeping over everything. Everyone.

You kept your steps steady. Your chin high. Your smile easy. Every movement carefully measured, as if by instinct.

But your chest still ached from the night before.

Your makeup had done its best, but the shadows beneath your eyes were stubborn. You hoped no one would notice. You knew they already had. Tara’s eyes had lingered a second too long. Vale’s smile had been just a touch too amused.

Your thoughts had outpaced your sleep by miles.

And yet, here you were — laced into silk, hair pinned, posture perfect. There had never been another option.

“I heard the Duchess imported these roses from overseas.” Lady Tara’s voice was clearer than usual, as though she wanted to remind the garden that she belonged in it.

Her golden hair was swept into an elegant twist today. She wore green — a precise match for the vines climbing the trellises. Intentional.

“Beauty tends to be worth the distance.” Vale answered, her tone breezy but pointed. “For those who can carry it.” The hem of her soft pink gown skimmed the gravel like mist. A pearl comb glinted in her dark hair.

“Well.” Tara said, too sweet. “We all know Her Grace carries beauty like she carries a weightless feather.”

The pause that followed was just long enough to make the intent behind her words obvious. She wanted it to be heard.

“It’s not beauty that matters.” Countess Shinto’s voice was unmistakable. “It’s who notices it.”

The comment floated into the air like perfume — and settled between all of you like smoke.

You felt her gaze land on your side, steady and unblinking. You didn’t dare look back.

Countess Shinto’s eyes lingered a moment longer before she turned back to the garden, as though satisfied she’d seen enough.

After a time spent wandering the winding paths — careful not to stray from the ones intended for display — a pair of maids approached, their presence signaled only by the faintest rustle of skirts and the scent of rose water.

“My ladies.” One of them said, bowing slightly. “The Duchess has asked that you rest for a while. The sun is rising quickly, and you mustn’t overtire before the midday activities.”

Rest. Of course. You were being handled like porcelain.

The gazebo stood just ahead, its white columns wrapped in flowering vines, wisteria trailing like threads of silk from its wooden beams. A breeze caught the petals, scattering a few across the stone steps like confetti.

Lady Vale stepped forward first, lifting her skirts in a perfect gesture of practiced grace.

“This spot is lovely.”

“Lovely,” Tara echoed, taking her seat with the poised ease of someone who had never rushed in her life. “And merciful. I was beginning to feel the sun already.”

Countess Shinto entered last, her silence as deliberate as her posture. She didn’t sit. Instead, she stood just inside the gazebo, eyes fixed outward.

You followed them in, hands folded before you, every movement careful and rehearsed.

“This garden must require constant tending.” Vale murmured as she plucked a loose petal from her sleeve. “Everything so… curated. As it should be.”

“Perfection rarely grows wild.” Tara said, idly tracing the carved edge of the wooden railing.

“Some things bloom best under pressure.” Countess Shinto added. Her voice, like everything about her, was elegant and impossible to dismiss.

She was unnatural in her composure — a woman born for this life, or perhaps carved into it. Even her words sounded like the closing line of a well-written romance.

A pause followed, filled only by birdsong and breeze. The maids returned with a silver tray of delicate pastries. You accepted a small tart without truly tasting it.

The silence wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t as suffocating as the night before.

Lady Vale leaned forward, her eyes catching something past the trailing vines.

“Are those… blue flowers?” she asked, already standing. She stepped toward the edge of the gazebo, skirts brushing the wooden floor.

You had already noticed them.

Clustered among the hedges just beyond the gazebo, the blue flowers stood open — bright, resilient, impossibly alive. You thought of the one by your bedside, and how it refused to wilt.

“Indeed.” You said softly. “Striking, aren’t they?”

“Delicate without being pale.” Shinto’s gaze lingered. “I can see why someone might favor them.”

Tara tilted her head. “Too much so, perhaps. Blue is rare in flowers. It makes them seem… unnatural.”

“Not unnatural.” You said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Memorable.”

The blond girl turned her eyes toward you, not with open challenge — but with the flicker of one forming. She didn’t respond. She simply took another bite of her pastry, chewing slowly.

The moment lingered with the quiet buzz of veiled meanings — the kind only women trained in poise could keep alive.

But before you could shape your next word, footsteps stirred the gravel behind the gazebo — too deliberate to belong to a maid.

Your body tensed before your mind caught up, recognizing the rhythm, the weight, the presence. The silence that fell among the other girls confirmed it.

The air shifted — not colder, not warmer, just heavier.

Then you saw him.

The Duke looked as if sleep had never dared disturb him. His white coat shimmered faintly in the light, tailored so precisely it caught the sun like it belonged to it. His posture was elegance made flesh, hands clasped behind him, every step controlled. Only his eyes betrayed anything — because they found you, and they didn’t leave right away.

Beside him walked another man, darker-haired and quieter in demeanor. His clothing, though simpler than Gojo’s, spoke of power in restraint. A portion of his long hair was tied neatly back, the rest falling against his shoulders. He walked like someone who’d been listened to all his life — and never needed to raise his voice.

All of you rose as gracefully as etiquette allowed, heads bowing in unison.

“Your Grace.” You chorused.

Lady Vale smoothed her skirts without making a show of it. Lady Tara brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. Countess Shinto tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a movement too fluid to be accidental.

And you tried not to come undone.

“Ladies.” The Duke greeted, voice steady and light. “Forgive the interruption. My mother asked me to see if everything was to your satisfaction.”

“Everything is to our liking, Your Grace.” Shinto replied, her hands resting neatly at the small of her back, gaze poised.

“The garden is more beautiful than I expected.” Tara added, stepping forward half a pace.

“I’m sure the day will be blessed by every color it blooms.” Vale murmured, her smile as delicate as porcelain.

You opened your mouth to speak — but nothing came.

Not again. You couldn’t let this happen again.

He’d asked you to forget. To let it go. Still, his eyes found you again, and this time they stayed.

“Lady…” he said your name, low and clear.

You felt every gaze tilt toward you. The spotlight was soft, but blinding.

You drew in a breath and smiled. You’d done it before — a hundred times, a thousand. Smiling when you wanted to crumble.

“As they said, my Lord.” You replied, voice steady. “Everything is fine.”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t need to. He knew it wasn’t true.

But he nodded, accepting the lie.

“Perfect.” He said, and finally turned his eyes away.

The man beside him made a small, polite sound — the kind meant to prompt something without ever appearing to.

“Ah. Of course.” The Duke turned slightly. “May I introduce Count Suguru Geto, one of the court’s most trusted advisors — and a personal friend to our family.”

Count Geto bowed with perfect form. “A pleasure.”

“A Count.” Lady Tara purred, curtsying with practiced grace. “A surprise visit. We’re flattered.”

“I came earlier for the seasonal briefing.” He replied, his tone warm and calm — like a lullaby. “To assist the Duke with a few of his duties.”

“I assume my uncle will be joining you in some weeks, then.” Countess Shinto added, her words smooth as polished stone. She spoke of one of the men from the high council — an expected name in these circles.

“Indeed he will.” Geto gave a nod, his expression courteous but unreadable.

The conversation thinned, leaving behind a quiet too polished to be casual. A moment stretched.

As though remembering a thread left hanging, Vale gestured lightly with a gloved hand.

“We were just talking about those blue flowers.” her tone brightening. “Aren’t they rare? I don’t think I’ve seen that shade anywhere else in the grounds.”

Count Geto followed the motion of her hands but offered no opinion, his expression serene. Countess Shinto remained silent, her eyes fixed on the Duke instead.

Gojo turned to follow their gaze — slowly. His eyes settled on the patch of blue in the hedges. You saw the faint pause in him, the way his shoulders shifted slightly, his breath caught just a fraction too long.

“They weren’t meant to bloom this season.” Gojo said, voice smooth but low. “Strange things — they appeared when they shouldn’t. No gardener knew why”

His words slipped into the garden air like something too heavy to belong there.

You felt them land.

A quiet bloom appearing out of season — wasn’t that what you were? Something unexpected. Unwanted. A disturbance in the order.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But your chest felt tight, like the corset had been pulled too close.

He hadn’t looked at you when he said it, but he didn’t have to. The pause in his voice, the glance at the flowers — it was for you. Or because of you. Which hurt in its own way.

You turned your gaze away from the blooms before anyone could see too much in your eyes.

“I believe the ladies were due at the Winter Room shortly.” Count Geto said, ever the diplomat. “Shall we escort them, Duke?”

Gojo didn’t answer right away.

His gaze lingered on the blue flowers, still untouched by wind or footfall.

“Of course.” His voice was lighter than his expression.

You and the other women straightened almost in unison, backs held tall with the elegance drilled into you since girlhood. The gravel crunched softly beneath your shoes as you fell into step behind them, the Duke and the Count leading the way back toward the palace.

You’d been warned that today’s activity would be a calligraphy display — a favored pastime among noble courts, where the steadiness of one’s hand was taken as evidence of one’s refinement.

You weren’t surprised by the choice.

But you were worried.

Your calligraphy wasn’t poor, but set beside the polished flourishes of the others — especially someone like Lady Vale, who likely had tutors from the capital — it might seem almost plain.

The group slowed as they neared the entrance to the east wing, where sunlight filtered through the high stained-glass windows in long, golden slants.

The conversation, what little of it remained, breathed only through Count Geto’s soft diplomacy — smooth words offered like oil to keep the silence from grinding.

A maid waited ahead, already holding open the heavy door to the Winter Room, her eyes lowered in the quiet discipline of someone trained never to observe too much.

One by one, the others stepped forward.

Vale glided with the confidence of someone born to be seen. Tara muttered something inaudible to herself. And Shinto glanced once toward the vaulted ceiling, then passed through the door like a shadow into light.

You moved to follow.

But fingers brushed your wrist.

Not a tug. Not a demand. Just the right kind of pressure to stop you cold.

You turned.

He hadn’t said your name because he didn’t have to. He stood just inside the boundary of what was proper — a breath too intimate, a moment too long — and yet not enough to make you retreat.

He filled the space between you, his presence pressing in like gravity. You could see the fine threadwork at the collar of his coat. And the storm behind his eyes.

“Stay a moment.”

It wasn’t loud enough to be overheard. It wasn’t gentle enough to be dismissed.

Behind the door, the polite hum of voices continued, rising and falling in elegant waves. No one had noticed you were no longer behind them. Not yet.

He glanced at the young maid holding the door. She bowed quickly — and disappeared down the corridor without a word.

Then he pulled you gently aside, just enough to move you out of view from the Winter Room. You were alone in a sliver of hallway framed by columns and dappled with quiet morning light.

His hand was still on your wrist.

He hadn’t let go.

You didn’t know what to say. Or if you should speak first. You didn’t even know what expression your face was wearing.

Your pulse thudded beneath his fingers, betraying you entirely.

“Did you receive—”

“Yes.” The word escaped you too quickly, too sharp.

He paused. A flicker passed over his features. The kind of shift you wouldn’t notice unless you were already looking too closely. Which you were.

“Good.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was thick. Waiting.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, not out of defiance — but confusion. Disappointment, maybe.

“Is that what you wanted to ask, Your Grace?”

His gaze didn’t move from yours.

“No.”

Another breath. Another beat of that awful, beautiful silence.

“Then what?” You asked.

He looked down — not out of shame, but restraint — and when he met your eyes again, there was a softness that hadn’t been there since the garden. Something worn and vulnerable.

“I keep thinking of something absurd.” His voice low, almost tender. “That maybe the flowers bloomed out of season for you.”

His lips curved — not quite a smile. More like a betrayal of composure.

“You do these things, don’t you?”

A pause. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.

“Bloom when you shouldn’t. Stay where you’re not supposed to.”

The words settled between you like something delicate — and dangerous.

For a moment, you forgot the Winter Room. The other girls. The weight of watching eyes. You forgot what you were supposed to be.

“Please, don’t say things like this, my lord.” The words left you quieter than you intended. They weren’t sharp, but they weren’t soft either — suspended in the air like something unfinished. Not quite a plea. Not quite a warning. Something aching in between. “You don’t know me that well.”

His fingers tightened gently around your wrist, grounding you. Not enough to hurt — never that — but enough to keep you from drifting away. Enough to remind you how close he was. How close he still was.

“You’re right.” He said, and his voice was calm — too calm. “But I know your true self better than anyone in that room.”

There was something raw under those words. Like he needed so say it.

“I met her in the gardens.”

Your breath caught. The way he said it — like it hadn’t been a fleeting moment. Like it hadn’t been a mistake. You felt your throat tighten, and you swallowed it down, trying to hold onto whatever composure still clung to your spine.

You stepped back just slightly, enough to make space. Enough to breathe.

“Yet you were the one who asked me to forget it.”

You didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation. But maybe it was.

There was a flicker of something in his eyes then — regret, or something near it — and for once, he didn’t have an answer ready.

“I didn’t mean the latter to sound cruel.”

He let go of your wrist — slowly, as if the decision cost him something — but his gaze didn’t falter.

“I only meant…” He paused, brow tightening, eyes searching yours. “I thought it would make things easier. For you. For both of us.”

The echo of your own breath filled the narrow space between you. The golden light from the windows washed over his cheek, softening his profile into something almost gentle.

“I don’t think it worked, Your Grace.” Your voice nearly stumbling over the words.

“No.” He murmured. “It didn’t.”

A moment passed — both of you quiet, not brave enough to break it.

You tried not to look at him now. It was hard enough. The nearness. The things unsaid. The fact that, just for a second, he hadn’t been the Duke — just him, just you.

Then, gently, his hand moved again — not toward your wrist this time, but up. Fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that didn’t belong in this palace corridors.

Your breath caught.

And just as quickly, his hand dropped, the warmth in his face replaced by something more familiar — that practiced distance, that cool poise he wore like a second skin.

“We should go in.” The softness in his voice retreating behind duty.

He turned slightly, as if to lead the way.

“Be mindful of Lady Midora.” He added quietly. “My mother enjoys seeing how well her guests know the rules—and how they pretend not to.”

His gaze lingered on yours, steady and unreadable. Then he turned and stepped into the room, leaving you behind with the echo of his warning.

Once again, he had drawn you in, only to retreat just as quickly. He must have found some thrill in the game.

You inhaled slowly, smoothing your skirts as if that could settle your thoughts. Whatever had passed between you — in gardens, in glances, in words never meant to be spoken — didn’t belong in that room.

So you did what was expected.

You fixed your smile and stepped through the door. And you carried the ghost of his touch like a secret — hidden beneath silk and silence.

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